Driftwood Camp

By Ian Gill

Driftwood Camp is an oilfield Camp located on the southern coast of Trinidad and so called because of the huge amounts of driftwood washed up on the beach mainly from the Orinoco River. The camp was set up to accommodate British nationals hired to exploit the oil resources at the behest of Winston Churchill to aid the war efforts for World War 2 1939-1945.

The novel covers the period 1958 to 1964 when many colonies were moving to self government including Trinidad and where change was the order of the day. Dr Eric Williams had led the peoples National Movement to power in 1956 and ultimately to internal self government Independence; eventually Trinidad and Tobago became a Republic.
The white British staff enjoy all the benefits of Camp life in strict contrast to the black villages who provide servants, maids, washers and yard boys for the Camp occupants. In their jobs the white "A" staff are highly trained, organised and competent but privately engage in sexual adventures that have serious repercussions.

• Language: English
• Publisher: eBookIt.com
• Release date: Feb 19, 2018
• ISBN: 9781456630492

Ian Gill

Ian Gill is a founding partner of Salmon Nation and former president of Ecotrust. He worked as a writer and broadcaster for CBC Television, where he won numerous awards for his documentary reporting. He lives on an island in the unceded territory of the Nuu-Chah-Nulth people on the west coast of British Columbia; and occasionally in Vancouver, where he is co-founder of the independent bookstore Upstart & Crow.

Book preview

ISLAND

DORIS

It was a steaming hot, sunny Saturday morning. Doris was walking along the asphalt road that led to Driftwood Camp in the hope of being able to sell her vegetables, all of which she had grown at the back of her small humble one room house. Humble for sure it was, and definitely not fancy. But it was not just her house, it was her home, and she kept it neat and tidy. After all order was part of her nature - a place for everything and everything in its place. It had a window on each side and two doors. The front door was fitted with a lock that worked with a long black key and the back door was secured with a latch that led to her personal latrine.

This was a small narrow structure with a door made from an assortment of materials; the top of the latrine was capped with a sheet of galvanize that someone had discarded but it worked well enough to keep out the rain. It was the same type of galvanize that you would find on very old buildings, galvanize that was never painted and which in spite of looking rusty and weathered seemed to last forever. The galvanize sported an artist's palette of varying brown and grey shades and was really far too big, creating an overhang on all sides. On occasions when Doris was outside, caught by a sudden down pour, this provided shelter especially from ‘bucket -a-drop’ rain. The roof was held down by two large stones that she had pulled out of some building material that had been left at the side of the road. Doris was enterprising and independent. She did not see problems, she saw opportunities. She kept largely to herself, remained on good terms with everyone, went to Church religiously and enjoyed good health. She was blessed.

The house itself was made of tapia, with a thatched roof of carat palm leaves that she had cut from a bushy area of land that formed a boundary to the nearby sea. It had been hard laborious work, cutting and dragging the leaves, which proved to be heavier than they looked. She could not count the number of trips that she had made. There were many. They were hard. Definitely long.  But she could easily recall the sweat that poured down inside her clothes, dripped down the center of her large breasts and fell from her brow into her deep brown eyes, stinging her and causing her to blink and stop to wipe her face.

She used a scarf that one of the ladies from the camp had given her which was frayed at one end and would have been condemned as rubbish. Doris gave the old scarf new life. She carefully stitched up the frayed end using a needle and thread and a decorated thimble that her mother had given her as a family heirloom. She treasured both the thimble and the scarf and kept the latter clean and folded neatly in the front pocket of her starched dress.

Doris had purchased the cutlass that she used to cut the carat leaves, from a hardware store in the junction owned by two Chinese brothers who wore’ slapats’, shoes made of wood and a piece of canvas nailed across the front. She carried the’ punyah ‘or ‘gilpin’, as it was often called, back to her home. wrapped in Gazette paper and tied with brown string. 

She had sharpened the cutlass on a large round, smooth stone that she had collected on the beach. Doris had come across the stone while the tide was out leaving a wide expanse of yellow- brown sand. The retreating water had left puddles wherever there were stones and this stone lay there in the middle of this pool of water that the sun had heated up. Bringing that stone up the long winding road was a labor of love. She had had to stop many times to collect her breath but it was worth it. Every time she stopped, her chest heaving, her heart thumping like a drummer gone wild, she would say, Lord give me strength, ease this heavy load.

The stone held a place of prominence on a wooden stand made of ’two by four’ wood at the entrance of her front door, next to the three wooden steps that led into the house. The stairway even had a rough wood railing. While the house had been painted in yellow ochre, the short concrete pillars that held it up were ‘white- washed ‘to match the wooden windows.

