Last Days Of Summer (But Try Telling The Weather That)

My second week in Albert Town began quietly as thunderstorms blanketed the mountains in torrential rain for large parts of Monday and Tuesday, accompanied by a chill wind and evening mists which actually had me feeling a tad cold. But I wasn’t going to let heaven’s fountains beat me in my quest for the Quashie River Sink, and when Wednesday morning broke bright and clear, off I traipsed down the hill again, this time making sure I set off early enough to get to the cave and back by lunchtime.

Sweating it out in bush

I was accompanied by Tanish, which at least was one less ten-year-old I had to worry about suffering some serious injury or other than the last time I’d made an attempt on the Sink. I refused to be distracted by the river’s bathing spots and headed straight for the off-road trail through the bush. Unlike the previous week, when we’d been steadily drenched during this part of the walk, the sun was now searing hot, the heat trapped by the thick vegetation threatening to choke the path, and making the walk surprisingly heavy going. I was relieved when we reached the point where the path suddenly plunged downwards under a heavy canopy of trees, and within yards we’d left the sun behind and entered a cool, damp world of moss and dripping water.

Because of all the trees growing over and out of its rim and sides, it was hard to get a proper sense of the Sink’s proportions until the sharply descending path ended in what was near enough a vertical drop over loose rocks and mud, to be navigated by two pretty rusty-looking ladders (it wasn’t until we were coming back that I noticed how close to the edge of the concrete block it was resting on the uppermost of the ladders was). From here I could see that we were already about half way down one side of a huge cylindrical shaft in the rock, with the sheer walls opposite soaring upwards and outwards in a massive overhanging arch which finished maybe 100 feet above us. It looked as if the middle of the entire hill had at some point simply collapsed in on itself, an impression supported by the impressive array of giant boulders and rubble strewn haphazardly over the floor below. To the left, a narrow gully between two sheer rock walls allowed the river to pour into the main chamber, which gradually descended in a series of uneven steps towards the slow, pitch-black mouth of the cave proper.

Top waterfall at Quashie Sink

It was well worth the two aborted missions and all the mosquito bites on the way down. The Sink is so far the most beautiful place I’ve visited in this beautiful country, all the better for remaining remote and little visited. From the bottom of the Sink, the overhanging rock archway gives you a feeling of vertigo as you crane your neck backwards to try and see its top. It’s the kind of place the imagination likes to populate with fairies and spirits, a huge hallowed cathedral to nature. Plant roots taller than the trees they belong to hang straight out of the bare rock and dangle freely into the air below; a hush hangs over the place, broken only by the echoing cries of birds and the low rumble of falling water. By the time the distant sunlight reaches you, the high canopy above has turned it the colour of pea soup.

In all, there are three waterfalls before the river disappears into the inky black of the cave, the largest being in the rocky crevice where the river enters the Sink, spilling into a deep, cool pool the colour of the trees above. The rock faces enclosing the narrow channel here are pitted with ruts and ledges, making it perfect for climbing and indulging in a little high-level bombing, although you’ve got to take care for the bat and bird shit. The pool shallows out against a pebble beach, trickling gently towards the second fall, this one a man-made concrete ledge adjacent to a small building I assume is used to pump water (given that a large pipe runs from it up and out of the Sink). To the left of this, you have to scramble down boulders until you reach a platform of large rocks scattered in disarray, under which the water tumbles and boils, the cascade spouting several different jets of water to the third and final pool below. Access from here is via a thick log I did my best to shimmy down backwards as graciously as possible, feeling slightly guilty at the look of terror on Tanish’s face as she inched her way down over the waterfall below.

Tanish

I didn’t venture far into the cave proper – Tanish didn’t really fancy the tarry black that the feeble beam of my torch barely illuminated, and I didn’t really have the gear to start chancing my luck on a slippy downwards path in pitch darkness wearing a pair of old trainers and swimming shorts. I wasn’t bothered – I could have spent the entire two weeks I was in Albert Town swimming, climbing and just watching nature do its stuff down in the Sink, and I started to really wish I’d made it down the week before.

My yearnings for adventure partially satisfied, I spent the next day nursing some seriously stiff limbs after the long downwards and upwards slogs of the previous day, but, perhaps a little carried away with my conquest over the wilds, on Friday I decided to try an even more ambitious trek. This time the plan was to head to a little village on the northern fringes of the Cockpits called Bunkers Hill, which my guide book told me was very pretty and was the starting point for a good walk through the bush to a nearby river, which could then be followed to another swimming hole and picnic spot. The only snag was that this was the sum total of the information given – I had no map, no directions, nothing, but still I reckoned I’d be able to find my way just by asking people as I went.

