Ramesh Sujanani, Contributor

I could not remember a summer that was so hot! Mind you, I thought summer in the tropics was always hot; and it seemed each year it got hotter. Global warming? Who knows? Since the rains stopped in mid-May, this June was a scorcher.

It was around 9:15 a.m. when I stepped into my car for the usual weekly drive to the resort town of Ocho Rios, and as I stepped up from the driveway opening the car door, a blast of hot air from the enclosed vehicle greeted me. I gingerly reached into the car, primed the accelerator pedal, and started the car with the air conditioning on. The engine of the Honda Accord roared to life, and the air started blowing out, still as hot as the desert wind.

Pressing the open window button on the door's control panel, I opened all windows, and stepped back for a few minutes, allowing the interior of the car to cool down somewhat. When a suitable time passed, I sat on the driver's seat and turned the windows up. That was much better, I thought, though I had to hold the steering wheel tenderly, as it had not yet lost all its heat. While cooling down, I realised the back of my shirt was already wet with sweat. Gradually, the car became more comfortable and I carefully reversed out of my driveway, moving slowly down the street.

Could I remember a summer like this? Not that easily, though there was that summer in St Maarten, I recalled, when I was still in active sales. I was travelling down island that July, and most of the island was low brush, coral rock and sea sand. The busy streets were rocky and poorly paved, and save for the shade from an occasional tall building, there was no respite from the dusty heat. Of course, when I stopped in one of the stores to see a client I welcomed the air conditioning provided. Some of the shops however just had ceiling fans. What made it was worse was that I was already dehydrated from drinks I had last night with that Haitian voodoo doctor. Remember him? I thought to myself, what a racket that guy had!

I turned the car unto the dual highway that led out of the city and I was well on my way out of town. Trucks and cars growled and squealed all around me like monsters from hell, spouting fire, dust and smoke.

Dr D Johnson, the Haitian, I recall was a tall distinguished man, with a straw hat, a well-trimmed moustache, well dressed in a dark tie. He was in his late 50s, but looked well for his age; a black man, well spoken and polite. We were having rounds of gin and tonic, with lime, and as we were introduced I thought I would ask the doctor about his practice.

I had never met this D Johnson before, but he had been pointed out as a voodoo or obeahman. And here he was at the Holland House, a favourite place for visiting businesspersons, having a drink at the lobby bar. I bought him a drink and we started to talk about people and business, and eventually I steered the conversation round to the doctor's practice. Dr Johnson laughed and said:

"The power of suggestion is not difficult with ignorant people. You find out their problems from relatives and friends, and share with them their intimate fears and desires. Then, you advise them what is practical and appropriate. It is the same problems with many persons. Their sweetheart is unfaithful, or they are unable to get married, illnesses, real or imagined. Sound sensible advice from years of experience in the practice does the trick. And if you mix some potion and give them some amulet or charm, what does it matter as long as they believe? I use an office and from that office I give advice for a fee. Isn't that what psychologists are doing? Well, it works the same way with me!"

What a revelation, I thought, a non-diploma practising psychologist dubbed a voodoo doctor! But I left the bar early and headed to bed with many glasses of gin under my belt. And here I was in the hot summer air, on a dusty street, with the cooling sea a stone's throw away, parched and dry. I stepped into a deli at lunchtime and had two icy cool bottles of apple juice before I felt my hydration level at a tolerable point. That day of summer was very hot, but did the cooling apple juice mark it in my memory?

My car made a turn over the brow of the hill and in the distance I could see the horizon, a study in green and blue of the hills and the aqua Caribbean Sea, which formed a link between two tapering green mountains. I thought of the hotel pool and hoped I might just take a dip before going to work. But, the thought ran through my mind, that nights by the seashore can also be very hot, as the summer seas retain the day's heat until well past midnight. Then, I remembered the night Kaye and I made our last date.

Kaye was somewhere in between Derrick and myself, a triangular relationship that went one way at first and then the other way, and eventually everyone lost. She liked Derrick but he was married, on the verge of a divorce. I was single and building a career; I loved her, but she loved Derrick. Then Derrick decided to go back to his wife and Kaye decided to go away. I took her to the movies at the Harbour View drive-in theatre by the sea, but it was so hot and crowded we left early. I drove her into the park by the sea nearby where lovers often went. We parked, keeping the car doors wide open to catch whatever breeze would come in; but there was none. The music from a neighbouring car radio sounded through the summer's night:

"The breeze and I are saying with a sigh, that you no longer care;

The breeze and I are whispering good-bye, to a dream we used to share:

Ours, was a love song constant as the moon, ending in a strange, mournful tune,

And all around me, they know you have departed without me, and we wonder why,

The Breeze and I."

How I pleaded with her to stay on and make our relationship work, but to no avail.

And there was no breeze that night, no love, no affection, not even conversation of any importance, only the summer's heat. Kaye left me, uncertain and confused. I went on with my life, but I remember that stifling summer's night as a low point in my life.

The Honda screamed down the slope leading into the town off Ocho Rios. Outside, I could see the trees swaying in the wind, and I knew it would be a little cooler outside with the wind from the sea. The blue horizon loomed larger and larger, and I could see the sailboats in the distance, with their full colourful sails, moving across the bay.

Checking into my apartment hotel, I grabbed a coke and headed poolside in my swim trunks. What the hell, I thought, I would do my business after lunch, and only after my dip in the shimmering blue waters of the pool, as I felt the cool healing waters around me.