If You Only Look For Comfort And Luxury, Have You REALLY Travelled?

The ghetto is rough and raw but also beautifully hospitable.

A few days ago,

Erik Hogan

asked, “Why is it that journeys always seem to begin in the dark of night?” That question and his entire story are what inspired me to dig up this 24-hour expedition to the bitter side of beauty.

My journey also began in the dark. Had it started in broad daylight, would I have been brave enough to stay at my final destination? I’ll never know.

Erik’s trip photos might be more epic than mine but I’m positive both our journeys were equally as epic and life-changing.

During my time as a travel writer, I’ll be the first to admit it was quite rewarding sitting in the lap of luxury among the affluent, reviewing how the upper crust travels.

But for me, that was just the “job” of the industry. Those were the articles I wrote for personal gain.

The ones I wrote for the love and intrigue were my day-to-day experiences which had nothing to do with affluence. In fact, my most popular articles of all time were about the extreme opposite.

When I published the following story on my former destination blog, the feedback was a real mixed bag. Most felt enlightened and grateful for a glimpse into this lifestyle, some felt it was extremely exploitative.

I’ll let you be the judge.

Image by author

In 2009, I was fortunate to have met a couple of local Jamaicans in the popular resort town of Ocho Rios. It’s rare that locals living in tourist towns are actually from those towns. Many of them end up there for employment opportunities in the hospitality industry.

The locals I had met that day originally hailed from one of the roughest areas of the island — Spanish Town. Back then, it was dubbed as The Valley of Death, and consistently ranked as the most dangerous place to live.

After spending a few days getting to know these guys in Ocho Rios, they asked if I’d like to see where they really come from.

I agreed without hesitation and without any understanding of what I was in for.

A few days later we made the two-hour drive to their home in Spanish Town. Upon pulling up, one of them casually said, “Welcome to the ghetto.”

Arriving well after dark, I couldn’t fully grasp what it was like until the light of the next morning.

This was the family home and behind those walls was where nine of them lived.

Image by author - Spanish Town, Jamaica