A glimpse of life in Giblatore
Published:Tuesday | September 7, 2010 | 12:00 AM
It was only a matter of days before little Junior, son of Sheila, the community shopkeeper and cousin of a temperamental pig farmer, would be going off to a new school. It was the talk of Giblatore, a community located about 30 minutes from Bog Walk in St Catherine, since many didn't expect Junior, known for his tendency to get into mischief, to ever make it this far in life. He was about to start high school in Kingston.
"Him turn big man pan mi now," said Shiela, looking the boy over with pride while I was in the community recently. The boy was sitting on a wooden stool behind the counter in his mother's shop.
"Him head tek him when him ready, but him know seh wid all di money mi spending fi send him go town, if him go deh go skylark, mi will surely go prison fi murder," she said.
Junior, a skinny, young fellow, with a bit of an acne problem, seemed troubled by his mother's proclamation and shifted his weight on the stool.
It occurred to me that the boy was dressed in a pair of khaki pants and I asked, mostly as a joke, if he was so anxious to start school that he couldn't wait to get dressed.
"Hee hee!" his mother laughed. Junior remained silent and seemed not at all amused by the query.
"No man, is him tailor mi waiting on. Him aunty send di pants from foreign, but it likkle too big in di crotches part, so mi waiting on di tailor fi come teck measurement," she said.
Junior seemed embarrassed. "Stand up boy, meck di gentleman si di pants," said Shiela to her son. A look of horror came over the boy's face. I interjected on his behalf, telling Shiela that it really wasn't necessary. "No man, stand up boy!" she commanded. Junior stood up slowly, his face showing his obvious displeasure.
"Look at dat. It look like him stand up inna crocus bag," Shiela quipped. I felt sorry for the boy, so I made up an excuse about having to leave and walked out of the shop.
Close to bog walk
Giblatore is a little-known community, even though it's not very far from Bog Walk. There are cane fields all around, loaded ackee trees stand unmolested in public spaces and residents generally make it a point to wave hello to strangers.
At a round-about in the community (a tyre in the road) I met Patrice, a talkative 20-something with an astoundingly white set of teeth. I asked her if she lived in Giblatore.
"Not really, but people tell mi dat to how mi deh here all di while, it coming like mi live here," she said with a giggle.
I asked her what the community was like.
"It nice, man. Dem just fix one big section of di road and we very happy for it. You have another section what need to fix though, dat side is very bad. You soon hear seh truck tun over up deh," she said.
I had noticed a number of buckets, drums and plastic containers outside the houses. I asked Patrice about it.
"There is no pipe water!" she said, apparently surprised she had neglected to mention it earlier.
"Dat is a big problem. Yuh can imanage?" she asked. I couldn't help but chuckle at the verbal foible. She looked at me quizzically.
"What?" she asked, sternly.
"Yuh believe it funny fi not have running water in dis day and age?" she asked. I amended my countenance accordingly and told her it was a great travesty indeed.
"It stay bad, man. Everybody have running water. Is pure farmer live around here, so dem really need fi do better dan dat. Not because Giblatore people dem so calm and peaceful mean dem can just mek di place go so bad," said Patrice.
"Giblatore have di best people in di world. We might nuh have water but better dan we yuh nah go find."