It was twilight time at Dominica’s Botanic Gardens sometime in 1968, and the Baobab, Black Rosewood and Balata trees which embroidered the cricket pitch were quickly receding from easy view.
Over to the west, the Caribbean Sea was sparkling beneath a lavish sunset of yellow and magenta streaks radiating outward. As the natural light dimmed with the encroaching night, my mother – amidst a crowd of town and country folk – hoisted me high to catch a glimpse of a man and woman talking in a box atop a forest green Land Rover jeep.
