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As I descended the rickety, metal steps from the plane to begin my six month study placement in Martinique, I was acutely aware that I was stepping into a world approximately 1,436 miles from the one I called home. This was a world that seemed the antithesis of the rainy, sarcastic Britain I’d always known. This was a world that didn’t speak my language and, what I felt most markedly as I made my way through the exceptionally small Arrivals hall, was that this was a world in which everyone was a stranger. I soon discovered the fantastic novelties of this island: its incredible storms and violent bursts of rain, with a thunder that threatened to split the sky itself; the way the clouds would clear in a matter of minutes, leaving the earth below refreshed and calm, somehow more vibrant and beautiful than it had been before. I was in awe of its sunsets, fixated every night by a sky so rich in its pinks and purples that there was a sadness each time sundown seeped these colours from the sky. Here, though, I was safe in the knowledge that here the sky would be flooded with colour once more in no time at all. Here, you could almost take its beauty for granted. What was most notable, though, was the ceaseless warmth and openness of the people I met. The locals would suffer through my fumbling attempts en français and my wildly inaccurate verb conjugations, always with a smile. They made me feel settled and at ease: I had leapt into the unknown but I’d landed on my feet. However, there were some slightly more unpleasant discoveries to be made. We were told by a local, David, who had become our unofficial tour guide, that Martinique struggled with chronic unemployment, exacerbated by the fact that it featured as no more than an afternoon cruise ship excursion for the hordes that hopped onshore for a piña colada, only to leave, sunburned and merry, a few hours later. This was the side of the island that they didn't see, the underbelly of paradise. Unemployment took its toll in the area we lived, and David told us of issues with alcohol and crack cocaine addiction, which we were increasingly aware of. His insights seemed to explain the perpetual presence of a collection of haggard looking men at the beach, who surfaced at around noon and drank beer and then rum in the shade of the garishly painted beach hut. One Friday evening, when a group of us were at the beach celebrating the end of another challenging week, I had my first encounter with one of these men. He approached, unsteady on his feet, and sat down beside me. He leaned forward open-mouthed, the scent of his rum wafting towards me, as the unkempt hairs on his chin tickled the side of my face. I froze. I couldn’t make out what he whispered into my ear, but I don’t think I’d have wanted to know. All I could gather was that he was in search of a lady. When none of the ladies present were interested in him, he quickly became frustrated, and when this frustration turned into anger he got violent, punching my new friend, Olivia, in the face. Things descended into chaos pretty rapidly after that. He attempted to use his keys as a weapon, then disappeared in search of the real thing, returning 5 minutes later with a machete. His threat, ‘If I see you again, I’ll kill you’, sounded like a promise, and it rang in my ears as we hastened back up the hill in the early hours of Saturday morning. I left Martinique shortly after that night, and I still don't know whether it was the right thing to do. It seems so wrong that an individual experience with an individual person caused me to leave, when there was so much to love about that island. I can't help but wonder what I would have experienced had I stayed; I can't say exactly but I know it would have been beautiful. I can only hope to return one day to find out.