One river and two sea days and still the nepids drew attention. They spent their days under the
lifejacket lockers and emerged at night trapped in a Sisyphean cycle. Even on the first day when
salvation was possible (the water being fresh) their natures required them to scrabble futilely towards
the light only to find that daybreak came and it was time to creep back under the lockers. Any that
remained on view became the subject, first of the walkers, some of whom still came marching up to
Bugman asking what it was that they had found. It was hard to imagine how they had missed them
during the previous days. Secondly they became the subject of persecution by the crew. Following the
"swarm" the Safety Officer (a very senior fellow on cruise ships) did a tour with a Deck Officer Cadet
and determined that the Nepids posed a risk and should be removed so, with some opposition from
passengers who had come to love the hard skinned stowaways, a small team of Nepicides toured the
deck armed with long handled dust pans and matching brushes. Pieces of litter tend not to fight back
against the sweeper's broom. However the Nepids were not going to give up without a struggle. The
brush gathered them up and pushed them towards the dustpan but the backstroke revealed that a
Nepid can cling onto the bristles of a broom with considerable vigour. When the assassin had tried to
sweep up six Nepids the broom had become considerably heavier and all of the bristles were obscured
by determined bugs. One enterprising, if not kind, sweeper, banged the handle of the broom on the
deck-rail with the head over the side hoping to dislodge its burden but to no avail. If it were possible to
frown with an exoskeleton, then six pairs of large compound eyes would have frowned at him as their
owners gripped even tighter. A moral quandary was appearing like an image in the darkroom. The
Nepids were doomed as the ship was by that time in salt water. They would slowly exhaust and starve
themselves if left alone. If the crew collected the doomed bugs they would be left to die in a black refuse
sack or they would be illegally dumped overboard where osmosis would desiccate and weaken them
until they sank to the bottom and drowned. The quandary became a little darker in the developing tray
as it revealed itself.
"Excuse me sir"
"Yes, can I help?"
"I think so sir. You are the insectologist aren't you?"
"Entomologist, yes."
"Sorry sir, sorry."
"You want to know how to deal with the big bugs don't you?"
"Yes sir. The Safety Officer says we must collect them up because they're dangerous but my men cannot sweep them. The bugs hold onto the brushes and won't let go and my men are afraid to touch them."
"Ah. Tricky."
"Tricky? Is there a trick to get rid of them sir?" While his English was nearly perfect there are always nuances to catch the unwary.
"No, there's no trick but why don't you leave them. They will do no harm if people leave them alone and actually won't do a great deal of harm if they're picked up - just a short, sharp jab. The passengers are interested in them."
He considered the difficulty of relaying this view to the Safety Officer.
"So is it safe for my men to pick them up sir?"
The counterpoint was the time to consider the morality of advising him how to bring about the deliberate destruction of these astonishing beasts.
"If I tell you how to pick them up safely and one of your men gets stabbed by . . "
"Stabbed, sir?"
The picture had appeared on the printing paper, maybe now was the time to rinse it and plunge it into the fixer.
"Oh yes. They have mouths like hypodermic syringes."
"But if they stab a passenger I'm in trouble and if they stab one of the crew I'm in trouble sir."
"Just keep trying to sweep them up - you'll get a few and in two days time they will all have disappeared. Most will have flown overboard and others will have died under the lockers. By the time we leave the Caribbean, just move the lockers, sweep up the dead and your problem is solved." "Thank you sir."
"Yes, can I help?"
"I think so sir. You are the insectologist aren't you?"
"Entomologist, yes."
"Sorry sir, sorry."
"You want to know how to deal with the big bugs don't you?"
"Yes sir. The Safety Officer says we must collect them up because they're dangerous but my men cannot sweep them. The bugs hold onto the brushes and won't let go and my men are afraid to touch them."
"Ah. Tricky."
"Tricky? Is there a trick to get rid of them sir?" While his English was nearly perfect there are always nuances to catch the unwary.
"No, there's no trick but why don't you leave them. They will do no harm if people leave them alone and actually won't do a great deal of harm if they're picked up - just a short, sharp jab. The passengers are interested in them."
He considered the difficulty of relaying this view to the Safety Officer.
"So is it safe for my men to pick them up sir?"
The counterpoint was the time to consider the morality of advising him how to bring about the deliberate destruction of these astonishing beasts.
"If I tell you how to pick them up safely and one of your men gets stabbed by . . "
"Stabbed, sir?"
The picture had appeared on the printing paper, maybe now was the time to rinse it and plunge it into the fixer.
