Driving in and around Jamaica has become a most perilous adventure. And especially now that the Christmas season is upon us, there is increased vehicular and pedestrian traffic on the roads (what’s left of them).

Of course, this worrying situation becomes even more nerve-wracking when one encounters the numerous road hogs, especially those who operate taxis and minibuses and drivers of Noah and Voxy motor cars, who have become a terror by day and by night.

There was a time when Christmas was all about fun — goodwill, good food, good company, good times. Nowadays, rampant materialism and infectious hedonism have taken over, fuelled by selfish pursuits. How times have changed. Indeed, the Christmas mantra of peace on Earth and goodwill to all mankind has become as archaic as a Home Sweet Home lamp — who remembers that?

Call me a miserable old fogey, but how I wish we could turn back the hands of time and go back to the days when Christmas in JA was fun “cyan done”; when it was more likely to be a duppy, not a gunman; when neighbours shared love and food as well as fellowship and good tidings without the flashing lights of cameras capturing the moments to show off.

Frankly, I do not envy children these days with their fancy gadgets and android phones, all caught up in their own little selfish worlds bereft of any meaningful social interaction and fellowship.

As a boy I always looked forward to Christmas, which, back then, took so long to come. Now, in no time at all, everyone is exclaiming, “I can’t believe it’s Christmas already!” As the season approaches, we would take “washout”, a purgative that our parents would concoct. The most popular being herb tea, which was bought at the market so that we would be more than ready to devour “the whole heap of food” and “drinks” (mostly carrot juice and sorrel) and a certain cheap red wine to wash down the Christmas cake.

Christmas Eve was the main event, when “nobody no supposed to sleep at all”. In Montego Bay, my hometown, we would all head to downtown, the main activities taking place on St James Street, Charles (now Sam Sharpe) Square, and Parade. Just about everybody would converge on that space, people from all walks of life, regardless of social standing, intermingling, shopping, conversing, dancing, and prancing, just having fun. The sound of firecrackers was greeted with roars of delight, not everyone running scared in different directions thinking it is gun shots.

Country come to town was the order of the day and night when many “country bumpkins” would have their first taste of city nightlife. I well recall a starry-eyed boy holding onto his mother with glee as he yelled, “Momma, look pon di moon pon stick!” as he viewed the star perched atop the municipal Christmas tree.

As for us teenage boys, “getting a girl”, apart from going to see a movie at either the Strand or Roxy theatres, was the optimum achievement, not to mention getting drunk. We would imbibe a great deal of liquor and in order to hasten the inebriation we would hold down our heads so that the alcohol could more easily permeate our cranium. The first time I tried that forbidden act, after much euphoria, I descended into a revolting state of nausea and vomited uncontrollably, but that was part of our rite of passage.

Needless to say, I had to walk some four miles home in the early morning, staggering along a winding road (can’t recall encountering any potholes, because in those days roads were properly built with broken stones and asphalt). Interestingly, women used to “bruk rockstone” for that purpose and were paid by the amount they were able to produce. And I was not worried about being attacked by a gun-toting miscreant. I was more likely to encounter a rolling calf or a three-foot horse!

Usually, on Christmas morning (for those who remained sober), we would go a-carolling. I once recall going along a certain route with a group, the cool morning breeze nipping our faces as we sang lustily, “O come all ye faithful…” I recall us stopping at a certain two-storey upscale dwelling when we sang just below a window, no doubt thinking that we were entertaining the occupants with our mellifluous voices. To our shock and horror, but ultimately amusement, an irate, not-so-gentle man opened his window and threw a bucket of water at us, declaring that we should learn to sing and not disturb people so early in the morning. Yes, those were the good old days!

Then there was the Jonkonnu band that mesmerised most children, some terrified, but ultimately enjoying this cultural encounter which captured some of our African ancestral practices. But, alas, we have lost much of those traditional pastimes and they have been replaced by “dutty wine” et al.

Who remembers those entertaining Christmas morning concerts and going to watch a “show”? Interestingly, many individuals who attended these movies seemed to believe the films were taking place in real time, so much so that some patrons would hurl objects at actors, especially the villains, and warn the star to watch out. Needless to say, “the star cyan dead”.

Anyway, so much for my reminiscing! Back to reality and back to modern-day Jamaica where so many of us live in fear. The brutal murder of veteran ace reporter Barbara Gayle has reminded us that none of us is safe, not even in this Yuletide season. And yes, we have to sleep with our doors and windows locked tight, even if you live in a gated community.

In recent weeks I have had the horrendous experience of having to deal with several punctured tyres as a result of my vehicle dropping into potholes that were cross, angry, and miserable. My front tyres in particular usually bare the full brunt of such encounters, leaving me in distress.

I see frantic efforts are being made to fix some of these potholes for the festive season. Let me hope there will be fewer and fewer potholes as we approach Christmas Day because, in the final analysis, all I want for Christmas is my two front tyres so I can enjoy my holiday rides.

Merry Christmas, my readers. Have a safe and blessed one!

Lloyd B Smith has been involved full-time in Jamaican media for the past 49 years. He has also served as a Member of Parliament and Deputy Speaker of the House of Representatives. He hails from western Jamaica where he is popularly known as the Governor. Send comments to the Jamaica Observer or lbsmith4@gmail.com.