Boy I had to laugh when I read Mad Bull’s comment about Caribbean bloggers not posting on weekends like they trying to prove they have a life! Well trust me, not posting over this weekend had a lot more to do with having a wife than a life. Or is that the same thing?
My post today was inspired by a bit of bush clearing on Sunday. Progress was hampered by a medium sized fallen tree that clearly was a candidate for a chain saw. Although I own one, it has not run since just after Gilbert, needs a part, and will most likely never run again. So I find myself telling Emcee (the wife) something like “well if I was still a yout’ I know how I would break up dis rass” Flashback to an ill-advised excursion up to Blue Mountain Peak during a Tropical Storm, circa 1975. Back then we did not seem to pay too much mind to storms, hurricanes, whatever. Long before Gilbert, Allen, Andrew or The Weather Channel got our collective attention. This excursion was planned over a holiday weekend. Me, my older brother and two close friends, all in our early teens. Yeah, there was something on the radio about a tropical system approaching Jamaica, but so what? That is just some thunder and lightning, right? And guess what? We got raincoats so we set!
Stage one was a bus ride from Papine to Mavis Bank on a Jolly Joseph (Jamaican Omnibus Service, JOS for all you youtman). There are two basic ways to do Blue Mountain Peak, the organized, expensive, landrovers to Whitfield Hall, overnight lodging, then a 4:00 a.m hike to see the dawn from the peak way. Then there is the hardcore, no wimps allowed, start at Mavis Bank in the mid morning (read poor, cheap or stupid) way. Qualifying in at least two of those three, we went for the latter.
Man, that climb towards Whitfield Hall is a tough walk in the hot sun, taking turns carrying a heavy rucksack containing our camping gear, even for healthy young men. We finished off our water, one pint bottle each, long before we got near the top (this is in the days before no-one went anywhere without several bottles of designer water). But we did OK, and scaled the worst of the path and rejoined the dirt road close to Whitfield Hall without incident. Then, as we passed a tiny wooden shop, a little old man asks if he can walk with us. Sure, no problem man. Wrong! Big Problem. Big, big problem! No sooner than he started walking with us, between us would be a better description, than this huge dreadlocks man starts pacing along beside us, then around us, trying to get close to the old guy without actually pushing us over. He starts cussing pure bumbaclatt at the man, and as best we can figure out, he is accusing him of informing the police about certain activities related to the cultivation of some plant species, lacking the endorsement of the Ministry of Agriculture. Things quickly went from bad to worse, and next thing he is picking up a boulder, …..not a stone, …..not a rock, but a thing the size of a watermelon and trying to get a clear shot, all the time as our little group hikes rapidly towards the “presumed” safety of Whitfield Hall. The old guy tries to keep away from the madman by grabbing the back of the guy with the rucksacks and swinging behind him. Dreadlocks eventually takes a shot, misses, and picks the next boulder. Now we are passing what is apparently his yard, and he shouts to an unseen assistant “Shortie, fetch me ‘lass” , then turns away briefly to retrieve said cutlass. The old guy takes his opportunity and tears off down the road, round the corner and out of sight , followed minutes later by dreadlocks, now ‘lass in hand. We thought/hoped that would be the end of that encounter, but a mile or two on, we were alerted by a bloodcurdling scream to a scene playing on a section of the meandering mountainside road, seperated from us by a deep ravine. Here is the old guy running for his life, with dreadlocks, charging like a madman behind him, machete in hand and raised to strike. It is clear that the younger, bigger, stronger and leathally armed man has all the advantages. This can only end one way. But then, old guy leaps over the side of the ravine and runs, slides, tumbles, then rolls down the nearly vertical side of the mountain. He finally comes to halt, a small, tattered, broken heap, perhaps 500 feet down the ravine, severly injured, more likely dead. But no, he gets up and is running, sliding again down the gradually easing slope of the ravine, into the trees and quickly out of sight, presumably safe for the moment. Dreadlocks can’t believe it! He is roaring with anger and frustration, but there is no way he is going over the side after the old man. That would be suicide!
Hmm, this trip doesn’t seem to have got off to a very good start, and we haven’t even made it to Whitfield Hall yet!
Stay tuned!
