Jamaica's Beach Access Crisis: Communities Fight 'Plantation Tourism' Model

Devon Taylor grew up fetching seawater in bottles for his grandmother, learning to swim in the shallows of Mammee Bay, watching fishers cast their nets along the St Ann shoreline. The beach was a commons—children played there after school, vendors carved souvenirs under almond trees, locals haggled over the daily catch. It was a place that sustained people across generations. "That beach raised us. It fed us," he says now.

Today, Mammee Bay is walled off. In 2019, when investors began building all-inclusive luxury hotels, the community was locked out by fences and armed security—both state and private guards. Locals tore down the fence and reoccupied the beach in protest. When they returned after Covid restrictions lifted, they found concrete walls. What followed, Taylor says, was violent displacement. Gunshots were fired to scatter the protesters. For the people fighting to stay, it was not a matter of nostalgia or recreation. It was survival. "When you cut us off from the sea," Taylor explains, "you are actually setting us up to starve."

Mammee Bay is not alone. Across Jamaica, five beaches are now the subject of court cases: Little Dunn's River and the Blue Lagoon in the north, Bob Marley beach in St Andrews, Flankers and Providence beach in Montego Bay. Each has been seized or restricted by developers building private resorts and villas. Each case tells a story of communities denied access to spaces that hold economic, social, and spiritual weight. Taylor, an immunologist with a PhD in biochemistry, founded the Jamaica Beach Birthright Environmental Movement to fight what he and other activists call "plantation tourism"—a model that mirrors the colonial extraction of the past. "It has all the characteristics of a plantation," Taylor says. "Exploitation of a poorly treated labour force, and wealth that either does not stay in our country or is only in the hands of the elite."

The legal architecture enabling this dispossession reaches back to independence. When Jamaica gained sovereignty in 1962, the British handed over crown lands to the state. But the 1956 Beach Control Act remained on the books—a colonial law that gave the government ownership of the foreshore and seabed, requiring permission for any use or development. Successive administrations have used this framework to grant developers exclusive access while locking out locals. In Portland, the Blue Lagoon—a 55-metre-deep pool ringed by lush vegetation, its waters shifting between turquoise and sapphire depending on the light—was closed in 2022 with a promise to reopen in 90 days with improved facilities. Instead, authorities permanently sealed the public access roads to make way for private villas. Wilbourn Carr, 73, has swum in the lagoon since he was 14. "This space is not just for recreation, food and vending," he says. "It is also where our elderly come for the healing properties of the mineral spring from the mountain that feeds the lagoon."

In Flankers, campaigners have filed an injunction to block construction in the sea. Olando Brown, a local activist, frames the fight in terms of inheritance and dignity. "Our foreparents shed blood for this land. We shouldn't be forced to fight for what is already ours." For fisher folk, the beaches are not amenities—they are livelihoods. For families without money for expensive holidays, they are the only way to access Jamaica's natural resources without financial strain. Monique Christie, Jabbem's community coordinator for western Jamaica, describes the simple mathematics of survival: "You can pack some food, freeze some juice, walk to the beach and enjoy some of the natural resources of your country without it being a massive expense for the family."

The government's response has been measured but, activists argue, insufficient. Environment Minister Matthew Samuda points to new beach parks built in Montego Bay and planned for St James, and to requirements that developers carve out "corridors to the sea" on public land. He also notes Jamaica's geography—rocky coastlines, wetlands, biodiversity reserves that limit accessible beaches. In March, Prime Minister Andrew Holness proposed a modernized beach access and management policy. But Damion Coombs, Jabbem's director of community engagement, sees the language of compromise as a trap. The policy still allows "qualified rights," meaning authorities can restrict entry and charge fees. "What we are fighting for," Coombs says, "is free, legal, unfettered, forever rights."

Activists also worry about the National Reconstruction and Resilience Authority Act, passed in March to fast-track post-hurricane rebuilding. They argue it weakens the Prescription Act, which protects the legal right to land or pathways used publicly for at least 20 years. Taylor sees the concentration of power in the prime minister's office as a threat to their cases. Samuda defends the act as necessary for urgent reconstruction, insisting oversight remains intact. The first trial is scheduled for later this month. What unfolds in court will shape whether Jamaica's beaches remain commons or become the exclusive preserve of those who can afford to stay in the resorts that line them.