Travel Reference
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some stores for the journey: bully-beef, tomato soup, cigarettes, matches, garlic and macaroni. The sound
of a furious dispute in Arabic came out of the darkness. The white silken figure of the doctor waved as
his glittering motor ploughed back through the slush, and the steaming leaves and the tangle of lianas that
closed over it appeared a habitat more likely to conceal a diplodocus or a mammoth.
Our party, as it finally moved out of Marigot, looked formidable. Three enormous Negroes carrying on
their heads our luggage and various essential impedimenta lent us by Mrs. Napier, moved delicately along
the narrow suspension bridge, setting the whole length of it swinging on its cables with each step. The
ponies we rode through the pebbly river-bed below were scraggy little things, hired from different vil-
lages, each with a separate system of conditions and commitments. Only the first was shod. Seeing this,
the owner of the second suddenly decided to have his horse shod as well, just as we were moving off,
promising, as he led it away in the direction of a hypothetical blacksmith, to catch us up later. So our
cavalcade was reduced to two. Joan mounted Misdemeanour, while Jockey Girl, who was barefoot, re-
mained as a bone of contention between Costa and me. ('Go on, Costa,' I insisted, looking furtively at
the first hill, and catching a glimpse of the still bigger one beyond, 'you have first go.' 'No, you have
her. I feel like walking.' Then, with a sidelong glance in the same direction, 'P-perhaps in half an hour
or so….') The guide and head of our retinue was René Williams, a lean and gentle young man, who had
studied divinity for a while. Our caravan had assumed the portentousness of an expedition of Mungo Park
into the jungles of Africa.
The trees soon closed over the steep bridle path, dappling the soft, red clay with ragged stripes of sun-
light. The road twisted as it climbed, and the thickness of the sodden leaves turned it into a dense and tor-
tuous cavern. Each convolution hoisted our little procession higher into the foot-hills of Morne Diablotin,
whose leafy cone pierced the sky miles away. From my position in the rear it was an impressive sight:
René led the way, then came the porters, as slender and graceful as caryatids under their globular loads.
Joan's horse ambled after them, bearing a figure that looked as purposeful in its dark glasses and great
straw hat as a mid-Victorian lady heading for the mission-field in Uganda. She was followed by Costa
riding dreamily through the shadows in his sky-blue shirt and shorts, or alternatively, at pleasanter mo-
ments, laboriously clambering up the glutinous pathway on foot. The path grew level at last, and through
a gap in the trees we could gaze from our lofty headland into a deep gorge downy with tree-tops. The sea
reached inland between the steep sides of the canyon to meet the emerging river.
All day long our path followed this long climb and fall. The island is so rich in rivers that it is rumoured
to possess one for each day of the year. Another legend, which is applied in books to any of the islands
which are at all mountainous, is that an early traveller—perhaps Columbus—when reporting his discov-
ery, was asked by his sovereign to give a description of the new jewel that had been added to his diadem.
The traveller crumpled a sheet of parchment in his hand and flung it on to the table before the king, with
the words, 'Like this, sire.' It is a more apt description of Dominica than any of the other Antilles.
After the third horse had caught up with us, we rode for a long time encountering nobody. The road
suddenly widened into a clearing, where a group of shingle huts lay back under the trees, and by the edge
of the path a group of men were standing, as though they were expecting us. So sharp was the contrast
of their complexion and bearing with those of the islanders, that I thought for a moment that they were
white men. But they were Caribs.
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