Back when we had been on the island for less than a year and I had begun building Island House Hotel, I drove up there every weekday to supervise the construction, and drove back down every afternoon. We were staying at Morne Gay estate at the time.
I started down the road but stopped when I saw Willis Rolle standing on the side, making signs that he wanted a ride.
He was an ancient old man who had sold us the twenty-three or so acres that constituted the upper two thirds of his estate. He maintained that it was so he could live next to “Strangers” as he called us. I was giving him a “vep” to town. He clearly thought of himself as the upper crust when being compared with the Watten Waven villagers.
“What do you have there in that package, Mr. Rolle?”
“Drugs!” he answered in a conspiratorial tone after he closed the truck door.
I started on down the hill.
At the next straight stretch I looked quickly, and briefly, over at the package he held in his hand. One had to keep eyes on this twisty road every second. It was a common practice on the island to wrap almost anything in a leaf. Packing material cost money, and was always in short supply. The favored wrap was the large elephant ear shaped leaves of what was called dachine. Reasonably strong and as soft as kid, it was an Alocasia (araceae), its nutritious tuber is the same one used in Hawaii to make Poi.
“What kind of drugs, Mr. Rolle?”
“Drugs, drugs,” he repeated. He was a very old, very frail man but he spoke with authority. “The old folks smoke it for asthma.”
I smiled to myself. “Yeah, asthma,” I thought, “Sure, asthma.”
I did not know anything about marijuana; not even what it looked like. I had been told, however, that it was not illegal on the island. It was not.
All I could see was the tips of leaves wrapped in a dasheen leaf. The packet was about the size of a big Idaho potato, and it was tied with strands of Musa Textilus, the banana plant whose fibers are what are used to make Manila hemp ropes.
“I could use some for my asthma, Mr. Rolle,” I tried, “Can you get me some?”
“Yes, yes. Next week, I will get some for you. When you give me a “vep” on Friday I will have it for you.”
Mr. Rolle always felt he had to have some leverage. This time it was for the ride.
True to his word, the old gentleman met me at the edge of his property when I was driving down at the end of Friday’s work. He was dressed for town in a neatly ironed old suit that looked as though he might have gotten it to celebrate the end of slavery or Haley’s first sighting of the comet. He had the small package of drugs in his hand.
Margie and the children were up in the States and I had already determined to try the drugs up at Morne Gay. It was an opportune time. I was reasonably sure that she would not be overjoyed at my experiment.
I took the package from Mr. Rolle and immediately felt prickles of guilt, despite the fact that it was not illegal in Dominica. I quickly stuck the package under the seat, shoving it way back so that it was very unlikely to be seen. I found myself actually nervous.
Morne Gay estate was located south of the Capitol and was about the same height as Island House’s 1500 or so feet. You had to drive through Roseau and then south along the coast before climbing up toward Giraudel. It was a charming, lovely spot on the knuckle of a terminating ridge overlooking the vast Caribbean. The Estate House was probably a kit house from Britain. Back when colonizing was in full swing one could buy a kit, or manufactured house and have it sent to the far-flung reaches of the empire for assembling. They were quite attractive and practicable and one sees them in almost every place the British colonized. Similar old frame houses can be seen in south Florida although they are not necessarily kit houses.
That evening in the privacy of our bedroom I searched for an unfinished pack of Margie’s cigarettes. I did not smoke at that time but it occurred to me that if I carefully took out the tobacco and left the filter I could re-stuff it with the leaves and have a reasonable chance of it being smokeable.
Cigarettes found! Tobacco removed! Drugs repacked! I was ready to get “Turned on”.
Annie and Virgin Benjamin, the housekeepers, kept messing around in the kitchen, chatting and clanking dishes. I thought they should have ducked out to their quarters by now but they were still there. It would not be politic to suggest that they quit work earlier than necessary so I waited impatiently in the bedroom, scanning a two-week-old TIME magazine.
They finally went to their room and I dashed across our bedroom to the dressing table with its variously angled mirrors and quickly turned on all its lights. Eagerly, albeit nervously, I lit the little cigarette and undertook to take a deep drag. I immediately coughed like a tubercular patient.
After recovering from the cough, and checking to see that the housekeepers had not popped out of their room to see what in the world was the matter, I re-lit. Smaller drags worked and after several I glared nervously into each of the several mirrors, examining my eyes. No dilation; yet.
“It is rather pleasant, though,” I thought. “The old folks smoke it for asthma? Sure asthma!” I laughed out loud as though it was the way it should affect me.
I had to confess to myself that one cigarette was not enough, but I had completely lost my nerve and decided that I would let the bloody damned leaves dry some more and when Margie came back I would suggest she join me in a re-try. Maybe. I had to think about that some more.
I still felt like a lawbreaker and I did not want to leave the incriminating evidence in the house so I went out and secreted the remainder of the leaves in a hole on the garden wall.
I slept very well and awoke the next morning to hear our landlord, Clem’s Landrover outside. He was seeing to a couple of his cows.
I made a snap decision and ran out to the wall and removed the leaves from their hiding place. I then moved casually over to Clem who was sitting in his ‘Rover, making notes on a pad.
“Clem? Have you ever seen this before?” I asked, affecting a benign look.
“Yes,” he smiled, “That’s Rosemary. It’s a garden herb. The old folks smoke it for asthma.”