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We take the old roads from Kingston to Old Harbour, avoiding the new Super Highway, a journey of about ninety minutes by car.The Old Harbour Fish Market is now a shadow of its former self as is the disused railway station. The spot where the church stood that my aunt Annie and I walked the three miles to every Sunday morning is now a fast food joint while the church itself has moved to a more prestigious location, I’m told, with religion still big business on this tiny Caribbean island.

Cars can no longer turn down the Old Bodles Road that was the direct route to and from our house. Rain has apparently washed away the bridge and the road is now permanently closed. We must drive a further mile down the highway and enter onto the property at Bottom Bodles, then circle around to the main entrance from the opposite direction – a far too long a journey that I would never have undertaken as a child. For even along these dirt back roads the familiar whiff of fresh cow dung had brought on an instant sense of dread that started in the pit of my scrotum and gripped my bladder making me gasp for breath. All I could say to give our driver the cue to pull over was “I think I’m gonna have to pee you guys.”

Fear has always had a tendency to make me want to wet my pants, and as the piss hit the dry dirt road and bubbled up, the sweet sickly pungent smell of cow dung was everywhere. As I button up quickly and the car drives on, the sight of cows returning for their twice daily milking greets our journey just as they did when I was boy. I was always petrified of cows. As I made my way to school each morning, I would desperately try to avoid them by walking the three miles before or after I knew that they had made their familiar journey to the Dairy. Of course this meant that I was often late for assembly because if I was ever met by cows on the way, I would stand deadly still, clutching my satchel for comfort until they had passed at a safe distance.

Now and then, one particularly feisty cow would dare to charge towards me and I would run for my life, screaming at the top of my lungs, and scaring the young calves that darted off in all direction. It didn’t matter that they were small and probably just as scared as I was; the young ones frightened me too. So my days invariably began with negotiations about how best to get to school without meeting any cows along the way. Not easy when you live surrounded by several hundred acres of dairy farm, the existence of which represented the first examples of genetically bred cattle anywhere in the world.

The Jamaican Hope was bred specifically to adapt to the Caribbean by combining the British Jersey cow with the Holstein and the Indian Sahiwal breed. This new Hope produced three times more milk than any other cattle on the island, and so they were constantly marching towards the Dairy and across my path. Today, however, I am in the safety of a car and cows can’t bother me now. Riding across this rough terrain with my camera at hand, I’m surprised at just how photogenic cows can be. Were they always hornless all those years ago when I was walking to Old Harbour Primary in panic?

We reach a guarded gate and a handsome man with flawless black skin steps out of a hut and in front of the car to enquiry about our business here.

“We’re heading up to the house,” says David our driver, stating the obvious without giving any reason.

“Who?” replies the Guard.

“Gonsalves,” says my cousin Aubrey from his open window in the back seat of our car.

“Oh, Mr Gonsalves, sir - go on up.”

We smile then; things are as they should be, and David drives on.

“It’s good to see the name still counts for something round here,” Aubrey and I both chime.

A short drive further and we arrive at the once pristine electronic white gates that open onto a long driveway leading to the main house and research centre. The gates are rusty now, wide open too and possibly broken, but still they represent my first real point of recognition. My heart begins to race. I’m ready to step from the moving vehicle when David announces that we are about to drive through the gates and park up ahead on the overgrown lawn. This we do and I sprint from the car back towards what was once the grand entrance to an enchanting playground, The Banana Breeding Station Bodles, where I once lived.

Revisiting the scene of a distant memory can be a tricky business, they say. One is never quite sure, if the ghost is you, or if the place is ghostly. The net effect of this is like wandering through a dream wide awake, very eerie.

Three young Sparrow Hawks eye us from the scorching midday sky above. “Killy-killy-killy, yip-yip,” they cry in their rapid, high-pitched tone. They were lining up to pick at the bones of Bodles, and so was I. Continue reading →

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