Nine Mile, Jamaica, WI

On Bob Marley's Bed

Bob Marley's Village "Nine Mile"

“Where the Legend was born,” it says in the brochure. “Come see, come be…with Bob Marley at Nine Mile.”

We left my hotel in Montego Bay at seven in the morning but soon I shared the air-conditioned tour bus with a bunch of arrogant Brits and a few other grouchy early risers. Most of them only had a general idea who Bob Marley was. They took the tour as a last minute alternate instead of the trip to Kingston which was canceled because parts of the Blue Mountain road had been washed out by hurricanes Dennis and Emily. Jamaica is too poor for inland repairs; only famed international hotel chains along the white sand beaches seem to be cleared after disasters.

Bob Marley is one of my heroes. A symbol of freedom from oppression, an international music legend, a believer in world peace. He was born in Nine Mile on February 6, 1945 and laid to rest there in a state funeral in 1981. Though during his lifetime reggae and Bob’s message attracted more whites than blacks in the US, he is now well known all over the world.

This was my first trip into a rainforest, a trip I had planned in front of my computer, far from tropical humidity and mosquitoes. The printed version of my dream did not address inherent difficulties with the system. “No problem, mon.” I had wanted to take public transportation and had carefully mapped my destination. But once I arrived in Montego Bay I reconsidered quickly as I listened to accounts of other travelers. When I saw the crowds that had gathered around stops in the market towns I considered myself lucky that I had abandoned the idea if taking a local bus or squeezing into a route taxi, the unlicensed and cheap counterpart of the licensed taxi, which seem to carry twice as many passengers as there are seats available. And then, all along the winding, rutted roads I saw people standing, two women here, a young boy there, three men in an argument; all waiting for the bus that would eventually come through and pick them up.

The Lonely Planet guidebook calls Jamaica’s public bus system “the epitome of chaos.” “Soon come” is the answer to all things Jamaican, though soon has no expiration date. And all the time I had the vision that the dense forest would swallow its people if they stood too long in one spot.

We rode along the A1, the main thoroughfare, for the first part of our excursion. Over the microphone our guide gave a running account of landscape and history. Before we turned toward the mountains, the bus driver warned us of “situations,” minor details that don’t have the significance of problems in the view of Jamaicans but which might upset those who take efficiency and order for granted. Oberiah Malcolm, Bob Marley’s grandfather, is supposed to have remarked that a straight line is impossible in his country because of spirits and magic and spells. “The Land of Look Behind” he called it.[1] I thought of Oberiah Malcolm, trying to remember his remedy against duppies, the ghosts of the dead.

As we left the highway and zigzagged into the mountains, we all kept our eyes glued to the road in anticipation of the next obstacle. We had to stop alongside a ravine when one of the British boys’ stomach revolted. We bounced through a lake of muddy water, left behind by a recent hurricane. We dodged tree branches, other buses, coasters, route taxis, street vendors and stray goats. Only once did our Rasta guide raise his voice.

“Fuck you,” he shook his fist and yelled at a young man who aimed to stop our bus with one hand while he waved a bundle of fruit in his other.

The guide apologized to us with a courteous “I am sorry for my outburst.” No explanation, no comment on the unrest of the crowd, no smile. Tourists are his business, but the street vendors of the small market towns are his brothers and sisters. Many women sat in doorways of ramshackle houses, their fruits laid out on colorful cloths or displayed in baskets. They out-yelled each other to interest visitors in local produce. Children ran between cars to sell their mothers’ wares. When our bus slowed down to a crawl we were surrounded by impatient men whose income depends on tourists. I could see the driver’s face from my seat in the third row; not a muscle moved as he maneuvered us through Main Street of downtown Brown’s Town. Our bus resembled a silver metal fish, loaded with mostly pink faces, slicing through a wave of dark arms and hands.

When we arrived in the parking lot at Nine Mile we needed to get our land legs back quickly as we were led up the steep stairs to the Marley compound. The air was less humid here and fragrant with tropical flowers. All around us we saw tiny cement block houses clinging to the edge of the mountainside. Though these homes looked much sturdier than the rusted metal sheds in shanty towns, they seemed to get swallowed up on all sides by trees and underbrush.

Once inside the heavily guarded, gated Marley Estate, we were handed off to another guide. His dreads were concealed by a Rastafarian cap crocheted of black, red, yellow, and green yarn, symbolizing the hardship of the people, blood, sun, and nature. These colors are repeated throughout the grounds, painted on rocks and buildings, hung in flags, and painted as frames for Bob Marley’s images.

After we walked through the museum store we had a brief waiting period in the I-tal bar. I suppose this was to let another group pass, as well as give us time to buy a few drinks. The men took advantage of the Red Stripe, the local beer; I tried to watch the screen that flashed Bob’s life in front of us. I looked around to familiarize myself a bit more with the group. Besides the English tourists we had also picked up a few people from other All-Inclusive Resorts like Breezes and Sandals. Whenever I travel alone I search for women who might eventually be my lunch companions. Usually I pick two women who look like friends and seem to be getting along well with each other. This system works well; the women are glad to get a fresh face to talk to and I am happy not to sit by myself at a table or with a couple that is complaining about the weather or bickering over the food.

