I was caught in an Ogun showdown last night, somewhere on the road between Soufriere and Marigot. If these names sound unfamiliar in a Trini context, don’t frighten, they shouldn’t; after all there are Marigots in Dominica and Martinique, and Soufriere’s any place the sulphur of volcanic activity is sniffed: St Vincent, Guadeloupe, Montserrat.

But this particular Marigot I was heading for is in Sent Lisi, and the road twists like a vexed macajuel at the best of times. Throw in some blinding rain, bolts of lightning and the roll of Ogun’s drums and you’ll understand why I pulled off the road at La Monique’s bar in Marigot.

At first I was too busy wringing my tonsure dry to really take on the other customers but there was something familiar in the Carib bone structure of a strapping man in white shirt jack, who took a place at the bar, which is obviously his by right and custom. A shot of Chairman’s Reserve old rum later, with bones and brain thawing I recognised Waleigh, Lucian Calypso Monarch, who I’d last seen and interviewed at the Statford Rex in the Big Fug at a St Lucia Independence Day concert.

I wasn’t entirely surprised to bounce up Waleigh; after all, since I arrived in Sent Lisi, I’ve run into many Creole confederates. There was Company Fredo from the Martinique Cultural Centre, who brushed past me backstage at the Kalalu World Music festival, which I came here to cover; Gabriella the World Music broadcaster from Barbados; Luther Francois, Field Marshall of Caribbean Jazz and, earlier on in Canaries just as the clouds shrouded the Pitons, I’d managed to track down an organic farmer, whose name I could only guess at, who I’d last seen two years ago.

Impressively, his organic patch half way up the Gros Piton supplies supermarkets and hotels islandwide.

The old Wals is now an acting principal of a secondary school, but even with his busy schedule, he still produces roots music. He played some tracks of an album in progress, Christmas songs based on Lucian folk rhythms, an alternative to both the steady stream of North American crooners or the Roots Rockers Christmas versions, which tend to dominate the airwaves, even in the home of parang at this time of year.

The drive south from the tourist district of Rodney Bay, reminded me of similar trips in Trinidad, from Port-of-Spain heading south through the Montserrat Hills. The 21st century, with its skyscrapers, luxury resorts and concrete mansions, recedes into a fast disappearing past.

In small fishing villages like Anse La Raye, Laborie and Soufriere, there are still narrow streets crammed with tumbling board houses, shingles peeling, jalousies hanging as precariously as the balconies overhead. Old men sit on doorsteps mending their nets, pothounds fight for scraps and women in curlers lead goats home.

As my travelling companion and fellow Trini remarked, these villages are a reminder of the Caribbean of the 30s and 40s, a slower time: a period of poverty from which we have not truly moved on despite all the rhetoric of progress and development.

I’m positive many of the same villagers, young and old, whom I saw yesterday, would be the first to jump at the opportunity of life in London, where many Lucians go to school or work, or even a green card in America. But then I can’t help hearing the laments of refugees like myself, fleeing the mayhem of metropolitan plantation life, who are relieved to find these small pockets of community in the global village.

After a few months doing the East-West Corridor hustle in Trinidad—the traffic fandango, breathing highway fumes and facing off a plethora of concrete and steel—riding south through Sent Lisi’s rainforest was just as soothing and refreshing as my Trini weekend retreats to San Souci.

Besides, I’m besotted with the long-time board houses that still dot the country side here. I passed one on the road through Choiseul, which seems to have been waiting for me. A two-storey affair, balcony listing but gingerbread intact, set in its own grounds with royal palm standing sentinel to one side and the Gros Piton looming behind.

A goat grazed intently in front, as I wielded my digital. In my dreams, I’m already on the restored balcony, puffing a Monte Cristo Number Five and watching the sun slip into the sea.

Quelle belle reve.