Bob Marley (1945 – 1981) was a Jamaican singer, guitarist, songwriter, Rastafari and activist who is the most widely known writer and performer of Reggae music, and is famous for popularizing the genre outside of Jamaica.
Source: Wikipedia
Double-click on any word and see its definition from Cambridge Dictionaries Online.
Read the story and do a language activity. Then do some writing yourself and see texts written by other readers.
You can also listen to this story:
Download mp3 file or listen on your PC
To download, right-click on the link above, choose 'Save target as', and select where you want to save the file. If you're a using a Mac, simply double-click on the link and use the on-screen window to select the file's destination.
If you want to listen on your PC, just left click and the file will play in your default player. For Mac users, click the link.
(Print story and do activities on paper (pdf file - 73k).
I stretched out on my narrow bed in the caravan and felt my tired body begin to relax. I reached over and turned on the tape recorder. The pounding beat of Trenchtown Rock poured out of the tinny speakers …
"One good thing about music, when it hits you feel no pain"
I closed my eyes and reflected on the events of yet another ordinary day. The van had screeched to a halt outside the gate of the caravan park just as dawn was breaking. In the back there were thirteen of us, sitting shoulder to shoulder along the benches on each side. Two of the lads bore the scars of the fight they had had outside the pub the night before - a black eye and a broken tooth respectively. They were the best of friends now though.
Jock at the wheel negotiated the one lane road along the shore of the loch at breakneck speed, confident that no other vehicle would be coming in the opposite direction at that hour. A vehicle, no, but he did swerve to hit a lamb standing bleating in the middle of the road. He stopped and we all piled out. This had happened before and they chucked it into the back of the van, where it lay crumpled and bloody at our feet. We would eat well when one of the lads' mums had prepared it.
The helicopter was waiting in the usual place, and one after another we loaded our bundles of pine saplings and climbed aboard, to be ferried up the mountainside to that day's planting patch.
"Trench town rock, you reap what you sow"
It was freezing as usual when I got dropped off, and I set about my work energetically to fight against the cold. I quickly got into my rhythm - spade into the turf, push it deep with one foot, open a gash, pluck a sapling out of the bag on your back and place it in the gash, remove the spade, stamp it down, three strides on, repeat …We were paid by the tree, and a thousand a day gave a good wage at the end of the week.
"Trench town rock, you reap what you sow"
I was lucky that day. Not an hour into the morning I was striding forward when my foot disappeared into a hidden burn, or stream. Although invisible until stumbled upon, there was in fact a large cavity beneath the peat, large enough to dispose of some three hundred saplings! Forcing the trees down into the hole, and then carefully covering up the evidence with squares of turf cut from a conveniently remote location, meant I saved myself hours of toil. It was a common enough occurrence, and the whole gang was in on it.
"Trench town rock, don't turn your back"
Perhaps it was my elation at this normal, but lucky turn of events that made me lower my guard. At any rate, soon afterwards, the mountain silence was shattered by the shrieks of the rest of the gang - "Beastie!" - as they pounced on me from the slopes above, hurling me to the ground and attacking with fists and boots. I had learnt what was expected - enough resistance to show you had pluck, but not so much as to make the beating continue for too long. It was all part of the ritual, and one or other of the gang was "beastied" every day. Jock would appear suddenly with whoever else he had rounded up so far and say "Right! Time for a beastie! It's Angus' turn today". Off you'd go, up and down the mountainside, collecting all of the gang except for that day's victim. Then you'd all sneak up on the unwitting lad and pounce. The victim would normally hear you coming before the actual attack, and at least be able to tense himself in readiness for the blows - for flight was not an option, it meant cowardice
"Trench town rock, never let the children cry"
On average, you'd only get beastied about once a fortnight, unless, that is, you were Johnny. Johnny was English and so he got beastied every day. The funny thing was that he always seemed to be caught by surprise, even though he must have known that at any moment the fists and boots would come raining down. He always got it longer and harder than anyone else, too. It hurt, a beastie, believe me, but Johnny's beasties must have hurt twice as much, because the blows were twice as hard and they went on twice as long. But Johnny never cried - his blue eyes looked out of his pale face with hatred - but he never cried.
"Trench town rock, big fish or sprat"
When we eventually got back to the van after the long walk down the mountain - the helicopter took us up, but not down - we went to check the net that was strung across the loch. Despite the sign warning that it was a criminal offence to touch it, the lads checked it every day. It was placed there to catch the giant pike that preyed upon the treasures of the loch - the salmon. The mesh was small enough to catch the pike when they grew so big that they could hunt the salmon, but large enough to allow the salmon to swim through. Unless, of course, the salmon grew as big as the pike. This had happened a couple of times, and it happened that day - a monster salmon had been snared. The lads hauled it in and it lay, still flapping faintly beside the body of the lamb in the back of the van as we made our way back to the village, at the end of another normal day.
"I say one good thing, one good thing
When it hits you feel no pain
One good thing about music
When it hits you feel no pain"
The music stopped suddenly, halfway through the song. I pressed the stop button, thinking that the damn machine had gobbled the tape again. I ejected it. There was nothing wrong with the tape. I put it back into the machine and pressed play. But it wouldn't play, it just wouldn't play. I flicked the switch from tape to radio. The news was on. They announced that Bob Marley was dead.
THE END
All quotes from Trenchtown Rock, copyright © 1999. Bob Marley Music
top
Write a story or a poem about a strange event that happened to you. Send it to us.
Eric Ramirez Rodriguez writes “I do not remember living a strange event in my life, but maybe it could be when I suffered a mental disorder called a panic attack. When you suffer a panic attack you feel a lot of fear but there is not a reason or event to make you feel that. I felt terrible symptoms and many times I was in the emergency room of hospitals. I had lots of meetings with different kinds of doctors and they thought I had a problem with my throat, heart or lungs, but nothing, not one of them was able to find the cure. That was a very dispiriting situation.”
top
| 