Doris had learned construction of a tapia and carat roofed house from a lady called Eulyn who lived at the other end of Long Village, so called because most of the houses had been built at the sides of the narrow road that led to Driftwood Camp. She had met up with Eulyn in the Siparia market one busy morning when both were taking issue with a vendor on the price of cloth for curtains. The two struck up a casual conversation. 

So you does live around here? inquired Eulyn. Eulyn was a woman who was known to be ‘farce’, or what people commonly referred to as a ‘maco’. She liked to know every body's business and built a career out of that. If you wanted to know who slept with who, which man does beat he wife,’ how much rum that man drink last night and how he spen' all the grocery money," then you had only to put the question to Eulyn and all the lurid details would gush forth like water from a stand pipe.

Well I live in Coora now. Doris paused as though in deep contemplation and then slowly said, but I want to leave and go further south. She said it with a ‘steups’ in her voice.

Hmm, like you need to move girl? You know the village I live in, Long Village have some government land that you could put up a house and find a job down there. Most everybody squatting, only one or two have deed.

Eventually that led to Doris making the move. Becoming friendly with Eulyn, she mentioned that she had entered into a relationship with a Grenadian man called Dolphus Gabriel. It had started out fine but he became abusive and she said the last thing that she needed was a fist on her face. Well Eulyn was told all of this in the strictest confidence, but she was a ‘mouth open, story jump out’ woman, so soon the whole village had the details to which they added information. Doris had had to go to hospital, She arm did break. A next time she lip well buss, She loose a teet'. and on one occasion, She did close to dead.

All these ridiculous stories annoyed Doris no end. but being of a strong constitution, it was all like water off a ducks back. And she was grateful to Eulyn for all her help, but from that time on she had learned to keep all her business entirely to herself. She summed it up this way; If you don' talk they kyah hear and they kyah repeat and say they get it from the horse’s mouth.

Doris reached the camp, on the way stopping to let two green, hand- painted jitneys pass. Both were Ford Pilot V8 World War 11 surplus that the company had secured at low prices. They were driven by the white men who lived in Driftwood Camp. In fact, everybody living in Driftwood Camp was white and with few exceptions, were English. Standing still on the edge of the road of course was not necessary as it was wide enough, but balancing the large rectangular wooden tray on her head, filled to almost overflowing with her produce, she would none the less stop out of caution and turn her head to watch them pass before continuing on her way. She feared they might dodge the occasional pothole and lick her down.

Good morning Corporal Fraser good morning private Julien. How you all today?

Good morning Doris, go ahead girl. I see you have some ‘lacatan’: we will take one each. Shift changing at 11.00 and that will keep us till the van come. Their eight -hour shift had started at 3AM. Private Julien lifted the gate for Doris to pass. He pressed down on the heavy concrete block on the inner side of the black and white iron pole from which the gate had been made. He began eating one banana handing the other to the Corporal. The two field police were smartly dressed in starched and pressed khaki shorts and short sleeved matching jackets with epaulets and a row of shiny brass buttons down the front. A thick brown leather belt with a square brass buckle completed the outfit. Their boots glistened from spit and polish efforts and' elbow grease.’ Light brown socks reached up to the top of their calf muscles. They both wore khaki caps with the peaks made of polished leather. The maroon head bands proclaimed them to be members of the Trinidad Petroleum Company, T.P.C. Field Police Force.

Doris walked up the 'oil- sand pitched 'driveway of the first house perched on a hill overlooking the guard hut. The guard hut itself was a small white wooden building with a red roof, three windows and a door and big enough for a small desk and three chairs, the third for any visitor who the officers needed to speak with. Next to the black rotary telephone, there was a list of the telephone numbers and names of all the occupants of the bungalows. There was a log book to record visitors and to make notes of any major observations and to enter the times. All of this was checked on a regular basis by a senior officer who would arrive at unexpected moments. This ensured that the on duty field police exercised extreme diligence at all times. The building stood on four concrete pillars, wider at the bottom and narrower at the top, that were high enough for the two black police Humber bicycles to park underneath. These were used on occasion to patrol and were each equipped with a chain and lock, and a lantern powered by a generator that worked when the wheel turned. A bicycle pump was attached to each frame. Both bikes had the current year’s Dutch made enamel license plates screwed under the back of the saddle.