"Oh yes. They have mouths like hypodermic syringes."
"But if they stab a passenger I'm in trouble and if they stab one of the crew I'm in trouble sir."
"Just keep trying to sweep them up - you'll get a few and in two days time they will all have disappeared. Most will have flown overboard and others will have died under the lockers. By the time we leave the Caribbean, just move the lockers, sweep up the dead and your problem is solved." "Thank you sir."
---OOO---
There was a Boer on board and his anagram. In fact he was also his anagram.
The pre-prandial gin and tonics were taken in the Observatory Bar which was predominantly waiter or waitress service by Robert and Almira. Much to Robert's probable irritation there were six stools set at the bar one of which was occupied by a lonely bore. Of all the bores in all the world the lonely ones are the saddest and most annoying. This one was not an exception. Each evening he installed himself, with some effort being a man of significant bulk, on a stool and spent an hour and a half drinking a bottle of wine while offering a discourse on the nature of the ship, other ships, the current port, the last port, the next port, the state of the world - any subject that came into his mind.
"Good evening Sir Bore. A bottle of claret?"
"No, not this evening Robert. I'll have a bottle of the claret please."
"OK Sir Bore."
"Did you have shore leave today Robert? Didn't bother m'self - awful place, full of second rate restaurants. Was here in '98, couldn't find a place to eat anywhere. You're from Manilla aren't you?" "Yes sir Bore"
"Hell hole, was there in 2002, people all thieves and vagabonds. Worse than Bangkok. Didn't go ashore today - waste of time. Nothing to see here, just a lot of countryside and shanties."
Every night and every port it was the same story: not worth going ashore, awful place. Every evening he left the Observatory Bar with an instruction to deliver ice to his suite for 10 pm, after his dinner. His pronouncements on the various destinations were extended by long-winded stories, told in minute detail, about meals that he had eaten 'before it went to the dogs'.
"The lobster was too much for one. Cut it in half and it was too much for two." Probably because his dining companion would have fallen asleep before the second mouthful. "A claw would have been sufficient. More peanuts please Robert. I've only had four lots haven't I? I used to jog a lot, fifteen miles a day, before breakfast but since my condition came on. Oh dear, bottle's empty. One more Robert and don't forget the peanuts. When I was based in Shanghai we used to drink a bit there . . . . Then when I was in Caracas . . . . In Washington it was all very hush hush." And so it went on, night after night.
"illo, do eh know you?"
"Were you in Jo'burg in '89?"
"No, I vas in Kep Town."
"Nowhere to eat in either place. Could barely keep body and soul together when I was there doing business. Where are those peanuts Robert?"
"They're there, sir Bore."
"Oh yes, I see, better give me another pot. Haven't had four lots yet have I? No of course not. Where were we? Oh yes, Jo'burg, pits of the world. Where are you from?
"South Efrica."
"Guessed as much. Did I tell you I was there in the nineties. Engineering contracts mostly but some stuff with electronics. Used to be a little bar on Kuyper Street, run by an ex pat called Johnny, no one ever knew his surname he said it was very hush hush but he kept his beer well even though it was all bottled it was always cold. Went from there to Hong Kong but that'd gone down the pan by then compared to what it used to be like. Ever been there?"
"I vas there in '95 vorking . . ."
"Funny that, never met you when I was there and I never forget a face."
And so he went on, and on and on. Robert looked relieved to have an evening off while Mr Bore sat, storming ahead, sipping his wine, eating his peanuts and running down every city, island and beauty spot under the sun. His diatribe was directed at the South African for whom the occasional question was posed. The South African never had time to fully answer before Mr Bore continued cataloguing his travels and meals.
The South African got up and slipped away. "and the Sole bonne femme was terribly over done and over priced. Not enough grapes, you see, that’s the secret of the dish, the right number of grapes. You have grapes in Jo'burg don't you but no decent sole?" The slightest pause and then, "No of course you don't. Rene was the chef, knew how to handle a sole did Rene. I used to say he was like Aretha Franklin except he was the king of Sole." He laughed dryly.
"Oh, you've gone," to no one in particular.
The pre-prandial gin and tonics were taken in the Observatory Bar which was predominantly waiter or waitress service by Robert and Almira. Much to Robert's probable irritation there were six stools set at the bar one of which was occupied by a lonely bore. Of all the bores in all the world the lonely ones are the saddest and most annoying. This one was not an exception. Each evening he installed himself, with some effort being a man of significant bulk, on a stool and spent an hour and a half drinking a bottle of wine while offering a discourse on the nature of the ship, other ships, the current port, the last port, the next port, the state of the world - any subject that came into his mind.
