"Oy young bwoy! Move outa di way! Mine dem lick yuh down!"

I realised just in time that the woman shouting this was actually speaking to me. By the time I ducked out of the way, a stack of freshly cut sugar cane went flying right over my head.

Whew! All around me, people were moving about like ants. They were cane farmers in the community called Kellits in Clarendon's hilly interior. Those who weren't cutting cane were stacking and loading them into bundles which were then stacked on top of fragile-looking donkeys waiting dejectedly, as if anticipating the job ahead, by the side of the road.

I had stumbled upon the busy residents quite by chance when I noticed the crowd from some distance away. I stopped to find out what all the fuss was about.

"Well, as yuh can see, we is cutting di cane dem. Di truck soon come fi collect, so we haffi ah mek haste," said Miss Adessa, a pudgy, middle-age woman with curlers in her hair. She was standing with her arms folded in front of her, in the shade of a giant mango tree, watching the goings-on. I asked her if she lived nearby.

"Yeah, mi live right here," she said, turning to point to a large house behind us. "Is mi husband dat inna di brown shirt, beside di donkey," she said, pointing the fellow out. He was busy arguing with another man about the weight of a bundle of cane.

I asked Miss Adessa if this kind of thing happened in Kellits regularly. She looked me over with great curiosity. "Well, of course, just inna crop time. It can't happen every day," she said, her mouth curled to emphasise how obvious the answer was. I quickly changed the subject by asking her who owned the cane that was being reaped.

"Well, is a woman who live cross di road. She not here now, though. She and her husband come back from foreign and start up di cane piece about five year now. So she pay dem man here now fi reap it and stack it up and den di truck from di factory come collect it later," she said.

"Woman! Woman!" It was Miss Adessa's husband bellowing from across the road. "Oy!" the woman responded. "Weh di tea deh? Yuh tan up deh labrish wid young bwoy!" the man yelled.

"Shet up yuh mouth!" the woman replied. I braced for the man's retort, but was relieved when the woman chuckled.

"Mi ah go fi it now," Miss Adessa shouted. She turned to me. "Anyhow mi child, mi gone fi di tea fi dis miserable man. Ah chat to yuh later," she said and walked towards the house.

When Miss Adessa disappeared, I kindled a conversation with a skinny man who was taking a break from cane cutting. He was leaning against a utility pole, still holding a machete.

About Kellits

Farmer Lloyd Andrews taking his pig, 'Bogle' to be fed at a farm in Kellits, Clarendon.

I asked him about Kellits and from his roughly 15 minute explanation, I gathered the following.

Kellits is a tightly knit community, made up mostly of small farmers with a few masons, carpenters and shop owners mixed in the lot. It's a place where public holidays are spent at the local donkey race, and a man's best friend is his pig. The people are quite friendly and will hardly allow visitors to leave the community without, at the very least, a piece of yam or a bunch of bananas.

"Anyhow, mi gone back gone work," the man said and walked off.

I hung around for a while longer watching the activities take place. I saw the hampers on the donkeys being loaded, then watched the beaten beasts begin, what I was told, a two-mile walk to the drop-off spot.

As the donkeys headed off, I decided it was time to leave as well and though my role as spectator of the day's events was hardly helpful to anyone, I was given a hearty goodbye and an invitation to return, anytime.

robert.lalah@gleanerjm.com