On the Road to Gosier

by Emily Wright (United Kingdom (Great Britain))

Making a local connection Guadeloupe

The road to Gosier is easily the most dangerous road on the island. Known by locals as La Route de la Traversée, the twisting, rugged tarmac carves its way across the mountainous west wing of Guadeloupe to the east. “We often pass road accidents along here in the dark”, the taxi man had said while driving me from the airport to my new home for a few months. I had nodded and smiled politely, peering out at the ravine-like ditches carved treacherously close to either side of the road. Tonight, it is raining. Diego’s car ploughs like a water vessel along the forest road, sliding around the hairpins, teetering close to the edge. I am travelling east to meet my housemate, Margaux, at a party in Gosier’s tourist-ridden marina. The long journey and lack of a guaranteed ride home in time for work tomorrow gives me every valid reason to shun the idea. But Margaux always brings out a wild side in me. The car screeches around another bend. The road is climbing now, tropical trees and bushes enclose around us until we are hurtling through a dark, cavernous tunnel. I reach cautiously for the handle; even in the dark my knuckles are a ghostly white. Diego appears unfazed by the weather conditions. I met Diego the first time I tried hitchhiking. Nonchalant and oblivious, I hopped eagerly into his battered Mini after waving my thumb around at the roadside. I found an unlikely friend in this Rastafarian man-of-the-island. His thin black dreadlocks stretch the length of his back and creep out from under a large snapback. He speaks with a slurred Creole accent which I barely understand. He knows every face on our side of the island. In that first meeting, Diego showed me some of his own music, and vowed to chauffeur me around the island whenever I wanted. I thanked him politely, assuming we would never cross paths again. Little did I know, I would be back in his passenger seat a month later, careering over a slippery mountain pass at 70 kilometres per hour. “You want some music?” His husky voice bellows over the sound of torrential rain. He taps at a cracked phone screen before handing it to me, and I find myself watching a homemade music video for one of his reggae songs. Through the cracks in the screen, Diego sings casually to the camera, surrounded by his friends and family who laugh and dance behind him. “My sister”, he points with a toothy grin, watching from the driver’s seat. The engine roars suddenly as the car splutters through a gear change, and Diego sings along contently to the French lyrics. He has spent his whole life driving this road. I can tell by the way he anticipates every twist and turn, the way his eyes drift frequently from the road, and by the sheer speed at which we are travelling. Through a series of stalled conversations in broken French, Diego became my first friend here. Without knowing, he showed me the trust and camaraderie which bleed through the cracks of these small islands. He taught me that life’s best moments are lived dangerously close to the edge, sometimes literally. Amidst our frightful voyage, a faint smile creeps across my face. Diego’s songs emanate love for his family and his island. He sings of the people in his life, and of his own imperfections. He pleads that he and his people be protected from oppression and the perils of this world. There is a rough beauty to his jumpy beats and ragged cadences. As the reggae blares from the car’s system, I watch with new-found peace as Diego rolls down the window and lights a cigarette with one hand. His other hand resting on the wheel, he laughs along with the song and flashes a solitary gold tooth. The road at last becomes straight and flat, and we cruise into the carpark of a busy complex. Holiday-makers spill out of crowded bars and muffled techno music fogs the air. As I hop out to greet Margaux, Diego strolls with a crooked gait in the opposite direction, his long dreadlocks fading slowly into the night.