Lessons learned at Cassava Pond
Published:Tuesday | August 17, 2010 | 12:00 AM
So I learned a few things while in Cassava Pond, St Catherine last Sunday. First, the early morning fog is so thick, you have to holler when making your way down a hill to avoid a collision with someone heading in the opposite direction. I learned this the hard way. The second thing I learned is, you really should think twice before interrupting the burly Miss Crane when she's hurriedly making her way to church.
"Not now, young bwoy! If you want to talk another day, dat is all well and good. But today is the Good Lord's day. I have Sunday school lesson to go teach. Have mi excuse," she said, bolting by me on her way down the hill.
It was the crack of dawn when I found myself in the quiet hillside community. The dew was still fresh on the leaves of giant ackee trees and there was still a chill in the air. The first thing that struck me when I got to there was the view. The mountains, the fog and the sunrise made a scene that could sell a million postcards.
It was while standing by the side of a winding, narrow road in Cassava Pond, admiring the view, that I heard someone yell.
"Goo up!" the person shouted.
I looked around the foggy stretch of roadway, but saw no one.
"Goo up!" I heard it again. Still nobody. Then, out of nowhere, crash!
A willowy fellow riding a bicycle came careening out of the fog and had to make a quick jolt to the left to avoid running straight into me. The sudden turn caused him to lose balance and he tumbled over in a most undignified way.
"Yuh nuh hear mi seh goo up?" he yelled as I rushed over to help him to his feet.
I apologised for the miscommunication and asked if he was hurt. After looking himself over, the man, who was wearing a brown three-piece suit, gave a slight smile.
"Mi alright youngster. Mi ah drop offa bicycle from before yuh born," added the elderly man who told me his name was Clive.
"Ahm, beg pardon, but what yuh doing in di middle road anyway?" he asked.
I told him I had not long arrived in the community when I noticed the view. I had got carried away staring at it.
Clive looked across to where I had been gazing.
"View?" he said, quizzically.
"Yeah, the view," I replied, pointing.
Clive squinted. "Which part?" he said. I looked at Clive, then at the view, then back at Clive, who was still squinting.
"The mountains, man, and the fog," I said.
Clive grunted. "Oh," he said, dryly.
Not wanting to further bore him, I asked the dapperly dressed bicycle-rider where he was headed.
"Mi going church," he said. I told Clive I was surprised he was going to church that early.
"No man, it nuh early. Dem here is late hours," he said.
I asked Clive to tell me a bit about Cassava Pond, a place he told me had been his home for more that 30 years.
The way Clive described it, Cassava Pond is a small, quiet community where residents all know each other by first name and where it's still an unforgivable crime against fashion for a woman to go to town without wearing a hat.
"Is a small place yuh know. Most people just drive through, dem nuh really stop. Di one dem weh stop nuh normally stand up inna di middle road either," said Clive.
"Anyway, I nuh really ah stay wid yuh. Church soon start," he added as he got back on his bicycle and pedalled off into the fog.
"Goo up!" he shouted as he disappeared down the hill.