I first saw Nelly Stharre on stage in Dominica ten years ago, singing songs that made the hair on the back of my neck stand up on end. Dressed in a forest green jacket, matching long skirt and black boots, she looked like a child of Che Guevara. I was completely hooked and rushed out the next day to buy her latest CD, Rain Jah. It was her second album at the time; a collection of reggae that embraced Rastafarianism, challenged those who sought to ‘lick you with sticks and bricks and break your feelin’ and, with ballads such as Inside Of Me, offered soulful insights into the artist’s innermost thoughts and sensitivities. Rain Jah followed her 1995 debut album Wake Up !, an ensemble of mostly zouk songs recorded in Guadeloupe during a period of her life that still conjures up sad memories but which, she says, has made her stronger and brought her to where she is today.

Soul Country in 2004 was an album that suggested Nelly was on a musical journey, maturing as an artist and not afraid to experiment. It is a fusion of cadence and reggae and, though the sounds are collectively beautiful, it is the depth and richness of the lyric that makes this piece of work such a success.  Problem, for instance, is a no-holds-barred declaration of war on injustice through the medium of music (‘music is the weapons of the people with no guns and ammunition’) and the chilling Leaders of The World is a sentient anthem of our time that simply demands your attention (‘you’ve got the feed the people / that’s the only solution / children can’t get nutrition from wars and ammunition’).

“I don’t really write happy songs,” she smiles. “But when I perform live I see joy on the faces of the audience as they get consciousness from my music. It’s a wonderful feeling.”

When I was arranging the interview, Nelly asked me to take her hiking somewhere she had never been to before; ‘preferably somewhere green and with water’.

“I can’t get through a day without being in water” she says. “When I come home I take off in the afternoons and spend hours by the river. They send out rescue parties looking for me.” She was back in Dominica arranging a jazz concert, the latest show she was co-promoting under the ‘Year of The Child” banner, a charitable movement aimed at helping children in need; those who find themselves either homeless, in trouble with the law, abused, or orphaned because of AIDS. She undertakes similar fund-raising work in Jamaica where she has lived on and off for several years with her husband and three young children.

Born in the year of Dominica’s notorious Dread Act (1974), Nelly Stharre picked up the nickname Revolutionary Baby. It is a title that seems to fit perfectly with both a rebellious adolescence and a philosophical adulthood. “I have always been a rebel,” she says. “At school I would stand up for the underdog or against something that I thought was wrong. I was always getting into trouble.”

Nelly attended a strict Roman Catholic high school and found attitudes oppressive. “The problem with questioning things and wanting to believe in something different was that people couldn’t accept it. If you didn’t conform, they thought there was something wrong with you. Maybe you were possessed. Maybe you needed medication. Maybe you should be put on a psychiatric ward.” I wondered if her non-conformity was a key factor in her becoming such a dedicated Rastafarian ?

“You don’t become a Rasta. It is inside you,” she says. “It has always been there. You just have to connect with it. Everyone has it. I remember once writing that I thought Jesus was a bit of a Rasta, enduring everything he did. I got into lots of trouble for that too,” she grins.

I have brought Nelly on a short hike to a waterfall she has not seen before and she is delighted. In fact she seems eager to forget about the interview entirely and just jump into the clear waters of the pool.

“I have a connection to nature that is hard to put into words. I just feel it, you know ? That’s why I am planning to come back to live in Dominica. It’s time. Nature is calling me, she is speaking to me. When I was a girl I used to run away into the bush. I’d walk all the way up the Roseau Valley, just me and my dog. The guys on their farms all knew me. I was always doing it. Trust me, if you spend enough time with me, you’ll think I’m crazy; talking to rocks and trees, that kind of thing. But there’s something about Dominica. I can’t stay away.”

I wonder what made her leave in the first place. She has spent time abroad, studying and living in the US and UK and now she has a home in Kingston, Jamaica.

