Log

Kiran and I stay in her mother’s old home. Like a little wattle and daub Tudor house, it’s made from beams from the

mountain, and painted white, roofed in corrugated iron sheeting. Her mother and father built this harbour with the oldest

children. Dev, second son, carried the longest log.

Last night we went up in the dark to where they had found the wood. That night, there had been a big storm and all the

trees had blown down. The government announced that anyone could take them.

The clouds cleared and we beheld the starry archer, bow aimed beyond Port Louis. The children stayed in the minibus playing

conservative.

The minibus company has grown into a major service with seven buses and four charioteers. Dev and Jay do not drink; not red

label, not sweet Johnnie Walker. But sometimes they do, on bank holiday, because then NOBODY wants to drive.

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