SSP Diaries | Reminiscing on country life

I AM from eastern Jamaica, a person who spent a considerable amount of life as a young boy exploring the hills and valleys of St Thomas and lived to tell some of the tales.

Growing up in Morant Bay in the 1950s through to the 1970s, now that I can reflect, was an experience full of adventures, many of which involved high risks. Walking to primary school and back home each day was fraught with challenges and temptations, some of which I overcame and others I succumbed to. I had no choice in the classroom but to be on my best behaviour, because I cannot remember any class teacher that was not well known by my parents and who would be lenient in dispensing the strokes of the ‘well-soaked’ leather strap for the least infringement. To add insult to injury, they seemed to have a telepathic system in place, because news of my plight would reach home long before I arrived and, yes, that was cause for a second beating. From the moment the teacher reported you, you were guilty without explanation.

DANGEROUS ACTIVITIES

I can’t say that I was a ‘saint’. The journey home each day had me wondering, for many years, how it is that I did not die from some of the dangerous activities I was involved in. My father, for example, thought I was a natural swimmer. I can now say, ‘Perish the thought!’ The tender age of seven/eight is a very dangerous one for boys. My friends and I made it a point of duty to go to the seaside after school each evening. We built our confidences over time. It started with taking off our shoes, for those who had shoes, and wading in the water along the shoreline, not venturing any farther in than where the water reached our knees.

Before we realised what had happened, we were stripping off everything and jumping in, chest height, then dog paddling, soon to be followed by freestyle, breaststroke, backstroke, swimming and floating in waters where we could no longer stand up with our heads above the surface. We hid our clothes, we knew that we had to be dry when we reached home, so no questions would be asked. Many years later as a seasoned teenager, I discovered that the place at which I learnt to swim was one of the most dangerous in St Thomas. It was the site of an old port for the loading of bananas for export. At 10 metres or so from the shoreline, the sea floor slipped away to some serious depths, and that was compounded by a strong current that oftentimes dragged people out to sea. That’s how I learnt to swim. I survived that adventure.

In the early days there was only one high school in the parish, and my parents decided that they needed to get me away from the source of adventures. I often suspected that they were aware of some things, but perhaps did not have sufficient proof. I was sent to a primary school in Kingston to prepare for Common Entrance Examinations and gain a place in a high school there.

‘DULCIMENA’

Now at age nine/10, I suddenly embarked upon another set of adventures. To cut a long story short, I know the hills north of Harbour View like the back of my hands, inclusive of the Martello Tower, a place I visited every Friday afternoon after school, climbing the tower, playing around with cannon balls strewn all over the place, and skating down the southern slopes to get to the home where I boarded, quickly clean myself up, then walk with my ‘Dulcimena’ to the main road to catch a bus going to St Thomas.

The journey home or back to Kingston on a country bus is another set of experiences which must be told separately. One marveled at the speeds at which they drove, the number of passengers and the load they carried, not to mention that you had to ring the bell or shout ‘One stop driver!’ at least 100 metres before the point at which you intended to come off!! Minibuses did not exist at the time. Tiger, Eastern Queen, Mail Bus, Rocket are names etched in my memory.

MANGO BUSH

Mango season was one of our best times. Hardly a pot graced the fire in the home, as my brothers and I set out to mango bush as part of a ritual when on holidays. We never left home without our prized weapons – slingshots – as there was always a chance of adding a few birds to enhance the ‘boat to be rowed’. We learnt how to live off the land from a very early age, as we often reaped what we shouldn’t, enjoying the fruits of other persons’ labour. That’s how we fed ourselves. Notwithstanding such transgressions, we were in church with our parents every Sunday, and oftentimes three or more times on that day!

As wayward as we may seem to have been, it was the ‘village system’ of rearing children that kept us on the straight and narrow. Policemen, teachers, priests, adults were persons to be respected, and, in whose presence we were on our best behaviour. All adults, especially friends of our parents, were our ‘uncles’ and ‘aunts’, and you dare not pass an adult and not say ‘Good morning’ or ‘Good evening’. Children knew their place and when you fell out of line you knew the consequences.

These are things that I strongly believe helped to make me a better person and, in turn, to be able to instil proper values in my children. Looking back, I am glad I lived through such times. I am wiser for the knowledge and experiences now, and yes, I feel blessed. Not many can say the same today. More anon!

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