I HAVE sworn never to drive through St Joseph again.
And for sure not with a bunch of don’t-know-my-way-around-any-place teenagers taking directions from an I-don’t-know-my-own-backyard, Bissex, St Joseph teen. The rugged terrain, as I am poetically putting it, does not sit well with me or my chariot Betsy.
Two Wednesdays ago Ya-Ya and a few of her friends wanted to say their final goodbye to classmate and fellow 2015 graduand Kevin and I offered to take her. That was on the condition that if any of her friends were going, they would meet me at a spot along the route or not too far off the beaten track.
Rh-Rh arrived at my home with plenty of time to spare and we picked up Ris-Ris in Hothersal right on cue. We were heading to Bissex and then to St Anne Anglican Church. I had been convinced by at least two in this bunch that in order to get to St Anne coming from St Michael, I would have to pass Bissex anyhow so I might as well collect Anta who lives there.
Arghh! Stupid me. I decided to take directions from teenagers. So we ripped along St Michael, and ripping along is relative if you are familiar with ye old chariot. But, rip we did.
Less than half an hour away from the start of the funeral service, I followed directions to go through Proute, St Thomas and by some miracle of navigation ended up in Sugar Hill. We should be collecting Anta by now but her directions were more than a bit off. By my reckoning we should not have been so deep in St Joseph if we were going to St Anne.
The turn right, turn left instructions from our GPS, Anta, started to fail. The time of service was upon us and we were still up and down and sideways in Sugar Hill with everyone upset and shouting into the phone at Anta. If she said go left and we did, it turned out we should not and if we went right she couldn’t tell us where next.
I spied a man and I slowed as I neared him.
“Good evening,” I said as I watched him take a drag of a homemade cigarette. I didn’t have to ask which side of the marijuana debate he was on. But, for that moment, I was willing to look the other way on the personal use.
A little bit taken aback, the man peered into the vehicle. With the appropriate left, right, above and below and hand signals so utterly Bajan, he set me on a path to Bissex.
I realised there had been complete silence in the chariot all that while until a small voice asked: “Mummy, you din see that man was smoking?” The emphasis on smoking I interpreted as he was doing something illegal.
With such poor and frustrating directions from Anta, if I had come across him burying loot from a bank heist, I probably would have overlooked that too. Following his course led me to more frustration but not for the same reason. The chariot had a hard time pulling those hills and the roads were broken away, dug up or blocked.
At Bissex we collected Anta and immediately I instructed her to get her father to return for her. I certainly was not going back that way. We were off again. This time Anta directed us a far way and when we came upon a closed road I protested that could not be St Anne. It was not; she was pointing us towards St Aidan.
Once more Betsy had to call on all her inner engine to pull those hills, shift the cracks, avoid the potholes and, when unavoidable, try to land softly in the guts of the crevices. She was in the throes of one last burst of energy on Horse Hill when I thought Betsy was steaming up the hill. She was actually smoking.
There was a mad scamble out in the midst of Horse Hill. A group of men gathering for their evening card game helped. Thank you. While the men informed us that church was not far off, they also pointed out that the hour was late.
Refreshed with coolant, Betsy climbed the hill and on to St Anne’s. We were barely in time for the interment and they saluted Kevin and headed back to Betsy.
The chariot had a flat tyre. I couldn’t blame her – St Joseph’s roads are in a horrible state and it is time to fix them.
Antoinette Connell is a News Editor. Email [email protected]
