CAME across a bunch of plantains with each measuring nearly two feet in length the other day on the Junction road while travelling between Castleton and Annotto Bay.

The vendors have a name for that variety — “three-finger Jack”. It’s a variety that we had not seen elsewhere, although I now understand it’s sold in the Constant Spring market and has been spotted as far away as the Brown’s Town market.

But coming closer to home, it could well be that the fruit is named after the legendary 18th century folk hero Jack Mansong, runaway slave, outlaw, bandit, and daring rebel who was born at Scott’s Hall in St Mary. Jack was of the stuff of which heroes are made, and was somewhat in the mode of a Robin Hood.

He was resistant to authority, defended women and children, had great physical strength, was seven feet tall, and a natural leader who was always encouraging his fellow slaves to revolt and to seek their freedom. One of the great stories that did the rounds of the plantations was how on the night before he was to be executed he tore apart the bars of his prison with his bare hands and escaped into the mountains.

Now a wanted man, he was hunted by the British militia, the Maroons, and other slaves who were after the reward of three hundred pounds on his head and the promise of immediate freedom to any slave who captured him. He was a real highwayman who would lie in wait on the road from Kingston to St Thomas near Cave River, Eleven Miles, where he ambushed, robbed and killed soldiers and travellers, although never harming a woman or a child.

Three-Finger Jack was so named because he lost two fingers of one hand in a fight with a Maroon. Perhaps it was that same Maroon, Quashie, who eventually killed him, stuck his head on a pole, and marched with it into Morant Bay, followed by a vast crowd of people singing and beating drums. Shades of things to come. After this story you may have qualms about eating a three-finger Jack plantain, but it is interesting how bits and pieces of our legends have crept into local vernacular.

The infamous criminal Ivanhoe Martin, also known as Rhygin — played by Jimmy Cliff in The Harder They Come — haunted the dreams of young and old in the 1940s as tales of terror surrounding his exploits swept the country. Rhygin only killed two policemen — check the notches on your average murderer’s gun today — but even after his death children would be warned not to go outside at night “sake a Rhygin out dere, somewhere”. And so the phrase “Rhygin was here but him disappear” became a popular idiom appearing in songs and even friendly greetings between friends.

“See yu later, alligator”, “me say so dee”, “a kind a datto” were the rage talk of the 50s, to be replaced each decade that followed with the cool slang of the day which invents a new Jamaican language each time threatening to sidestep the patois and which, I confess, I sometimes have difficulty understanding. “Every hoe have him stick a bush,” is the old Jamaican saying, and every custom, fad or folk name in Jamaica can be traced back to an interesting origin.

The mango, for example, originated in India, but Jamaica has taken and remade it into our own fashion, with local names and culinary creations that are peculiar only to our lifestyle.

So the Bombay, (which was introduced from Bombay, India, in 1869), Aden, and the East Indian are easily traceable, but the Number 11, Julie, Blackie, Stringy, Hog, and Funny mango must have been born in Jamaica, while I shudder to think what the Titi mango is named after. Nor did I know that the star apple is commonly called “cubbitch” because it never drops its fruits, a secret shared with us by Olive Senior in the A-Z of Jamaican Heritage.

Our name also has gone abroad. Take, for example, the popular soap opera Dallas, named after the Texas city but which has a deep Jamaican connection.

Dallas Castle property in St Andrew was named after its original owner Dr Robert Dallas, who begat a son Alexander Dallas, secretary of the US Treasury 1814-1816, followed by a grandson George Miflin Dallas, United States vicepresident 1845-58, who gave his name to the city. Come back to Jamaica and rejoin us on the Junction Road, home of the great plantain.

Escorting this road along its winding path is the Wag Water River, which serves the Hermitage Dam in St Andrew and travels across the breadth of Jamaica to Annotto Bay. Like all rivers in Jamaica, it has an original Taino name, in this case the ‘Guayguata’, understandably corrupted by the English to read its present name. What is amazing about the Wag Water, and observed by my wife, is that at times it appears to be running uphill as we get nearer to Kingston.

Even more amazing are the number and the names of the tributaries that feed into the river, and can be spotted in glimpses and around corners as we tread the beaten path.

Consider you have the Iron River, Plantain River (there goes Three-Finger Jack again), Ginger River, Tom’s River, Roaring River, Bray’s River, Flinty River, and the one with the unlikely name of Ugly River, all joining with the main stream as it flows to the north coast.

Switch across to the Cabaritta River in Westmoreland for another intriguing item of interest which reflects the cultural and biological diversity of Jamaica. In the Cabaritta is found an interesting little fish called the God-ame.

Now, my goodness me, what could have given it that name except some local lore or history that is known only to the former generations who lived on the bank of the river. It is one of the few fishes that can live out of water for several hours if kept in a cool place. Finally, the famous bussu of the Rio Grande Valley, which has made Portland famous for its bussu soup, quite apart from its Boston jerk.

Bussu is a tiny shellfish snail which comes up from the river to rest on stones and was a delicacy loved by the Maroons. If you want to be accepted by the Portlanders, bussu is your password. Jamaicans attach superstition to many of these interesting Jamaican highlights.

Even the very name thunderball, or thunderbolt, describing a small earthenware jar made by the Tainos and occasionally found in open lots or on heritage sites, is handled with caution.

It is said that when a bolt of lightning and accompanying thunder shook the gathering at a recent funeral, the bereaved husband leaned over and whispered to the parson, “She reach a’ready?” The Keeper of the Roles In comments on last week’s article, readers have reminded me of several other custodes well known to me who are among the ranks of the great ones who have served.

Hats off to Manchester’s Gilbert Allen, Clarendon’s Abner Wright and Jimmy DeRoux, and St Elizabeth’s Alfred Farquharson.

Lance Neita is a public relations and communications specialist. Comments to lanceneita@hotmail.com or the Observer