Why is it that announcing your upcoming trip to Jamaica somehow lures your otherwise perfectly reasonable friends into a ghastly Bob Marley imitation. “Jamaica, mon?” they’ll say. “Guess you’re a dreadlock woman, now!” Sure. Whatever. What I was seeking though was beyond the syncopated rhythm of a Wailers album. I wanted to see beneath, beyond, between – to dive into the underwater landscapes, and explore what lay between the entry and exit points of my dives in this gem of the Caribbean.

And in Jamaica what lies between the dives is a destination overflowing with multiracial culture, a spot that has seemingly adopted a simple approach to daily survival: one that is slow and purposeful.

The implicit challenge of seeing as much of Jamaica as I could in nine days remained with me as my champagne flight aboard Air Jamaica landed in Montego Bay, a thriving port city and home to upscale, all-inclusive beach resorts. Flight attendants cheerfully welcomed us to Jamaica, declaring there are over two million residents, 4,411 square miles, 14 parishes, and “no dangerous animals.” Just in case, I was armed with mosquito repellant.

Before donning my scuba duds, I paired up with a Nissan rental car. Its task was – judging by the narrow dimensions of Jamaica’s roads and strategically located switchbacks – challenging, but one that, combined with my newly acquired catlike reflexes behind the right-side steering wheel, I could accomplish with valor. I learned quickly that drivers ignore pedestrian crossings, and that pedestrians ignore their own well-being when crossing the roads.

Hence, the invaluable car horn. Two short honks signal a “Hey, what’s up!,” “See you later,” “Thank You!,” or a resounding  “I’m passing you on your right, so let me through.” (Remember, the left side of the road is the lane of choice.)

Montego Bay is justifiably known as the “hustler’s city,” where local hagglers, or street merchants, jockey for position to sell unsuspecting tourists everything from hairbrushes to drugs. A simple “No, thanks” will usually suffice to ward off repeated propositions. Rumors that Mo Bay is dangerous, though, are inflated. Naturally, the mega-resorts would prefer that guests dine, dawdle and dole out dollars at just the one location, but Mo Bay has a fine collection of shops, knickknack shacks, and restaurants beyond the resort grounds. The man or woman hawking the bead necklace, sarong, or wood carving most likely lives in one of the inconspicuous shacks perched in the hills and valleys of Jamaica and has a family to feed.

I was intrigued to see how Montego Bay rated underwater, since Jamaica for some reason does not have the “dive mecca” reputation that the neighboring Cayman Islands do. Mo Bay is Jamaica’s first marine sanctuary, and visibility nears 100 feet most days, outlined with walls and vibrant coral reefs, ranging in depths from 35 feet to hundreds and thousands, none more than a few minutes from shore. We weren’t on the boat long enough for chewing gum to go stale before we reached a dive site.

Beneath

Jamaica’s underwater topography is just as dramatic as its topside formations. Sand chutes guided us from the lip of the wall to shallower reefs full of mountainous star corals and grooved brain corals interspersed with common sea fans. Ledges and spur-and-groove formations create a diverse underwater tour. Impressive gorgonians and abundant trees of black corals germinated along the wall, finger, fire, and boulder corals veil the reefs. Post-dive, I learned the lack of abundant fish life results from overzealous fishermen, regardless of sanctuary guidelines.  

Beyond

Jamaica is the Caribbean’s third largest island, and after I sampled the first of its watery wares, I wanted to journey further along the northern coastline to the quiet outreaches of the countryside. Or, in real terms, pilot the zigs and zags at an exhilarating, yet safe, kilometric speed.

Runaway Bay, approximately an hour east of Mo Bay, is subdued, completely free of Mo Bay’s traffic clots and overcrowded craft markets. Today, Runaway Bay, named for slaves that hopped aboard ships and fled to a new life, offers just that. An escape. Driving through the country filled me with a heaven-can-wait outlook. Absorbed in the panoply of color, I passed banana and coconut trees as richly hued as evergreens, magenta bougainvillaea and, as the road wrapped around the coastline, the turquoise water and puffy clouds angled for a spot in a Gauguin masterpiece. Or at least a really cool poster.

