By Johnny Coomansingh
As we go through the journey of life, there are huge patches of gru-gru that we encounter with the attendant douens that reside therein. This is a true story about some boys who dared to go deep into the Picton Road gru-gru patch in Sangre Grande, Trinidad, to hunt for birds.
Commonly called gru-gru, the wild palm grows to be about 10 to 12 feet tall. Stems are slender and are entirely covered with long thorns. Gru-gru palms populate in clumps sometimes covering large areas, as much as 10,000 square feet. Many of the clusters that grew in our hometown were part of the riparian vegetation of the Guaico River. Situated on the river’s edge, there was one special gru-gru patch that we frequented. We harvested bunches of the green-colored nuts, but there was more for the taking in that patch of thorny palms.
In the game of survival, people engage in activities that they would not have otherwise considered. As little ten or twelve-year-olds, the survival process saw us as foragers. As literal hunter-gatherers, we relished river fish, birds, wild berries, dried coconuts, young Christmas palm shoots, cashew, cashew nuts, mangoes, pineapple, sugar cane, bananas, wild berries, wild passion fruit, pois-doux, shaddock, portugals, oranges, pommecythere (June plums), chili plums, pommerac, guava, edible flowers, coco-shat, cocorite, gri-gri, gru-gru, and whatever else the immediate environment had to offer.
There is no shame in saying that we were living far below the poverty line. Looking for food became the daily ritual. We had no clue that many of the wild ‘things’ we harvested were laden with antioxidants. It could have been the reason why we never got sick, except for a cold that lasted a couple days. One of the ‘supplements’ we loved was gru-gru.
Although the harvesting process presented with some difficulty, gru-gru was something that all the children in our village relished. Gru-gru nuts must be harvested at the right stage. If the bunches of gru-gru are left too long on the tree, the kernels of the nut become quite hard and unpalatable; impossible to chew. To get to the soft and delicious kernel on the inside, the sour-tasting epicarp is normally removed by smashing the fruit with a hammer or a big stone.
After fishing for cascarob, our favorite fish found in the Guaico River, we used to go hunt for birds at sundown in the said gru-gru patch. We were all in the quest to find more food. We were like literal bachacs (leaf cutting ants). There were birds around that were big enough to make a good meal. A bird known as the ‘Big Eye Grieve’ or ‘Bare-eyed thrush’ (Turdus nudigenus) roosted in that particular patch of gru-gru.
There were others who also partook of this avian fare. For Claudette my primary school friend, catching the birds was quite easy. One day she explained to me that she and her siblings harvested quite a few birds on evenings. With a long, broad wooden bat, much like that of a cricket bat, they waited until sundown when the birds were flying at a low elevation to go roost in another gru-gru patch that grew along the old, defunct railway line. The bat worked like a charm to slap the birds to the ground. As a good little gang of village boys, our bird hunting activity was quite different.
Sometimes we went to hunt in a group of three, sometimes four, five, or six. Armed with homemade slingshots, a pocket full of stones, and a lighted flambeau, we went to the gru-gru patch to shoot a few birds. We would enter the gru-gru patch bare-footed, risking the huge thorns that would sometimes painfully pierce the soles of our feet.
Inside the gru-gru patch there were several tracks going in all directions. If you were a novice, you will not have had a clue as to the beginning or the end in the network of well-worn paths, and as the adage says: ‘If you don’t know where you are going, any road will take you there.’ The many tracks presented a maze, a puzzle to little bird hunters like us. The ‘fun’ in the gru-gru patch increased exponentially when more of us went to catch birds.
Outside the gru-gru patch at sundown there was enough daylight to see the entrance, but as you ventured further into the clump, darkness surrounded everyone like a cloak. The right track to follow was always the big question in mind on entering. The eldest boy in the front carried the flambeau to show the way. Carrying a fat Solo soft drink bottle half-filled with kerosene and fitted with a wick made from an old tee-shirt, the ‘flambeau man’ maintained a position in the middle of the track. All we had to do was keep looking at the light up in front to stay on course.
