THE DEBATE was on. I thought it was dangerous to go; the others figured we should ignore all the ghost stories and go get the fruits. Usually, nobody ventured into that place… ever. Five of us stood on the side of a large trench and eyed the beautiful and lush fruits growing in the great expanse of land beyond the stretch of water. Our teenage bellies demanded satisfaction, but our feet kept us firmly beyond the trench. Every one of us was afraid to venture into Le Repentir Cemetery. 
I grew up close to this huge burial ground and have seen numerous funerals taking place there. It therefore had great potential for jumbies, zombies and ghosts. This cemetery occupies an enormous area in central Georgetown. It is approximately two miles by half-a-mile, with a major roadway – aptly named Cemetery Road — dividing it. The ground was neatly laid out into blocks, with each religious denomination having their own burial area.
The place where the fruits were growing in abundance was obliquely opposite North East La Penitence. It was thick with vegetation, and it was known that that block was the burial site for those who received the death penalty. Fruits here grew ripe and full, falling in heaps for all to see. But nobody dared. That is, except these teenage boys.
We argued for and against the idea of picking fruits in that creepy place. Mark and Tony were in favour of the venture and began taunting us about being chicken and cowards. I bristled at this, but nothing could persuade me to go. Eventually, they were able to sway Collen, and the three started out on their long walk around the wide trench to the fruit trees. Swimming across was out of the question. The trench was infested with caimans and crocodiles. We waited impatiently for them to reappear in the cemetery, hoping that some of the fruity plunder would be thrown across to willing hands and hungry bellies.
Half an hour later, we heard voices and saw them in the distance making their way through the thick vegetation. The weeds were so tall that they were often completely obscured from our vision. Looking nervous and a bit uneasy, they headed for a cluster some distance away. They had to skirt a few fresh mounds of dirt to get there, and this gave fresh fuel to their imagination of who was buried there and what crime they had been executed for. They passed these unmarked graves, climbed the tree, and commenced to feast.
Standing at some distance on the other side, we shouted to them requesting a taste of their booty. Jeers and laughter were the only things that came our way.  “Chickens!  Weak-hearts! Cowards! Ha, ha, ha!”   We looked longingly at the forbidden fruits and wished we had gone with them. They moved from psidium to guava to plum and now to jamoon, eating as they went. The leaves were so thick that we could hardly see them. We relied on the sounds of delight coming from their fruity adventure.
Suddenly, there was a painful yelp, then silence. We froze, but stared intently at the tree they had last climbed. Images of the ghosts of dead convicts attacking and savaging my friends in revenge for their untimely demise danced in my head. There was a howl, followed by other sharp exclamations of pain and terror. We shouted enquiries at them, trying to ensure that they were safe. They were, however, busy dealing with the problem they had encountered. Loud screams rang out. Someone jumped from the higher branches, tumbled over, got up and raced away howling.
Expecting at any moment to see graves erupting and belching out grotesque zombies and corpses, I shouted to my friends, telling them to forget fruits and beat it out of there. They needed no encouragement from me. With cries of Ow! Ah! O God! Ouch! ringing in the air, the last two harvesters tumbled out of the tree and fled pell-mell  for safety, trashing the air around them and smacking themselves repeatedly. The tall bushes swallowed them up.
Fifteen minutes later, they came tearing up the dam that ran adjacent to the trench. We raced towards them, eager to find out what kind of creature had assailed them. It was not what we expected. You see, they had stumbled unwittingly onto a large wasp nest, disturbing the insects and paying the price for their transgression. This particular specie was known to us as ‘Follow-me’. The name told the story of the nature of these fierce creatures. Once disturbed, they would pursue their antagonist to great distances, delivering many a painful stings. These cause large and very painful swellings to the infected areas. The only thing that could save you from this vicious attack was a large body of water nearby, where you could hurriedly submerge yourself. The trench, on this occasion, held a much greater peril.
Our pals had already begun to show signs of swelling to the face, neck and arms. They scampered home to get the local remedies for such ailments. It was only after their departure that the humour of the situation hit us. We roared with laughter and teased them mercilessly for the next few days. No longer were we sulking because of not getting any fruits; we were very appreciative of having missed the ‘dessert’.
The next day, we gathered at our usual liming spot. Our three adventurers were slightly puffed and quite sore. The fruits were forgotten for the while. Two weeks later, another party headed into the forbidden zone. There was no debate, no argument or taunting. This time, I went along. I was sure they would want someone on the ground to catch the fruits.