“There are good and bad qualities to Jamaica and Dominica. Sometimes I wish I could just take the best bits of both, put them together and live in that place. With Dominica, it’s nature. With Jamaica it is acceptance. Rastas are part of society there; completely integrated and respected for who they are. It has been good for my children. I think in Dominica people have never properly confronted nor dealt with everything that took place during the time of the Dread Act. Terrible things happened. The police could shoot you just for having locks, and they did. That legacy, the class attitudes, the misunderstandings, they are all still there somehow and so I don’t think Rastas enjoy that same level of acceptance yet.”

But it is clear Nelly Stharre is ready to return. Just looking at her in these surroundings of rainforest and waterfalls makes me realize how difficult it must have been for her to leave in the first place. Nelly is a fam tew, a woman of the earth. Unable to wait any longer, she decides it is time for a bathe and when I watch her swimming under the water, she seems to be an integral part of the scenery.

She returns refreshed and beaming. I ask her about new music and she tells me to expect an album in summer. It has been a long wait.

“It’s because I’m more interested in lyrics. If it takes me forever to write good words that can last twenty or more years, then so be it. I’d rather do that than write something everyone will just forget. Actually I don’t think I’m that good a singer anyway. I love words more. I like to write poetry.”

This time the songs are a fusion of blues and reggae and include Pirates, Life Goes On, and the wonderful Moon Men, a number that defies its catchy refrain by suggesting that if mankind can achieve amazing things like sending men to the moon, then letting people starve and live in poverty must be a deliberate act. So the rebellion is still there ?

“Of course,” she smiles. “Jah willing, the sun rises every day and will always give us the opportunity to do things better.”

(This feature appears in May/June 2010 Caribbean Beat)

I really enjoy hiking, always have done, even though these days I know that my aging muscles and bones will gripe at me afterwards. But recently I have discovered that the days when I would take on a hiking challenge just for the hell of it (and the reward of cold beers at the end) appear to have been transcended by a desire to learn more about the beauty and diversity of my natural environment. Don’t get me wrong, I still relish those beers, but the hike itself has become as much a journey for my mind as it always has been for my body.

I like to hike with Octave, a good friend who has grown up on the island and for whom trees, plants and flowers have become an intrinsic part of life. He is a Rastafarian who makes a living as a tour guide and who, together with his wife Rahel, runs a small eco-cottage called Hide-Out on the banks of the pretty Geneva River on Dominica’s south coast. In the low season Octave tends the fruits and vegetables of his garden, repairs his simple house, and sells coconuts for a few dollars at the market in the capital, Roseau. His garden is an education in itself, indeed he often spends time walking around it with his guests, pointing out the wide variety of fruit trees, flowers and unassuming plants most would overlook but which he uses to make exotic bush teas; delicious herbal infusions whose combinations offer a bewildering assortment of natural remedies.

On a climb up the steep slopes of Morne Trois Pitons, namesake of one of Dominica’s three national parks and itself a UNESCO World Heritage Site, Octave crouches and points to something in the dense foliage of the rainforest. “Siffleur montagne, the mountain whistler, properly known as the rufous-throated solitaire,” he whispers. “Listen.” The unmistakable whistle of the bird that accompanies hikers through Dominica’s elevated rainforest habitat, yet which is notoriously illusive, almost pierces my eardrums it is so close. I stare into the foliage, determined to spot it. My eyes strain so hard they almost bleed as I follow Octave’s extended arm and finger. And miracles do happen, because I do see it. Indeed, how on earth could I miss it, I wonder ? With its light grey chest and bright red throat, this unassuming bird sits on the branch of a young balsa tree, a bois flot, belting out a tune just for us, it seems. Octave grins at me, “You see it now ?”

