Jo was a good man, a locally respected farmer with seven children to feed, and I was very glad for his help in negotiating both the route and people. Walking along, accompanied by his young son and, sometimes other farmers going to their fields, he explained why the people grew marijuana. No work and children to feed. Man must live. There was no answer, for circumstances provided few alternatives.
Little attempt is made to hide an illegal activity which requires much sunlight.
The farmers' huts and small fields are clearly visible, cut into the hillsides of steeply rising volcanic gullies, often on slopes of more than 60 degrees. Up to 1,000 farmers grow marijuana in this inhospitable and remote landscape. Male youths constantly march provisions in, and produce out. Thus, the paths of tourist and Vincentian footsoldier inevitably cross, each wary of the other. One expecting robbery, the other suspicious of informers.