Golf of Chaguaramas January 4
“Zandolie fin’ yuh hole,“ I recall Deon once said.
Two Zandolie (lizard genus Ameiva), a male and a female, wrestle over something one of them pried out of a dirt hole. Whatever it was is now torn apart, almost beyond recognition except for pieces of rusty shell, maybe a land snail or a crab, or an enormous cockroach, or the tiniest navy mine—but it is deemed worth fighting for, so the animals make their case. The dull male is bigger, and it delivers muscular blows with its closed snout. But the speckled green-back female has what she wants and curls around the morsel like a good book. She will not let go, he will not give in.
The jungle is dark with overcast skies—dense bamboo groves crash and splinter in the gusty breeze. The trail is dwindling but decidedly straight, as if the maker knew exactly where he was going, or maybe it marks some old pipeline. If so, the maintenance workers fled long ago. The brown forest floor crackles under the feet of lizards and insects, but they go silent when the roaring echoes start.
Red Howlers, so far heard but not seen, are close. Some of them drone like monks on radon, but others sound aggressive, like King Kong, and I half-expect an attack from above. Out on the Chaguaramas public fairway, only fifty years away, a solitary golfer is not even slightly affected by the eruptions here beneath the thick canopy. He swings his club like an old pro. Raging beasts are merely part of the designated hazard, like the overgrown sand traps and mosquito swamp.
“Monkey Doh Play Ball,“ is what I want the nonchalant duffer to tell me, but he plays on, without a word. He cannot see me in this camouflage. If I were to become involved with a pair of angry Zandolie, it would go unnoticed. This may be what the Howlers are trying to say, but they cannot quite form Deon’s words. Frustrated, some of them yell and scream at their callous god, while others remain calm, reciting the old mantras of the wise ones. Or, maybe the Howlers are only thinking about sex, like Freud insisted. Just then, the two Zandolie disappear together down a hole, and I spy a bit of shell left behind. They off to wine. I’m famished. Now is my chance!
Back at the clubhouse, a large bungalow porch offers shelter against the coming rain, but I appear to be the only customer. The table cloths and flower vases provide a classy touch, but you still must purchase your cold drinks through iron bars. Inside the security perimeter, three kids are doing math homework, while mom keeps tabs at the register. A kitchen behind them is busy preparing savory East Indian dishes, but there is no menu today, only drinks for sale. The kitchen belongs to this family. They apparently reside here on the golf course, which might be considered dream-living to many Americans. Here the concept is as foreign as an Indian restaurant in the Caribbean outback.
“Six dollars,“ she announces, passing me a glass bottle of tonic water from another era, back when this old plantation property was converted into a getaway for US Navy officers missing home. The old wooden clubhouse is freshly painted white, and the putting green is ship-shape, but the caddy quarters have fallen into disrepair. Not many Trini’s are interested in the sport of golf, and even fewer are interested in hiring a black man to carry a bag of clubs across a cut lawn.
I pay the lady and step away from her place of residence, if only to escape the cheesy Christmas Soca, which just will not stop. (I have put up with this seasonal blather for months!) Here comes the rain. I put on my jacket and head back into the bush with my bottle of quinine soda. I need to learn how to howl.