"Good evening Sir Bore. A bottle of claret?"
"No, not this evening Robert. I'll have a bottle of the claret please."
"OK Sir Bore."
"Did you have shore leave today Robert? Didn't bother m'self - awful place, full of second rate restaurants. Was here in '98, couldn't find a place to eat anywhere. You're from Manilla aren't you?" "Yes sir Bore"
"Hell hole, was there in 2002, people all thieves and vagabonds. Worse than Bangkok. Didn't go ashore today - waste of time. Nothing to see here, just a lot of countryside and shanties."
Every night and every port it was the same story: not worth going ashore, awful place. Every evening he left the Observatory Bar with an instruction to deliver ice to his suite for 10 pm, after his dinner. His pronouncements on the various destinations were extended by long-winded stories, told in minute detail, about meals that he had eaten 'before it went to the dogs'.
"The lobster was too much for one. Cut it in half and it was too much for two." Probably because his dining companion would have fallen asleep before the second mouthful. "A claw would have been sufficient. More peanuts please Robert. I've only had four lots haven't I? I used to jog a lot, fifteen miles a day, before breakfast but since my condition came on. Oh dear, bottle's empty. One more Robert and don't forget the peanuts. When I was based in Shanghai we used to drink a bit there . . . . Then when I was in Caracas . . . . In Washington it was all very hush hush." And so it went on, night after night.
"illo, do eh know you?"
"Were you in Jo'burg in '89?"
"No, I vas in Kep Town."
"Nowhere to eat in either place. Could barely keep body and soul together when I was there doing business. Where are those peanuts Robert?"
"They're there, sir Bore."
"Oh yes, I see, better give me another pot. Haven't had four lots yet have I? No of course not. Where were we? Oh yes, Jo'burg, pits of the world. Where are you from?
"South Efrica."
"Guessed as much. Did I tell you I was there in the nineties. Engineering contracts mostly but some stuff with electronics. Used to be a little bar on Kuyper Street, run by an ex pat called Johnny, no one ever knew his surname he said it was very hush hush but he kept his beer well even though it was all bottled it was always cold. Went from there to Hong Kong but that'd gone down the pan by then compared to what it used to be like. Ever been there?"
"I vas there in '95 vorking . . ."
"Funny that, never met you when I was there and I never forget a face."
And so he went on, and on and on. Robert looked relieved to have an evening off while Mr Bore sat, storming ahead, sipping his wine, eating his peanuts and running down every city, island and beauty spot under the sun. His diatribe was directed at the South African for whom the occasional question was posed. The South African never had time to fully answer before Mr Bore continued cataloguing his travels and meals.
The South African got up and slipped away. "and the Sole bonne femme was terribly over done and over priced. Not enough grapes, you see, that’s the secret of the dish, the right number of grapes. You have grapes in Jo'burg don't you but no decent sole?" The slightest pause and then, "No of course you don't. Rene was the chef, knew how to handle a sole did Rene. I used to say he was like Aretha Franklin except he was the king of Sole." He laughed dryly.
"Oh, you've gone," to no one in particular.
---OOO---
The Senior Hotel Officer ate breakfast in the Secret Garden Restaurant at 7am. He slipped into a corner
seat and stared despondently over his paunch at the bowl of muesli with fresh fruit, casting lascivious
glances at the hot plate with its eggs, sausages, bacon, mushrooms, pancakes and other delights.
"Greetings chief of all the little hotel people." The Captain had arrived.
"Greetings king of the bugs and beetles."
"Good morning Captain. Are you going ashore this afternoon?"
"Awaiting orders. The Lady Admiral y'know. She makes the tricky decisions. Strategy, her department. Tactics mine."
The Senior Hotel Officer stood and walked out of the restaurant but paused by the hot plate, took a deep breath through his nose and headed on about his business.
---OOO---
"Two postcards of Scarborough just to keep in my mind To hide away up there and help me remind
Myself of time past and time passing
I went down to the harbour just to catch a bite to eat Boats along the quayside and seagulls round my feet Remind me . . . . ."
That was so very long ago, back in the days of meeting gay John. The afternoons off work walking up from the harbour with Lucy, the air filled with ozone and fish, candy floss and promise. A simple life of early morning walks with the young summer's sun lifting the dew from the cliff-top grass and the birds from their nests. Bees offering a baritone to the lark's treble but all that light, all that promise and hope cast shadows and the words of the song could be heard in the feathered voices.