He has eyes for this kind of thing and I am envious. I grew up in a Yorkshire mining village where the most exotic birds I saw were distant silhouettes disappearing into a grey backdrop of chimneys, cooling towers and cloudy skies as they migrated to magical lands far, far away. I have so much to learn about my new surroundings that it is almost like being reborn. As we tramp onwards and upwards, Octave points out bois bandé, a tree whose bark is considered an aphrodisiac, tabac zombie, a plant whose leaves make a warming tea to combat colds, and bois fou fou, the vibrant hummingbird tree. Right on cue, a purple-throated Carib enters from stage right, performs an airborne pirouette, and then exits in a blur.

Trying to consume and retain information about Dominica’s natural environment is a little like attempting to eat all the food at a wedding reception. There is so much, you just can’t do it. “Is there a bush tea that might help me remember all these things?” I joke. “You could try basilic”, Octave replies earnestly. “Mixed with a little rosemary.”

There are around 200 recorded species of fern in Dominica. A bewildering thought. The island boasts two endemic Amazonian parrots, the Sisserou and the Jaco, 4 endemic species of hummingbird, 75 species of orchid, around 200 observed species of birds and 50 of butterflies. Rainforest is by far the most widespread vegetation type, most of it untouched by man. There is an incredible diversity of plants, trees and flowers; from the mighty gommier or gum tree from which Kalinago, Dominica’s indigenous people, continue to hand-craft canoes, to variegated anthuriums, ginger lilies and heliconias. It is an explosion of life and colour.

At the peak of the mountain the views extend in all directions. A blanket of green clusia and miconia bushes interrupted by occasional protrusions of mountain palms and bromeliads fills our entire field of vision. In the distance is Dominica’s highest volcano, Morne Diablotin, and beyond it the hills of Guadeloupe. We have been scrambling up rocks and climbing through tree branches for the last half hour and I am nicely caked in a thick soup of sweat and sticky mud. And beneath this layer of grime, my skin has become decorated with a fine patchwork of razor grass scratches. In complete contrast, Octave is so clean and tidy he looks like he has simply drifted up the mountain on the light trade winds. Annoyingly, he does this every time.

On the way back down the mountain, two Jaco parrots take off from the canopy in a cacophony of squawking, their brilliant green and red plumage illuminated by the afternoon sun. A little further along the trail, an agouti nibbles at a piece of gommier fruit, a windfall for this timid forest mammal. It pauses for a moment, sniffs the air (I realize I must be fairly ripe myself by this point), and then skedaddles at full pelt into the darkness and mystery of the undergrowth.

“Z’ailes mouches,” says Octave, pointing to a preponderance of dual lobed palm-like leaves. This one I know. These plants are traditionally used by the Kalinago for roof thatching and to line the inside of larouma basket ware to make it waterproof. “Elephant ear anthurium, “ I grin, looking at a plant with huge leaves that is clinging to the trunk (appropriately enough, though no pun intended) of a beautiful giant tree fern, known locally as fougère. “Birds nest anthurium,” says Octave. “And look, a bee orchid,” he smiles, cradling a delicate yellow flower in his leathery hands. I know this is a contest I will never win but I really enjoy the taking part. Because to me this is what hiking in Dominica has become. No longer a forced march, a get-to-the-end-if-it-bloody-well-kills-me challenge, a walk in these pristine forests has turned into a consummate pleasure, and a marvelous education.

We get back to my truck and Octave borrows my cutlass to open a couple of coconuts we brought along. They are a real treat and we sit on the lemongrass verge sipping their delicious waters and scraping out the sweet jelly to eat. Before us is the mountain, Morne Trois Pitons, once again majestic and serene. Yet beneath the canopy of its verdant shroud hides a world of such mesmerizing magnificence and complexity, no words can ever adequately explain it. Somewhere up there the mountain whistler is still singing, the hummingbirds still dancing, and an agouti is nibbling away at a piece of forest fruit whose name I have already forgotten.

(Appears in the March 2010 issue of Caribbean Beat )

I found myself doing a lot of walking on Carriacou. Combined with hitching rides and taking local buses, it is absolutely the best way to explore this enchanting island of castaways, boat builders, big drummers, and some of the most idyllic stretches of sand in the Caribbean.

