Pushkar in Barbados
Translated by Muna Gurung
From Chicago

Making Time February 21,2002

Barbados. The defunct alarm leaves me sleeping till 5:15 am. I have to reach CBC Television for the Good Morning Barbados show, which airs at 6:45. It is 7 kilometers away from where my host Arthur lives. I am afraid I might be delayed by some small emergency like losing my way or a flat tire. But I arrive on time. After the show, anchor Batty and I head out for a cup of coffee.

When I reach home, Sidi, my hostess, has prepared lunch for everyone. She claims she feels comfortable having me as a guest because I do not make a fuss about food. I eat whatever is served. She is always smiling. She is beautiful. I like her and her husband. Her daughter, Lactitia, however, does not smile. I think she’s forgotten how to, but she smokes all day long. I do not like smoking.

Knock Knock February 22, 2002
I wake up early to go to the television station again. Viewers who want to help me in my journey have gathered a small amount of money for me. By the time I pick the money up and reach home, it’s nine and Sidi has prepared a meal. An hour later I leave for North Point.

The path is difficult, but I try not to think about it. I move on steadily, eager about my first visit to North Point, also known as Barbados’ Gold Coast with it’s string of white sand beaches and small inns and restaurants. I arrive at 3. It is dead, deserted. Outside the Animal Flower Cave, I spot a souvenir stall. Closed. I want to set up camp, but the ground is terribly uneven, so I walk a little further and ask for a one-night shelter at a house. They inform me that they have four “bad dogs” and they cannot let me stay. I turn back and head down to Checker Hall where I meet a couple exercising on an open space. With their help, I pitch my tent. By the time I eat at a nearby Kiddy’s Bar and prepare myself for bed, it is nine.

Someone unzips my tent outlet. I wake up and scream, “Who’s there?” I hear feet shuffle right outside the tent, a voice replies, “It’s me”. I look at my watch, it is 12:35 in the morning. I unzip the tent window and look at this stranger through the netted screen. He is seated on the ground and staring at me, he asks, “Why did you set up a tent here?” I tell him about my plight. We talk for a while. Out of the blue, he asks me, “Do you have dope? Ganja?” Dope? Ganja? I told him I didn’t. He asked me for a cigarette, I tell him that I do not smoke. He asks for a dollar to buy a drink, I give him two and he leaves, happy. I have difficulty falling back to sleep. When sleep finally comes to me, someone unzips my tent and wakes me up again. I look out and it is the same man. He tells me that he is hungry and that I should give him 5 dollars for some food. I tell him that I do not have change. He tells me to give him the money and he’d bring back the change for me. I do not trust him. I put on my t-shirt and tell him that I will take him to the restaurant myself. I make my way out. Just then, he draws a foot long dagger from around his waist and attacks me. I fight him back before it can cut me. After much struggle, I dodge his blow and get inside the tent. He forces his way in too and we fight one another for what seems like a long time; I scream for help, but no one comes to my rescue. His dagger has made big holes on my tent bothsides. As we struggle, he finds my wallet, grabs hold of it and runs out. I have the dagger with me, so I run towards him, but he disappears into the dark. He has managed to cut part of my hands and they bleed. I barge into Kiddy’s Bar and ask four-beer-drinking-men for help. They do not budge. I call the police. I call Arthur. No one picks the phone up at Arthur’s place, but the second time, he picks it up. I tell him about what has happened and he says that he will come fetch me. I am at least 40 kilometers away from his house. The police arrive half an hour later. They look at the campsite and ask me some questions. Then they take my belongings and put me in the car to take me to the police station.

Ring Ring February 23, 2002
After they interrogate me, I meet Arthur at the police station. At five in the morning, we finally make our way home. As I recall what happened, I feel shudders down my spine. I could have been killed. The only evidence the police have are my torn apart tent, my wounded hands, his cap and his dagger. I don’t know how far these will take their investigation and for now, I don’t care.

The incident is reported on television, newspapers, and radio and the day is spent dealing with callers and visitors. The Minister of Tourism, Noel Lynch, comes at 10 AM promising to reimburse stolen and damaged property. But such promises are always made and promptly forgotten. I am not optimistic. IGP of the Police Force, John Annel, comes to interrogate me a 1 PM. He advises us not to spread the news via any media for it could hamper the investigation. The phone rings all day long, furtively merging as background into the daily house sounds.

The Polo Club February 24, 2002
Had plans of going to St. Vincent today, but it is cancelled. I have no money. All morning, the phone rings incessantly. An artist from the police station comes to the house. I give him my description of the attacker, he draws a picture. It actually does look like my attacker. I affirm. Later, Arthur, Sidi and Lactitia insist I accompany them to Holetown Barbados for lunch. They insist, but I do not feel like going. Holetown is a well-known tourist attraction; in 1627 the British colonisers first set their foot on in this coastal city.

They come home at around 3 and we leave for a polo game. As requested by the Polo Club, before the game, the organiser tells the spectators of my plight and asks them to help me if they can. Then, four girls, each with a helmet, walk amidst the crowd collecting donations. Though it makes me feel dependent, I also feel special. An amount, unimagined, is collected. I can now move on, for peace .

Home Alone with Lactitia February 25, 2002
I stay at home all day. It is beautiful outside. The sky is its bluest and the flowers, their prettiest. I take a lot of pictures at Arthur and Sidi’s garden. They are out for lunch, while Lactitia is at home. Though we are the only two in the house, we hardly communicate. We meet at the sitting room, the kitchen, the family room, and at corners, but we do not talk to one another.
Lactitia is strange. She habitually stays up late watching TV and wakes up late. Tears have been drained out of her eyes. They look tired. She smokes alot. I guess she hides behind that thin veil of smoke. I know that she is depressed, but being a guest, I cannot be so forward as to ask her what is really bothering her. Mute, we move around in the house, carefully avoiding one another, each with one’s own woes.

The Line-up February 26, 2002
The police has caught a few suspects and at noon, I go to the station to identify my attacker. When I enter, I see five people, each sitting on a chair. I spot my attacker, he has shaved in a pathetic attempt to beguile the world, but I recognise him. I walk up to him and ask, “How are you?”, “Fine”, he retorts. I ask him if he recognise me, he says he doesn’t. His voice sounds familiar to me. I point him out to the inspector. His name is Trevor Bowen. The court date is set for tomorrow. I am told to bring my torn-up tent, his dagger, and his cap to court with me.

Source -wavemagazine,nepal