MAUREEN

Doris called out and a voice with a strong English accent replied, Hello Doris, from behind the mosquito mesh that every window was fitted with. It was Maureen Tate. She was the wife of the business manager, Dominic Tate, a small intense man, whose main interest apart from his important job, was hockey, where he was the captain of the company team on the verge of capturing its first league championship.

Maureen came out to the top of the stairs, running her fingers through the back of her short, full, brown hair which she had just shampooed. She had decided to shower as the day was hot and had put on a white jersey and shorts not really intending to go out anywhere and she liked the freedom of going bra-less. To herself, she referred to this as freeing the nipple.

The two talked, laughed and transacted business at the bottom of the stairs. Most of the houses like this one were wooden, painted white with red galvanized roofs, long green shutters, and stood on tall ten-foot drilling poles painted black. At te bottom of each pole was a circle of galvanize that held a liquid which was supposed to prevent termites and ants, in theory at least.

Maureen went back up the steps with her hands full, cradling her purchases against her breasts while Doris put the change in the pockets of her crisp white apron and neatly folded the paper notes and stuffed them into her bosom. She headed out to the next house.

Maureen was about to seat herself on one of the Morris chairs in the living room whose cushions were covered in a floral print as were the curtains, O shucks, no fags. She sighed, put on her slippers and headed for the Club which came into view as she crossed an open field behind the house near the roundabout.

This club was for the enjoyment of the ‘A’ staff or senior staff. The ‘B’ staff or junior staff had their own club in Santa Flora. The ‘B staff comprised people of color most of whom occupied much smaller houses in the village in close proximity to their club. Junior staff could only use their club while the senior staff had the benefit of using both.

Maureen walked past the Company’s private school. This was a rectangular shaped building in the same colors as the houses, but on low concrete posts. It had wooden louvered windows all along the side that she approached. She playfully pushed one of the two large swings to the left of the wide pitch playing area. The children used that at break time to play' kick the pan’, catch, hop scotch and other games.

To the right of the club across the road was an umbrella shaped flamboyant tree thickly covered with red flowers. Its branches reached out as if to caress the brightly painted circular summer house. The camp's children came here on evening with their respective maids, who wore starched white or blue caps and aprons. They would sit in a circle on the fixed wooden benches and exchange gossip. At the summer house there were three smaller swings, a seesaw, a climbing rack, a merry -go round and a slide. They sported all the colors of the rainbow.

Maureen entered the club from the rear through a lattice gate in the middle of a short brick wall that began where the billiards room ended. Glossy leafed variegated dieffenbachia plants in clay pots decorated this open part of the club. This area had been extended and was covered in a corrugated green sheeting that let the light in. From a large concrete pot on the far side a coral vine grew; its pink mass of flowers smothered the upright and spilled over in their exuberance onto the roof. There were small square varnished tables for card games, drafts and chess. On the underside attached to each table leg, was a beverage compartment curved and lined with vertical strips of mahogany wood. In the center of this entertainment section, with adequate empty space around it, was a ping pong table with a ball covered by two bats with rubber handles and pimpled rubber surfaces.

Maureen reached the bar and perched herself on a padded dark brown leather bar stool. The bartender was called Genius, a nick name that club members had given him. And with good reason. He seemed to be there all hours of day and night, knew every bodies’ names and the names of all their children and especially what club members’ favorite drinks were. When someone said Genius, the regular, he was spot on with the selection. He had a shiny bald head with the only remaining hair struggling to make its way in a narrow band from one ear to the next. He was of mixed race with a touch of ‘Spanish’ and a clean brown wrinkle free complexion. If he wasn't serving drinks or snacks, he was busy taking stock, mopping the floor behind the bar, or washing and polishing glasses which he neatly laid out on a clean white cloth. He always wore a long sleeved white shirt, and on special occasions a black bow tie, black long pants and black dress shoes.

Some nights he stayed so late with members drinking themselves to oblivion that it was pointless getting on his bike to ride home in the darkness six miles away only to literally turn around and come back again to open the club in the morning. Then he would have no option but to bed down on one of the large padded high back benches, (like those you would find in an old English pub), for some shut eye. He must have had either a very understanding wife or one who could care less.

Good morning Mrs. Tate, what is your wish? he said cheerfully. But before she could answer they were both distracted by a jitney that sped into the car park in front of the swimming pool a little faster than good sense would have recommended and then reversed all the way to the end of the parking lot next to the gutter by the public road.

This was ringed by three leaning short iron poles with a steel cable running through them. The pick -up door opened and Michael Radcliff, a production engineer and bachelor, jumped out, slammed the door loudly and walked briskly towards