The alarm goes off at 4.40. Dress in the darkness, let the dogs in, give them their biscuit and make tea for myself. Driving through Cocorite I am passed by an unmarked, dark-tinted SUV with blue lights flashing on the bonnet.
It immediately slows down, cuts between me and the truck I’ve been following and proceeds to tailgate the truck until the red light opposite the fish market when the truck moves over to the fast lane. Bizarre. I go through St James where the bars are open. Not bizarre.
Park at the Savannah opposite Roomor House. I look around, as usual. Two men are sitting down on the bench next to my parking spot. Something is a bit strange with them.
Short pants, barebacked and barefoot, they should be vagrants but they are well built and are talking quietly. One is putting on his shoes. The other has a supermarket trolley loaded down with a large cardboard box.
Are they undercover cops? Posing as vagrants? Extra security for Independence Saturday?
I get out, they ignore me, I warm up and walk off. As I do so three of the “ancient philosophers,” whose voices can sometimes be heard across the Savannah expanse, pass. We wish each other Happy Independence Day. Up Chancellor or “Mile A Minute Hill.” Or “Shouter Baptist Hill”?
Chancellor was named after Mary Chancellor the wife of John Chancellor, the English governor between 1916 and 1921.
Her husband is the piece of nastiness who passed the Shouter Baptist Prohibition Ordinance in 1917 which prevented followers of the Baptist faith from practising their religion in public on the grounds that the Baptist practice of chanting, shouting and the ringing of bells disturbed the peace. We should change the name to “Baptist Hill” or name it after an old-time Savannah walker, the Chineeman, “Mile A Minute”.
Halfway up the first stretch, two young men approach, weaving their way along, one with a plastic glass in his hand from which he periodically sips.
As we approach, he slips and has to be assisted by his partner. Not good news, there must be a fete at the top. Careful, there may be drunk drivers coming down.
A mile further up a single figure approaches, Independence colours, white cap, red shirt, black pants, we greet each other.
Around the corner comes a car, a lady hanging out of the right rear window. They slow down. The lady screams out: “Joel, what yuh doing?” Action! I turn to see.
“Joel, get back in the car!
“Joel, STOP!” I round the corner and lose the action. The woman had a powerful voice. Joel in trouble.
Just past Poui Hill Road, a gentleman is strolling up. As I approach he turns around and begins walking backwards. To develop the hamstrings, you see. A car is coming. He doesn’t seem to be aware.
The car comes up on him and suddenly swerves into his path. I shout out: “Car!”
He ignores me, the driver regains control, straightens and passes. I look at the road. There’s no hole, no obstruction, no dead agouti or squirrel, no shadow, what was the swerve for? Who knows what a confused mind sees at six in the morning after a night out?
A half-mile on I pass a young lady striding down. Brave or stupid or connected? She must have started going up in the darkness. She’s also dressed in Independence colours. I get my second “Happy Independence!” from her.
Near the top Ms Corbeau Town, coming down also greets me. It feels nice.
Three Happy Independence greetings and it’s not even 6.30.
At the top, the 30-something age group that works out on Saturday morning is there but the radio is not blasting, as usual, scaring off the wildlife and people like me.
Not a bad Independence Day start.
Now for a slow jog down, avoid the parade, home, and a coffee and bake breakfast.