“ I walked around the busy streets of Kingston and New Kingston. Since, I am in today’s papers, people look at me, talk to me and question me. Beggars beg for money telling me that I am ‘the famous man’, benevolent and equivalent to their saviour.”

16 January, 2001
All morning, I walked around the busy streets of Kingston and New Kingston. Since, I am in today’s papers, people look at me, talk to me and question me. Beggars beg for money telling me that I am ‘the famous man’, benevolent, and equivalent to their saviour. I passed Camp Road and headed east towards Windward Road. Despite the constant cool sea breeze, it was hot. The road that leads to Norman Manley International Airport is U-shaped and narrow so it was very difficult for me to cycle past other vehicles. Angry, loud rioters on the same narrow road made the passage even more difficult. The road gets steep and slippery from Bull Bay so vehicles have to trudge up slowly and cycles, even slower. I had planned to reach Monart Bay, but it was already dark, so I stopped at Yallahs. I booked a room in a small village cottage. I took a walk and decided to sit under a coconut tree as I watched the last tawny rays of the drowning sun slowly dissipate.

17 January, 2001
I woke up to the sound of someone sweeping the corridor. Outside, the wind was strong. Boats at the harbour slowly set out to sea. No one at the cottage - besides the sweeper- had awoken. I locked up my room, took the keys, hung it at the reception door and set out to my destination. Since it was early in the morning, I met a lot of professional cyclists on my way. I met a group of children, each with a bucketful of water, clumsily trying to run after me. Some even hung onto the back of my cycle. The road to Monart Bay is curved and bent dangerously, so one has to listen carefully to the long warning horns from arriving vehicles beyond each bend. Since I don’t have a Jamaican flag with me, I have placed an Ameican flag on my cycle. People on the road call me ‘American’ and warn me with phrases like, ‘Bin Laden will kill you!’

At Golden Grove, a Jamaican stopped me and initiated a conversation. He then offered me a mango and ate one himself. After I finished eating the mango, I thanked him and was about to leave when he told me to pay for both the mangoes we had just enjoyed. I told him that since he had offered me the mango, I had assumed that it was for free. But he began telling me that it was not his fruit-cart and threatened me that I must either pay or I would get into trouble. Another equally frightening looking Jamaican arrived on the scene. He was the fruit-cart owner. The first Jamaican told the second that we had just taken two mangoes from his cart and then, accusingly pointing at me, said that I would be paying for them. I was shocked. The first Jamaican casually walked away. I told the fruit-cart owner I would pay for only one mango. But he demanded that I quietly give him the full sum- 400 Jamaican Dollars, which is 10USD. I didn’t want to argue with him. So, I paid and left.

On reaching Boston Bay, I saw the sea. The houses in Boston Bay are cramped-up along narrow streets. Sugar-cane farms arch out till the main road. Whenever I spotted coconuts, using my khukuri, I cut them down and drank the juice. I realised that it not only quenched my thirst but also saved the money I would have otherwise spent on a bottle of Coke or Pepsi.

When I arrived at Port Antonio, I tried a restaurant called ‘Try Me’. The restaurant’s owner, Lorna, had read yesterday’s papers and recognised me instantly. She prepared a free lunch for me and offered me some fresh orange juice. When I reached Buff Bay, it started to rain. I had planned to stay the night at Annoto Bay, but there were no rooms in any of the motels. The people at Annoto Bay informed me that I would only find motels at Robins Bay, which is 10 km away. It was getting dark. Since it was unreasonable and unsafe to travel such a long distance at night, I decided that I had to somehow find shelter at Annoto Bay. Opposite Gray’s Inn, I saw a gas station. I asked the people there if I could spend the night at the station but they told me to go to Robin’s Bay instead. I did not move. I stood outside the gas station. It closed down at 10. Since the station was far away from the nearest city, I did not fear ruffians. I took out my sleeping bag and laid it out on the station’s pavement. I tried to sleep as mosquitoes sirened around my ears.

