1st Novel work in process - a draft taster

 Title

‘Aloes and 'Coconut Water'

 CHAPTER 1

 There he stood. As I drew nearer to the top, he shouted;

‘Miss you visiting?

         Ah, can tell you is a just come back (JBC)’. He laughs, then; says,

‘Well, you just come back to de right place. Ah, see you like an ant crawling up the hill Never mind you go get used to it.’

         I ignored him and carried on walking. Then I heard in beautiful creole twang;

 ‘Rive Sal ha nice walking places. Dey nice you see! We ha more than rum-shops. We ha scenic views. We ha waterfalls, the welcome stone where the Amerindians first landed on this isle of spice, Sulphur spring, leapers hill; de place where de Caribs jump into de sea because dey rather dies than dyed with Frenchman ink da mek em life slaves. Not forgetting the lakes and beaches. So, you mus walk’.

In between gasping for breath and climbing, he continued,

‘De Land it sings. Sometimes it is the music of steel pan. Sometimes bitter-sweet music just like stormy river-waters surging down to de sea. Sometimes is de bird-song, yellow-chest doves, hummingbirds, blackbirds, ground doves, white egrets. And when night darkens all, it is like a beast’s orchestra. Dat’s when de fireflies, frogs and de crickets sing all night long.’

As I was about to say; dam! Shut-up. He says,

 ‘Ah talking a lot Miss, but ah go ha to talk some more about Rive sal. Dat ok eh miss’?

Then, as if trying to chase the wind, his voice rushed in -

‘There’s de nutmeg and cinnamon and allspice smells that permeate the    

airport 

when you step out de plane. Ah, de nutmeg essence it permeates every crab hole. Ah! Permeates, Ah like dat word, ah learn it from the JCB’s’. Yah it permeates de rivers, de waterfalls, de sea, de hot springs. Dey sing to you know! But dey song sometimes as in de hurricane season. Like a howling-song mixed with rolling thunder and angry waters falling from the sky that cascades down to de sea’

As he came up for air, I attempted feedback but before I could say; he interrupted;

‘But now like so; it’s the in-between season, like-wet but more dry.

 He looked at me as if betrayed by my facial expression; he asked; ‘Miss did you want to say something?

I responded; ‘Well! Never mind. Yours is a colourful story.’         

        ‘OK Miss le me finish’.

He continued; 

‘still ah think you must walk and you go see.

Walk, before sunrise, at the edge of the sunset just before twilight. Like yesterday I read this poem ah tink the poet is not JCB, but overseas, you wanah hear it? Ah, go recite it for you. It is about our twilight: Ok Miss, listen now -

“Twilight

Twilight lingers here not like over there

Where the transition between light and dusk stretches the mile

But here, in this paradise fought, lost, regained exchanged

For remains of a volcanic-rock in blue water isle

Here twilight sings-in bats, crickets, mosquitoes-infest

And fireflies-fest

Like the golden moon speck dancing on the Careenage

Pivoting between yachts, boats, and cruisers of the might

Might it be that the wind that breezes through the stifling heat

Beautifully arching its cool around diversity

In body mass, shapes, features and complexities

Are but restless spirits of wetlands, lagoons and stately flamboyant!

Here twilight comes in twisted tongues, born in day-light rum

It hums past the dense darkness into cinnamon-sunrise

That sparkle in-between dawn’s dewdrops and leaves of green

soon to be crushed in the rush to bank the green that mesmerizes

Still, these cannot out-song the orange bill egrets’ song

As they elegantly stalk the sunlight-sheen

Nor could money-thrust hush bird-songfest or cockerels’ wake-up call

That echoes Rive Sal’s: yard, pitons, cascading waterfalls and forest-green

Twilight here is unlike infinity

Be it, dry season or wet. Be it between moonlight and dark-night

Be it spice-mass or bacchanals - It quickly dissipates -

Beyond passion and beyond reason where Rive Sal lost her virginity”

    Ah, hope you do Miss. Sorry ah, dou mean lose your virginity. Ah, mean to say hope you tak a twilight and a daylight walk around the Rive Sal.’ Ah did not tell you me name, its Boyee. My friends Hat and Big foot go show you wher ah doz be. Bye Miss ah must go now’.

The twist in Boyee’s twang flowed out from his tongue in a way that articulates hope for my tomorrow’s walkabout. I shut the gates and went into my room. Laying in bed the hope in his voice dominated my head.

 ‘That’s it! Tomorrow! Tomorrow I shall. I shall walk,’ I whispered to my half-asleep arse and the lights went out.

 In the morning after, just like Boyee had said in his creole twang, on the night before the reciting of his poem, the cockerel crowed the wake-up call. It threw me out of bed and to the sound of another call,

'Gal wake up le we go to the beach before de sun comes up’.

So before the crowing of another 'cockerel, I was in the car and at the beach. swimming in the most beautiful, sea-green water that I ever did see.

 Swimming in the Atlantic sea on the North of the island induces me into working- up an appetite to eat local breakfast prepared by my ‘host’. So with beach- breakfast at the ready and with more colours, flavours, flair, taste-tempting, my tastebuds, waiting to be eaten; I was enthusiastic. On the lighter side of breakfast were jokes as dry as the dry season; ‘like the one about the snails that were doing a barbeque so they send tortoise for flour, six months later tortoise had not returned. Snails one to another said; what taking tortoise so long? And the voice in the Bush shouted; ‘you fellows are talking, talking how you expect a guy to leave’.

 Those wild tales of yesterdays with the soft rising sun glistening on the sea eclipsed the vision of a walkabout. On the way home from the beach, my driver asked;

‘What has happened to your walk-about?’

 ‘I have shelved it for the minute.’

 ‘Does that mean it’s off’?’

  ‘Oh no, I’ll do the walk-about on the edge of the last beam of sunlight.’

 ‘Eh? He said, teasing my ‘just come back’ accent. With a chuckle of mischief that slips out, I surprisingly interpreted – ah that’s a Creole expression denoting surprise. And I smile. ‘Yes, sir, I will do the walk-about with tour guide ‘Boyee’ liming on the high-see-wall.’

 ‘Then I’ll live you to get on with it.’

He laughs. ‘Ah see it is moonlight season. You know what they say about moonlight.’

 Before I could say eh! He drove off.

 As the car sped away, I tackled the hard on my feet concrete winding stairs that lead to the second floor of the house. There in the lounge, iced- sorrel drink, the island’s favourite ‘natural red - hibiscus look-alike but not taste alike, quenched thirst and cooled heat, then lured me into sleep. Like waking from a dream, I jumped out of sleep to see that it was the edge of the last beam of sunlight, just before the breaking of Twilight; I walked out of the yard onto Rive Sal.