Stopping along the way to Black River to take pictures.
By the time we arrived at Black River we were giddy and ready for some adventures.
Someone should have thrown her to the crocodiles, which there were plenty of along the river. Our tour guide thought it great fun to pull the boat right up to them. Especially the side of the boat I was sitting on.
"Don't worry," he assured us. "They are quite tame," he says as he hand feeds them chicken.
Luckily, that crocodile did not eat our tour guide.
After escaping death by crocodile, we drove another thirty minutes or so to YS Falls. By the time we arrived the sky had darkened. Then the rain began. We made it about halfway up the falls, before some old dude leered at me and grabbed Emily's ass. I was a little upset, because, obviously, that meant she had the better ass.
By that point we were over it. It was raining. Hard. Old men were creeping us out. Emily and I found ourselves waiting at the bottom of the falls while the guys headed off to find the rope swing. While waiting we noticed two things.
1.The signs all explicitly warn you not to smoke ganja.
2. The non-American men wear little bitty swimsuits with their junk hanging out.
The guys never made it to the rope swing. And Kenny caught me taking pictures of this guy in the little pants. Kenny and Michael decided it was best to head on to Appleton Rum factory before we were completely
water logged I got myself in trouble.
This is the tour that everyone looks forward to. All you can drink free rum. Rum punch. Rum shots. 30-year-old rums. Whatever your heart desires. Unless, of course, you heart desires to never see rum again after drinking rum punch for 8 straight hours the day before. The smell wafting from the parking lot was enough to make me want to puke.
But the tour was supposed to be really interesting, too.
Or not. We could have cared less how the pot stills work.
I did perk up when I heard that we could taste some raw molasses (a by product...see I was too listening Mr. Tour Guide Who Kept Fussing At Us For Trailing Behind). Sugar in any form is my friend.
Licorice, however, is not. And that is what that shit tasted like.
By then end of the day, we were done being goofy tourist. We took our fanny packs off Not really. You didn't think I actually have a fanny pack did, you? and started planning our next day. Local spots. Where the natives go. Those were our requirements. Marc, mapped out a plan, and we agreed to meet at four the next afternoon.