The wheels hit the runway and, as the tail shakes it’s feathers and momentum dissipates, all the forces which have kept me up subside. A country mile of travellated concourse routes us through from one gate to another. I alternate between obstruction and obstructing as I try to find my pace. Then, the is it me eye of passport control winks the doors open, and like a cow that’s already on someone’s menu, I step through. I catch myself in a mirror, yes it’s me, but over my shoulder I see a path that unwinds behind me, with footsteps I didn’t know I had taken.
I walk to Greenwich for counsel, by roads, high roads, under a warming sun. I tell and tell and tell my story, and listen to others, and see not a tale’s end, not even a closing chapter, but a pause, as light as a comma.
Bambaclaat says Eddo, and then, after a pause, so it is. I hear these words for the first time as I tell him about the latest customs palaver. Being thwarted is brief, the adaptation to new circumstances is what matters. A message from Eunice, good morning Tash, good morning Nick, blessings to you both, heavy rain these last days, for that we give thanks, strikes a similar chord. The shift in key from the bum notes playing out in my head, is slower.
Handing over is letting go, putting down what I’ve taken up. The delicate vines of vanilla creeping round and up to the light need to be pollinated by hand, the window is short, the seed a reward. I disentangle myself and carefully drape Alan and Branwen with the fragile growth. Instructions on husbandry, written, spoken, drawn and acted out, do not put them off. They know what they’re doing. The build crew know what their doing. I try my hand at spectating, but I’ve much to learn. I stare at the roof taking shape, marvel at the simplicity of their scaffold, the steep bank behind planted with dasheen, the palms and bananas, the wild dense electric dream. I am held.
Derek has seven acres across the river, up on the flats, in the middle of the forest. He journeys every day from Roseau, and reached here via Canada, Belize, Hawaii, Manchester and the Middle East. Lots of walking, lots of waiting. He is an expert in the chair crossing, and an expert in tropical fruit. His land almost forgot him after fifteen years away, but a few fruit trees survived and a couple of plants flourished, and now he is back cultivating his patch of rainforest wilderness with the lightest of touches. Eunice was amazed that after six months he was able to share with her his first crop of sweet potatoes. He is nourished by her gifts, as she is by his. When you share your food, the love returns to the land, explained Gerald, patiently.
Lodrick asks me if I have film. I nod and he pulls out a truncated bike from the jumble of his workshop. As he peddles and wobbles up the potholed road, I realise the art of this machine is it’s simplicity. The saddle and pedals are not in line with the one wheel, so he’s balancing across this skewed axis. Half a bike, halves and quarters of cars, his tinned roof and telephone pole garage, the cabbages and carrots, and more, lining the path up to his cabin, his mad professor giggle, all of it is locally grown. He’s always busy.
I think I will miss Girlie’s laugh, a wild outburst each time, Dieu Dieu’s smiling, murmuring counsel, Daneye’s steady, gentle presence, Eddo’s yes Nick, Irvine’s irascibility and love of words. Even Mark, with his straight out of a boozer belly, and a comment for everyone, every time. Tall Boy’s marvellous eyes. How can I miss them, for there they are, an imprint living their various lives. The beautiful, powerful, gentle vigour of the people and the place, has deep dyed and stamped me with the currency of the island. What wealth I carry. Looking forwards to my return, I see the temperate translation of a tropical adventure, the energy and vitality and love playing out in thousands of rain lashed, eyelash frosted faces, that is here all along.
The tiny red flowers emerge on our apple trees. The plums are set. I look ahead.
So it is.