Vol 1 - The Trinidad and Tobago Field Naturalists' Club

Page 24 THE FIELD NATURALIST Issue No. 1/2013We Go To Grenada 1975Feature Serial by Hans Boos(Part 3b)Terry sat there, naked except for his jockeyshorts,attempting to pull on his shoes. Thedetails of how or why he got there we neverwith certainty were able to find out, and I amnot sure even he really knew. It involved anotherdarkened room in another housedown the hill and across the road from "TheHiltons", a naked reluctant girl, and a oneleggedboy-friend who had come looking forher. It went on and on, each fantastic detailof his story more ridiculous and hilariousthan the last.We helped him into his clothes, which lay ina crumpled bundle beside him in the middleof the road, and he said he was going to jointhe crowd from the house, which, due to theoverall black-out, had migrated down to thejunction rum-shop. Though we tried to dissuadehim, he told us there was nobody leftup at "The Hiltons", and he felt he would bebetter off in the darkness, in a strange country,with his new drinking buddies or "mates"as he now referred to them. He would getback to "The Hiltons," and whatever bed hecould find. We arrived at the bar, which waswithin easy walking distance from the"Hiltons," and we went inside with Terry.We declined to have anything to drink, that isJulius and I, but Terry somewhat sobered upby whatever his experience in the pitch blackhouse with the equally amorphous girl hadbeen, accepted a glass of the deadly whiterum, and when the assembled mass ofGrenadians raised their glasses and shoutedin unison the name of a well-known Australiancricketer, "Colin Cowdry," Terry toolifted his glass and they all tossed the rumdown their collective throats. Glasses wererefilled and Terry offered his toast, this timeto a West Indian cricketer, "Gary Sobers" —and more glasses were emptied. We snuckout of the lantern-lit bar to the sounds offamous cricketer names, alternately Australianand West Indian, the only language currencythat either side could accept and/orunderstand, names that were bowled or batted,back and forth by Grenadian crowd andAussie hero, still standing, a white pebble ona black volcanic sand beach. How long hewould survive, his single memory for namesagainst the collective consciousness for asport they all lived and breathed we neverfound out, for we left him there, the namesechoing back and forth, punctuated by loudcheers as each name was commemoratedwith another drink. "Khanhai!" "Raaaay!""Locke!" "Raaay!" "Ramadin!" "Ay-yai-yai,raaay!"We drove down the road away from the bar.It was two in the morning, we had caught nomore snakes. We had to get some sleep ourselves,somewhere. Down the western coastroad, back towards St Georges for a fewmiles until, in a lay-by overlooking the sea,and where the sea-breezes blew throughopen windows of the parked car, we unrolledour pallets of foam rubber over the frontand back seats, and fell asleep to the crashing