Carriacou and its diminutive sister, Petite Martinique, are located in the Southern Grenadines and belong to the tri-island nation of Grenada. You can get there by light aircraft from Maurice Bishop International Airport, but actually I think it’s much more fun to hop on board the Osprey Ferry which departs daily from the Carenage in Grenada’s capital, St. George’s. The journey takes about 90 minutes and passes along the pretty west coast of Grenada. It’s a great way to meet Kayaks, the name given to the people of Carriacou who, more often than not, will be buried beneath overflowing bags of supplies they have purchased from stores on the main island.

The ferry arrives at Hillsborough, Carriacou’s principle town. Fringed by a narrow beach and located on a beautiful bay, Hillsborough has just one main street which is lined with a hotchpotch of stores selling clothing, food and delicacies, a number of simple eateries, and a smattering of small market stalls. The Carriacou Museum, housed in a former 19^th century cotton ginnery, has a fine collection of Amerindian artifacts that are regularly unearthed along the island’s ever eroding windward coastline of Sabazan.

I decide to head along the beach towards L’Esterre Bay. It used to be possible to walk and drive right across the Lauriston Airstrip to get to Carriacou’s south western coast, but now, if you are driving, you have to take a rather wayward inland route to get there. On foot, it is much more fun. At Lauriston Point, where the beach and road come to an end, a narrow footpath appears in the coastal mangrove. Meandering this way and that, ducking beneath low branches, and occasionally emerging at a shoreline of shallow oyster beds, I finally arrive at Paradise Beach. Serene and idyllic, Paradise Beach has to be one of the Caribbean’s finest. I enjoy a drink at the Hardwood Bar & Snackette. The bar has a water taxi that can take you to the outlying Sandy and Mabouya islands where shallow inshore reefs make for great snorkeling. Aside from a cook, a waitress and a couple of gulls that are perched on the bow of a lonely rowing boat, I seem to have this beautiful place all to myself. Sunlight sparkles off the clear, calm waters, where not even a ripple seems to disturb the serenity.

Before heading off towards Harvey Vale and Tyrell Bay, I buy an attractive hand-made t-shirt from Fidel Productions, and wander through the sleepy village of L’Esterre where, it is said, people still converse in French Patois. But sadly there is no-one around, just the enticing aroma of freshly baked bread from Henrietta’s Bakery to keep me company along the road. The expansive Tyrell Bay is a natural anchorage and home to the Carriacou Yacht Club. Its sheltered waters are crowded with an assortment of vessels, from expensive-looking yachts to rather sorry-looking old wooden schooners. The bay front at Harvey Vale is crammed with bars and eateries, most offering a good selection of local lunches, including a bewildering variety of lambi, or queen conch, dishes. I resist a few beckoning waves and instead continue my trek, wandering around to Hermitage, a quaint settlement of squat stone houses that nestles on the southern tip of the bay, and where long-bearded castaways seem to be fixing up the shipwrecks in which they were once marooned. At the Lazy Turtle restaurant I grab a cold beer and a bite of pizza, probably the best there is in this little corner of world’s end.

The next day I decide to walk north from Hillsborough. I pass through the villages of Craigston and Bogles (where Roxanne and Phil run the very unique Bogles Round House Restaurant) and arrive at the beginning of the High North Nature Trail, a coastal woodland path that skirts the High North National Park. The trail, like the rest of Carriacou, is supremely peaceful and I enjoy the tranquility of its woodland scenery and the lofty views down to the western coastline. At a paint splash on a large boulder I take a detour, heading downhill through rough scrubland and rocks to emerge at Anse La Roche, a very attractive beach and bay. Here the sea is rolling in with a purpose, crashing down hard onto the untouched white sand beach. Anse La Roche is Carriacou’s big secret; the beach those in the know whisper and nod their heads about to each other when they hear tourists heaping praise upon Paradise beach in the south. But for me, Carriacou’s finest stretch of white sand only reveals itself after a further walk through yet another coastal mangrove forest, this time in the far north at L’Appelle, beyond the bluff of Gun Point. The long, narrow beach at Petit Carenage Bay is absolutely breathtaking. Turquoise waves dance in all directions in confusing currents. Across the water is Petite Martinique and, to the east, stranded on a shallow reef, is the rather melancholy hull of a grounded ship that is just begging to have its picture taken or its portrait painted.

