By Leonardo Blair, Staff Reporter
THERE IS a saying that people use whenever they plan to do something but never seem to get around to it. "When I reach that bridge I'll cross it."
I had always wanted to cross the bridge.
Sure I had crossed it a million times coming to and from Portmore, St. Catherine, in buses and cars, but I had never walked across it all by myself. I had seen fishermen hang across its rails with their lines laden with bait and cyclists pushing their bicycles up its slope and wondered what it would be like to take the stroll across it with the cars zipping by all the while.
How do they do it so easily? Aren't they afraid that some crazy motorist will smash into them, killing them or plunging them into the harbour for certain drowning? There's nowhere to escape. Where would they go, at the top of that bridge? Jump, maybe? I can't swim.
Everytime I crossed that bridge I made sure that I had a window seat where I could feel the wind whipping my face, momentarily stopping the breath in my nostrils. I liked the feeling, especially at nights when you just rise above land a little bit and you see the glitter of lights dancing on the still waters. Sometimes when it rains the water looks like moving
patches of black waiting to swallow me up. Other times when the harbour is still I think to myself that the spirits must be sleeping, waiting for someone to come along and drown. I have heard of people who have died in that harbour. Young ones and old ones. Some were murdered. Maybe crossing that bridge is a way to defeat my fear of falling into the harbour. I don't know.
I always thought that I'd never stop at the fishing village in the vicinity of the bridge to buy fish and then walk across. I didn't feel I had the courage to do it all by myself unless someone was waiting at the other side for me. There are few bus stops nearby and the buses hardly stop at the ones a distance away, so the idea of crossing felt like death.
THEN ONE DAY...
Still, somewhere deep down, I just wanted to cross it. Then it
happened one day.
I had walked to the bus stop downtown and had really forgotten for a while how difficult the bus situation was. People had walked all the way to Marcus Garvey Drive to take the bus back to Kingston just to make sure they got home to Portmore. The big white buses hadn't started running yet. It must have been my final year at UWI. I just wanted to go home that day and I didn't care if I stood all the way in traffic.
If it wasn't so late I might have walked the distance too. But I was tired and thinking about exams and what I'd do with my life after school. I jumped into an old Quarter Million bus which tugged-tugged and coughed all the way along Marcus Garvey Drive. Suddenly, as we reached the Freezone, the bus started slowing down and smoke started coming from the engine. It came to a halting stop about 300 metres from the bridge. I knew that this bus just wouldn't be moving for a while.
Every other bus passing by was full and passengers on the broken down bus began arguing for the return of their $20 fare. The conductor said they would have to wait until the engine cooled -- in about five minutes. The bus only wanted a little water, he said. So we waited for five minutes and still the bus was dead. The driver kept cranking the engine and it would cough like it was about to be revived but each time it choked and died again.
The passengers started filing out and I followed. Some of them argued for their $20 and the driver gave back most of them only $10, because, he said they were already halfway home. I didn't bother asking for the return of my fare. I stood there for a while, looking at the bridge and hoping that the bus would start. Eventually, I accepted fate and started walking. It was really windy and felt like it would start raining but I kept walking. The closer I got to the bridge the more I felt like I was about to do something great. I was about to cross the Causeway bridge all by myself. It was time for me to step onto the sidewalk but alas, there was a big thorny bush growing just at the beginning of the walk. I had two options, chop it away or run around it. I didn't have a machete. I waited until the way was clear and darted around the bush and safely landed on the sidewalk-- I almost got hit by a truck. I felt adventurous.
I couldn't believe how narrow the sidewalk was, how untouched it felt -- like only a few feet had crossed the hump of that bridge.
The wind on the bridge was strong and I could feel it chilling my bones. The salty air slammed against my jeans. I thought it would have been gentle. I started thinking as I walked across. It felt like life. I thought it would've gotten easier the higher I climbed, but it didn't. You have to be stronger the higher you go.
I held unto the iron rails to make sure I didn't get pushed back into the road and I walked really slow, looking at the shacks, the wharf, foaming water and all the lights below me. I was alone on the bridge. I kept walking until I reached the top of the big hump in the middle and I stood there for about five minutes like Neil Armstrong on the moon. I then walked down and ran around another bush to get back to the
regular road.
I felt so high that I walked all the way to the Portmore Mall. Like Forest Gump, in the movie of the same name, I felt like I couldn't stop moving until the feeling of achievement had been exhausted. The bus passed me on my way but I felt much better walking than being crammed into an old Quarter Million that might stop half way along the route again.
I had crossed the bridge.
