Checkpoints and Cigarettes

The roughly thrown together barrier of rocks, boxes, and branches across the road appeared in the headlights, and so did a man with a big gun.

In the car the teenage exuberance evaporated instantly as we slowed to a stop.

“Where you goin’? Wha you doin’ out dis time of night, don’t you know dere’s a revolution?” said the man with the big gun crossly.

Oh yeah, the revolution, which meant no school, occasional shots sounding in the hills around the careenage, a blackout, a curfew, lots of men with guns, and checkpoints around the Island.

Surely it was only meant for the baddies though, not for kids like us on a night out and no threat to anyone.

Then other men with guns loomed out of the darkness at the side of the road and raised their guns towards the car.

“I kyan’t let you troo, you go haf to go back,” said the man with the gun, eyeing us all up.

Fortunately that’s when I recognised the man with the voice and the big gun as a dock-worker from our marina. Sometimes we both had day work on the same charter boats.

“Wha you doin’ wid de gun so, you train for dat?” My accent was as strong as his, and I stuck my head out of the window so that he would see me.

He relaxed and smiled. “De pay is better, just gimme a cigarette an I go let you troo dis time,” he said.

We gave him the pack.