Considering Jamaica is a small island nation of just 2.8 million people (scarred by colonialism, slavery, piracy and the annihilation of its Indigenous Taino population), the country has a rich, outsized and influential culture that has spread worldwide. There’s the soundtrack of Bob Marley, dancehall or reggaeton heard at parties around the world, the sweet-spicy flavours of that famous jerk seasoning and, of course, the smooth, sweet coffee beans from the Blue Mountains. Jamaica is associated with the world’s best sprint athletes, the smoky haze of Rastafarianism and its distinctive patois, mon. “Don’t like Jamaica,” sang the English rock band 10cc in their eponymous 70s hit, Dreadlocked Holiday. “I love her.”

Summer showers soak the Blue Mountains, the country’s dominant range overlooking Kingston. High rainfall, rich volcanic soil and cool, misty conditions produce world-famous coffee beans of the same name. Driving up a narrow, washed-out road, I’m on my way to an informal Rastafarian settlement to learn a little more about the country’s homespun religion. Although synonymous with Jamaica, less than one per cent of the population identify as Rastafari, although more Rastafari live in Jamaica than anywhere else. I arrive at Zion Hill, a self-sufficient, ramshackle village high in the mountains. Hundreds of people, locals and foreigners, have been baptized here into the brethren of Rastafari.

A priest named Dermot Fagan greets me with a big smile, ushering me into a communal hut where he pulls out his copy of the King James Bible. He points to passages that Rastas claim is proof that Jesus had dreadlocks (Revelation 1:14 “the hair of his head like pure wool…”) and another which they interpret as God gifting humanity a sacred herb to enlighten our minds. Outside, several dread-locked men chain-smoke joints in the shade as precocious kids run about the brightly painted huts. Far from any resort, it’s a fascinating glimpse into the Jamaica removed from the tourism brochures. The priest points out more Bible passages and starts riffing on wild conspiracies about RFID chips and the ongoing threat of Babylon, referring to the corrupt Western system that continues to oppress Africans and their descendants. He explains traditional Rastafarian dietary restrictions, which include salt, alcohol, eggs, meat, canned food and, ironically, given the location, coffee. The sun breaks from the storm clouds, vividly lighting up the informal huts. I take some photos and donate pencils and crayons to a local schoolteacher. Red, yellow and green hues are in high demand. 

The following day, I stopped for mouth-watering grilled fish, spiced with extra scotch peppers in the jerk marinade, at a legendary beach shack called Little Ochie. Scotch peppers, long associated with the Caribbean, are closely related to habaneros, although they are slightly sweeter in flavour. The humble beach shack served up a blackened snapper that will forever swim in my culinary dreams. From here, it’s an hour’s drive further along the less-trafficked south coast to Jakes Hotel on Treasure Beach. This boutique, family-owned hotel began as a restaurant and modest one-room property, growing into an award-winning property with an unpretentious, family-friendly atmosphere and a proud connection to the local community. Eclectic cabins with colourfully designed rooms face the ocean, and that night, I took a dip in the warm sea of Calabash Bay beneath the bright, strobing stars. A cold Red Stripe beer is never far from a beach in Jamaica, the light lager complimenting the relaxing reggae and breeze swaying in the coconut trees. 

Jakes offers several community programs, which is how I came to connect with a local fisherman heading out for the morning on his skiff. Sunrise is just breaking the horizon when I hop aboard his wooden boat, powered with an outboard motor. The Caribbean is calm this morning as we stop to check empty traps, admire dolphins and take a swim. “Every day is a fishing day,” he tells me, “but not every day is a catching day.”

An authentic pride of place and hospitality permeates the morning. There are no neon lights, no crowds, no gift shops or tacky tourist traps. When the sun cranks up the heat, we putter towards the beach along a watery catwalk of sunlight.