Venga by Jackie Penticost

The taxi had not waited, and after visiting the rum factory in the remote north of the island, we found ourselves stranded on a dusty road, wilting in the fierce heat.

We found a bus stop, and after an hour, a miracle hove into view and we collapsed gratefully on board. No ordinary bus, this was bright green, yellow and black, with spray painted pictures of Hailie Selassie, Bob Marley and Sir Garfield Sobers.  We had no idea, but this was a Venga, or party bus.

We made our way through the happy dreadlocked passengers with  their chickens and goats and sat on the back seats. Four of us, so very white and pasty, with pressed Marks and Spencer culottes and sandals.  And then the music started.

‘Ex-HEE-dus. Children of JAH people’ Bob sang.  The two six foot speakers strapped to the back of the bus were turned up to the max, and the thumping bass liquefied our organs and vibrated through every bone.   Some of the passengers had brought along calabash drums and half filled glass bottles to add to the merriment.  We rattled along, propelled by raucous, joyful, music.   

The bus meandered through stands of sugar cane to small villages, scattering dogs and children.  The wooden houses with corrugated iron roofs, brightly painted, were held together by purple and red bougainvillea, and shaded by palms and breadfruit trees.  There was no need for bus stops, as we could be heard from a mile away.  There was usually a queue for buses outside the central rum shop, but portly matrons weighed down by shopping recoiled in horror and waved the bus away.  One brave soul spotted us through the muddy window, and shouted ‘You save yourselves, ya Hear!’   But the bus was rattling away.

We relaxed into the journey after an hour or so.  Ganja was being passed around liberally, and we’d inhaled enough to be unconcerned about the immediate future.  Some girls were braiding our little girl’s hair into corn rows and our teenage son appeared to be dying of embarrassment.   We could see glimpses of the jewel-bright sea as we reached the high point of the island, and spotted the old garrison and cannons, so we knew that we were heading south.

We slowed only to take on partygoers and whenever we spotted the smartly uniformed police, the music was swiftly changed to a familiar channel.

‘Aggers, Mrs Bentick of Oswaldtwistle has sent in this marvellous fruit cake, and there’s a seagull on the pitch’

As we careened around the corner, the volume returned, and we all sang ‘No Woman No Cry’ at the tops of our voices.  

The rough dirt roads gave way to tarmac and colonial buildings. We clattered down Broad Street and past the Parliament buildings shuttered against the heat, and eventually screeched to a halt in the main marketplace.   We climbed out on rubbery legs and grinned inanely at the driver, waving foolishly.

The market sellers looked at us open-mouthed.  It was said that no foreigner could survive a Venga Bus.  We swaggered down the street and were prevented from swerving  into the market produce by laughing stall holders.  We felt like the coolest people on earth, and our son wouldn’t speak to us for a week.