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.

Beyond the shack lay a field of bananas that were engaged in what appeared to be a losing battle with ever persistent creepers and weeds. The farm track came to an end and we began to weave our way through the plantation itself, heading towards the foot of a tall ridge where we would begin our ascent. A dog barked somewhere in the distance and a solitary cock crowed. I sensed a warning against this tomfoolery, but brushed it off with a somewhat unconvincing shrug, following the slight figure of Gurry, my guide, as he arrived at the edge of the field.

The original trailhead had disappeared under a massive landslide in the hurricane of 2004. Our plan was to climb this ridge, hopefully pick up the old trace once we reached the top, and then, with any luck, follow it to the summit of the mountain. Gurry had not been here since Ivan had struck, and everyone had told us the trail had been lost to the storm and the inevitable advance of nature. There were a lot of unknowns on this journey and plenty to be concerned about, but I had a book to write and that meant getting to the location of Fédon’s last stand. Gurry grinned, as if reading my mind and then set off up the hill.

Julien Fédon purchased the Belvidere Estate in 1791. His family hailed from Martinique and his wife was a ‘free coloured’ or mulatto woman. Influenced by the French Revolution of 1789, Fédon began a rebellion against British rule of Grenada and the oppressive regime of ultra protestant planters in the early hours of 3 March 1795. Over the next year he captured much of the island using a militia of mulattos and slaves, raiding and plundering British owned estates, capturing and killing their owners and managers. This very bloody and costly uprising eventually ended on 9 June 1796 in a battle on the summit of what is now known as Morne Fédon or Fédon’s Camp when he and his followers were finally defeated in a fearsome battle. Fédon’s body was never recovered and legend has it he escaped by throwing himself down the mountain and sailing to Trinidad. To many, including Gurry, Julien Fédon is a heroic figure, symbolizing the fight for freedom and independence and, though many lost their lives during this 15 month insurgency, he is often lauded for his liberation of island slaves.

The ascent of the ridge was steep and muddy, the bush dense and very unforgiving. Forging ahead, we cut narrow strips of brightly-coloured cloth and tied them to trees to mark our path, determined our return journey would be a little easier. Both of us carried machetes and we needed them. My arms and legs burned with the exertion of clearing and climbing and when we reached the crest of the ridge I flopped to the ground in a heap. Gurry wandered off and soon returned smiling; he had found the old trace.

Sadly, any hopes of our journey becoming easier were soon dashed by a wall of landslides, fallen trees, razor grass thickets and tangled undergrowth. Clearly, no-one had been along here since Hurricane Ivan and the climb to the summit was now a nightmarish prospect. Huge candlewood trees, torn from the earth by winds stronger than I could imagine, blocked what remained of the path. Sometimes we would clamber over them, nervously hoping our feet would find firm ground on the other side; other times we would crawl in the mud beneath them, not daring to think about how fast they were wedged. In several places the trail and ridge crest had fallen away completely and we found ourselves swinging precariously around the broken bases of trees, desperately grasping at roots and branches, anything that seemed tethered, with nothing below us but air and no-one but a stray dog and a cockerel to ever hear our final cries. Everything was wet; the saturated ground, the tree trunks, the branches, the leaves, and even the air around us as we approached the moist cloud forest environment of moss, ferns and mountain palm. We slipped and fell more times than we could count, pulling ourselves up again with all the strength we could muster, our bodies soaked through and covered in a layer of slime. Razor grass ripped exposed skin from ankle to face, adding blood to the unappetizing soup. Beneath our sodden clothes, red ants marauded and chiggers hitched a ride in our most sensitive regions. But we had reached that point when nothing mattered other than getting there. Wearily we trudged on.

It took about five hours to reach the summit; a small circle of grass and rock with a stone memorial to Fédon standing at its centre. Grinning from ear to ear, we shook hands and slumped against the stone, out of breath, hearts beating so fiercely they threatened to jump right out of our chests. After a short time Gurry turned and sat facing the memorial to his folk hero. I left him in peace for a while before he caught my eye and nodded. And then off we set again.

