Black River and the Beach

'Damn' I curse 'she beat me to it again'. Anja has just stuck her tongue out at me, before I could get in there first. Aren't fifteen year old nieces-twice-removed fun? We are on the beach.
Today is a more relaxing day, after the excitement and exertions of yesterday. We went to the Black River National Park near Chamarel. We walked to a view point, then back down again. It was too hot. We had lunch and went back to Flic en Flac beach. I slept and woke very thirsty, so I have some fresh coconut juice, from the coconut. I can't be bothered even swimming. Now I'm awake, Anja has started the 'call-uncle-Ivan-and-stick-your-tongue-out-before-he-does, game. She's winning, just.
Shall I read my book?
Na, can''t be bothered. I'll go for a paddle.
Now what? I suppose I'll have another snooze. This is tough.
Flic en Flac beach is a coral beach, but the coral is nearly as fine as sand itself. Sadly, nearly all of it in the bay is dead. You can swim to the reef and some is still alive there, but most is white. Lifeless. Dead.
As it's Sunday the beach is busy. Shade is free under the trees, but space is a premium. Families are gathered, picnicking and getting noisier as the afternoon progresses. Pretty soon the drums will start, beating to the rhythm Le Sega. This morning I bought six CDs, and when I get home I'm having a Sega party. Sega is a rhythm brought to the island from the African slaves. It is joyful, sexy and fun. Because of this the plantation owners banned it. So it also became an underground freedom movement. Of course now it is not just allowed, it is one of the delights of the island and a tourist attraction.
It hasn't started up yet. For now there is only the sound of the trees in the breeze and children playing.
The sea gently laps the beach. There are no big waves here. The reef makes sure of that. No sharks either, for the same reason.
Four small boys are playing keepy-uppy. They could have been me, my brother and cousins forty five years ago. This is the very beach pictured on my father's autobiography cover, of me and Peter jumping off a boat. We must have been six or seven years old.
As if to jolt me from imagining this place to be an island paradise, a ferrel dog appears, having snatched a chicken leg from one of the picnics. It is hard to believe that crime and drug abuse is high when you look at the peaceful, lazy pursuits of the beach goers this afternoon.
I think I'll just catch another forty winks while the sun's out