Nine-year-old Ivor’s journey to Kingston is an excerpt from Opio Asante’s novel, Off the Edge.
The horn of the bus from Nanny Town to Kingston sounded in the distance, and the teamwork started in locking the windows and doors, and ensuring all fires were out. Granny reached for her bags and the house keys from the top of the “whatnot” and Ivor waited by the front door with her sculpted guinep-wood walking stick. They hurried down the steep narrow steps, down the unpaved path between the bright red, yellow and purple Croton plants on both sides, sugar canes, a number of mango trees, towards the opening that housed a gate years before.
The small Leyland bus waited on the opposite side of the road. Duke, the driver knew it was Ta Mildred’s shopping day and he dared not leave her. The audience of passengers rocked with laughter as Granny maneuvered around and over the mounds and rocks in her path, strategically placing her walking stick in familiar slots to stabilize herself from Ivor’s tugs, as with excitement he guided her to the worn tarmac and the bus. Granny paused a few seconds to catch breath, before the conductor pulled her up the steps, with Ivor pushing at her bottom to lever her as she mustered the last ounce of energy to claim her seat opposite Duke. Ivor’s seat was a makeshift seat abridging the gap between Ta Mildred’s seat and the gearbox. This was the prime position, because Ivor could see the road ahead without obstruction. He could also see every move that Duke made in taking the bus over, round and down the winding road towards the coastal plains below.
The sun was high in the sky at about ten o’clock, casting sharp shadows that rushed towards Ivor inducing a hypnotic state. Above, Ivor marveled at the light blue sky through the rushing leaves and branches, and the tops of steep virgin mountains on both sides metamorphosing into rugged coffee hills, then gentler slopes adorned with patchworks of green foliage. The spiky effect of coconut leaves exploded in all directions, broad sheltering structures of banana leaves reached for the skies and wiry yam vines coiled spontaneously around wooden poles, standing erect like soldiers called to attention.
After about an hour through the interior, the bus approached Port Antonio and the Caribbean Sea. From Port Antonio the journey proceeded westward along the coast through Norwich, Snow Hill and St. Margaret’s Bay towards Hope Bay.
Ivor’s interest now focused on the small town that was once his home. He looked at every face on the streets, pavements, in shops and houses to see how many he could recognize; paying particular interest to children whom might have been his peers in school. Ivor could point out a number of pedestrians and got up with excitement when he saw a boy and his sister, who were his neighbors. A sharp clip around the ears, from Granny, abruptly brought him back to the present, and his bottom in swift re-engagement with the seat.
The bus stopped at the crossroads town center for about five minutes, exchanged passengers, and was on its way again. By the coast could be seen fishing boats, small hut like shops selling fried fish, bammies and festivals, and Rastafarian flags next to stalls selling wooden carvings, baskets, hats and cooking utensils. Further along were children splashing at the point where the waves break. Ivor thought he knew some of the boys, but dared not move forward for a closer look, it might not have mattered though, as Granny Mildred was nodding so low, she nearly displaced the windscreen with her “rose and mesh” hat.
Ivor shook her, ‘Granny, wake up, mine you buck out the glass.’
Granny did not need a second warning.
Along with Ta Mildred, one other human had a profound effect on Ivor’s tender age, and the bus approaching his workshop. Zamba Zoola was the most creative and inventive person Ivor had encountered. Among his many achievements were, a large motorboat for deep-sea fishing he built from wood, numerous paintings and sculptures, the most exquisite furniture perfectly finished in various wood finishes or upholstered in a range of fabric or leather. Ivor lived opposite Zamba’s workshop and spent his holidays, evenings and weekends being inspired and indulging in creative pursuits.
Not only was Zamba creative in the physical sense, he was also a bit of a philosopher and the funniest storyteller in town. Zamba Zoola was a Rastafarian, and a member of the Twelve Tribes of Israel. He often organized huge excursions where hundreds of like-minded men, women and children, would swamp the beaches and streets of the little town, for the whole weekend. The local community center would reverberate with the drum and base of roots reggae music, African drumming and chanting. Unfortunately, there was no activity in the workshop that morning.
Hope Bay was now behind as the bus rocked, turned and leaned, sometimes almost on its sides as it answered all the questions asked of it by Duke, also known as “de road hog”. They passed Black Hill, Orange Bay and Spring Garden before entering Buff Bay, the second largest town in Portland. After Buff Bay, there was no breathing room in the bus. Ivor had about six bags in his lap, placed there by standing passengers swaying reluctantly to the motion of the bus, some complaining that their feet were not touching the ground. It is an understatement to say that Saturday mornings are very busy on all routes to Kingston.
The vegetation changed once more as they passed a large banana plantation adjoining an even larger sugar plantation once subdued by the expanse of its “not so great anymore” house on the hill. At this point the sea was no longer visible, as the bus journeyed again towards the interior. After a number of towns, twists and turns through the mountains, sparkling streams, and countless stops, Duke entered Kingston, the big capital city of Jamaica.
