Lightning strikes again and I see the twin Piton peaks, shrouded in fog. I see them arcing steep into the ocean.
One thing is sure, when the world retreats from the Antilles, only the plants will bear fruit; rooted against the otherwise lifeless rock of its cliff sides, hanging over an empty sea, the surf brushing gently against the rotting machines of the vast empty; yachts and steamers rooted upside down, the vines of sea grapes burrowing through the holes.
It's just an early morning vision of the future; but in a world where we say that the victor writes the history, who can you really say is the victor of the Caribbean? Fidel Castro and his empire of serfs? The Sandals Resort with their bad food? The sunburned yachties with their fish?
How do you spell "chlorophyll" anyway?
That was what St. Lucia's literary hero always warned of. That's what Derek Walcott was afraid might just happen. Islands dependent on external economies. On tourism.
The lightning strikes again and I can see the garbage filled with dead bugs. I had left the bathroom light on last night during dinner. It attracted a swarm of flying beetles, piping frogs, birds and lizards. It was an insect feast. It was a hundred dead beetles on our shower floor. It was one look in the bathroom and a six hundred bug legs dangling about upside down in the air. It was Jane with a broom and me with a, "Jane, I'm on the rum."
It had become comfortable, being here at Ladera, playing Scrabble, eating fish and callaloo soup. Jane naming the piping frogs each time they come into our flat and belch out a melody of squeaks. There was Freddie and Tiny and Betty.
But today we are to begin a multi-day tour of the island, on the back roads without a guide, a map or a clue. We will get lost, we will get stuck, we will find ourselves in some awkward situations. It turns out, along the way, we'll run into some rather interesting plants, and how they take on the English, the French, the Pirates, and another century of destruction and glory in the Caribbean.
