Digging deep in Islington

The dreadlocked fellow seemed deep in concentration, reading a small book. I managed to capture his attention and he looked up from the book, smiled broadly and pointed to some fruits on a table in front of him.

"Mi selling fruits," the man said.

He immediately noticed an invading fly and used the book to swat it, then flicked the flattened insect away with his finger.

I was walking along a hillside roadway in Islington, St Mary when I met him. A friendly chap he was, with a tendency to grin while speaking.

"I am Elvis," he said.

Elvis seemed comfortable sitting on a wooden bench conveniently set up in the shade of a large tree. I asked him if he grew the fruits himself.

"Yeah, man!" he said.

"Mi grow likkle bit ah dis and likkle bit ah dat."

Elvis told me he lived not far from where we were and that he's been growing and selling fruits all his life.

"Well is dat mi grow up doing yuh know. We grow and what we grow we eat, and what we nuh eat, we sell," he said.

"Mi go all bout wid dis ting. Whenever mi have tings fi sell, den mi travel to which part mi know it will sell." Elvis gesticulated a lot while speaking.

"When banana time come, mi know it will sell inna Kingston so mi go there fi about a week and if mi have like carrot, dem mi go MoBay and spend a two night."

It seemed a hard lifestyle, moving about so often. I asked him about it. Elvis chuckled.

"True man, but weh yuh ah go do? We nuh have di book learning so we do what we haffi do," he said, smiling.

I was curious about the book he was reading when I first got there and asked him what it was about. I sat next to him on the bench.

"Well this is a book bout religion and these tings," he said.

Just then, a man carrying a sack over his right shoulder walked up. He had a sun-burnt forehead and hairy arms.

"Yuh see Red Man from mawning?" the sack-carrier asked.

Elvis grinned.

"No sah, mi hear seh him gone check Miss Jackie bout di sore foot."

The man put the sack down and grimaced.

"Dat dutty foot, mawga bwoy yuh see!" he said.

"Favah dem muss-muss. Know seh him have money fi mi and tek it gone ah town bout him ah look bout foot."

Elvis chuckled.

no mood for questions

I wanted to ask what this was all about, but the man with the sack seemed in no mood for questions. After fuming for about another minute though, he picked up his sack and walked off.

Elvis told me that he had to go next door to check on something for a minute, so I told him goodbye and headed further up the hill.

Islington seemed like a large place, but there weren't many persons around. The air was crisp but the roads full of breakaways and pot holes. It was just after accidentally stepping in one of those pot holes full of rainwater, that I met Gloria, a middle-aged woman with plump cheeks.

"Never mind, mi child," she said as I assessed my shoes for water damage. Gloria had a kind voice and thick, shiny hair.

She told me she has lived in Islington for more than 30 years and even though she has had many opportunities to leave and go live elsewhere, she likes it there too much to do so.

"Islington people different yuh know. Any Islington somebody who yuh see, yuh know dem and dem will tell yuh dat nowhere nuh nicer than right here," she said.

"Islington is not just a place. Islington inna yuh bloodstream."

Where should Robert go next? Let him know at robert.lalah@gleanerjm.com