"I took a walk up to Paradise just like we did before But there's nothing there like Paradise to me anymore"
"Two postcards of Scarborough . . . "
Staring over the rail at the brightly coloured house and shops of Scarborough filling the narrow coastal strip and reaching up into the surrounding hills the words of the song returned but this was Scarborough, Tobago, perched above its larger partner with the Atlantic to the east and the warm Caribbean to the west. The guides suggested a visit to the Botanical Gardens and Fort King George. They also suggested trips into the interior but the descriptions included words and phrases such as 'soaring heights', 'mountain roads winding their way between primal rainforest and vertical cliffs' and, horror of horrors, 'uninterrupted views of the ocean far below from the narrow mountain roads." A garden and a fort sounded like sensible options. The sun was merciless in the still, heavy, tropical air. Despite the factor 50+ the sun seemed to be rubbing cut chillies over exposed skin.
Every shop, shed and car had a sound system and every sound system had lost its volume control: the noise was disorientating.
The map provided to passengers was not very clear, not very accurate and not to scale but did make a passable fan. Its failing became clear when the botanic gardens came into sight. Well the ten foot railings came into sight and they were the other side of the only length of dual-carriageway on the island. This arterial road appeared as a narrow street on the map. A large Tobagan approached along the side of the road.
"Hey marn, you wanna go to the gardens?"
"Yes."
"Well you done gonna have to cross dis road marn. Dere's de bridge down dat way but he is way far. Round here we cross dis road like this."
He stepped awkwardly over the crash barrier and swayed like a large tree with two short trunks in a strong breeze. He looked up and down the road, nothing was coming and he set off like a startled hare. His rate of acceleration probably resulted in permanent damage to his spleen. He hurdled the central crash barrier with only inches to spare but his speed seemed to increase further. In a trice he had reached the dotted white line in the centre of the opposite carriageway. Then, on a previously unnoticed slip road, a horridly bright green car with throaty exhaust, chrome wheel rims and ear- bleedingly loud music accelerated towards our noble sprinter. The car veered slightly to the right, the runner increased speed, the car adjusted its aim. At the last possible moment the runner made the sanctuary of the litter and dust beyond the road, tried to stop, hit the Botanical Garden's railings and grasped them before turning and waving to the driver of the green car who had slowed to survey the result of the encounter. The driver waved back and the runner laughed.
"Greetings king of the bugs and beetles."
"Good morning Captain. Are you going ashore this afternoon?"
"Awaiting orders. The Lady Admiral y'know. She makes the tricky decisions. Strategy, her department. Tactics mine."
The Senior Hotel Officer stood and walked out of the restaurant but paused by the hot plate, took a deep breath through his nose and headed on about his business.
---OOO---
"Two postcards of Scarborough just to keep in my mind To hide away up there and help me remind
Myself of time past and time passing
I went down to the harbour just to catch a bite to eat Boats along the quayside and seagulls round my feet Remind me . . . . ."
That was so very long ago, back in the days of meeting gay John. The afternoons off work walking up from the harbour with Lucy, the air filled with ozone and fish, candy floss and promise. A simple life of early morning walks with the young summer's sun lifting the dew from the cliff-top grass and the birds from their nests. Bees offering a baritone to the lark's treble but all that light, all that promise and hope cast shadows and the words of the song could be heard in the feathered voices.
"I took a walk up to Paradise just like we did before But there's nothing there like Paradise to me anymore"
"Two postcards of Scarborough . . . "
Staring over the rail at the brightly coloured house and shops of Scarborough filling the narrow coastal strip and reaching up into the surrounding hills the words of the song returned but this was Scarborough, Tobago, perched above its larger partner with the Atlantic to the east and the warm Caribbean to the west. The guides suggested a visit to the Botanical Gardens and Fort King George. They also suggested trips into the interior but the descriptions included words and phrases such as 'soaring heights', 'mountain roads winding their way between primal rainforest and vertical cliffs' and, horror of horrors, 'uninterrupted views of the ocean far below from the narrow mountain roads." A garden and a fort sounded like sensible options. The sun was merciless in the still, heavy, tropical air. Despite the factor 50+ the sun seemed to be rubbing cut chillies over exposed skin.
Every shop, shed and car had a sound system and every sound system had lost its volume control: the noise was disorientating.
The map provided to passengers was not very clear, not very accurate and not to scale but did make a passable fan. Its failing became clear when the botanic gardens came into sight. Well the ten foot railings came into sight and they were the other side of the only length of dual-carriageway on the island. This arterial road appeared as a narrow street on the map. A large Tobagan approached along the side of the road.
