Irish Town is no garbage dump

Beep! Beep! The small white bus chugged up the hill. It was moving slowly, apparently struggling to make the climb as thick, black smoke escaped from the exhaust pipe.

Plunk! Someone threw a plastic bottle out the window and it landed on the roadway just as the bus disappeared around the bend.

"But see yah!" someone behind me yelled. I was surprised, because all the while I was there on Irish Town Road in rural St Andrew taking pictures of the mountains, I thought I was alone. A short, greying man ran out to the roadway. I'm still not sure where he came from.

He went over to where the bottle had landed, grabbed it up and waved it above his head. "Unnu is too nasty!" he yelled. But the bus was long gone and as the smoke cleared, the man turned back around and walked over to me.

"Yuh see how dem nasty?" he said. "Dem just ah drive and tink seh di whole place ah garbage pan. When dem ready, dem just fling through di window, because dem mussi have helper ah walk behind dem."

I shrugged and shook my head to show empathy.

"Look pan di nice, nice place and dem feel dem can just fling as dem like. Bright!" said the man.

Now it occurred to me that the fellow was breathing rather heavily and his forehead was sweaty. I asked him if he was alright.

"Mi vex, man!" he yelled. I told him that perhaps he should sit down and cool off. And in an attempt to prevent him from collapsing, I suggested that one little bottle on the roadside was not the end of the world. It was a serious miscalculation on my part. The man's eyes widened and his cheeks swelled.

"Seh wah? Nuh tell mi so!" he snapped. "One, one bokkle dem fling and before yuh realise, yuh ah swim inna bokkle!"

Lives in the valley

I struggled for a while to calm him down, and when he did get it together, I asked him if he lived in the area.

"Yeah, mi live into the valley part," he said. The man told me to call him Grant. I asked him if people were always littering the roadway.

"Seh what?" he replied. "All di while dem do it. And it nuh matter how yuh beg dem fi stop. We put up sign and everyting. People just don't have nuh brought-upsy yah man," Grant said, shaking his head. "Anyway, mi gone. Mi have tings doing and because ah dis nasty man, mi run lef it," he said and walked quickly back down the hill.

I turned the other way and walked some distance up the hill, eventually getting to a small flower shop by the side of the road. A skinny fellow walked out to greet me. He was wearing blue jeans and a grey merino.

"Yeah, how yuh do?" he asked. I told him I was doing alright and introduced myself. He told me to call him Welsh. I asked him if he owned the flower shop.

"Well, is really my father place, yuh know. But him gone deal wid some business so mi just ah gwaan look bout tings," he said. I told Welsh about my encounter with Grant and he chuckled.

"Is so dem stay fi real," he said. "All di while dem fling bokkle and box and dem nuh realise seh people round here like deal wid clean place. We not into di dirty business," he said.

I asked Welsh if overseeing his father's flower shop didn't get boring. The last vehicle to pass by was the minibus, and that was some time ago.

"Well, sometime it get slow up," he said. "But yuh still have to stay in case tings pick up back. Yuh can never know who going to stop and buy, so yuh just have to be ready," he said.

Welsh told me that his father grew the plants in the hills and loved selling them.

"Is a man who like nature," he said.

"Is so people around this side stay. Dem live into the hills because it cool and pretty. Dem like pretty things, so dat's why we try keep the place clean. We nuh like when people pass through and nasty it up. Irish Town Road must always stay clean and nice," said Welsh.

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