From town to country

The big attraction for my brother Victor and I, was the wonderful feeling of space which we had not experienced before.

From playing football and cricket in the road at the end of Jackson Place where the steps began, we had then Tapia, an enormous grassy savannah. The old problem of ‘‘six and out’’ when the ball went into a neighbour’s yard was non-existent. The risk of being bitten by dogs to reclaim a ball was gone forever.

Racing ‘‘jockey’’ in the drains was also something of the past. There was the real thing — the river flowing constantly with cool clear water. Also we were able to catch fishes like wabins, coscarubs, millions and the flat grey mamatatas that lived under the rocks. The zangee was a river snake somewhat like an eel.

In Jackson Place, we had water in our own yard but in Camille Road, we had to fetch water from the standpipe which luckily for us was almost in front of our house. The water carriers — my brother and I — were not happy carrying buckets but it turned out to be pretty good especially when we timed our movements to coincide with that of the girls fetching water. The standpipe was a good boy-meet-girl spot.

A racing horse stable owned by the jockey Campbell, was nearby and sometimes the horses would be brought to Tapia. The trainer would hold on to the bridle and we would take a ride. Riding this big animal was an unforgettable experience.

Back in Jackson Place, the game was "stick ’em up" with home-made wooden guns that fired ‘‘dongs’’ seeds but there bird hunting with slingshots was a big sport. Every teenager had a slingshot in his back pocket for all to see. To kill a bird, was to establish yourself as a gunslinger in the category of film stars like Gary Cooper and John Wayne.

"What is that slingshot doing in your pocket?" my mother uttered in horror. I explained it was to shoot the birds.

She could not believe that ‘‘her darling son’’ would want to kill one of God’s lovely creatures. She told me how it was a cruel thing to do, how the bird suffered when its body was ripped apart by a stone. After that stirring sermon in the kitchen, I surrendered my slingshot to the sheriff.

Unexpectedly, a large white slender bird which the fellas called a ‘‘chuck’’ made its appearance in the savannah. To kill this bird was the desire of every slingshot gunman.

"Look it here, man," exclaimed Isaac as he emerged from the bamboo patch, holding up the dead cattle egret by its legs for all to see. The lily white feathers were red with blood. Its neck hung on a sliver of skin while blood dripped from its beak. He was the hero.

A strange silence overcame us. Nevermore, would we see that beautiful elegant bird in flight or searching for insects in the savannah grass. When I first joined the bird hunters, I was angry with myself because my aim was always off target but later on, I was glad that I never wounded or killed a bird.

Tapia savannah that spawned so many sportsmen, came to a sad end when the area was dissected into an upper-class housing settlement known as Anderson Terrace and the massive compound of the Trinidad and Tobago Manufacturers’ Association. It is difficult to believe that Tapia ever existed.

Once a little boy rushed from his big sister’s bedroom shouting, "Mommy look what I find. A double-barrelled slingshot!"