Upon approaching Buff Bay, Portland from the west, and just after passing the cemetery I had to descend a small hill, where tall coconut trees greeted me on both sides of the street and the ocean lay a stone’s throw away to the north. The mountains to the south glittered in a variety of greens and blue giving me the first glimpse of the Blue Mountains. I drove across a bridge where the Buff Bay River flows beneath to meet the sea. It was dawn, so the town was quiet except for a few persons at the bus stop waiting to board an early bus to Kingston or further and in between. A Texaco Gas Station was lighted up on the left, yet there were no sign of human activity. I drove further into the town past the easterly traveler’s bus stop where a few school students were boarding a minibus to Port Antonio. I wanted an early start, so I had departed Kingston at 3:30am in the morning. It took me just over an hour to arrive in Buff Bay to my amazement. The road from Kingston took a bit of maneuvering, but on entering the outskirts of Annotto Bay the road with its clean, smooth surface was a pleasure to drive on, especially because I was one of few motorists on the road at that hour. I drove past churches, schools, bars and shops; all was calm and quiet as I headed to the Blueberry Hill Guesthouse where I planned on residing for the rest of the weekend on my quest to discover the town of Buff Bay.
The drive up the hill in the early morning was refreshing, tall trees and palms were spaced out on both sides of the road, a slight wind blew in the air diffusing the stillness of the morning. I had to pass three houses before I got to the guesthouse. The garden surrounding the guesthouse flourished with beauty, I pulled up at the entrance and got out of the car. The smell of roasted breadfruit greeted me as well as a tall brown Indian lady smiling. She showed me my room and prattled on, asking me about my drive and what I was doing in Buff Bay. I was happy for the chatter after a quiet uneventful drive and she invited me for breakfast to my delight. The grounds of the guesthouse were enveloped in green with different blooms scattered across the garden. I went up the outside staircase and stood on the balcony observing the most breathtaking view. Looking out, the silver ocean seemed to spread out like a blanket meeting the horizon. Ms. Doris, the Indian lady called up to me then and I went down to have breakfast. It was a basement kitchen; the only modern convenience was a sink. There was a table and few benches, some shelves where tableware, utensils and pots were kept and a door to the back of the room leading into a large pantry. Two coal stoves stood in the middle of the kitchen. One was fired up with a pot cooking something mouth-watering. Before, going into the basement I had noticed a wood fire under a coconut tree where the breadfruits were roasted. The aromas were a delight to my senses and when I actually took the first bite, I thought I had died and gone to heaven. My taste buds came alive as I devoured the roasted breadfruit served with ackee and saltfish, prepared the old fashioned Jamaican way. The guesthouse was fairly modern with cozy bedrooms and bathrooms showing all Jamaican-made furniture, but the kitchen and the food were an unexpected pleasure I will never forget.
After two hours of rest and freshening up, I decided to walk down to the town. Ms. Doris was going down, so we walked together. On entering the main road into Buff Bay, I could see the Blueberry Hill Jerk Center as it stood on the edge of the seaside, the shutters were down, but I could see and smell the smoke escaping through, signaling that the grills were lighted up and ready to start jerking the chicken, pork and sausages for the day.
Ms. Doris took her leave in the opposite direction to wait for a bus going east to the capital, Port Antonio. I walked on passing the very high, mildewed white washed wall of Lynch Park, the barrier to the home of the St. George’s community center and sports facility. But just across the main street the sea rolled forth and receded on the black sand leaving the white froth for a while before it dissolved. It was interesting to watch and listen to the music of the ocean touching the shore. A white hatch backed car pulled up beside me interrupting my thoughts as the driver called out ‘Taxi’ staring at me. Those types of car seemed to be everywhere I turned and decided not to get distracted by their evasive presence and continued my morning walk into the heart of Buff Bay.
The town was buzzing now with people going in and out of the fresh produce market and the parking lot of the Shoppers Pride Supermarket which was packed with motor vehicles and people. I did not linger as I wanted to view the quieter side of Buff Bay. I paused to view and take pictures of the exterior of the closed Buff Bay Post Office, the small building looked ancient and cared for and I wondered how the inside looked. A lady had her wares spread out on a folded canvas on the landing of the post office steps, her goods consisted of Tupperware, metal strainers, plastic flowers and other nic-nacs items. I decided to buy a small grater from her, it was made of metal, but there was a wooden brace at the back which was painted red with flower prints, it was quite unusual. I chatted with the lady for a while, she told me about the different schools in the area. There was the regular public primary school, a public high school and some private basic and prep schools but no school environment for children with special needs, which is same as most small towns in Jamaica.
I continued my walk and proceeded across the street to the grey, ancient stone building which stood tall and high embracing memories of long ago. It was one of Buff Bay’s few historical landmarks. The Anglican Church was built with stones from England which were used to balance ships traveling across the Atlantic to Buff Bay, Jamaica to collect produce to take back to England. I looked at the monuments and their inscriptions. I was informed by the caretaker that the land behind the church going back to the seaside was once a burial ground for the slaves who died after arriving on the island. And like the church, the stones that built the courthouse were of the same origin. The colonial style courthouse was a replica of traditional English Architecture dating back to the 17th century and beyond.
There was still more of Buff Bay that I wanted to see, but I was getting hungry so I went to a small roadside restaurant next to the Court House. The name Hibiscus was printed across the length of the outside wall in brilliant red, while the rest of the space on the walls was painted with the Hibiscus Flower; it was a pretty sight. A dark rounded lady greeted me with a wide dimpled smile. I ordered the brown stewed Snapper with Rice and Peas, a tall glass of sorrel and sat down to enjoy my lunch at one of three white plastic tables.
My next stop was the town square. There was nothing significant about the square. What stood out was the expanse of the intersection, and the Texaco Gas Station. I could see that Buff Bay was a well planned town with its wide roads and avenues. I was getting tired so I flagged down one of the white taxis which took me back to the Guesthouse so I could get some rest before I met with my guide to plan a trip to the Blue Mountains the following morning.
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