Diana McCaulay, Contributor
I'M IN a bus going to Lucea to attend the funeral of a friend's father. The last time I made this journey, the return trip took 11 hours - courtesy of an excessively careful bus driver and the North Coast MarlWay.
There's a different bus driver this time, a cheerful young man with a bandana around his head, and judging by the alacrity with which the bus leaves the car park, I'm guaranteed a shorter trip.
Naturally we leave late and then have to make stops for critical items of sustenance like chewing gum and cheese crunchies. It always amazes me how Jamaicans think nothing of having everyone else wait while they transact their business.
On the other hand, I'm struck by how relaxed everyone is. We'll get there when we get there. This may in fact be the most sensible way to live.
Near the Spanish Town roundabout, I notice a sign advising the road via Mount Rosser is closed, but the driver belts along undaunted. I assume he knows the alternative route.
Missed signs
On the Linstead bypass, we race past another sign, which I'm pretty sure says the road IS closed and we must use the detour, a right turn off the bypass. The driver is still hell bent on Mount Rosser. I decide to speak.
"Driver, you didn't see the sign about the road being closed?"
"Sign?" he says. "What sign? Me neva see no sign."
"Anybody else see it?" I ask.
Chorus of nos. Someone did see the Spanish Town sign, but hey, it was just a sign like those saying "Give Way" or "No Right Turn". In other words, not to be taken seriously.
"I think we should go back and check," I say, attempting to be the voice of reason.
A lively discussion ensues and my view prevails in the end. But the driver, being male, is not keen to turn his bus around. That would be defeat.
Eventually, he does head back along a parallel road, causing unnecessary confusion as to where the offending sign was. He is, of course, steadfastly opposed to asking anyone for directions. We find the sign. It definitely says the road is closed and we should take the detour. I feel vindicated and we head off into uncharted territory. Cheese crunchies are passed around.
Initially, the drive is beautiful, through an orange farm, hills encircling valleys, poincianas blooming. But the road deteriorates, forcing us to slow down. Donkey carts overtake us. The bus driver gnashes his teeth. There are no road signs of any description.
Lost
Soon we have no idea where we are. In Jamaica, you need a Seventh Day Adventist church to tell you the names of villages, and there don't seem to be any on this particular road.
We lurch past tiny settlements and rivers sluggish with silt and algae. There's a sign on an unrendered concrete wall: "Free Chechnya." I reflect Jamaica is a mystifying place. I mean, are the people in that district particularly concerned about Chechnya? Might there be a Chechen resident?
Absently, I think of other national mysteries. Currently, we have the Government working assiduously to remove our right to appeal to the Privy Council, while themselves taking their case against the Junior doctors to the said same Privy Council. And why did the Petroleum Corporation of Jamaica decide to move that mound in Holruth Park? First they built this weird mound which had no discernible purpose. Then they moved it six feet to the left.
WHY?
Four hours have now elapsed since we left Kingston and we're still in the bush. I'm convinced we're now in St. Mary. Someone else thinks we haven't left St. Catherine and any minute now, we'll see a sign saying, "Welcome to Ewarton". This strikes me as hilarious.
We finally convince the driver to stop and ask the way. Three men stand outside a rum shop.
"Which way to Ochie?" we call out.
The men point in three different directions. Then they start to argue. We pick one road and resume our endless excursion. Surely, we'll get to the sea at some point. We end up in Oracabessa, almost five hours after leaving Kingston. There's no way we'll make the funeral on time, but everyone is sure the service will await our arrival. And this being Jamaica, it more or less does.
"What happened to you guys?" asked those who drove their own cars.
We described our circuitous wanderings to widespread amusement. No one else had seen a sign about road closure and they'd driven straight over Mount Rosser without obstruction. Oh well, I thought. To paraphrase an honourable Minister, that'll teach me to play by the rules.
