In my last The Agenda column, which was dedicated to former Prime Minister Sir Donald Sangster, I bemoaned that, although he served Jamaica for so long and so well, we have failed to honour him in his entirety, to the extent that the present generation would be hard put to remember his outstanding contribution to national development and the pivotal role he played in steering Jamaica through colonial status to Independence.

Readers have pointed out that Sangster’s name is remembered, first of all, in the Sangster International Airport, and with his portrait printed on the $100 note which still remains in popular circulation.

The question would still be asked, however, if the note we call “Sangster” represents who he really was to young people today.

Immediately after his death on April 11, 1968, his successor as prime minister, Hugh Shearer, announced five memorials, including the renaming of the airport, the mausoleum built over his burial site at National Heroes’ Park, two special postage stamps, and the construction of a public library in the heart of his Clarendon North Eastern constituency, at Chapelton. There was also the new Income Tax Department building on East Street which was named the Donald Sangster Building. But this was done shortly after his death without any public ceremony. Now, I ask you, when you drive past that building, do you know the name?

Another case in point, as his biography points out, is that the renaming of an airport involved informing airport authorities, airlines and other organisations in the aviation industry worldwide. The process was not finalised until 1972. And, although a sign was mounted indicating the new name, it was almost 20 years later that a plaque was displayed there to identify exactly who was this man, Donald Sangster.

Usually, in the euphoria that follows the passing of a loved one, the affected generation gets all excited about commemorating his or her memory with all kinds of memorials and ideas and scholarships and buildings, and even highways. I quite recently referred someone to the Marcus Garvey Highway for directions into Kingston and all I got was a blank stare.

We remember the Mandela Highway very well, to our credit, but did you remember that there is a prominent highway named after Usain Bolt? I won’t tell you where it is, you go and find out. And who remembers where and why the Ken Jones Highway, the Bustamante Highway, the AGR Byfield Highway, and the Florizel Glasspole Highway?

One has to be careful about renaming or even christening places and institutions. Too often the reasons for applying such get lost in obscurity. Our forefathers meant well when they were fitting names and logos to important places. A little research into the names of our towns, districts, roads and rivers can reveal a lot about our history.

Take, for example, the name Cross Roads, which is such a popular appellation, turning up in almost every district and village across Jamaica as a convenient meeting place. The most well known of our ‘cross roads’ spots is, of course, the busy Cross Roads centre in the Corporate Area. We visit, drive by, shop, and live at Cross Roads without giving a thought as to its interesting history. Olive Senior’s

A to Z of Jamaican Heritage tells us that Cross Roads was formerly known as Montgomery Corner, after a Lieutenant Montgomery who was thrown from his horse while near the west gate at Up Park Camp and dragged to this spot, where he died. But long before this unfortunate episode, the location was a busy crossroads and, mark the spot, a place for public hangings.

In those early days of the 19th century there were no buildings, just a wide bushy area, originally known as Bushy Park (another common descriptive name in Jamaica). The first known building was a “Chiney shop” surrounded by bush. And at that time much of the area around was taken up in “pens”, that is to say, town houses for wealthy gentlemen and rural sugar estate owners. The land around the houses was spacious enough for pasturing cows and horses.

Now here come the familiar names taken from the old properties or pens, the street names we know as Eureka, Ripon, Swallowfield, Worthington, Knutsford, and Kensington. So when next you sit in a dentist’s chair on Eureka Road, spare a thought for the many animals that were butchered in those bygone days at that very spot below your chair.

And, speaking of names, in my youth I was never encouraged, in fact strictly forbidden by my parents, to shoot birds. But come bird season, every other boy in my village armed himself with a slingshot sticking out of his back pocket — and, what is more, knew the name of every bird within sight. We would go hunting in the “bird bush”, led by friends such as Kauchi, Little John, Seyton, Dolly, Sheggup, and Ackee, but my job on those hunting trails was to pick up the carcasses and ensure fair distribution. I was considered too clumsy to even pull the slingshot. Those fellows knew the name of every bird, from the ground dove to the long tail, the cling-cling, the petchary, the grass quit, the pea dove, etc. And they knew which ones to eat and which ones to avoid. Better still, they could identify the exact species from the bird call made hundreds of yards away.

I am amused at the interpretations given to the songs of birds by our African forefathers as recounted in a document,

Letters from Jamaica, written by Charles Rampini in 1873. According to Tata (African name for senior citizen), birds in the Jamaican wild had a language of their own and carried on active conversations with each other. The jabbering crow which spoke in harsh, guttural tones was forever hurrying his fellow creatures to work and earn: “Walk fast crab, do backra work, Cutacoo better than wallet.” “Tom Paine, Tom Paine,” whistled the banana bird for some odd reason, while the Savannah Blackbird would whistle, “Going away, going away,” before taking flight. Then here comes the night or mosquito hawk, “Gi me a bit”, while the white-winged dove is constantly moaning that, “Since poor Gilpin dead, cowhead spoil.”

Then you have the ‘boassy’ blue pigeon, proud of her plumage, who proclaims: “Sally coat blue, Sally coat, true blue,” while the male of the species agrees since he knows what’s good for him, “Fi true, fi true, it blue fi true.”

The conversation is not over yet, however, as down on the ground hen turkey is complaining that “we poor black people hab very bad times”, while the male, in a fierce gobble, counsels his wife, “Take heart, take heart.”

The creature talk isn’t confined to birds, as the bull, lowering his head in the pasture, has been heard to complain that, “Man hab beard, goat hab beard, I hab none, what a shame, what a shame, what a shame.”

Save a thought, too, when next you are doing your research on the names of rivers in Jamaica and how they got their names. The majority can be traced back to Spanish names, such as the Rio Bueno in Trelawny, which was named as such by Columbus while looking for a safe port and fresh water. It is said that at first he ventured into what he called Puerto Seco, or Dry Harbour, later to be known as Discovery Bay. But Dry Harbour had no fresh water, no he sailed a few miles further down the coast and anchored at Rio Bueno, or Good River, as he gratefully named the inlet.

Every school-aged child knows — or should know — that the famous Rio Cobre in St Catherine was thus named, not after the cobra snake which coils and turns, but from the name “Copper River” (Rio Cobre). In fact, one of its tributaries is called Rio D’Oro, or River of Gold, although there is no evidence that these minerals were found in the area.

Finally, there is the Rio Minho of my parish, Clarendon, one of the longest rivers in Jamaica. It was originally called Rio de la Mina (River of the Mine) by the Spaniards who found traces of gold in the sands and had a small mine at Longville. Gold was never found in any quantity, but obviously the miners have not given up, and there are still searches being carried on in upper Clarendon near to the riverbed.

For my friends in May Pen who may want to know why the Minho is sometimes called the “Dry River”, it is because after passing through the mountains the water tends to sink in its sandy bed as it flows to the sea, hence its other name.

So there you have it, Roaring River, Dry River, Cross Roads, Me No Sen’ Yu No Come, place names in Jamaica, all with delightful bits of historical facts attached to them, and worth the time to research and be entertained.

Lance Neita is a public and community relations consultant. Send comments to the Observer or lanceneita@hotmail.com.