When I read that Negril has an ordinance barring any building higher than a palm tree, I filed it away as an interesting ecotourism fact. I was also intrigued when I heard that the funky beach town on the western tip of Jamaica is a hot spot for psychedelic Caribbean sunsets. I've long believed that everything should stop -- at least for a few minutes -- when the day begins and ends. Sunrise and sunset are logical moments to interrupt our self-absorbed routines and give thanks for the time that we have on this planet, and maybe to consider life in a larger cosmic context.

''Gotta go there, sometime,'' I thought, filled with visions of the fiery orb sinking behind mounds of orange and purple-streaked clouds.

Now Dylan, my 8-year-old, is asleep inside Grace's Chickie Cabin at the Negril Yoga Centre, and I'm sitting outside under a lime tree on a steamy night, listening to the richly textured soundtrack of Negril: Tree frogs croaking out their love songs, snippets of reggae music and car horns beeping furiously. Every now and then it gets quiet enough to hear bat wings swish through the thick, sweet air. Somehow, it's all syncopated on a grand scale, a World Beat for travel in the global age.

I chuckle to myself, thinking about Dylan's initial reaction to our home-away-from-home.

THE OCTA-CONE

''So, have you ever slept in a round room before?'' I ask him after checking into the yurt-like cabin.

''Well, technically it's not round, Dad,'' he answers after taking a quick look around. ``It's a cone on top of an octagon.''

I laugh and give silent thanks to Mrs. Drogsvold and Mrs. Maynard, his third-grade teachers. The recent geometry lessons have obviously paid off.

''It's an octa-cone, Dad,'' he says, giving the cabin a name that sticks for the duration of our 10-day stay.

Our temporary pad is a study in grassroots architecture, design and interior decorating. It is simply framed with rough-cut two-by-sixes, topped by a corrugated metal roof and painted in dazzling Caribbean pastels: sunny yellow, hot-pink and lime-green. It's cozy and clean. A rectangular lean-to tilts off to one side, enclosing a kitchenette and bathroom, sloping down, Hobbit-style, to an outdoor cinderblock shower stall.

This place was built to fit on the land, with plenty of room left for banana and breadfruit trees and coconut palms.

Traveling in this recently minted father-son configuration, I'm free, for the first time in years, to fully enjoy the funkiness of it all. The semi-communal granola vibe suits me just fine. I feel at home as soon as I see the crisp and clean tie-dye cotton bedspreads.

After a few hours, we're on a first-name basis with most of the staff. They buy their produce and meat from nearby farmers, and we, in turn, buy our jerked chicken from the guy who does the Yoga Centre's landscaping. Our hot water comes from a rooftop solar collector. The money we spend here on lodging and food goes directly into the pockets of locals, not into the coffers of some far-off multinational real estate development corporation.

BEACHSIDE

I wake up early in the morning when I hear a few thumps and rustling leaves outside the door. Pauline, one of the cooks, is knocking limes out of the tree with a stick.

After brewing a cup of Blue Mountain coffee, I wander the grounds. Ominous-looking land crabs lurk in their tunnels, plotting world dominion no doubt. Dylan wakes up a little groggy, but after a smoothie and Johnny Cakes smeared with guava jelly, we venture toward the beach.

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