Left: The Nonsuch women share a laugh as they monitor the bubbling pots. Right: The high-spirited residents gather at the High Vibes bar.- PHOTOS BY NORMAN GRINDLEY/DEPUTY CHIEF PHOTOGRAPHER
On a lonely road in the hills of Portland, I came across a sleepy little district, where the fun and revelry is unlike anything I'd experienced before. There, the festivities take place only when someone dies. Yes, when someone dies.
WHEN ANYONE I know gets together with friends, it's normally to have fun and engage in a chaotic episode of fun and general debauchery. It happens more often than I'd like to admit here. For employment purposes.
Up to recently, I thought there was no party like a Kingston party.
But on a lonely road in the hills of Portland, I came across a sleepy little district, where the fun and revelry is unlike anything I'd experienced before. There, the festivities take place only when someone dies. Yes, when someone dies.
You see, photographer Norman Grindley and I were on a voluntary wild goose chase. We weren't sure exactly where we were going, but were intent on finding an interesting town somewhere. We headed east, with Portland on our minds.
Things started out quite pleasant, but after a while, it seemed there was nothing going on, nothing to see in East Portland. Eventually, after being crammed in that automobile for more than two hours, with each of us harbouring similar homicidal thoughts for the other, we struck a gold mine.
We had passed through Reach, drove through Kensington, up Zion Hill, pass Sherwood Forest, and were on a stretch of road with nothing but trees and bush on both sides.
After not seeing any sign of life for what seemed like forever, we went around a bend and suddenly found ourselves facing a huge crowd. There were people everywhere. The crowd spilled over into a small graveyard right by the side of the road. Some stood in the roadway, some under a tree and others further off, seemingly working in the graveyard.
We asked a man who was standing by the side of the road just where were we.
"This is Nonsuch. There is no such place!" he grinned.
Nonsuch is a tiny district of no more than 600 residents. We were told that there were two towns called Nonsuch in Portland, but this one also goes by the moniker of 'Lookout'.
"What's happening? Why the crowd?" I asked.
"It's a grave digging," was the reply.
"Come outa di van, man. You nuh see seh a bashment! Mi need help."
We were puzzled by this statement. But then, the smiling man pointed to two curvy girls standing beside him. "Mi need help. Too much for me alone," he chuckled.
We dived out of the vehicle. You don't have to tell us twice.
The man, we later found out, goes by the title 'G Unit'. We followed his trail into the 'High Vibes' bar. There were three dreadlocked men inside, holding bottles of dragon stout and cups containing a clear pungent liquid. They were sporting very dark sunglasses and seemed happy. High spirited, if you will. We could get nothing coherent from them, so we turned to the bartender; a tall, lanky dreadlocked man of Indian descent. He's Delroy King.
"That's how you celebrate grave digging?" we enquired.
"That is how the whole town do it. We all come together whenever somebody dies and cook food, drink liquor and hold a vibes, while we dig the grave. Nobody pays for anything and everybody chip in." Delroy was supplying free liquor to everyone. Others had taken green bananas from their fields, some brought flour and others, meat. Those who couldn't afford to take anything, well, they became the official grave diggers.
A group of women, all chatting loudly, were gathered under a tree at the far corner of the graveyard, cooking. They were bent over huge bubbling pots of food, stirring what seemed like soup, with long metal spoons.
We went over to them. The smell of the soup was strong enough to knock you over.
Patricia King was the head cook for the day. Before I even introduced myself to her: "Drink soup. You have to drink soup," the portly woman shouted, handing me a steaming cup. After a timid inquisition on my part, I found out that it was goat head soup. God help me. Not my idea of a hearty meal. But I took the cup and did the best I could. I'm paying for that even today.
A group of children sat nearby, their eyes widened with excitement as Mr. Grindley snapped pictures.
Further up the hill, two old men were in a heated debate about the afterlife. They were both holding beer bottles. Not the same bottles we saw them with when we just got there, so this made for some colourful language.
I thanked the women for the soup and walked off.
I met Stedford Latouche, a dark-skinned man, about 30 years old. I took a sip of the soup, and with a grimace, asked him if they had any trouble with crime in the community.
"Nothing like that. We all live good. Look around. This is all of us right here. Or most. You can do anything. Leave your car open and it will alright," he said.
Delroy the bartender, who had rejoined us, spoke up.
"We nuh do dem ting deh. Crime and dem ting deh. We just live till we dead. Then we celebrate,".
We found out that the woman who they were digging the grave for, was well respected and had died of natural causes.
Her husband, Beresford King, was among a group of men chatting by the side of the road. We walked with him toward the grave site.
I asked him how the support from the community made him feel.
"It's good man. That's how we live. Brother-in-law, sister, friend neighbour, everybody," he said.
When we got to the grave, the workmen, who took breaks to sip from cups of soup, chatted loudly.
We stayed for a while, and then were off again.
A short old man with liquor on his breath joined us, muttering something about being and ex-policeman. He held an unlit cigarette in one hand and a cup in the other. His shoes were muddy and he was the happiest man there. We spent a while with him, laughing at his antics as he frolicked after a full day of helping to dig the grave.
We were on our way back to the van, when we noticed a tall, red-eyed man with dreadlocks running our way. He stopped just short of running me over. "Iman record calypso and reggae," he said, and broke into song right then and there. I took a step back, slowly inching toward the vehicle. But then the man said: "I was in Smile Orange. I entertained Charlie Babcock,". A real life celebrity! He gave his name as Johnny Walker. Just then, a car drove by and a man shouted "Yow, Johnny Walker!"
The lanky man nodded.
"I born and grow in Nonsuch. I have a new single coming. It name 'Time Soft'. He started singing again. It wasn't half bad. Then again, it may have been the soup.
So that was it. Our visit to 'no such place' was over. Who knew digging a grave could be so much fun?
Note: To the woman I met under the tree: Thanks again, it was really hot, I've never had anything like that before.
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