The Indian River lies below sea level and is tidal. Right now the waters are receding and the river banks ahead of us expose dark, dank mud flats where soldier crabs emerge and herons wait with baited breath. A kingfisher darts across the river ahead of us and Nature Boy emits a hoot of joy, no doubt relieved his tour is producing the goods. The afternoon is late and the low sun casts our long shadows across the sparkling water, revealing shoals of elusive mountain mullet and the rotting carcasses of tree trunks on the bottom.

My mind wanders to European sailors who anchored in the generous natural harbour of Ouyuhayo, later Prince Rupert Bay, and who ventured up this river in their less colourful yet more powerfully armed rowboats to unravel this magnificent and as yet undiscovered and unexploited country. Ahead of them were the foreboding volcanic peaks of Morne aux Diables and Diablotin, dense swathes of impenetrable rainforest, and to each side the unforgiving confusion and peril of Glanvillea Swamp. And what did the Kalinago think as they spied these strangers from the darkness ?

Nature Boy pulls up along side a damp and rotting wooden jetty, indicating a bush bar and the opportunity to drink. I swat sand flies from my ankles and follow him into the forest.

I spent last night in a small aluminium fishing skiff with two friends. We bobbed around just off the Roseau bay front, Newtown and the port at Fond Cole from midnight to around 5am. I have been fishing with them before and they are always good company.

The fishing was slow, very few bites and we were only catching a handful of small snapper. Accompanying us were two other small boats belonging to local fishermen. Their bouzzaille, traditional open flame torches, burned brightly, illuminating their boats and creating an image that seemed to belong better to the past. Every now and then, one of them would pass by, shifting position, looking for some better action.

‘They bitin’ ?’

‘Nah, nothing biting, we. I checkin lower down.’

‘I expectin’ kawang. They say tonight is the night.’

‘But they not giving up, we. At three o’clock they biting for sure.’

‘We jus’ waiting’ then.’

‘An prayin’.’

‘Is true.’

Music played across the still waters from a bar on the bay front. A couple of young men exchanged angry words about their mothers. A motorbike roared down the stretch. More music from south of Newtown, a live band, the singer reaching for notes like a banshee. Bass boomed.

The moon emerged from the eastern horizon, above the dark silhouette of the mountains. To the west, stars shone brightly in a clear sky. Two flying fish broke the surface and skipped in a blur past the boat. A small bite tugged my line. My fingers twitched waiting for confirmation before striking. Minutes passed. Nothing.

I reached for my flask of rum and coke and took a long slow pull. The alcohol warmed and woke me. I smiled inside, reflecting that I could still be working a nine-to-five in England, waiting at the railway station each morning, shivering in winter, cursing the rain and the monotony. Every day the same, the politics, the hassle, the dissatisfaction. The challenges and interest had faded away. Perhaps I missed the money, I certainly missed my friends, but I didn’t miss that life. I had managed to get away. And now, in warmer waters, in the peacefulness of the night I reflected on how much I loved it here.

‘Boy, I needin’ some little piece of action soon, we.’

‘Nearly three,’ I said. ‘The action should start soon.’

‘I hopin’.’

Another bite. A gentle enquiry. I tensed a little. The bells of the Roseau cathedral chimed the hour. The music faded, conversations stopped. I could hear my breathing, my heart pounded. My fingers pulled gently on the line, lifting my bait from the bottom just a fraction. Then another bite, good and strong this time. I struck, raising my arm high into the air. Immediately I recognised the weight of the fish fighting the hook. I began to retrieve the line, filling the spool, maintaining the tension.

‘You have something ?’

‘Yep, there’s something there.’

‘Kawang ?’

‘Maybe.’

‘Boy, it happenin’ now. I ready. Come now fish.’

In an instant the line went slack.

‘Lost it,’ I sighed.

‘You lose it ?’

‘Yeah, he’s gone.’

‘Boy, it was a good size ?’

‘Maybe,’ I said, retrieving my line. The bait was gone, along with the hook.

At 5am, we motored slowly back to the harbour. The eastern sky was beautiful as the rising sun, still hidden behind the dark outline of the mountainous interior, illuminated a broad patchwork of clouds across the sky. An idyllic scene.

The fish had not kept their promise and the evening’s catch was thin. But it didn’t matter. After packing away the boat and equipment, I passed through the Roseau market. Even at this early hour it was already lively and bustling. People were up and about, noises grew louder, colours returned. A new day was beginning.