It seems an lawfully imperialistic game, croquet, when you play it amidst plan trees under the ten-degrees Latitude sun. I'd never played before, never even handled a wooden mallet or watched a ball roll Lazily through a wicket.

It's a simple game, a lot like miniature golf, only it's played on real grass, with a bigger, less rubbery ball and a clunky wooden mallet instead of a slim metal club. And with wickets and stakes instead of holes. And all-natural obstacles--no electronic windmills with flashing lights.

I had always associated croquet with Victorian imperialism--from novels and movies about the British in Africa, heedlessly playing games on lush plantations. To play it in Jamaica, independent from Britain for only a quarter century, seemed unsettlingly appropriate. We were strangers in this country, foreigners whose money flowed freely into the overpriced attractions and cheaply made handicrafts. We gaped at the Landscape and reveled in the temperature.

Like much of Jamaica, Port Antonio, the closest town to the house where we stayed, is fairly depressed. The fifth largest city in the island nation, it was once a major West Indies port, a key stop on the banana trade route. The few central streets are lined with small stores, but on hot, humid, Languid days, most of the town's activity takes place in a bustling indoor-outdoor marketplace. Outside, stands offer groceries and producer. Inside, the market is divided into two areas, in one, Jamaicans purchase clothing and choose from among rows upon rows of shoes. In the other, tourists barter with the small-time entrepreneurs who hawk handmade jewelry, wood, carvings, along with T-shirts, key chains, and other hackneyed souvenirs.

Jamaica adopted the British parliamentary system upon its independence, but the country remains unstable, chafing under the weight of its depressed economy. We first entered Port Antonio in the midst of a political rally; the opposing candidate for prime minister stood with a microphone in the center square, shouting a stream of political slogans above the din of reggae music. A throng of people cheered restlessly. A few days later, the incumbent party won in a landslide.

Several days later, when the post-election riots in Kingston, the capital, had subsided and the death count had been tallied, a few military officers ambled through the Port Antomo streets. On election day, of course, we hadn't left the safe seclusion of our house. We had played croquet.

We took turns swinging our mallets and watching expectantly as the balls crashed into the wickets, of fell disappointingly short. If we were tremendously talented (which a couple of us were) or tremendously lucky (which I want the ball would go through.

The course covered the area of a tennis court, maybe a little more. We pushed our balls past trees and rocks, over grass of different textures, in and out of wickets toward our final goal a makeshift stake, a rock somebody found on the ground. It was a race to reach the stake, but as soon as someone reached the final goal, we changed the rules. The game became Killer Croquet. If you hit the stake first, you were poison, and your goal was to knock out every other player permanently Hitting another ball meant death for your opponent. Hitting a wicket meant suicide.

Usually, the first to complete the course lingered around the stake, waiting to attack the other finishing players, knocking off one or two. But in cases, the last to reach the stake wound up winning the game. Finishing first meant nothing. The rules meant little.

We visited Port Antonio again to dance in a tourist filled nightclub, to purchase more sun block, to venture from the harbor in a yacht. We also reentered the marketplace to buy gifts for friends and family back home. Leaving the country, we came across a copy of a Jamaican paper. The Sunday Gleaner. Its top story was a glowing account of the prime minister's inauguration. His win, the article said, represented an overwhelming mandate to improve the nation's economic status.

It will take some time to build a fledgling nation from its third world position, to develop more industry and encourage competition. If Jamaica is to shed its political instability, it can't rely so much on the lazy attention of tourists who flood the cities and coastal towns, seeking a warm climate and a level grassy Terram, perfect for croquet.

We folded the newspaper and put it in a basket, purchased from the Port Antonio marketplace. Also in the basket was a broken croquet ball. After hitting the final stake in one game, a player tried to knock the ball clear across the field, where another player grappled with a difficult wicket. The thrill of victory surpassing, just for a moment, his vacation sluggishness, he whacked the ball so hard it split in two.

Had we played by the true rules, it never would have happened. But it was our game, so we did what we want. Nobody really minded. It wasn't worth shopping for another croquet ball, or a replacement set; they didn't sell them in the marketplace, and besides, we wouldn't be back in Jamaica for a long time.