Presently we left the ride and followed the narrow forester’s path that ran along the spine of a razor-backed ridge. The ground fell away sharply on each side of the trail, and between the trees we caught glimpses of the spectacular Black River gorges, thickly covered in forests of greens and reds and golds, with waterfalls like feathers trailing down the steep, spectacular cliff faces. At the bottom of the gorges, where the rivers ran bright and shining, or white and thunderous through mossy rock, the air was filled with drifting, wheeling, white crosses that were the White-tailed tropic birds. Soon we came to a place where a large, dead tree jutted out from the side of the path and overhung the valley far below, and it was here that Dave said he had seen Mauritian kestrels perch during their hunting sweeps through the gorges.
We unwrapped the mist nets and, with some difficulty, positioned them; then Dave unhooked the American kestrel and tethered her by her jesses to the branch of the dead tree. She bated a couple of times but soon settled down. We spread out along the path, concealed ourselves in the undergrowth and waited. I asked Dave, who had curled himself up into a bush quite close to me, who used these narrow paths that snaked through the forest, such as the one we were on. We had to be on the path for if you moved more than three feet either side you fell several hundred feet into the valley below, if not neatly spiked by guava trees on the way.
They’re forestry paths,’ he said, ‘but they’re also used by the marijuana growers.’
What marijuana growers?’ asked Ann Peters, from her vantage point farther down the path.
‘It’s a flourishing business, growing pot,’ David explained, ‘they come into the forests and carve out a little garden, and then harvest the stuff and sell it ‘
‘Isn’t it illegal?’ John asked.
‘Of course,’ said Dave. ‘Mauritius has no army but they have what they call the Special Mobile Force, like the Marines or Commandos and one of their jobs is to hunt pot growers. They even do it by helicopter. I found a large garden a few weeks back and reported it to them. It was one of the largest hauls they’d had for a long time, so I guess that made me persona non grata with the drug boys for a time.’
The morning wore on and suddenly it was noon and the heat of the day. The sun burned down like the core of a furnace, and the forest was silent, lapped in heat. This was the time when nothing with any sense was abroad, so the kestrels would be wisely siesta-ing somewhere. We decided to have our lunch so we uncurled our cramped limbs and assembled on a moderately wide bit of path near the dead tree. Here, we spread out the food we had brought. We had just moved from sandwiches to some delicious mangoes, when two slender youths appeared walking towards us, dressed in multi-coloured shirts and flared trousers. Their shoulder-length hair, in a style which most Mauritian young men now favour, was black and glossy and framed incredibly handsome and gentle faces. They got to the point in the path where we and our picnic were presenting an obstacle, then came to a halt, smiling shyly and beguilingly.
‘Good morning,’ we said, politely.
‘Good morning, Sir,’ they chorused softly, raising their straw hats.
Y>u want to pass? Pass along,’ said Dave, ‘but don’t step on me.’ ‘No, Sir,’ they said, shocked at such a thought, and picked their way over our recumbent bodies and among our picnic things with the delicacy of a pair of gazelles. Having reached the other side without untoward incident, they said ‘thank you, Sir, goodbye,’ raised their hats again politely and set off down the path. Both of them, I noticed, carried machetes.
Who on earth are they?’ asked Ann.
Well, they’re not foresters,’ said Dave, ‘so they must be pot growers because, sure as hell, nobody but pot growers and lunatics like us are going to be out in the forest at this hour. I don’t think they will be the only ones. I think “Mr Big” will probably be following.’
His prediction was right, for within five minutes another handsome, slender, deer-like Asian made his appearance. He had the indefinable something that stamped him as a lad from the big city. His suit was better cut and of better material, his shirt was more elegant, his hat more jaunty. He paused briefly and uncertainly when he saw us littering the path, then came on with an ingratiating smile.
‘Good morning, Sir,’ he said, all-embracingly doffing his hat, ‘excuse me, but have you seen my friends?’
Yes, two of them. They went that way,’ said Dave, as if there was any choice. ‘Do you want to pass?’
‘Er... no, no,’ said the young man. ‘I must go and tell my other friend.’
Ah, you have another friend?’ said Dave.
Yes,’ said the young man, ‘he is waiting back there. I must go and tell him which way my other friends go. Goodbye, Sir.’
‘Goodbye,’ we said, and watched him pick his way back along the path like an elegant, dusky ungulate.
What was all that about?’ asked John, puzzled.
‘He’s now gone back to warn the others,’ said Dave, ‘and they will get to the garden by the lower path. It is longer but it is a lot less risky as we are here.’
The afternoon wore on. It soon became obvious that we had little chance of catching a kestrel, so we dismantled the nets and Dave put the American kestrel on a stump nearby while we had some tea. Soon, to our astonishment, we descried ‘Mr Big’ himself approaching, but now from the opposite direction. As he reached us, it became obvious that during the course of the afternoon he had suffered a sea change. His hat was on the back of his head, his raven locks were dishevelled, and his eyes had the opaque, glazed look of one who has been suddenly woken from a deep sleep and has not quite bridged the gap between dreaming and reality. Though he still walked gracefully, he was more uncertain of his movements. When he reached us, he stopped and leaned negligently against a tree.
‘Hello,’ said Dave, ‘have you had a nice walk?’
‘Yes, I am walking,’ ‘Mr Big’ explained, smiling benignly, ‘I am walking in the forest.’
‘Did you have a nice time?’ asked Ann.
‘Very nice, Madam,’ he said, and went on to explain, ‘I am walking for my health.’
We were a bit nonplussed by this, so said nothing. He gazed dreamily down into the wild vistas of the gorge, where the tropic birds whirled like snowflakes. He appeared to have forgotten our existence. His face had an expression of vacuous tranquillity on it. Suddenly, he came-to briefly.
^You are English?’ he asked me.
^Yes,’ I said.
‘From London?’ he asked.
‘Thereabouts,’ I said, not wanting to get bogged down in a lot of explanations as to where the Channel Islands were.
‘I have many relatives in London,’ he said, ‘also many parents.’ ‘Really?’ I said, fascinated.
‘Many, many,’ he said, ‘I also have many parents and relatives in Birmingham.’
‘A very nice place, Birmingham,’ said John.
‘Very nice, and London also. My parents say they are very nice, and...’ he closed his eyes for a moment and I thought, like the dormouse in Alice, he had fallen asleep in mid-sentence. He suddenly opened his eyes, sighed deeply and continued, ‘... and I shall go there one day to join all my parents.’
‘Do you often walk in the forest?’ asked Dave.
‘For my health, I often walk in the forest,’ said ‘Mr Big’.
‘Do you ever see any birds?’ asked Dave.
‘Birds?’ said ‘Mr Big’, examining the question. ‘Birds? You are meaning birds?’