Among the popular trucks that traversed country roads in my early days were the Leyland, the Bedford, the Fargo, and the Thames.

They were the popular mode of transportation for groups going anywhere — district picnics, airport, cricket matches, funerals, weddings, and seaside. The truck backs were more times overcrowded as even paid trips carried hangers-ons and crashers.

The annual Sunday School picnic from my village, for example, seemed to carry the entire district, church attendees or no, with the uninvited usually the most vociferous and enthusiastic. It was they who would urge the driver to ‘bun de oil’ for speed and overtake, and it was they who dictated the unorthodox bathroom stops in the bush or food stops en route.

In my district we had a choice of three trucks owned by a generous businessman who was also the cricket captain and the church organist. The truck of choice was his ‘Clarendon Special’, which had a canvas roof and, wonder of wonders, an electric light in the back.

As children we would hope for a seat on the ‘Special’ as it sheltered from sun and rain, and more importantly, provided cover for any tricks or mischief that could be concealed from prying adult eyes.

Sunday School outings took us all over the island, and never mind the jeers of ‘hog and goat’ as we passed through townships, we had enough ammunition from the hangers-on at the back for suitable and undignified response.

Travelling on the south coast route between Four Paths and Kingston, or to Jackson Bay, or St Thomas, or to Dunn’s River and even Portland as the spirit led us, there were some institutional hazards which faced us truck riders.

For example, the gateman (or was it a woman) at the railroad intersection at Jacob’s Hut who was nicknamed ‘Old Fowl’. Now, ‘Old Fowl’ kept a pile of stones nearby for those truckers, particularly the Clarendon Special ones, who as a matter of course would shout “Old Fowl” as we passed over the crossing.

But Old Fowl held the key card. He would sometimes delay the opening of the gate, or simply wait until the truck slowed to ride the cross rails, before he rained down his stones on the truck side with unerring accuracy.

We learnt then that timing was of the essence, so as we approached the rise, the gang leaders would caution silence and the children were urged to duck. Then, as we crossed over and changed gears for a speedy departure, the cheerleader would bawl out, “Oonuu stop call de man Old Fowl”! And, of course, down came the stones.

The backlash to this one was that sometimes Old Fowl would mark the truck licence and if a peace break wasn’t called he would be waiting for us on our return, and woe betide.

In those days you could tell the make of the truck or the bus by the sound of the engine. As the vehicle rounded a corner, even the children could nod heads wisely and say confidently “Yes, that’s Skipper’s Bedford”, or “Mass John’s Leyland”, all from the sweet sound of the trademark humming of the engine.

I stayed with the truck back crowd up to and during a part of my school days as we travelled to boarding school in St Elizabeth, or to football matches, negotiating the infamous ‘Man Bump’ on Spur Tree Hill, where on occasion passengers had to alight and help to push the vehicle over that steepest of inclines.

Around that time we were also using famous country buses provided by the Robertsons of Black River, the Treasure Girl by the Jameses out of Treasure Beach, and the Bugle Boy, Pioneer, Enterprise and Confidence buses that plied the route into Kingston from Mandeville.

As the years advanced we enjoyed a more peaceful ride, made possible from the retirement or demise of ‘Old Fowl’ and his likes, but the regular bus stops along the way had their traditions which have added colour and character to my recollections of those times.

A must-stop for scheduled passenger buses and trucks or holiday pleasure-seekers was Old Harbour for fried fish and bammy. The fish vendor ladies were many and lined whole sections of the Old Harbour main road with their showcases stacked with escoveitched fish and crisp, fried, golden bammy which, in my limited Observer foodie ratings, always outshone the St Elizabeth-style steamed bammies.

You didn’t have to be hungry travelling on my Kingston to Westmoreland south coast road. Consider you had breakfast, lunch and dinner offered through the bus window at the various stops, from the biscuits and soft drinks at Spanish Town, the fish at Old Harbour, the famous pineapple juice at Sunrise Inn, Christie’s bakery in Four Paths immortalised for its hot, fresh animal-shaped breads, and then roast corn and roast yam on Melrose Hill.

Follow this with oranges at Porus, and then outside of Mandeville on Spur Tree Hill there was the curry sub-division where Alex, Brown Man and Neville reigned supreme with what must still be the best and most succulent curry goat (read Observer foodie style again) in Jamaica.

At Gutters you paused for mangoes and apples (most likely raided from the Alpart orchard farms), and carried on to Middle Quarters for the legendary pepper shrimps seasoned and sold by an army of veteran Jamaican women who placed themselves strategically on the bend where the road calls for a slowdown.

My good friend Owen, bearing a typical South St Elizabeth-type complexion, jokes that the vendors are impertinent, as every time he drives by they shout “crayfish” at him, which reminds me of the stand-offs between ‘Old Fowl’ and the Clarendon Special in bygone days.

On the Brompton/Font Hill stretch you can be saturated with plums of all sizes and colours, leaving little space for the attractive plateful of fried fish always ready and tempting at Border between St Elizabeth and Westmoreland. Then when you got to Savanna-la-Mar it would have to be time to cool down with a Red Stripe at the Fort Club at the end of Great George Street.

Who says Jamaica, from its horse and buggy days to our present overcrowded transportation system, doesn’t have places of interest and scenic attractions waiting around every corner?

Commuters who used the great old railway would also have a lifetime of memories and stories.

As a boy growing up almost on the trainline, I recall our curiosity and amazement as we peeked through the office window to watch the station master tapping out his secret telegraph code.

Glimpses of prisoners in the prison coach being transported to Kingston still haunt me (we would duck from the staring eyes), but there was great excitement as we watched the approaching engine with its billowing steam as it crawled to a precise stop by the waiting platform.

The uniformed conductors, waving lanterns and signalling to each other as the line of coaches prepared for departure is an indelible part of the nostalgia, as much as was the order to “Take your seats, please.”

There is the inevitable humorous side to all this memory, as the passengers on truck, bus or train, drawn together by mutual treaty, if only for an hour or two, swap jokes and conversations about the latest scandals, who tell off the conductor, cost of living, and the cost of travelling.

Today’s drivers, faced with stiff competition, must operate at great risk as we encounter the perils of speed, boorishness, and hideous noises from the trucks that have illegally removed their mufflers.

It’s destiny. The impetuous and ill-mannered drivers will always be with us. Those countless drays and mules that used to ply Spanish Town Road would leave long strips of evidence of their passage in the middle of the road. And I learnt long ago that the definition of a split second is the time which it takes for the light to change from red to green and the man behind you to blow his horn.

But in the midst of all this there are still signs of courtesy on the road. For instance, short skirts of today tend to make our men polite. Have you ever seen a man get on the bus ahead of one?

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