“So, you’ve come for the races?” Richie asks.

We’re bumping along the pot-holed strewn road heading south from Montego Bay to Little Bay. The village of Little Bay is what Negril was before fame, fortune and the entrapments of tourism development transformed it into another oversized, all-inclusive beach resort.

With every passing jarring mile, we leave the high rise hotels and tourist masses of the north Jamaica coast behind. Villages dot the landscape. Kamikaze chickens dart across our path as the SUV ambles along. Richie, our driver, a large, dark skinned man with a permanent grin, has introduced himself to us as our ‘man on the ground’ for the duration of our week-long stay at Coral Cove. Fine by us. Richie has already proved his worth. He made a pit stop so we could buy some fresh cold Red Stripe beer and he’s been playing tour guide throughout the two-hour ride to the resort.   But his question catches the four of us off guard.

“What race?” asks Jon. I’m envisioning million dollar Formula One race cars careening around winding, dusty, potholed roads, knocking down cattle and poultry at full throttle.

“The donkey races,” Richie answers, sounding surprised we weren’t aware of the event. “Uncle Sam’s Donkey Derby. It’s an annual tradition in the Western Parishes. You should come. It’s lots of fun, and you can win big money.”

…………………………..

And that is how we find ourselves on a hot, sunny Saturday, amidst dozens of donkeys and young boys trying in vain to control their mounts on a grassy Caribbean fairground. A makeshift sound system is blaring reggae. A bamboo bar of questionable construction is doing a brisk business. Food stall vendors are serving up goat curry, jerk chicken and fried conch. And the distinctive aroma of Jamaica’s national herbal treasure permeates the air. Cheers erupt from somewhere, and we realize a race has just run. The victorious donkey and rider are congratulated, losing tickets are tossed on the ground and another pop-up race begins.

Richie has escorted us here, but now he’s holding court with his friends near the bar. Jon and our two friends have splintered off. Janet is inspecting the souvenir stand. Jon and Gligo are trying to figure out how to place bets. … or are they asking how to enter the race? I’m nursing a Red Stripe, watching the action.

This is so far removed from the scene we left in Montego Bay. There’s an authentic fairground atmosphere. An announcer is calling the race, but his voice is drowned out by the reggae music and the sounds of people talking, laughing and singing. Kids are everywhere, playing games, riding their donkeys (some kids are so small they need help just to mount up), picnicking with their families. This is Jamaica.

…………….

It’s late afternoon. The sun is starting its daily descent and we’re sitting at the thatched roof bar at Coral Cove overlooking the bay. It’s a small resort – only 11 rooms – so the communal nature of the place quickly catches on. As the sun sets, almost all the guests gravitate to the bar for cocktail hour.

Heather, one of the hotel guests, has appointed herself bartender (there is no formal bartender here, this is a do-it-yourself set up) and she’s blending a boozy frothy concoction for all of us. We’re talking about the donkey derby. None of us won the ‘big money’ Richie enticed us with, but we all agree it was a great day. Two of the guests are repeat visitors. They’ve been coming here for years.

“We wouldn’t go anywhere else on the island,” he says. “This is the best of Jamaica. It’s real here.

One day it’ll probably end up like Negril. They’ll pave the road, build a swanky restaurant, start adding in the bells and whistles. But for now, it’s perfect.”

“It’s like Richie’s records,”, says Heather. Richie runs a bar in town and spins vinyl every night until the wee hours. “Most people come to Jamaica and all they get is the A side – the resorts, the big tourist attractions, the beaches. Little Bay is like the flip side.”

Talk around the bar shifts to our various plans for tomorrow. The agenda for most of us is simple: hike the nearby foothills; snorkel in the bay; maybe get a ride into Negril for some souvenir shopping; walk to Ritchie’s bar after dinner. Without the distraction of the donkey derby, we can get down to some serious relax time. My friend Janet leans in to me and half whispers, “I’m having the best time. I never knew places like this exist in Jamaica. I thought it was all mega resorts and tourist traps.”
Heather reaches for the blender. “Another round?” We all nod in agreement. Maybe we did win big after all.