BY CHRISTOPHER HARALL

No other place so embodies the idea of an earthly paradise than Jamaica. And no other place in Jamaica so epitomizes the fleetingness of that fantasy than Negril. This picture perfect town has it all, and it’s not just surf and turf.

I’m standing ankle-deep in  a puddle in the middle of a washed out road. One of the brief and refreshing rain showers oft-praised as a relief from the afternoon heat, arrived early this morning and refuses to leave. At breakfast, I watched the storm advance, roiling the sea and turning the sky to a dull New England gray. My feet are now lost beneath the muddy water, and tremendous raindrops soak me to my spleen. I wear only a pair of red swim trunks, which I haven’t taken off for several days. I think, if nothing else, that thhe rain might freshen them up a bit. In my hand is a soaked wad of Jamaican dollars. Soon joining me in the puddle is an old man wielding a machete. He speaks quickly, alternating between garbled English and Jamaican Patois, and wildly waves his blade in the direction of the wooden huts that line the road. He knows I’m a man in need of something. Why else would I be out here in the rain? “Red Stripe please,” I say. He hesitates.

“Red Stripe,” I repeat too loudly. “Three,” I add, holding up the same number of fingers. I place the money in his outstretched hand. He nods to indicate that we’re in business and then walks off down a narrow dirt alley.

“Too much of de white rum for him,” says a woman seated in the dim confines of one of the huts. “It make him mad.”

Time is now measured in units of “soon come”; there’s no need to worry about that which will certainly arrive.

“Mad,” I repeat, and then add, “crazy?” The woman smiles a big infectious smile. And as I wait in the puddle, a grin spreading across my face, it occurs to me that my current state might be what people call being ‘in the moment.’

“Soon come,” says the woman after several minutes pass.

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