Our days at the river
Our days at the river during the yearly water shortage in August, before we set off for our annual family holiday to visit our cousins in May Pen, Jamaica, were some of the bestest times.
My brothers and I would run down the hill from our house to the hot country road and meet up with friends, heading to the local river with the cooling waterfall.
My best friend Andrea’s brother used to drive the cart to the river, and we would hitch a ride taking our empty water bottles.
There were a few of us, including Omar, my other best friend Solomie, and her brother Ricky. We would gather excitedly around the cart, made from bits of wood, metal, and old pieces of tyre.
The best spot on the cart was at the front. We would take turns sitting there, sometimes with our arms outstreched like we were flying.
No horn, we would tear around corners without a care in the world.
Up country, there were hardly any vehicles on the road.
After the Doreen bus had passed through in the early mornings before the sun was out, there was the weekly bread van and maybe a few taxis going into town, so we felt safe.
Once we got to the river, we lost all sense of time and played until we couldn’t play no more, catching little fishes in our hands, teasing crabs from under rocks, and jumping off mini waterfalls with our friends.
We then filled our water bottles from way up top, where the river ran from the sweetest spot, making sure to sip some of the cold, refreshing mineral liquid first.
No water in the world tastes like it.
Usually, we would make two trips to the river in the summer.
On the way back one time, it was my turn to sit at the front of the cart.
Going down the hill from Mum’s friend Miss Tat’s house, I sat excitedly enjoying the ride of my life when a thought popped into my head, “Jump from the cart now!”.
Rolling MacGyver-style onto the side of the road, scratching up my knees and the front of my legs, I heard both shocked laughter and screams of “Kenisha!!”.
There were also a few “a wha’ di bumbo-claaaat” shouted in my direction too.
I was fine and maintained that I thought the bread van was going to come around the corner at us.
I never went back on the cart after that, and I stopped climbing trees too.
Yes, I climbed; the tangerine tree was my favourite.
My friends picked me up from the sidewalk, and I hopped home.
The next day, we were back at the river.
What innocent times. 😊
I visited the river up country in Saint Ann, Jamaica, with my dad Kilowatt.
There are two ways to get to the river; the first is through Fort George, with the hills, where us kids rode on our cart and spent time playing without a care in the world.
The other is through Pedro River, with the sugarcane and farmers’ fields.
During my recent trip, my dad led me through the hidden path where women in our community once walked to the river to spend time washing their family’s clothes and have conversations with friends.
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Jamaica, we are here.
Time, to create our new futures.
Best wishes,
Kenisha (her)
Sherry-Ann Collins
Sherry (her / us)
Sherry Collins
Jamaican Freedom Fighter
Fighting for the creative freedom of the Jamaican peopledem.™
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