NORMAN GRINDLEY/STAFF PHOTOGRAPHER
Tawes Pen
Robert Lalah, Staff Reporter
THERE IS a cycle of activities that pervades 'troubled communities' whenever violence rears its ugly head. Guns blaze, violence flares and the inevitable happens: residents flee. The community is then plunged into a state of turmoil, flooding newspaper pages and making radio headlines. In no time at all, the community is dubbed a 'ghost town'. We all know the term, but how many of us know what it is really like inside one of these partially deserted communities? Follow Sunday Gleaner reporter Robert Lalah, as he takes you, 'Inside a ghost town'.
AUGUST TOWN
The sky is gunmetal-gray, with small patches of ominous rain clouds floating by.
There is a slight drizzle of rain, which gives rise to stifling scents, a cross between stale urine, wet garbage and
animal excrement. The air is musty, with a thick humidity. This is it August Town the embattled community from which residents have been fleeing in droves in recent weeks, in a desperate attempt to escape the violence that is already responsible for the deaths of six persons since the start of the year.
A massive, well-painted church building at the very entrance of the community, has a large sign in the front yard inscribed with an eerie omen: 'Prepare to meet God'. With a gulp and a prayer, the reporter presses nervously ahead. Before he can get much further, however, the reporter is met by a short, dark-skinned man with an unsightly scar running from his left ear to the side of his toothless mouth. He is dressed in a discoloured T-shirt and a pair of green oversized trousers. He calls himself 'Ras Tolo' a dubious moniker for a man with a shiny bald head. He offers to lead the reporter through the troubled community, and with a few words of wisdom, Ras Tolo commences the journey. "Ras wi guide you. If anything gwaan still, just chuck off."
Our first stop is August Town Road, a street lined with an even mix of dirty derelict buildings and pristine mansions with driveways garnished with multimillion dollar SUVs. There is no one in sight. The only visible movement is the shivering of the reporter's knees. There is a large white wall on one side of the road, with half-finished murals of Marcus Garvey and Garnet Silk. An overturned tin of paint and a dried-up paint brush lying on the pavement suggest a hasty retreat.
Ras Tolo wipes the sweat from his brow and begins to speak.
"Up to last night, tings kick off again. Pure shot a fire. Shot like sand pon beach. But to how di people dem a run weh lef di area, di violence mus stop soon. For you see seh if nobody nuh deh here, you caan have nuh shot a fire," says the self-proclaimed prophet with a hearty chuckle.
From August Town Road, the reporter and guide go to Silvera Drive, only a stone's throw away.
The reporter spots a toddler standing in the street. He is the only person in sight. The young boy has a particularly round head, and is dressed only in a pair of torn red briefs. While sucking profusely on his left thumb, the toddler stares blankly at the reporter. A creepy silence fills the air. A gust of wind shifts the curtains hanging in a nearby house, revealing an elderly woman peering through a glass window. Realising that her voyeuristic ways have been uncovered, the woman lets go a trail of profanity longer than the river in Egypt, and retreats into the house. She is heard shouting for "Lenroy".
Ras Tolo suggests the reporter leave. The reporter is gone before he finishes his suggestion.
TAWES PEN
The small community of Tawes Pen, in Spanish Town, St. Catherine has been the scene of a number of violent confrontations between rivalling gangs over the past few months. This has left the community with a fraction of the population it once contained. Since the start of the year, residents have been leaving the area in droves, in search of more peaceful surroundings.
The first thing you realise as you approach Tawes Pen, is the utter silence in the community.
Tension hangs in the air like the tattered garments of residents hanging from makeshift clothes lines.
The skeletal remains of burnt-out vehicles lie neatly at the side of the road. Garbage of all sorts is strewn along the roadway and in hefty heaps next to overflowing skips.
A bevy of skimpily-clad women exit their paint-stripped, wooden homes to make
sexually explicit overtures to the reporter. Generally, however, people are scarce.
A 20-something-year-old man stands in front of a small wooden shack, puffing on a 'spliff' with an intense look of concentration on his face. He spots the reporter, nods and then retreats.
Every now and then, a vehicle passes quickly through the community. Clouds begin to shade the area from the rays of the sun and the relative darkness this creates, makes for a sinister atmosphere.
There is little sign of activity in Tawes Pen; no children at play, no animated street side conversations; only the intermittent appearance of an adult en route to another destination. This is what it is like inside a war-torn community. This is what it is like inside 'a ghost town'.
