ST. LUCIA

A car was an essential requirement. There were buses but like many such places there were pickup trucks with a canopy to provide shade, they ran intermittently and one was expected to share this very confined space with your fellow passengers (no problem) but also with whatever item of livestock they decided to either bring to market or take home.

Finding a car that we only needed for a year at a sensible price was not easy, but eventually, we found one that would serve the purpose. Her age was unknown, her make, and model was a mystery, she was a very dull shade of yellow, noisy, her tyres were decidedly smooth, and a hole in the floor in front of the gear stick made driving in the rain an extremely interesting experience. If the puddle was deep, a fountain of water shot up through the floor and hit the ceiling. The result was that we got dripped on for the rest of the journey. A British examiner for the government’s yearly test for roadworthiness would have not only have failed this car but would have incurred a writer’s cramp by the time he had written down the reasons for failure. She rapidly earned the name of The Yellow Peril. Shortly after acquiring Yellow Peril, her brakes failed. As I was far from home with no garage in the vicinity a tow was needed. Enter Clinton!! Standing by the side of the road, I tried to thumb a life, and the first car that came along was driven by Clinton. His car was even in a more disgusting state than mine. To call his car a death trap would have been a kind assessment. Being towed on St Lucia’s roads was in itself a hair-raising experience, but halfway home we hit a major problem. In front of us, there was a very steep hill.  My newfound friend Clinton had all the answers. Well, he thought so. Personally, I was terrified.

“Just freewheel down..”

“No probs, man just freewheel down, d’ere is a field at the bottom, and we hook up again down d’ere.”

“Clinton there is a sharp left-hand turn at the bottom. I can see it!“

“Yea, da road goes left, you goes straight.” Look man if you’s don’t t’ink you can do it. You drive mine and I take yours.”

I surveyed his vehicle. Apart from the obvious problem that the windscreen was almost opaque,  only rust appeared to hold the vehicle together. The window was open and there was a powerful nauseating smell emanating from the inside plus of course pride reared its ugly head.

“Clinton, I’ll do it, but I am sure there is a gate.”

“No probs I’s gonna go first and open da gate.”

Well, I did it, I hurtled down that hill faster than the Olympic bobsleigh team, and sure enough, Clinton was there. I passed him leaning against the gate smoking an evil-smelling cigarette, and he gave me a beaming smile. I now knew the source of the rather unpleasant aroma that drifted from Clinton’s car. The less said, the better!!

The tow rope was re-attached, and we were on our way.

Araldite

We arrived at a garage, and after a cursory examination, the very cheerful mechanic informed me that the brake to one side front of the car was unrepairable. The car was so old there were no spares available unless I was prepared to wait several weeks for the parts to arrive. He did, however, have a solution. He would remove all the working parts and fill the brake fluid hose with Araldite. I stared in disbelief, and using an expression associated with a famous tennis player, I uttered the immortal words.

“You cannot be serious.”

The mechanic looked quite upset, shook his head and promptly lit a cigarette of the same vintage as the ones used by Clinton. Being in close proximity to the pair of them, I started to feel quite light-headed. A glance around the garage showed that there was a plentiful supply of Araldite so it was obviously a well-used product. In fact, there was more Araldite than spanners!!

There is a well-recited line that says, “When in Greece do as the Greeks do.” So why not in the Caribbean?

“Okay,” I said, “Do it.”

I left Yellow Peril there, Clinton drove me home and I returned the following day and collected my car.

Now I must confess I was a little concerned as to how she would handle, however, the only noticeable change was that Yellow Peril had a tendency to lurch to the left every time I touched the brake pedal but I quickly got used to it by making a slight adjustment to the steering. I braked, Yellow Peril lurched to the left and it became automatic for me to slightly steer to the right. Fortunately, St Lucian roads were not built for speeding so I was rarely in any danger!!

Whilst my time was taken up with car repairs Joy was learning new skills, like drinking coconut milk directly from the coconut. Reno the gardener would effortlessly shin up a tree, knock one down, slice off the top with his cutlass and offer it to Joy. Unfortunately Joy never really mastered the art as much of the milk dribbled down her chin much to the amusement of the lads. Eventually, Maria called time, and berated Reno for not cutting the top off properly. From then on the coconut milk was poured into a glass. In fairness to Reno, I saw him drink milk from a coconut using the same technique so I’m not sure he had done anything wrong, but then who was going to argue with the formidable Maria?