In small coastal towns like Falmouth and Discovery Bay, tiny shanties stand along the hillsides, and vendors and jerk shacks line the road. I stopped for an ice cold Ting (my fave fizzy grapefruit soda) and contemplated the fate of earlier residents, the Arawak Indians who had once inhabited this and other Caribbean islands. Forging their lives from the bounty of land and sea, the Spaniards’ arrival wiped them out – quickly, violently, and unceremoniously. You can feel this tumultuous historical period as you walk through the Green Grotto Caves, just west of Runaway Bay, a spot the Arawaks once used as a haven. A lighted tour of the underground caverns, formed by the ocean and volcanic eruption, travels along 100-foot drops and freshwater lakes so clear you can’t judge the surface as you plunge into the refreshingly cold water. At the bottom of 63 steps lies an underground lagoon where parts of the Bond thriller Live and Let Die were filmed. Reputedly this is the fountain of youth, where women emerge fifteen years younger, and men regain only five; men take the water with them to wash their faces (I guess they hope to grab a few more hours that way).

For nostalgic movie buffs, the Jamaican Wildlife Safari affords a slice of Hollywood. Among other animals, there is what remains of Charlie the Alligator, who made his 2,600^th film appearance in Live and Let Die at this original film site. Sadly, all that’s left is his skin and massive skull hanging on the wall at the ‘gator shack. Born in the USA, Charlie died a Jamaican in 1984. In nearby Discovery Bay, portions of Cool Runnings and Papillon were also filmed.

Runaway Bay is subject to high winds and varying visibility, but offers fabulous reefs and untraditional wreck dives, including a Mercedes Benz, two Cessnas formerly employed as ganja transporters. Disappointed I couldn’t extend my Runaway stay I had to keep on keeping on, as they say. Places to go, people to see, dives to dive.

Before heading to Negril, I wanted to see the soul of the island, the heart of Jamaica that makes it beat with life. What better way than to observe a working coffee plantation? Croydon in the Mountains is 20 miles of exciting scenery, and maybe one of the most remote.

Rocklands Bird Sanctuary, nestled in the foothills of the Catadupa Mountains, is another mini-diamond in the rough. The sanctuary is the brainchild of Amy Salmon, who, in the early 1950s, trained hummingbirds to pause long enough on her finger to fill their slender beaks with sweetened water. Today, visitors arrive to see Jamaica’s brilliant green doctorbird at the sanctuary, which is only as extensive as the terrace-covered back porch of Salmon’s house. Overlooking the ocean, amidst lush vegetation, white-winged doves, finches, Jamaican mango hummingbirds, and orangequits have adapted to an afternoon feeding of sugar water and birdseed, offered by human hands.

The hardy Nissan and I ventured west along the coast to Negril. While Negril’s borderline racy resorts offer a choice between nude beach and prude beach, snorkeling and diving are definitely the area’s truly hot activities.

Negril diving has a one-up on its easterly counterparts, with visibility in excess of 100 feet and dependably calm weather. Yellowhead and bluehead wrasse sprinkle the reefs with moving color that blends with the paler shades of the supermale princess parrotfish. I discovered sites as bounteous with watercress algae as the other coasts; when it dies it looks like white confetti strewn along the reefs. Negril also offers shore diving that rivals its boat diving, although the trips are shorter. (We were not allowed to dive without a guide – an island-wide standard with dive operators.)

For activities above the waterline, start at the 66-foot white lighthouse, one of the few historical sites in Negril. Other than this, Negril is chiefly a party town. To enter the twilight fun zone, visit Rick’s Café, the sunset center. For the folks back home, the craft market at the intersection of West End Road and Norman Manley Boulevard supplies every souvenir need, and even the things you don’t need but buy anyway.

A leisurely stroll through the makeshift huts requires some mental preparation – brace yourself for the hard sell here. Unable to decide which mahogany turtle would grace my coffee table, a Rastafarian helped me see the light. “Pretty lady,” he said, “you must do it for love, because Jah wants you to have that turtle for $35.” But $20 was as much as my Jah could live with. “Okay, mon,” he continued, “because I’m the artist, I give you a deal.” I bought the turtle in the name of love.

I recounted to friends, covetous of my sun-kissed curls and skin, Jamaica’s undeniable comeliness. The “real” Jamaica, I told them, is hidden beneath the resorts and the tourists. The island’s many faces, above and below the surface, complete its charm.

Julie Botteri is a fulltime freelance writer living in the Florida Keys. Her articles appear in destination, travel, and health magazines featuring island living, wine country, as well as pet health and alternative healing techniques.