Written by a Jamaican Author, August town uniquely highlights the prejudism in the island where Rastas are treated unfairly. August town descriptively shows the tranformation of the island
Voice AgeYoung Adult (18-35)
AccentsCaribbean (General) East African (General) Jamaican (Patois)
Note: Transcripts are generated using speech recognition software and may contain errors.
Mm hmm. First, you must imagine the sky blue and cloudless if that helps, or else a luminous black spread of night next. And this is the important bit. You must imagine yourself inside it inside the sky, floating beside me below us the green and blue This of the earth now focus 17 degrees north, 76 degrees west. Down there is a Caribbean, though not the bit you might have seen in a pretty little brochure. We are beyond aquamarine waters with their still manatees and graceful sea turtles and beyond the beaches littered with sweet almonds. We have gone inland down there is that this palliative valley on a dismal little island. Notice the hills how one of them carries on its face a scar, a section where bulldozers and tractors have sunk their rusted talents into its cheeks, scraped away the brush and the trees and left behind. A white creator of Mar, The author can be seen from 10 or more miles away. To the people who live in this valley, it feels as if they were to score on their own skin, as if a kind of ruin has befallen them. Seen from up here, the ramshackle valley looks like a pot of cornmeal porridge. Rossington roof stir into its hot mopping vortex. Perhaps it is the dust bowls, the tracks of the sun and the dry riverbed that gave the place this comedy look. The streets run in unplanned and sometimes maze like directions. Paved roads often sin into dirt pots. Wide streets narrow into Ali, lined with zinc or scrape board fences. If solid concrete houses rise like sentence at the beginning of a road, the architecture will devolved into clumsy board sharks. By the time you get to the curl the sock. If on one road the houses are separated into tiny lots on the rule just over, they are crowded together and lean into each other, as if for comfort. This is a community that does not quite come together. We must imagine there was a time when all of this was beautiful and unscarred, a time when the hills were wall and green, verdant humps rolling up behind the blue mountain range above a time when the valley was stick with guava trees when wild parakeets flew above the forest and fat iguanas some bait on the riverbed. But that is all we can do. Imagine there is no forest anymore and no more iguanas. And the Mineral River that once floats with the truth Valley is now dammed up. Its water is diverted to the city's reservoir, where there was once a perfect Greenhill. There is no a scar. And where there was once a river, there is no a dry riverbed. Little boys playing football amongst its vast sun, where there was once beauty. No, there is just August on or sometimes greater August on. If you listen to the island city officials who have seen fit to attack to it, seeing fit attached to it like added um, the nearby districts of King Tire rockers Bryce Hill, Dread Heights and Gala Down there it is 11 April 1982, a day I have watched over and over again, as if from up here I could change. Things, could slip inside its hours and change the outcome. But I can only watch for air is a fruit hair is the truth. Each day contains much more than its own hours or minutes or seconds. In fact, it will be no exaggeration to say that every day contains all of its free