There was no getting away from veterinary medicine and I was eventually introduced to Desmond. He was a very cheerful, big, St Lucian who had trained as a veterinary surgeon in the USA. His English was immaculate with a slight American accent and despite his youth and inexperience, he was methodical and very enthusiastic. In the time that I assisted him, there was nothing particularly noteworthy other than the usual neuterings and stitching up of injuries. Due to the extreme temperatures, Desmond preferred to perform surgical procedures in the evening which brought its own difficulties. As in any hot climate midges, gnats and mosquitoes were a constant problem so whilst I assisted during surgical procedures Joy found herself on he hands and knees under the operating table spraying insect repellent on mine and Desmond’s ankles.

The Master’s dog

Jo, my ex-boss had decided to have a few days away so I received telephone calls and relayed these to Desmond. However, one call from a Mrs Masters asked if someone would come and examine her dog which was behaving strangely. After consulting Desmond I attended. The information supplied was that the dog was staggering about and unable to walk properly. The dog was the Master’s guard dog and was kept in a pen during the day and released into the grounds at night. The pen would be unlocked so I could enter anytime I chose to visit and it would be no problem if the owners were not there. The pen was clearly visible. Inside an enclosure that measured approximately 10 yards by 10 yards, there was an oil tank that could be accessed from the outside for the purpose of filling. It was sited on a raised platform that conveniently provided shade for the dog who also made a wooden kennel for sleeping. In the absence of the owner, I entered the enclosure. This may seem a rather dangerous approach as the dog was a guard dog but years of experience gives one an insight into potential risk. As an experienced dog handler I saw nothing that gave me cause for concern and in particular, the dog’s eyes were benign. A great deal can be learned from the eyes when dealing with a strange dog. I approached the German Shepherd whose name I had been told was Rastas. Not politically correct but I was not there to provide lessons in political correctness.

A quick examination showed that there was a tiny leak in the oil tank, Rastas had lain under the platform, gone to sleep and some oil had dropped onto him he had licked the polluted area in his coat and was now suffering from ingesting a very toxic substance.

The arrival of Beverly Masters gave me access to a telephone (no mobile phones in those days). A call to Desmond was required for the correct treatment, and this was done, Rastas was bathed and the medication was given. And that was the end of the story, at least, that was what I thought. About a week later I was enjoying a quiet beer in a beachside bar when I was approached by a stranger. The man was a British expatriate who lived on the island. He introduced himself and the conversation went like this.

“Are you the guy….?”

“Are you the guy who went to look at the Master’s dog?”

*Why are you asking?”

“The word is that you actually went into its pen.”

“My friend I have no interest in local gossip and what I do has nothing to do with anybody else other than the owner of the dog.”

By now I had finished my beer, had no interest in prolonging the conversation and prepared to leave.

“You do know it’s a killer?”

Now that did get my attention.

“Killer, who did he kill?”

“A couple of years back he attacked their gardener, they didn’t secure the bolt on the pen door properly and he got out, would have savaged the lad to death if John Masters hadn’t heard his screams.

“The boy was in hospital for God knows how long and you actually went and handled that thing?” Everybody knows it’s mad, it’s bitten countless times.  I tell you what pal your fame is spreading, nobody can believe that you actually went in and got out in one piece.”

By now I just wanted to depart, accepted the man’s approbation, paid for my drink and left. I didn’t dwell on the event and it was quickly forgotten

It was several weeks later that we were invited to lunch at the Master’s residence. When we arrived I suggested to John Masters that I look in on Rastas.

“Please do,” he replied.

I approached as normal and as I went to unlock the gate Rastas rose to his feet, lifted his lip to expose a perfect set of teeth and a hard look came into his eye. A decision had to be made. Do I enter, after all, there was no problem last time. The look, however, said it all.

“Last time I was poorly, this time I am feeling my normal self.”

This time I decided that “discretion was the better part of valour.” This was not an animal in distress, there was no need to risk personal injury. I was not working, had no protective clothing and I was dressed for dinner!!

In January: We climb the Piton, Joy has to nurse an injured dog, I meet Rastus again-up close, a dog needs rescuing from the sea and we say goodbye.