Diana McCaulay

Imagine a river, its source in a place where forests are still abundant. Down it comes, shaded by the forest canopy, twirling around tree trunks and big rocks, forming deep pools and chattering rapids. The land is steep, the vegetation is relentless, verdant. The sounds are of falling water, the chirps of birds and the scratchy sounds of insects. Even in heavy rain, when the river swells and fills the narrow valley, the water is clear.

Near the coast, the river enters a narrow ravine, some artifact of geology, and so there are waterfalls and even deeper pools and caves. The path up the side of the river is muddy and yes, there are mosquitoes, and it’s hard to talk over the rush of the water. The shade is dense and there are few flowering plants. As the river reaches flat land, it spreads out into a wide, shallow pool, and water lilies colonize one corner. It must once have meandered to the sea, perhaps there was some kind of fording, but after the coast road was built, the river disappeared under the road and then completed the short straight final stretch to the sea.

Despite the closeness of the waterfalls to the road, imagine that few people climbed the muddy path to the highest waterfall – oh some local people knew of it, of course, and caught janga under the big rocks, and sometimes guided visitors to the top. The athletic plunged from the top of the highest waterfall into the largest pool, more than 30 feet deep, the sedentary sat in the shallows. Eventually, the waterfall was named and a rickety sign was erected and a few more people visited.

At some point the land was sold, and they buyer had a bank loan, and then the waterfall became a commodity, and had to earn its keep. And that meant crowds were needed, people who were prepared to pay an entrance fee. But no one wanted to pay an entrance fee to walk up the muddy trail, to marvel at the simple beauty of a waterfall. No, if crowds were needed, the waterfall had to become an attraction, and that meant a car park with an attendant, and an entrance kiosk with a cashier, and a concrete pathway with railings (so no one would slip and file a lawsuit), and buildings for people to shelter in the frequent rain that nourished the river and the waterfalls, and the owner had the idea that there should be flowers, so the original vegetation was cleared and flowers planted, but the flowers failed to thrive and the formerly thick bush had bare patches, and the river became more muddy, and the people who had booked to have their weddings there objected to the look of the water in their photographs, and the offices who took their staff members there for a day out objected if the water was muddy, and demanded a proper swimming pool, with mosaic tiles and a painted bottom and chlorinated water, maybe even a swim up bar, and music of course, and there had to be food for the crowds to eat, so there were jerk chicken stations, and naturally there had to be bathrooms and changing rooms, although it was never very clear where the effluent from the bathrooms went. And everyone supported these changes, because now the waterfall was bringing jobs to local people, who before had complained that nuttn naa gwaan, and the people who visited were happy to paddle in the chlorinated pool, and you could still climb to the top where the highest fall was, and you could still see what had been there, if you stared only straight ahead.

And it seems to me that this is the story of how every remaining natural feature of the world will become a venue, an attraction, because they cannot simply be, they must pay their way,  and most people don’t want the nature that scratches and bites and turns to mud in the rain, most people want an idea of nature that is built around the preferences of people for seats and railings and comfort and the certainty of a pool that will never turn muddy, ever.

Is there another way, I ask myself, as I imagine the lines of people waiting to get in to the new waterfall attraction, the bank loan being paid off, the families supported by the new jobs? Could we convince people to risk an uncomfortable climb to witness a spectacular place, to simply admire and be soothed, to pay for that privilege, and then to go somewhere else for the music and the food and the pool? And who should pay, should it be anyone who wants to enjoy a waterfall, whether or not they can afford it, so that no poor people can go there, or should it be a government, who collects taxes from those who will pay them, from all kinds of economic activities, and uses the revenue to protect a simple treasure, whether or not the taxed and the visitors agree that this is desirable?

Perhaps the only answer is to build the kind of places people want to visit, a much sanitized version of nature, to keep people away from the real places, to leave the real places alone. But still, I know that land does not remain unsavaged by human beings, soon the trees will start to be cut, and animals will be brought to graze near the river, and the water quality will deteriorate, and perhaps near the coast a source of river sand or stones will be needed for construction, and one way or another, the river will become something else.

Just recently, I heard boulders were being mined in the Hope River for the Palisadoes Roadworks. So the attorney at the Jamaica Environment Trust visited the site and there indeed was the work – the National Works Agency calls it desilting, and the sale of the boulders is therefore only a by-product, and de-silting does not need an environmental permit – and our attorney met the contractor. This is what he said – Hope River? This is not a river. This is a gully.

And it is true, the Hope River is no longer a river, it is a man made watercourse, and people have even built their houses where the river used to flow, and of course this is dangerous in the hurricane season, but the people have no choice, at least some of them have no choice, nowhere else to go, and the others have memories that are so very short. I think about a world without rivers, a world without waterfalls, I think about the world as venue, a world eaten – yes, that’s the only word I can come up with – a world devoured by human beings. And I’m glad I’m not 20, and I’m glad I was one who saw the waterfall with the muddy path, before its venue-ization. I suppose you do not miss what you do not know, and I cannot find an economic argument for the waterfall, I can only find the conviction of my heart, that we will be sorry, we will bitterly regret it, when all rivers are gullies, and waterfalls are domesticated and all of them, every one of them, has a gate with a cashier at the entrance.