Gradually I learned to rein in the craft and began to appreciate its maneuverability. Resting in an eddy, I could also appreciate the lush scenery of Jamaica s Drivers River. The water spilled clear and blue from the highlands of the distant John Crow Mountains. Around us dickey birds flitted through the rain forest. I had lounged on the island s beaches and hiked its mountain trails, but over the years I had learned that traveling by river is often the most revealing way to get to know a place.
Tourists arrive at the front door, as guests.
By river, a traveler can sneak in the back like a nosy neighbor. My leader was Peter Bentley, a native Jamaican and backcountry guide. That morning we had piled paddles, life vests, and inflatable canoes into Bentley s Russian Lada and had driven the coastal road from Kingston around to Manchioneal on the eastern end of the island. At towns along the highway, we passed clusters of shacks. Kids and men, balancing loads on their bicycles, shared the narrow highway shoulder with women in their Sunday dresses.