When we encounter such lines penned by an erudite James Bond-like renegade who consorted with countesses and traveled to peripheries rarely penetrated by Western Europeans at the time, we are quick to label the author an exoticist. Patrick Leigh Fermor, The Travellers' Tree: A Journey Through the Caribbean Islands (1950) It seemed impossible to talk or think or read about anything else, and, as night fell, we would listen for the first faint roll of drums with the anxiety of dipsomaniacs waiting for opening time. The weeks that followed were obsessed by Voodoo.