Mocking Bird Hill
Port Antonio, Jamaica
Frank Lumsden takes out his machete and hacks open a Ācassava root. White, starchy meat spills out. āMy ancestors were escaped slaves called Maroons,ā he says. āThey survived in the forest, eating what they could find. They used this stuff to make bammy.ā Frank sets down the remains of the root and tramps onward, up a steep jungle trail in Jamaicaās Blue Mountains.
This excursion is part of Hotel Mocking Bird Hillās Āweeklong culinary adventure. Itās half Daniel Boone, half Julia Child. One day Iām haggling over spiny Caribbean lobsters at the Manchioneal fish market; the next Iām chopping Scotch-bonnet peppers for a jerk marinade on the hotel terrace. Iāve discussed vegetarianism with a Rastafarian at Winnifred Beach, and watched the cooks at Lick āEm Finger restaurant grill fish and sweet potatoes on ancient charcoal braziers. But right now Iām trying to stay in step with Frank toward an 18th-century coffee plantation. At a stream I sink onto a rock and guzzle electrolyte-spiked water.
Five minutes later Frank blows an abeng, a cow horn used by Maroon leaders to call the ancestors. Propelled by ancestral freedom fighters ā and hunger ā I rise and limp along on a bum knee. Frank stops and points out a pimento tree (allspice).
āThe wood is still used to smoke jerked meats, a Maroon invention,ā he says. Iām salivating over a mental picture of spicy chicken from one of Jamaicaās ubiquitous roadside shacks. Who knew jerk had such a heroic past? A week ago, all I cared about was the present ā as in, satiating my island appetite by claiming a beach lounger. Then I saw the resortās offer to experience the real Jamaica. It involved food. I signed up.
Letās just say this is not the fenced-off and cruise-ship-mobbed Jamaica Iād expected. The island has a soul. Itās found not in the display cases at the Charles Town Maroon Museum, but in the bammy bread and ārun-downā vegetables served there, in a calabash-gourd bowl. With every bite Iām learning about Jamaica in ways that canāt be done at the pool. During a Euro-Caribbean dinner at the hotelās Mille Fleurs restaurant, I hum over a salad with Greek-style feta that surely hails from Mount Olympus. āItās from Tamarind Farm, 15 kilometers away,ā resort co-owner Shireen Aga says. I take a moment to convince myself Iām still in Jamaica.
The next day, by taxi, we head up switchbacks to another coffee farm. By the time we arrive, Iām craving the world-famous Blue Mountain brew. Make that a steaming-hot cup. Itās freezing up here, and I didnāt pack a fleece. Inside the modest cottage headquarters of the family-owned Old Tavern Coffee Estate, Dorothy Twyman pours beans into the roaster. They crackle as the sugars in them Ācaramelize. One pop and itās medium roast; two pops is medium-dark. Dorothy pours a ridiculously fresh cup of coffee. I warm my hands on the mug and sip. Itās robust with tropical-fruit accents. I take no sugar or cream because Iāve developed a preference for the real Jamaica ā strong, not too sweet, with just a hint of wild. This is how I will travel from now on: raw, with no preconceptions. And to think, I came here as a resort buff.
This article first appeared in Twenty of the Worldās Greatest Escapes, in the January/February 2012 issues of ISLANDS.