At 10.30 p.m. I set out on foot for The Happy Parrot. It was a few blocks from home and sometimes I picked Frida up on the motor bike, but the traffic was always bedlam in town on Saturday nights. There was often some sort of festival going on with the streets blocked off and it was easier to walk. I always made a point of picking her up; I didn't like her walking home by herself.
In the town centre, I pushed my way through the throngs of people singing and dancing in the street. Young men in baggy pants and loud shirts, generously proportioned women scantily clad in sequins and feathers, jiggling their breasts and wiggling their arses, children weaving in and out of the crowd, munching on pastries or slurping on bags of juice. A traditional calypso band was competing for attention with