As we were led up a steep hill to Bob Marley’s two-room home, I connected with an African American woman from Los Angeles and her daughter. I asked the mother to take my picture in front of the gate; it is not often that I appear in the photographs of my travels, but this was one time I didn’t want to miss. Though I am partially hidden by three young women who refused to move, I am there beneath a Marley portrait.

For a while we walked through the garden and crowded around the soft-spoken guide, then we were asked to take our shoes off to enter the small house. I saw the question marks on the faces of some of the men, faces that seemed to get redder and redder under the influence of the Red Stripe. Some were puffing on large spliffs, the kind Bob Marley used to smoke. Though ganja or weed is illegal in Jamaica, the Marley Experience must have promised them “the herb” as an extra bonus for taking the trip.

Until I entered the small cabin that housed Bob’s bed, I had concentrated on taking photographs, on observing the surroundings, on the tourist aspect of Nine Mile. Now for the first time I felt the presence. We took turns sitting on his bed and somebody offered to take my picture. I remembered the song “Is this Love:”

“ I wanna love you, every day and every night
We’ll be together, with a roof right over our heads
We’ll share the shelter of my single bed.”

Poverty, struggle, love, hope, all that surrounded the young singer, surrounded me for an instance. This moment reminded me of the power Bob had over everybody he came into contact with.

I felt it again, later, in the small chapel, when I walked around the eight-foot tall marble mausoleum that holds his body, his guitar, his bible, and a spliff. On the backside is an inscription on a quilt: “I asked God to bring me a friend; he brought me you.” Tears welled up in my eyes when I touched it. I would have liked to spend more than five minutes in the chapel but the impatient group couldn’t wait to escape its heat. I thought of Bob Marley’s grace, his strength, his convictions. I remembered the words to “Buffalo Soldier” and begun to sing the words:
“Fighting on arrival, fighting for survival.” It’s my all time favorite.

Outside again, the guide laid down on Mt. Zion, Bob’s meditation spot, and demonstrated how the artist would use the rock as a pillow. Though he had left Nine Mile with his mother when he was still a child, he often came back to his roots to compose songs.

By the time we slipped back into our shoes, I saw others who were impacted by the experience. An older black man nodded to himself. A woman sang “No woman no cry.” Bob had always cast a spell over women. He loved women, a lot of them, and he loved all the children they gave him. The family tree suggests eleven, one of them with a broken line, suggesting his wife Rita’s infidelity. Shortly before his death of brain cancer he asked Rita to make sure the children were taken care of. All the children. She honored his wish, though it took many years before the estate was sorted out, before Rita Marley and his mother Cedella Marley Booker settled their differences. It must have been difficult for Rita to accept the children he had fathered with other women, but she took them in and raised them along with her own. Today most of them are musicians, following in their father’s footsteps.

After the tour we spent fifteen minutes shopping in the museum store. It was an overwhelming task. I picked one of at least fifty different t-shirts. Bob’s message is imprinted on the back:
“Until the philosophy which holds one race superior and another inferior is finally and permanently discredited and abandoned everywhere is war, me say war.”

Back on the bus our guide handed out beer, soda, and water and a few more remarks about the Bob Marley Estate and the legacy. I heard the reverence in his voice when he spoke of “Mr. Marley,” and I detected, too, the slightest bit of arrogance that happens when you are forced to defend your world to an alien audience. How difficult it must have been for him to lay out a history of slavery, atrocities, and injustice to an audience that seemed more concerned with getting back on the road to the next stop, lunch and another round of beer.

Jamaica is a very poor country, suffering under political and gang warfare, economic strangulation, and exploitation by international companies. There is no running water in tiny Nine Mile. The village clings to the mountainside with tenacity. Begging hands reach through the padlocked gates of the Marley compound. And though Bob’s Mother built a school and seems to donate on a regular bases to the surrounding population, the need is overwhelming. When I offered a few coins in exchange for a photograph I felt cheap. What price do you pay for a look at the real Jamaica?

When Bob left Nine Mile and moved to Trenchtown, the ghetto of Kingston, he began his war on poverty. He declared war on racism everywhere. His songs were his weapons and he never lost sight of his roots, never compromised his commitment, and never gave up. I have always admired him for his courage and thought I would see an echo of this sentiment in the faces of our group. A few minutes into the downhill trip I looked around and saw that almost everybody was asleep. For a while I tried to follow the guide’s conversation with the driver, but only understood every tenth word. They had fallen into the island patois, a mix of English, African, Portuguese, Spanish and Rastafarian slang. I felt isolated in my desire for discussion. Disappointed in the lack of communication between two opposing worlds. Politely I closed my eyes and pretended the day was over. Bob Marley was humming the Redemption Song.

[1] From the book Catch a Fire by Timothy White