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.

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.

Father Breton, who visited Dominica between 1642 and 1650 in an attempt to convert the Kalinago to Christianity, built the first church on the island in a settlement which is now Colihaut. The village is located at the foot of the Colihaut River valley and on the shores of the Caribbean Sea. A narrow street lined with mango trees leads you alongside the river and into the heart of the village where the Roman Catholic Church dominates the small houses, convenience stores and bars. The Church of St. Peter is constructed from stone with large wooden louvre windows and a tall bell tower. On the north side of the church is a small garden and in front of the entrance gate a message of love has been tiled into the pavement.

It was near this message of love that people assembled for the Colihaut 2007 Reunion Hike to Kachibona Lake. To meet and greet people who now live in the UK but who have both past and a present relationships with Colihaut, was a real pleasure and I couldn’t help but feel admiration and respect for those who had made the effort to support their village. Strangers made friends quickly and a spirit of comraderie seemed to develop quite effortlessly.

It is the history, both human and natural, that is the draw for this particular journey.The hike is tricky, through dense forest, following a trail that can be hard to follow and which, in many places, simply disappears. Passing through farmlands and through a river gulley, the route climbs a steep ridge and past some of the largest trees the forests of Dominica have to offer. Huge chatanier with simply enormous buttress roots are a sight to behold, and the largest gommier I have ever seen stands majestically on the crest of a ridge, ruling the forest, dominating history. Down a second deep valley and across a small river, we braced ourselves for a final tough climb. Once at the top of this second ridge, the trail meanders this way and that through the thick forest, and after around two hours, a small opening in the canopy ahead reveals the location of the tranquil water of Kachibona Lake.

And what of this lake ? Well, it is more a small pond these days. Victim of landslides and fallen debris, it is a sad reflection of its former self. Along side one of the shallow, muddy banks lay a large boa constrictor, some six feet long, in the slow process of digesting its breakfast. It began to rain. I imagined how it must have been for those maroon slaves, plucked out of the forests of Africa to survive sea crossing and torment before eventually ending up here. I wanted one of the organisers to say a few words, to remind everyone of the history of the place, but rain, tiredness, a snake, and the thought of lunchtime had stolen centre stage. On the walk back, our guide made a couple of diversions to show us the source of the Coulibistrie River and a beautiful stretch of river rapids. By the time we returned to Colihaut, we had given our muscles a good work-out, we had muddied a few clothes, and we had made some friends. I hope also that we had paid a little homage to those less fortunate who had walked there before us.