"Hey marn, you wanna go to the gardens?"
"Yes."
"Well you done gonna have to cross dis road marn. Dere's de bridge down dat way but he is way far. Round here we cross dis road like this."
He stepped awkwardly over the crash barrier and swayed like a large tree with two short trunks in a strong breeze. He looked up and down the road, nothing was coming and he set off like a startled hare. His rate of acceleration probably resulted in permanent damage to his spleen. He hurdled the central crash barrier with only inches to spare but his speed seemed to increase further. In a trice he had reached the dotted white line in the centre of the opposite carriageway. Then, on a previously unnoticed slip road, a horridly bright green car with throaty exhaust, chrome wheel rims and ear- bleedingly loud music accelerated towards our noble sprinter. The car veered slightly to the right, the runner increased speed, the car adjusted its aim. At the last possible moment the runner made the sanctuary of the litter and dust beyond the road, tried to stop, hit the Botanical Garden's railings and grasped them before turning and waving to the driver of the green car who had slowed to survey the result of the encounter. The driver waved back and the runner laughed.
"Hey marn, dat's how we cross dis road. Now it's your turn marn."
A not altogether elegant negotiation of the crash barrier and then a mad dash to the middle but with no chance of hurdling the central reservation it was necessary to slow down enough to clamber over it with no more grace than before. A large truck rumbled past at a respectful distance. The road looked clear.
"Now marn - run!"
A brisk walk was soon abandoned in favour of a panicked lope when ears told legs that the noise approaching from the left was that Tobagan mixture of large bore exhaust and inexhaustible sound system. Dust and litter flew up but the sanctuary had been reached.
"Marn, you did well."
"Thank you. Please can you tell me where the entrance is to the Botanic Gardens?"
"Sure ting marn. Follow dis road for a while and you find de gate. But be careful: dis road is dangerous. Some of dem drivers ain't jokin' like my friend in de green car"
"Thank you."
"Welcome to Tobago."
The Botanic Gardens provided a number of human guides who would take individuals or parties
around and show them the highlights. A plump, cheerful and friendly lady approached.
"Let me tell you about our gardens," and she proceeded to give a potted history with obvious civic pride.
"Neil, hello how are you?" As usual there was no pause for a correction or an answer. He turned to the guide, still smiling despite the interruption.
"That's Neil, he's a famous enter, no enti oh he's the Bugman."
The cheerful countenance belied a natural authority.
"Thank you. Now my colleague Francis will tell you about the gardens." They turned away and she turned back.
"So you're an entomologist are you? What is your specialism?"
"Beetles and a couple of other groups - but they're all interesting."
"We have no beetles here." It would have been rude to disabuse her of this notion. "But under that palm there is a bees' nest."
"Oh, which one?" She pointed and added, "Under the fronds at the top but watch out because when he stings he stings hot like chilli pepper in the eye." The sentence merged into an enchanting laugh.
A not altogether elegant negotiation of the crash barrier and then a mad dash to the middle but with no chance of hurdling the central reservation it was necessary to slow down enough to clamber over it with no more grace than before. A large truck rumbled past at a respectful distance. The road looked clear.
"Now marn - run!"
A brisk walk was soon abandoned in favour of a panicked lope when ears told legs that the noise approaching from the left was that Tobagan mixture of large bore exhaust and inexhaustible sound system. Dust and litter flew up but the sanctuary had been reached.
"Marn, you did well."
"Thank you. Please can you tell me where the entrance is to the Botanic Gardens?"
"Sure ting marn. Follow dis road for a while and you find de gate. But be careful: dis road is dangerous. Some of dem drivers ain't jokin' like my friend in de green car"
"Thank you."
"Welcome to Tobago."
---OOO---
"Let me tell you about our gardens," and she proceeded to give a potted history with obvious civic pride.
"Neil, hello how are you?" As usual there was no pause for a correction or an answer. He turned to the guide, still smiling despite the interruption.
"That's Neil, he's a famous enter, no enti oh he's the Bugman."
The cheerful countenance belied a natural authority.
"Thank you. Now my colleague Francis will tell you about the gardens." They turned away and she turned back.
"So you're an entomologist are you? What is your specialism?"
"Beetles and a couple of other groups - but they're all interesting."
"We have no beetles here." It would have been rude to disabuse her of this notion. "But under that palm there is a bees' nest."
"Oh, which one?" She pointed and added, "Under the fronds at the top but watch out because when he stings he stings hot like chilli pepper in the eye." The sentence merged into an enchanting laugh.
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