The next day, we were back at the river.
Travel.
And save the planet.
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 friends heading to the local river.
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 tyre pieces.
The best spot on the cart was at the front. We would take turns sitting there, sometimes with our arms outstretched 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 anymore, catching little fish 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 a few refreshing drops first.
No water in the world tastes like it.
Usually, we would make two trips a day 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.
I was fine and maintained that I thought the bread van was going to come around the corner at us, but I think it was because I had gotten older and started feeling fear.
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.
Best wishes,
Sherry Collins, I am her.
Jamaican Freedom Fighter, for the people.
Fighting for the creative freedom of the Jamaican peopledem and Pitch Futures, our future creative talent.
I am human. I create from my own visions and ideas, reading culture and the world.™
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The birth of a Jamaican Freedom Fighter.
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I am a confident Black woman, time traveller.
I will die happy knowing that our people are free.
We are in a knowledge-sharing evolution, creating a new world.
