JAMOON lay deep in the countryside among heavy forest and a narrow winding river. It was an old sugar community that had seen its ancestors enslaved by the white plantation owners. Now the village lay scattered along three small mud streets.
The residents were still employed by the nearby sugar estate. Those not working there had found employment in the city. With no electricity or other modern facilities, the villagers lived a simple life. Some saw this as backward existence.

There was one very vibrant feature about this otherwise quiet place; its respect for folklore. Stories were in abundance about all sorts of creatures. Villagers had reported seeing, meeting and quickly leaving these strange and frightening spirits.
Of all the roaming spirits, the `Dutchman’ was the one that was most regularly sighted. He could be seen riding his horse regaled in his shining riding boots, bughouse hat and riding whip. It was a strange affair of ‘Now you see me, now you don’t.’ But whether you saw him or not you could hear his horse galloping along the lonely moonlit roads. Villagers learned to keep their distance. It seemed as though the Dutch spirit had a firm hold on this superstitious community. That is until another spirit decided to challenge him.

Some hapless soul living in the village brought home a `Baccoo’. The woman was forgetful and spent a lot of time in the city. Unfortunately, she forgot to feed the `Baccoo’. That was when the trouble began. The angry, hungry spirit reacted as expected. Bricks, bottles, stones, sticks rained down on the woman’s house and those of her neighbours. Anyone who dared to pass when it was in action got a chance to feel how a shooting target feels. Bam! Crack! Pow! Wack! People had to flee in order to escape missiles.
One bright moonlit night while `Baccoo’ was in an especially bad mood, Dutchman cantered by on his horse. He was hit by a torrent of missiles. He beat a hasty retreat. Next night, he returned ready for this obstinate creature. He cornered `Baccoo’ and his whip went to work in a vicious way. Poor `Baccoo’ got a good thrashing.

Two nights later, `Baccoo’ lay in waiting. As soon as the `Dutchman’ approached, he launched his surprise attack. But `Dutchman’ anticipated this. Now `Baccoo’ is a descendant of slaves and `Dutchman’ is a descendant of Plantation owners. Their animosity boiled over and a big ‘pashway’ began. It was lash fo pelt. Bam! Crack! Ply! Pow!
Both parties sustained substantial injuries.` Dutchman’ retired to his tomb but unknown to him, the smart `Baccoo’ followed him.

That night when a sore and tired Dutch spirit tried to rest he got a rude awakening. Bricks, bottles, stones and sticks rained down on his tomb. He was furious but could not catch the elusive `Baccoo’. Next night, he decided to set a trap of his own. He got some ripe banana, fresh milk and raw nuts and put them in a special spot where it could easily be seen by `Baccoo’.
Sure enough, the starving `Baccoo’ could not resist the goodies. Halfway through the meal he got his belly full of lashes.
Ply! Pow! Crack!
`Dutchman’ was having his revenge. They both realised that neither of them could win the war. A truce was called and they became friends. Some nights villagers say they see `Dutchman’ riding his horse and riding next to him is a short, big head black man on a donkey. Small man – small donkey! Ha! Ha! Ha!