Bequian home grown

“So where exactly do we find these little mushrooms then?” I asked my friend-in-the-know, Mark, one tropical day.

“Just head out of the town. (Port Elizabeth), towards Spring Bay, keep walking until you come to a field with loads of cows in it, and that’s where you’ll find them, loads of them, everywhere.”

“How will we know which ones they are?” I didn’t want to eat the wrong types.

“They’ll be the only ones growing out of the cowpats. It's worth it though," he said with a wicked grin.

I stored this juicy bit of info until eventually yonks later, (when I was about 13 and Pete was 10), we did get to Bequia, and as luck would have it, I spotted my friend-in the-know-Mark in top corner of the anchorage on his pretty little boat too. I really liked this guy but my parents didn't, not a good influence, they said. My little brother Pete, (usually my partner in crime), and I lost no time in meeting up with him for a trip out to the field…

I vaguely remember the walk out there, along a gravelled road with many potholes, past a large school, houses, then fewer houses, up into the hillier terrain, and finally the field. It was big enough for us and the cows, and they were far too busy chewing the cud to be interested in us and they obviously ate a lot. Cowpats were splatted everywhere and on the slightly dried out ones sprouted pointed little mushrooms with dark undersides and long stems. Careful picking was advisable and once we pinched off the ends with the cow pooh on them, we were munching away. It started raining, refreshing in the tropics, so we weren’t deterred and kept downing these mushrooms in the pouring rain.

We started off counting but gave up after a while…




They tasted earthy but hey, at least they didn't taste of pooh. We wandered from pat to pat, keeping a watchful eye on the cows and having a laugh, Pete and Mark got the giggles and set me off. Then...um...well then...oh sod it....
Basically, then there’s a gap in my memory, and I next remember experiencing a weird feeling whilst walking back down the road, as if I was walking on a cloud but my legs seemed to belong to someone else. I could see my legs doing the walking but I was sure they weren’t a part of me. School was letting out as we passed and that was hilariously funny. Kids doing normal things, whilst we walked along amongst them stoned out of our brains and giggling stupidly in our own world.
We slumped in a tree on great lounging branches, on the waterfront, and watched life pass us by, too out-of-it to move any further and too stoned to go back to the boat anyway.

There’s another huge gap in my memory….

By dinnertime we had to return to the boat, I was meant to be cooking dinner. (Mum and Graham were on a visit to England). I managed beans on toast, though what Dad must have thought of our behaviour, I just don’t know. We giggled every time we looked at each other and avoided Dad for the rest of the evening.

Never been the same since, some would say.