Mélange Travel & Lifestyle Magazine October 2016 | Page 263

An hour into our walk the climbing began to get
strenuous. The “plenty water” I had brought was
dwindling from the Caribbean heat. Anthony
chuckled as he trotted along at a good clip. We
hiked through beautiful Jamaican farmlands
dotted with terrifying skinny roads where goats
and cows roamed. At one blind curve a bull
suddenly lumbered down a hill and charged
toward us in the tiny road, prompting us to run
for our lives. Anthony sauntered on, unaffected.
Three hours of uphill hiking later we reached the
trail that would take us through dense tropical
jungle. Anthony swung a machete to clear our
path. The forest was lush and fragrant with
blooming Hibiscus, Bougainvillea and Bromeliads
among the huge ferns. We were surrounded by
birdsong and insect calls and were drenched with
both sweat and humidity. Our guide mumbled
encouragement as we eventually reached a rough,
steep path about twelve inches wide that led to a
clearing.
The hillside was lush with coffee plants, the hard
red berries clustered like grapes. There was a small
house consisting of some wooden beams, a couple
of walls and a tin roof.
We were welcomed by a woman and two small
children who were roasting coffee beans in a huge
metal cauldron over an open fire. The aroma of
coffee engulfed us as we sat down to watch the
woman work at the roasting. Her kitchen was a
simple space with a swept dirt floor, a small table,
a couple of cooking and washing pots, a shelf
with some fruit and food stuffs, and the fire upon
which the coffee beans were roasted. The woman
sat on a low chair near the fire and occasionally
stirred the monstrous pot with a huge paddle. Her
smile was friendly and happy.

© Jamaica Tourist Board - fotoseeker. com”

Hungry from the hike we pulled out our
sandwiches and granola bars and chocolate and
shared with the children. They were all giggles
and gleaming smiles shyly enjoying our company.
We spent the afternoon watching the woman roast
beans, chatting with her and the children and
bought several pounds of her coffee. The long
hike home to our mountain cottage was made
lively by drinking cups of the rich brew with sugar
and canned milk. We ended our da y listening to
the music always echoing through the Jamaican
hills and looking out over the lights of Kingston.
At the airport coming home to the U.S. the
Customs Official asked if we had anything to
declare and we said no. He opened our bag and
the overwhelming scent of fresh coffee wafted out
into our face. We smiled and so did he. We said,
“Blue Mountain” and he closed up that bag and we
made our way home, full of joy at the beauty we
had seen.

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