Not taking any chances, our mental ‘GPS receivers’ went in high alert inside the patch.
Everyone in the group had to keep pace. Without the light, an individual could go in another direction and be seriously lost. Leaning to the right or left could mean being pierced by thorns from the slender trunks of the gru-gru palm gauntlet. Each one of us had to make a mental map of the roads taken on entering. Every bend in the road must be registered accurately in the brain, just in case. Just in case of what?
Moments inside the patch were always scary; tense. Our minds played tricks on us. There were shadows in the patch that seemed like strange beings moving around. Imagination ran wild. Anything could happen, and, as usual, things happen. We were always very apprehensive, constantly watching for something; something bizarre, something sinister. We acted brave, but never speaking to anyone about our fears.
Thoughts in the gru-gru patch focused on several things, the first of which centered on whether anyone could catch a few birds. If you were a good shot you will kill a few birds for supper. We thought about the taste of a good roasted bird doused in black pepper and salt. Thinking about the acquisition of a bird or two was uppermost in everyone’s mind, but there was always an undercurrent running through the thought system. Our fear of the douen brought a certain discomfort in the gru-gru patch. No one wanted to be captured by a douen.
Legend has it that evil douens inhabit all gru-gru patches in Trinidad. Douens are thought to be the embodiment of babies who died before they were baptized. These creatures are thought to be short, naked, faceless little beings with their toes facing backwards. Wearing broad-rim straw hats, they would hang around houses in the village making a mournful whooping sound to attract little children whom they would eventually capture. Captured children are then taken deep into the forest where they will be fed raw canal fish and little red crabs. Such children will be lost forever, never seeing their parents or loved ones again. Uppermost in the minds of the little hunters were three things, the snagging of a bird or two, whether douens were around, and having a working knowledge of the exit from the gru-gru patch in case somebody ‘saw’ a douen.
As we got deeper into the hunt, deeper and deeper into the gru-gru patch, the little hunters found themselves in a world of imagination; like going down the ‘rabbit hole.’ Everyone waited and watched for the flambeau to go out or for someone wicked enough to extinguish the flame. Then the mayhem commenced. With no light, but knowing where to run, you refer to the mental map. The path to ‘freedom’ reels out like a rolled up tape. In the confusion, someone yells: “Douen! Douen! Douen!” then all hell breaks loose; bedlam, terror!
The fear associated with what we imagined could happen to someone if caught by a douen envelops the environment. Then the panic starts. People run in every direction, crashing into each other, and, of course, crashing into the thorns. Hear their screams when they tread on some ‘pickah,’ (thorns) “O gawd! O gawd! O gawd!” As they flee, many lose direction in their attempt to find freedom. An individual could drown, or worse yet, could be captured forever by Mama Glo, if they fell into the adjacent river. Mama Glo (Mama L’eau) is considered to be the ‘Mother of the Waters.’
To us, the gru-gru patch was an enchanted forest, mystical, frightful, and foreboding; holding secrets that we were unable to untangle. Without the calibration of your GPS you must not take the wrong turn lest you end up in a bigger gru-gru patch or in the adjacent river and perhaps drown. The gru-gru patch has a unique but horrible physiography. So symbolic of life with all its mazes, turns, obstacles, darkness, disappointments, confusion, noise, miserable upheavals and bedlam; the virtual gru-gru patch depicts the occurrences in a place, any place.
Nonetheless, we all ventured to get inside. Maybe it was the adrenaline rush that we loved to experience when we all ran out bawling until laughter broke out when we were back in the dimming sunlight. In the utter darkness, all you could have seen were the shadows of people passing you like supersonic aircraft. Fear makes an ordinary person do extraordinary things.
Eventually, we all find our way out of the gru-gru patch maze. The darkness is past, the light returns. The sun dips low, but there is still a glint of daylight outside. Laughing breathlessly, as the fear of the douens subsides, we seek for seats on the buttress of the Picton Street bridge. Without delay, we pluck the birds, and pick from our feet several gru-gru pickahs only to return the next day to meet with the imaginary douens in the gru-gru patch.
