Chatting with Chappy in Eleven Miles

Now, I'm as accommodating as the next guy, but there is something fundamentally intolerable about standing close to someone who spits a lot when they talk. Far be it from me to scandalise my fellowman over what might be an uncontrollable medical affliction, however, I think that anyone in such a position should take it upon himself to ensure that there is a safe distance between talker and talkee at all times. It's only fair.

That being said, a man I will refer to only as 'Chappy' (name has been withheld to protect the identity of the spitter), by all accounts, appears to be a good person. He is welcoming, good-natured, and willing to share a hearty chuckle with his fellow Eleven Miles, St Thomas, residents. He does, however, spit buckets as he talks. And he has a pronounced lisp.

"Theh hey!" he laughed. "Them man theh cowl, eeh man!" He was reacting to a joke given to him by a woman called Pat.

Pat meant well, I'm sure, but when she came across Chappy and me standing near an ackee tree, I would have preferred if she had just moved along. The jokes were causing far too many outbursts from Chappy.

"Thuh gwaan, Pat. Thuh too lie!"

I took a few steps back, desperate to expand the splash zone. Unfortunately, Chappy moved as well. I had only met him moments earlier as I came across him picking ackees from the tree. I certainly wasn't comfortable enough around him to let the incessant spitting fly.

Pat looked at me as if she had only just realised I had been standing there. "Who yuh is, please?" she said, pleasantly. I gave a quick account of myself and asked her if she was a longtime resident of Eleven Miles.

di prettiest place yuh ever see

"Mi move to here when mi was around seven," she said. "Dem time is before man like yuh even born. Dem time, Eleven Miles is di prettiest place yuh ever see - green and ting." I told Pat that the area was still quite lush and that I found the residents I had met so far quite friendly. Unfortunately, Chappy spoke up again.

"People them nith (nice), man. Eleven Mile people them nith (nice) bad. Them nah go moleth yuh nor nothin," he said.

Pat asked me if I had had the good fortune of meeting a Miss Ida, who, she said was a beloved resident from whom residents often sought counsel in tough times. I told her I had not but would love the opportunity to do so.

Chappy chimed in. "She nath here now. She gone town gone deal wid har birth paper," he said.

"Den wah Miss Ida a do wid birth paper at dis stage?" Pat asked.

Chappy looked shocked. "Den she nuh smaddy pickney, too?"

Pat shrugged and said that I would perhaps have to visit another day in order to see her.

I asked Pat and Chappy what they liked most about living in Eleven Miles.

Pat beamed. "Everything tough in Jamaica now, yuh know. But at least when yuh live where yuh born and grow, den yuh nah go dead fi hungry. Dem people is like yuh family, so any likke ting dem have, dem will share it. Is a good ting dat," she said.

Chappy was equally enthusiastic. "Yeth, man, is true. Mi like it, too. Eleven Mile have di swing right yah now. Eleven Mile a carry di swing."

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