"My Story Lives is a cornucopia of hope and optimism in the midst of challenging and sometimes dark circumstances. You're doing great work!" Dr. Mel Waldman, Psychologist'

"In my opinion, this is one of the BEST LITERARY sites ever created!!" Camincha, San Francisco Bay Area poet and writer

Saturday, February 03, 2007

"The Ride to Port Antonio"

By Bill Ackerbauer

It was a remarkably well-behaved chicken. Plump and massive, it sat like a glossy-feathered black Buddha in the lap of its owner, watching me with one unblinking eye. The bird neither clucked nor fussed, content to be stroked occasionally by the old woman as we sat side by side on the crowded bus that would take ten hours to reach the other side of Jamaica.

I’d picked a bad weekend to visit friends on the North Coast. Mudslides from a recent tropical storm had made a mess of the main road across the mountains, so buses traveling from the south had to take the coastal route around St. Thomas Parish on the eastern tip of the island. From where I was staying, in May Pen, the trip to Port Antonio would have taken half the time if the road hadn’t washed out. But I was an 18-year-old exchange student on a break from school, and there was nothing better to do than spend a day on a cramped, hot bus beside the woman with her bloodshot eyes, her toothless smile and that fat fowl.

It was 7 a.m. on a Friday when I left the house and walked down the dirt track and over the bridge into downtown May Pen, pausing to let a small but menacing herd of goats trot across my path. I caught a mostly full bus to Kingston: mostly full is better than empty, because the buses don’t roll until the seats and every square inch of standing room are filled with passengers. Choose a seat on a mostly empty bus, and you’re liable to wait an hour for it to start moving. A person in a hurry can always pick a bus that appears to be filled to capacity, or even jump onto one that has begun to move. The greedy thugs who wrangle passengers and collect the fares are always able to find room for one more, even it means pulling a rider in through a window in a tangle of sweaty limbs.

That particular morning, I was lucky to get one of the last open seats on a bus that was filling up fast, as the ones bound for the capital usually do. It headed out of May Pen, past the bank and the post office, past the drugstore and the Kentucky Fried Chicken and on its way to Spanish Town and then Kingston. I got off at the chaotic terminal near Trench Town, a desperate, flyblown section of the capital where a few months later I would witness a riot — from the safety of another bus — whose purpose I never learned, but whose burning tires and outraged screams are indelibly etched into my memory.

The terminal was a slightly more peaceful place the day I jumped off the bus from May Pen and quickly spotted one headed around the big bend to Port Antonio. This vehicle, a baby-blue former school bus, was nearly empty, so I grabbed a seat and settled in for some downtime. A man reached in through the open window next to my head and, like an angel of vice, promptly sold me a pack of Craven ‘A’ cigarettes and a mercifully cold Red Stripe.

The beer, combined with the long wait and the oppressive heat, must have lulled me to sleep, because when I awoke, the bus was bumping along a pot-holed stretch of country road. Sunlight was winking off the dirty pastel squares of houses and the corrugated metal roofs of the ramshackle rum shops.

And to my left was the chicken.

There’s nothing quite like waking up on a moving bus in a foreign country and being startled by the reptilian gaze of a chicken just inches from your face. After a moment of shock, I looked up to see the face of the person carrying this strange cargo. Her smile was wide enough to reveal discolored gums, and her tongue clicked with amusement – tch, tch. I said hello, and she nodded and mumbled something I couldn’t make out.

We sat together for hours, the bus crawling up and barreling down hills, but there was no conversation. When we reached Port Antonio and passengers started to stir, I realized with some alarm that my legs had both gone numb from the long hours in a seated position. The old woman must have sensed my problem, because she sprang up from her seat, tucked the chicken under one stringy arm and helped me stand with the other.

I thanked her as we climbed off the bus, and she nodded, mumbling again. She carried her bird off toward the waterfront, and I stumbled up the hill toward the Bonnyview Hotel, shaking pins and needles out of my legs.

Bill Ackerbauer is a writer, editor and one-man jug band who teaches journalism at the University at Albany. He lives in Johnstown, N.Y.

2 comments:

Anonymous said...

Hello there,

I am wondering -- is the bottom picture actually a picture of Jamaica? I ask because I might be going there is march. My parents are Jamaican. they are building a house and will be returning to live next year. I grew up in England, and although my parents go home every year, i have never been because I am afraid to fly. I think now, perhaps because it has been so many years that I say I am going without really meaning it, that I am more afraid to go to jamaica than to fly. don't know why. I always imagine that I am not really missing much. Always imagine that I really know Jamaica because I know my parents' stories so well. But when I look at that picture, it's not at all what I imagine, which makes me sad. All at once, it makes me want to go very badly because it is not what I imagine and it makes me not want to go becaue it is not what I imagine.

My mother always tells me a story about taking a minibus across the island with her pet chicken when she was five years old and going to live with her Auntie after her mother died. She was from st. Thomas.

Lori Cullen

Bill Ackerbauer said...

The photo actually shows a scene in downtown Port Antonio. I can understand where you're coming from and why you might be apprehensive about Jamaica, but living there was one of the most exciting and eye-opening periods of my life so far. I'd be happy to tell you more about my experiences there, though you should keep in mind it was many years ago (1990 and 1991), so things are probably somewhat different now. Also keep in mind that this story is not meant to encapsulate the entirety of my experiences on the island -- the bus trip was just one of many, many memorable experiences. I can be reached at ackerink@aol.com. Thanks for reading!