Rounding the top end, the trail turns into a narrow road and I enter the village of Windward. Home to the world famous Carriacou sloops, Windward has a tradition of boat building that goes back to the days of the first settlers from Scotland, whose ancestors still live in the village today, and whose maritime skills have been passed down through the generations. Along the water’s edge, skeletons of hulls take shape and stand facing down the seas they will one day try to master. Windward boat launchings draw people from across the island to this quiet corner where fiddlers and guitar players sing sea shanties, women cook traditional oil-down and cou-cou in large iron pots over open fires, and men flex their muscles in preparation for the final heave-ho. Together with village Maroon Festivals and Big Drum dancing, both vivid evocations of an African legacy, boat building is a quintessential part of Carriacou’s cultural heritage.

I climb out of Windward, up the sloping hillside of Limlair, a landscape of pigeon peas and black sage scrublands. At Belair, stone windmill towers are another reminder of the island’s past, where estates would harness wind power to drive sugar cane and lime crushers. Children wave at me as I reach the brow of the hill and begin my descent back down to Hillsborough Bay. They accompany me for a while, asking where I am from and why I am walking. I tell them that if I had not been walking I wouldn’t have been lucky enough to meet them and their beaming smiles outshine the sun. Arriving in Hillsborough, I sit on the jetty and wait for the ferry to arrive. Experiencing Carriacou has been like taking a welcome time-out, and I am very reluctant to get back into the game.

A teenager emerged from a wooden shack; a sheepish girl shading her eyes from the sunlight crouched semi-naked behind him. He waved a good morning.
‘Hi there. Is Israel about ?’
‘No, he not there, oui.’
‘You know where he is ?’
‘Yes, he at Laudat since yesterday.’
‘Is he coming back ?’
‘Yes.’
‘You know what time ? He was supposed to meet us here at 7.30.’
‘About 8. Or maybe 9. Maybe.’
‘Is Victoria here ?’
‘No she not there, oui.’
‘You know where she is ?’
‘Yes, she gone to catch crabs.’

We were here to make a short film about them. A day in the life. She cooking, he going to the bush to chop down a tree fern and then carve a mask to sell on his roadside stall. It was their life. Time must mean little when things are simplified to an extreme, I ventured. Pierre nodded and looked for more artsy camera angles. We were all just doing our thing.

‘Let’s go find some coffee somewhere,’ I said.
‘What about them ?’
‘They’ll turn up.’
‘You sure ?’
‘Nope,’ I smiled. ‘What happens happens.’
‘I guess.’

I went to look for the teenager who I assumed to be their son. He was out back kicking at the ground. The girl was now properly dressed and seemed to be leaving.

‘Hi. We’re just going to look for some breakfast. If Israel or Victoria come back, please tell them we won’t be long.’
‘Okay.’
‘You think they may be back soon ?’
‘Yes. No. I don’t think so, oui. Maybe this afternoon. Maybe.’

Just as we had finished packing our equipment into the back of the car a bus turned up. Out stepped Israel, grinning from ear to ear. Behind him, just in shot, Victoria was approaching along the road. She was carrying a sack that very obviously contained something that was still alive.

‘Crabs !’ she laughed as she arrived.

We all shook hands and smiled. Only now mattered. Israel picked up his file and machete and wandered over to his bench where he began sharpening. We unloaded the gear.