18 January, 2001
I left before the gas station opened to service its first customers. It was a windy and cold morning. Cycling uphill and counter-parallel to the strong winds sent chills down my spine. On my way, I took time to observe nature while it worked in its inconspicuous ways: the wind had started to make music with the leaves, the river could be heard from a distance and the birds chirped in harmony. But soon people began to wake and the disruptive sound of moving cars drowned nature’s music for until another quiet morning. When I reached Devon Pen, I had breakfast at the Tapioca Village. At times, since it was difficult to cycle uphill, I had to drag my cylce instead. On approaching Stony Hill, a little boy on a small cycle followed me. I wanted to meet Nieky, Lorna’s daughter, but I didn’t know where she lived. Lorna has written down her address for me, so that I could have lunch at her place. I gave the little boy the address. I asked him if he could help me locate Nieky’s house. He told me that I would have to buy him a Coke first. I bought him one and he led me to Nieky’s house. I had my lunch there and wondered around Stony Hill on my own.

I really like Stony Hill. It is situated in the northern hills of the Jamaican capital city Kingston. Pretty bungalows amidst the lush jungles of Stony Hill could be seen for quite a distance. One of the bungalows was named ‘Everest’. Feeling a strong connection to it, I rang its doorbell. Coincidentally, I was also wearing a t-shirt made in Nepal with ‘Top of the World, Everest’ printed across the front. But no one answered the door.

Yet, I enjoyed the natural beauty of the place. The bungalow seemed like it was carved out of the hill. My body aches disappeared as I was engulfed by nature. I stood there for a long time, taking in all that nature had to offer, to make up for the noisy hours I would be spending at Kingston again. But how long could I stand there like that?

I made my way back downhill to Kingston. The same busy streets, the same noisy people met me again. I cycled down to Kingston harbour, took the U-shaped road, passed the airport and reached Port Royal, which is situated atop an island. There was a hotel there with expensive rates; 130 USD per night- it was over my budget. There was another guesthouse. It was cheaper, but just a day before, a couple had stolen the television from their room, so the owner of the guesthouse refused to give me a room. I showed her my file and documents and told her that she could trust me. She agreed to let me stay.

                         (Pushkar  in Bob marley park)
21 January, 2001
I, like Bob Marley, want to believe that ‘life is one big road with lots of songs’. If Bob Marley was living today, I feel he would have been able to give more meaning to his life, but he lived short. Yet in his short life, he left a permanent mark in the world of reggae music. For his Rastafarian fans across the world, his presence is felt in his songs, where he continues to live. I left Jamaica with Bob Marley’s songs ringing endlessly in my head. I like the Rastafarian belief: that the world is owned by everyone and that each one of us has the right to use everything that is available to us; that is why Rastafarians don’t hesitate to take things from other people.

I woke up at four in the morning. I left for the airport by five. Only the dogs in the streets were awake and barking, the rest of the world had been shrouded by a miasma of deep sleep. The road from Port Royal to the airport was dark with neither streetlights nor lit-settlements. Though it was already morning, I couldn’t help feeling a little scared of the darkness around me.

Midway, I saw something shiny on the road. For a split second, I felt like a treasure hunter. Indulging myself I stopped my cycle and took out my flashlight- only to find out that it was a small shiny-paper box. I almost laughed out loud at my stupidity. I must admit it is true, that since we possess eyes our greed is endless. It is so strong that all other emotions are forgotten and made non-existent: my fear, for instance, had disappeared completely then.

When I was approaching the airport, darkness gave way to morning’s sunlight. At the customs, I fell into a little discussion with the officers regarding my cycle. They told me that since the plane was small, they had no space for it. Then, the whole tiresome process of official papers, questions, costs and negotiations repeated like a deja vu. After much compromise, I finally boarded the plane with my bicycle. Despite the fact that it was just nine in the morning the cabin crew was serving champagne. I have never tried champagne before. I took a sip. I did not like it much.

Source, Pushkar's diary,Wavemagzine,Nepal