As it turned out, it was lack of knowledge of the local taxi routes rather than any cartographical deficiencies which caught me out. Looking at my one small map of the Cockpit’s, I’d assumed Bunker’s Hill would be easily reached from Albert Town in a couple of taxis. This hope was dashed when the second taxi of the day stopped at a fork in the road a short way out of the middle of nowhere, and informed me that Usain Bolt’s home village, Sherwood’s Content, lay to the left, while to the right was the road to Falmouth, where I’d have to go just to get another taxi to take me all the way back out to Bunkers Hill. Knowing Falmouth was on the coast and therefore probably another ten miles away along the usual pot-holed country tracks, I decided to cut my losses and just have a look round Falmouth instead.

He's a waterfall

In the end I was quite glad I did. Once a major sugar port and still by far the biggest town in Trelawny, my guidebook had given the impression it was nowadays a pretty dilapidated and run-down place, it’s once great Georgian colonial buildings falling to ruin. Clearly the recent opening of a cruise ship terminal has made a difference – Falmouth as I found it was all refurbished wooden townhouses and shining paint, with tourist-friendly information boards dotted all around telling you the history of this building and that. Although I’ve been beating the drum for the ‘authentic’ Jamaica all along, it was actually nice to get a sense of history – refurbished or not, I could imagine this as a bustling port full of merchants, soldiers and pirates wearing powdered wigs and haggling over doubloons far more than I could Port Royal. Still, I’m not too sure what the cruise ships come for beyond an hour’s stroll and maybe some food in the central square – for all its charm, Falmouth is still pretty small, quiet and doesn’t even have a proper beach. The only claim to a strip of sand it does have is occupied by a fisherman’s cooperative, which operates perhaps a dozen boats along a tiny picture-postcard spit of beach. Clearly clued up on the benefits of the coming tourist trade, the co-op’s facilities include a great bar which backs directly onto the sea, where you can sit and sip your Guinness with your feet in the water or even laze in a hammock over the sand as you watch the brightly coloured boats sway gently on the reef-calmed waters.

Falmouth fisherman's beach

If my thirst for adventure hadn’t exactly been quenched by Friday’s civilized outing, I was to get an unexpected challenge the next day – Paperfoot hadn’t been able to arrange a lift, so to make it back to Old Harbour in time for school I was going to have to run the gauntlet of route taxis and buses half way across the island. Previously I’d dreaded the prospect of tackling the sardine can transport system with my large rucksack, but with little option I got on with it stoically, and like most worries you have about the unknown, it turned out to be easier than expected. The route is through big towns all the way – Christiana, Mandeville and May Pen – so it was always easy to find buses and taxis waiting at each change, and to my surprise, there were no grumbles about the size of my bag from drivers or conductors (I’d been told to prepare myself for being charged double for the extra space I took up). In fact, drivers were so keen to get me in their vehicle they’d come running up and take my bag for me, meaning I didn’t even have to carry it between rides much. In a weird way I’m starting to love the taxis here.

Album cover, anyone?

My return to Mighty Gully was marked on Sunday with a ritual roasting of Trelawny’s famous yellow yams, courtesy of country girl Monique, whose rural upbringing apparently gives her special abilities when it comes to the roasting of large tuber. Coming back by public transport meant I hadn’t been able to carry the shed load of yam and plantain I’m sure everyone in the yard was hoping for, but the Great Yam Roast still drew plenty of interest, especially from the kids, who clearly couldn’t give a toss that I was back but were impressed enough that I returned with food to suck up to me all afternoon. The other attraction, of course, was building and maintaining the wood fire the yam was roasted on, and like your dad at a BBQ, I wasn’t about to give up that duty easily, keeping myself content during the age it seemed to take the yam to cook by chopping up bits of wood and crouching down to coax the embers back into flame with my breath, usually getting a face full of soot for my troubles. All said, the yam was delicious, and you can’t beat a good fire to wile away an afternoon, even when it is 30 degrees-plus in the shade.



Smoke in my eye



And just like that, the summer holidays were over, and I found myself ironing my shirt and pants ready for a 5.30am start Monday. But any hopes I may have had of the thermometer starting to ease down now September has arrived have been rudely dashed – at first, I thought it was just that I was noticing the temperature difference between Old Harbour and Albert Town, but as the days have gone on, I’ve realized it is actually hotter than hell, and the past week has been easily the warmest since I’ve been here – great timing for the first week of school.

