The ramshackle home of Hubert Jones and his companion, Daughter.

I MET them at the Good Samaritan Inn on Heroes Circle recently. After exposing the plight of their living situation, Hubert 'Merican' Jones and 'Daughter', his companion, invited me to see the conditions in which they were living. I promised. So last Thursday, I journeyed to Eight Miles, St Andrew, searching for them.

Rusting zinc fences greeted me. I looked over them hoping to see signs of the couple. He uses a wheelchair, so I was looking out for it.

Weird entrance

The golden-ager with his pet rooster. - Photos by Paul Williams

There he was, under a very big and tall fig tree, with a rooster in his lap. I beckoned to him and he let the rooster go. He waved back to me indicating that I should go to the gate. As I pulled the heavy metal gate open, a pack of slim mongrel dogs pounced upon me. A brown-eyed female nipped me on my left shin, and so I retreated, closing back the gate.

Then I heard high-pitched yelps. I looked over the gate, and it was Daughter, who was flogging the mongrels for being such ungracious hosts. She let me in, but the dogs would not relent. I paid them no mind because what I saw around me was more poignant than the bravadoes of a few emaciated canines, baring their pointed teeth.

There were many pieces of scrap metal in the big yard littered with miscellaneous items. Dilapidated beehives with bees buzzing their songs were at the side of a small zinc shed, which Daughter said was their home. By now, Jones, leaning on a crutch, had joined us.

The joy on his 80-year-old face said how glad he was to see me. They said they had been waiting for my arrival since I had met them, but just as I was about to explain why it took me so long, I saw a man throw garbage on to a big heap in their backyard. Jones said that was one of the challenges he had been facing from his neighbours for years, and he started to talk about his woes. Anger was strong in his tone.

Daughter then took me to see the inside of the zinc shed in which they lived. It was full and running over with all sorts of accoutrements; dark and dingy as well. She said at nights rats and insects overran their dwelling, which leaks profusely when it rains. There was no sign of a bed. Back outside, the pit latrine that they use is full to the brim, and they have no bathroom, no running water, no electricity.

I spent the greater part of the afternoon chatting with them under the fig tree. Daughter, always smiling, had to caution Jones several times as he lambasted those who he claimed had done him wrong. The aggressive dogs were calm by now.

Having said my good-byes, I was happy that I had gone, but saddened by what I had seen. Hubert and Daughter only have a one-legged rooster and a pack of feisty mongrels as their family, but they are holding on, hoping to be delivered from their humble existence, soon.

Tomorrow, read about Hubert and Daughter's love affair and more in His Story.

paul.williams@gleanerjm.com