You Don't Own Me(177)

He makes an especially super-strong rum punch and puts it in front of me. ‘On the house,’ he says with a broad grin.

Jaron shrugs.

‘Oh dear, looks like my reputation has preceded me,’ I say, taking a sip. It is delicious, but I remember what I have promised Jaron, and I don’t drink it as fast as I normally would.

We order barbecued chicken and sweetcorn local style. Jaron has chutney and one tiny drop of their scarily hot Scorpion Pepper Sauce, which he cautiously spreads on his chicken. It’s H-O-T-T-T hot stuff. Two drops, I am told, would make the food inedible! Even the label carries a warning to use it with discretion and not recommended for children.

I heap my plate with fried plantain (yummy) and local avocados. Just when I think I am nearly done, Ernie comes out with hot dogs and burgers. We go into the tiny town where Jaron takes me to an old bell tower church. We climb to the top and can see for miles around.

Afterward we go into a little convenience store in the town. It is a rustic, sleepy place where there are no schedules to keep and everything runs on slow time. Jaron buys some pasta for our dinner. We go back to Ernie’s to drink one of his cocktails and watch the fading light dancing over the sea and the sand. Ah, the sand. So soft, so white, so pristine.





Eighteen


That night there is no moon. The islanders call it the dark night. A perfect time to catch land crabs. We go to the other side of the island where there are mangrove trees to hunt for some.

To catch them, Jaron lies on his side on the sand and sticks his whole arm up to his shoulder down into a hole in the ground while I shine the torchlight into the hole. It looks really dodgy to me, putting one’s arm into random holes in the ground, but Jaron tells me that even though the crabs are very skittish and sensitive they are blinded by the glare of the torch. They will stop in their tracks and only move again when the light is no longer on them.

‘What if it’s the home of a snake or something?’ I ask worriedly.

‘Snakes don’t live in crab holes,’ he says totally undeterred by my reasoning.

‘You have done this before, haven’t you?’

‘All the time. There’s an art to it.’

The first hole is empty. He reaches all the way into the other end of the second tunnel we find and comes up with his first catch. I scream. The crab’s body is the size of a fucking softball and its legs are about twelve inches long. And it also has a very large fighting claw. The claw alone is bigger than my hand.

‘Want to try?’ he offers.

‘No fucking way. I need both my hands.’ I shudder at the thought.

He laughs.

‘How many do you plan to catch?’

‘Maybe six.’

‘They are so big. Why do we need so many?’

‘I want to give them to Noel. Gwen makes a mean crab rice.’

‘Right. Will she kill them?’

‘Yup, after she has purged them. She keeps them in a cage and feeds them water and cornmeal until all the poisonous leaves and disgusting things they have eaten have come out of their system and then they are ready for eating.’

I nod and point the flashlight at another hole in the ground.

When we have six in our sack we return to the house.

‘Want to join me in the shower?’ he asks.

‘No.’

‘Sure?’

‘Yeah. I’ll just sit here and wait for you.’ He goes in to wash and I sit watching the movements the crabs make in their sack. They seem pitiful, and doomed, crawling helplessly over each other. In the end I can bear it no longer—I take them to the end of the beach and upend the bag. They crawl out, seemingly dazed for a few seconds, but they recover quickly and crawl off in different directions. I sit on the beach and stare at the waves. It’s very peaceful.

Jaron comes to sit beside me.

‘What happened to my crabs?’

‘I let them loose.’

‘I see.’

‘I guess I am one of those proper hypocrites. Give me an indistinguishable packet of crab flesh in the shape of a dumpling in a Chinese restaurant and I’ll chow it down, but show me a live crab and I become Mother Theresa.’

‘I always secretly fancied Mother Theresa.’

‘Even her tree roots feet?’

‘Maybe not those.’

I smile. There is something tight about his mouth. He doesn’t want us to carry on with the conversation I started. I hate prying. I’ve always minded my own business and never been nosy or even wanted to know what other people were doing. Even while they were telling me their business I was bored and often told them to quit it. And now for the first time in my life I want to know about someone else’s business and he doesn’t want to share it. Serves me right, I suppose.