#secretriver

In Windsor Heights, St. Ann, there’s a river that doesn’t appear on tourist maps. No signposts. No Google pin. Only whispered directions passed down from neighbour to neighbour.

You slip through backyards, past zinc fences and mango trees, along a path shaped more by memory than by design until you find it. And when you do, it’s like discovering a secret the land’s been hiding just for you. Overhanging branches sway above the clean, icy water. Some parts are shallow enough to wade through, others deep enough for diving if you know where.

This river is everything to the community. A place to wash. To cool off. To disappear for a while.

“There’s healing in that water,” Miss Meldas always says—she’s lived here long before I was born. “When mi foot swell, mi just go soak it there... by morning, it gone down.”

Kids treat it like their private backyard pool, cannonballing off boulders, screaming with laughter, racing twigs downstream. Adults? They remember quiet kisses, whispered prayers, and that cool river comfort after a long day of farming or heartache.

No admission fee. No rules. Just community.

It feels sacred, maybe because it’s untouched. No concrete. No lifeguard chairs. No curated Instagram filters.

Just the hum of cicadas. The scent of wet leaves. And water that clings to your ankles like it knows you.

Spots like this are rare now. Undeveloped. Unclaimed. Uncommodified.

Places where your uncle showed you the shortcut. Where your cousin held your hand on slippery moss. Where stories echo louder than selfies.

Standing knee-deep in that water, I realized: This river doesn’t just carry rain. It carries joy, history, and healing, and there is no need to perform for it.

So, no, don’t look for it on Google Maps. You can’t rent it or book it for a shoot. But if you’re lucky enough to earn someone’s trust in Windsor Heights, maybe just maybe they’ll show you the way.