Monday was a big day for pretty much all the kids in the yard, the first day at primary school for Ryan and Chad and the first day at Marlie Mount School for Alex, while Bam Bam and Britney had their first day at high school to face. With Jason and Kizzee already at Marlie Mount, it means I’m now teaching five of the kids I’m living with. I should probably start behaving myself a bit better in front of them.

Back to School is a big deal in Jamaica, for two pretty straightforward reasons. For one, the country is crawling with kids – a ridiculously big percentage of the population is aged under the age of 16, and if you’re one of the minority of people who reach their mid-20s without either breeding or being bred (local phraseology – to ‘breed ya gyal’ is to get your missus up the duff, to ‘get bred by mi bwoy’ is to be impregnated by one’s male companion), you can guarantee your sisters, brothers, cousins, aunts, uncles and friends will have droves of the little buggers for you to practice your parenting skills on. Second, sending kids to school is a big financial burden on low-income families, and the biggest burden of all comes at the start of the year when new uniforms, books, bags etc have to be bought, and the variety of different supplementary school fees paid. I’ve seen first hand how people literally spend their last penny on getting their kids ready to go to school, but also how it is a collective responsibility – if parents are struggling to get their child to school, friends and family will step in to help, paying for whatever needs to be paid at the start of term and, presumably, keep on paying for taxi fares and food so the child can keep on going.

Jason, Bam Bam and Alex

I’ve spent the majority of the time I’ve been here surrounded by children, in and out of school, from babies just learning to walk up to youths in their mid-teens, and all points in between. Bar spending a few hours a week with my daughter, I have absolutely no involvement or contact with children back home at all, and I’ve started to think that’s a bit strange. I am 30 years old, and yet barely any of my peer group have children. Why? It can’t be that everyone hates children – I know enough people who teach or otherwise work with kids. Too busy with their careers? I doubt it – work is a dirty word amongst a fair chunk of people I know, never mind career. Not found that ‘special someone’? Then, atheist generation that we are, we must be chained to Christian morality even more closely than Jamaicans, where 80 per cent of people allegedly still go to church and 8 in 10 kids are born out of wedlock, and having children with multiple partners is the norm. What about ‘children are a burden, and I’m too busy living my life for me, me, me to think about that kind of responsibility yet’? Probably closer to the mark – and what a wonderful society that is, where grown adults cling on to the short-term priorities of adolescence while distrusting the strength of their ties with families and friends so much that they fear child-rearing will leave them isolated, over-worked and unhappy. Or maybe we just want to non-breed ourselves out of existence.

Tanish on the log of death

The week started at a nice, easy pace, the first three days being given over entirely to the logistical nightmare of registering 1400 children in a school built to hold half that number. It wasn’t just the shift system that complicated registration and orientation of the students, however – parents are also expected to attend, so they can sign behavioural contracts for their kids and be given a chance to discuss objectives for the year. All of this meant that only two grades at a time came in between Monday and Wednesday, and school finished at midday, a mercy I was thankful for as my body struggled to keep up with the twin demands of 7am starts and searing heat (actually, I’ve quite enjoyed getting up so early and eating breakfast outside in the early post-dawn – it’s about the only part of the day when I don’t sweat, unless I’m running late and have to wolf down my still-hot porridge). With PE not starting until next week, I was brought into service to help with the many administrative tasks that need doing, which has been something of a mixed blessing. Although I’m happy to help, the principal, Mrs Mapp seems to have decided I have a talent for these kind of things, and Thursday and Friday I worked all but straight through the two shifts, helping Mrs Mapp update the school’s three-year improvement plan and then filling in Ministry of Education registration forms. I’m also going to be helping to plan, set-up and run a community adult learning programme and have volunteered to help with the school’s cub scout club. I’m not sure when I’m going to find time to fit in the two hours-per-day of PE I’m expected to teach starting next week.

A final note on meteorological matters. Friday evening brought the heaviest rain I have ever seen in my life as the inevitable thunderstorm following the stifling heat of the previous week finally broke. I was walking to the shop up the road and could see the blue-black clouds hanging low up behind the school, a sue sign rain was coming. What I didn’t expect was the speed the clouds were moving at and just how much it was going to rain – by the time I had done my shopping and started walking back, a vicious wind had started whipping up dust everywhere, and half way back I had to dive into another shop to take shelter as the heavens opened and a solid wall of water began lashing down. It rained like that for about 15 minutes, long enough to turn the entire parking area in front of the Marlie Mount shops into a pond which submerged my feet entirely as I walked through it, and turn the previously dry drainage gully running alongside the road into a raging torrent a good couple of feet deep.