OLD PERA KUMINA
THE TOSS-UP was between Calabash Literary Festival at Treasure Beach in St Elizabeth in the west and Kumina at Old Pera in St Thomas in the east. And the west lost.
I could not give up the electricity and excitement of Kumina for listening to people reading, reciting and discussing literature, being a member of the literati myself.
I had been to Old Pera once before and learned how much of a Kumina melting pot it was. Its connection to Bowden Wharf is also a very interesting story, one that you seldom hear, so when I heard of the Kumina session there, I was immediately tossed into a whirlwind of indecision. Calabash is every two years, but there is a Kumina in St Thomas perhaps every week.
I chose St Thomas because some associates of mine were going and I heard the spellbinding, pulsating sounds of the drums calling me from atop the hill, and more importantly, it was Cha Cha Benz’s band that was going to play.
Cha Cha Benz is an engaging, excitable master Kumina drummer from Seafort in St Thomas, and I had not seen him play for quite a while. Moreover, the road to Old Pera was shorter than that to Calabash, which I will definitely patronise next time around.
We, in two vehicles, left Kingston about 7:30 p.m. With a few stops along the way, and the journey up the rough, narrow, winding road, we reach at about 10. At a certain point the car in front of us stopped, and we saw a tall man enter it. I thought to myself, it was someone on his way to the Kumina, or a duppy.
About 10 minutes after that the car stopped again, and the tall man alighted at a gate. It turned out that he is someone I know and was planning to interview. I shouted
out his name. When he saw me he grinned broadly, and we exchanged greetings. The people in the other car also knew him, and as we drove off I reflected on the reason I wanted to speak with him.
He is a fifth-generation descendant of an African king and his family who were brought to St Thomas after Emancipation. They were the ones who brought Kumina into the parish, right there at Old Pera, and the rest is history. Three of these men are buried on the property on which he lives.
‘DEAD YARD’
Later in the night, near the ‘dead yard’, we chatted some more about his Kumina heritage and the legacy of his ancestors.
When we arrived at the dead yard, two youths were selecting revivalesque songs, the ones that seem to play at all wakes. I am yet to warm up to them. They are not authentic Revival songs, and thus have no value for me. They remind me of the ‘Made-in-China’ Jamaican flags.
Around midnight, the spotlight moved to Cha Cha Benz and his band. The real thing. No commercial revival songs. After a few songs Cha Cha Benz got up from the drums disgruntled, because he was not feeling it, nor were many of us spectators. Many drummers tried, but the singing was weak, not inspiring the drummers.
I noticed that the singers and the drummers were all men, and no dancing women around the ring. And despite the lacklustre performances, I reflected on how these men could have been elsewhere, but there they were retaining a tradition that the Congo people brought to Old Pera over a century and a half ago. They sang and played spiritedly, telling stories with their voices, hands and faces. My camera was kept busy until there were no more space for pictures.
A few minutes after two the momentum built up, and the magic that people wanted to see started to appear. The men’s voices were harmonising and the drums gradually woke up, surrendering to the hands of the drummer. Yet, my sleepy head was conflicting my body. I could not tell the last time I stayed awake for an entire night, and it was now minutes after two.
I was jolted from my drowsiness when Cha Cha Benz returned to the drums, and went into animation. The looks on his face, his crouching, lithe frame, the flailing of his hands, and the penetrating beats of his drum gripped me, and moved me somehow. The tantalization was over.
By then, most of those who had passed by had gone, leaving styrofoam plates and cups strewn all over the yard, to be cleaned up by the relatives of the deceased. I shook my head.
We drove away about 3:35 a.m. Just before we did, I realised I did not know whether the deceased was a man or woman, girl or boy.