Bond. James Bond had slipped in silently. I caught my breath and stopped dead in my tracks. Immaculate in soft grey, he stood in the shadows, right behind me. On a narrow ledge.
Besides the louvred sliding doors, I felt my back tingle. I turned, tongue-tied, to admire the debonair figure and the strong neck swathed in a scarf of iridescent blue bands from vivid electric, turquoise and deep azure to robust royal, noticing the snazzy “black checker” outfit and sleek matching bars. Sensing he was exhausted, worried he was hurt, I spotted a bruise to the shoulder, and an injury to the large, muscular chest. This agent could not scare my living daylights with his licence to kill looks.
Brilliant eyes with strange fiery reddish-orange irises and sharp black pupils studied me intensely but calmly. Instead of offering a martini far too early in the morning, I, being both shaken and stirred by the sudden sighting of the non-fictional M16 spy, forgot that I was ailing and carefully backed away until I cleared the corner, gasping. Scrambling to find my husband or a stiff cup of tea, I dashed into the 1960s house where we have been residing for only a month. Sickened, yet again, by black mould, this time concealed on the ceilings, I am feverishly hoping that our respiratory defence systems recover and I live to enjoy much more than another day, believing as Ian Fleming did in hope, that tomorrow never dies.
While he was not Daniel Craig, Roger Moore or Sean Connery, this proud visitor proved an even higher flyer, distinguished by the thin golden ring he wore, bearing the number 0007. While there are regional experts in pidgin English, for once, maybe twice in my 52 years, I did not know what to say, to the distinguished avian agent who landed in my life, Monday morning. My impromptu service was anything but secret or majestic, since I did recognise him with all the clothes on.
I tried gentle endearments, liquid refreshment and a mad mixture of raw rice, grains and seeds, recalled from my adventurous childhood days and watching my mother. He glanced at the meal with disdain, went straight to the drinks, and then strode through the open steel security doors, settling in comfort besides a stack of paintings in my home. We looked at each other. I picked him up, scratched his head, smoothed his back, checked the wounds and the Port-of-Spain (POS) mark plus the unique four-digit name number that identifies every registered racing pigeon in Trinidad and Tobago. I left him to rest, agreeing that diamonds are forever only since 1948, when an American copywriter coined the immortal advertising slogan for De Beers. Seeking emergency help and M, I checked online and called the first number I stumbled across on Youtube.
A few miles away, popular tour operator, Navin Kalpoo was having breakfast at the family home in the riverside settlement of La Paille, preparing to start another week of work, with his brother Ravi, navigating boatloads of visitors and families through the mangrove maze of the nearby Caroni Swamp, home to the bright flocks of scarlet ibis. The brothers emerged national heroes in late October 2018, for their gallant rescue of hundreds of residents, stranded in submerged villages along the overflowing Caroni River, following a weekend of exceptional rainfall, unprecedented flooding and official sloth. When Navin’s phone rang, he was stunned to hear the words, “0007” and my quip about “James Bond,” dropped everything, grabbed his vehicle’s keys and promised me, “a really funny story.”
Pigeons are among the oldest domesticated birds, with hundreds of breeds descended from the wild Rock doves that originally lived along cliffs from India to Scotland. Called a Racing Homer that is a newer type originating in Belgium, birds like “0007” were selectively bred for great speed and an incredible homing instinct. Developed during the 19th century, the Homer came from the crossing of various lines, with the high-flying French Cumulet leaving its mark of endurance and legendary strength to fly for hours, while the English Carrier transferred the innate ability to find the way home across vast distances. A Racing Homer can average a mile a minute through the air, for hours at a time
A young member of the POS Fleet Flyers Racing Pigeon Club, Kalpoo, 33, has loved birds all his life, but only became a real “fancier” or serious pigeon racer three years ago. With about 200 Homers at his loft, he undertakes regular training sessions with the youngsters, releasing them at points along the south coast, all the way to the furthest end of the island at Icacos, opposite Venezuela on the South American mainland.
Last year, businessman and fellow racing pigeon enthusiast, Brendon “Tony’ Chow Lin on who runs a smokehouse in the capital, generously agreed to enter a young, untested bird on Kalpoo’s behalf from his own stocks, after old fashioned joking from the tour operator about “wanting something good” from the veteran and “being young in the sport.” Chow Lin on planned a “one loft” race from his base in Morvant, East POS, that had distant Guyana, in its sight. That entry carried the FCI yellow ring colour for 2019 and the number 0007, plus the bird’s city of origin. The Federation Colombophile International (FCI), based in Halle, Belgium oversees the sport worldwide. Long established in Trinidad and Tobago, pigeon racing has been practiced for about a century here with different groups across boroughs, coming under the National Racing Pigeon Commission, instituted in 1963.
One loft-racing is a modern concept that tests birds who are patiently conditioned under an identical preparation regimen, from the same location. Each fancier submitted eight birds to the tough three-month Chow Lin on boot camp, with a final five shortlisted, and a reserve of three, given birds may be attacked and killed by predators such as hawks and falcons, Kalpoo explained.
Impressed by the assigned number, Kalpoo shortened it to the famous “007.” A descendant of the legendary line created by the late Belgian master Louis Van Loon, the Van Loon birds, such as 007, are known for their determination and stamina becoming one of the most influential strains in the world.
Last week Thursday, Kalpoo was out training his younger birds at Galeota Point, in Mayaro, along the southeastern coastline. Bond accompanied them to exercise and stay fit, since like all racers he loves to fly. He was the only bird not to return to the loft in Caroni about 37 miles away. “I was scared” Kalpoo admitted.
Examining the pigeon, Kalpoo surmised that it was singled out by a peregrine falcon since the predators are presently arriving or heading to the southern Caribbean from North America. “I strongly believe that my flock of birds on that day, was attacked by falcons, because they all did not come home in a bunch as normal,” returning separately or in in pairs.
“I knew something was wrong,” he said. Diving down into residential areas or a handy tree to avoid the falcon, the racing pigeon ended up hurt but alive, eventually outside our porch, having survived the Skyfall probably through the centuries-old samaan, for five days on fat reserves. Agent 007 is recovering well, like the fortunate warrior who always lives and let die.
ID celebrates life, like that of the wartime pigeon “Cher Ami” who survived and saved nearly 200 American soldiers in October 1918, delivering a message from the encircled battalion despite being shot in the chest, arriving with the right leg hanging only by a tendon and blind in an eye.
