Jamaica is a hilly island with lots of small towns and villages.

Along route, I took note of the features of the city, how lush and green the vegetation was. It was as if the homes and even the cities themselves clawed their way out of a seemingly endless forest and brush. Goats ambled about the sides of the roads looking more wild and stray than “livestock”. Apparently, they were free for the taking, though no one seemed eager to. The city center was congested and buzzing with activity. The architecture was a mix-mash of functional, yet noticeably new public buildings and rustic shops colored in faded pastels, adorned with an intricate, yet unfamiliar style of ironwork. Driving through the narrow streets, pedestrians streamed around the bus, avoiding being hit like a sort of routine they had committed to muscle memory. One of the airport drivers who had escorted my family to the resort noticed us at a stop in the road. After a round of pleasantries, he offered us weed. We politely declined and continued on.