I was nervous about this plan.
My brother Eric and I were beginning our much-anticipated backpacking photo trip to Dominica, a small Caribbean island in the Eastern Antilles. Our plane would land in Barbados late at night and take off early the next morning for Dominica. How convenient, Eric reasoned, it would be to spend the night stretched out on an airport bench.
However, Barbadian customs officials didn’t see it our way. We could not claim our passports from the agents until we had secured a hotel for the night.
The Commonwealth of Dominica is an island nation, 46 km long and 26 km wide. First discovered by Columbus, this mountainous island is covered with tropical rainforest.
The loftiest point is Morne Trois Pitons, soaring to a height of 1,424 metres (4,672 feet). There are 365 rivers and more than 160 bird species on this nature isle. Tree frogs, lizards and 13 bat species inhabit the island.
Tourists come here, not for the beaches, but to walk the Waitukubuli National Trail. The 2,000-km-long Waitukubuli Trail, made of 14 segments, traverses mountains and valleys, zigzagging along the spine of the island.
To get closer to the people and to save costs, we planned to use local transportation while in Dominica. A one-hour flight from Barbados landed us on the island on Easter Sunday morning. No buses were running.
We had to take a van taxi to Roseau, where Eric had booked a modest cottage. Leaving the airport, we immediately crossed Melville Hall River, where women were washing laundry along the rocky banks. Pieces of clothing stretched over nearby bushes.
The tropical sun and ocean breeze would dry them quickly.
Village after colourful village appeared as we drove the coastal route. Here and there, groups of people spilled out of churches. Women in freshly-ironed dresses and matching hats walked behind men wearing starched white shirts. Girls in frilly dresses mingled with boys in their Sunday best.
We entered an area known as Carib Territory or Kalinago Territory. Around the next bend on the narrow road, black smoke billowed out of a red brick chimney. It was a bakery, known for baking local Cassava bread.
Fire was quickly spreading over the roof. Someone was holding a pale green garden hose towards the flames.
The driver of our van slowed down and passengers in our van broke out in a cacophony of voices as each tried to offer an opinion of what should be done. One lady in a red tank top dialed 911. Another yelled out of the open window at a police standing by, letting him know that he must “harry” to save the Carib Bakery.
Arriving in Roseau, the taxi van wound its way up red earthen roads and turned into a narrow lane lined with fig palms and bougainvillea.
Hummingbirds whirred around hibiscus flowers and butterflies flitted gracefully from flower to flower. We were welcomed warmly by Jinette, the manager.
Scott’s Head and Soufriere
The next day was Easter Monday, and there were very few buses running. It would be a good day to walk along Victoria Street, the main coastal route, with the hope of catching a ride to Scott’s Head and Soufriere.
What about food? One small bakery was open so we bought their last three mini baguettes. These would sustain us if we couldn’t find any stores for the rest of the day.
It was only 7 a.m., but the tropical heat was already forcing us to find shade. A closet-sized store up the street appeared to be open. It would be a good place for shade and local conversation ... and possibly ginger beer, a local favourite. Alvin, the store keeper was eager to share his knowledge of the island.
Customers came and went. Some bought a couple of slices of sausage, which Alvin cut from a sausage stick. A tall man in a tattered white T-shirt wanted a small can of condensed milk. A boy in his teens bought three cigarettes. One woman came in for a stick of cocoa to grind into her morning milk — cocoa tea, as it’s called.
At the next village, we caught a van bus going to Scott’s Head, the most southern point of the island. The village of Soufriere lies just before Scott’s Head and is nestled on Soufriere Bay.
This bay is the crater of an extinct volcano. Hot spots along the coast offer locals a soak in the reputed healing waters.
Leaving Soufriere, we walked along the Cacharou Peninsula towards Scott’s Head Hill. Halfway up the hill, Atlantic waves crashing on the one side and the calm turquoise waters of the Caribbean on the other, we reached Battalion Lookout. An old British Navy cannon, partly covered by tall grass, stands there. From this point the Brits would volley cannon balls at ships sailing from the enemy island of French Martinique.
Below, we could see idle fishing boats bobbing in the safety of the bay. Children were splashing in the waters and the aroma of barbecued fish wafted in the ocean air.
Oliver greeted us and explained that his wife Nadia and their family were spending Easter weekend camping on the peninsula. Nadia chatted as Oliver turned meat over his home-made barbecue. It was an old oxygen bottle cut in two, supported by welded rebar legs.
Would Nadia sell us two meals? In half an hour we were enjoying authentic Dominican fare — delicious barbecued dolphin (doeado) with coleslaw and tomatoes.
Fort Shirley
Eighteenth century Fort Shirley is on the northwestern coast of Dominica in Cabrits National Park, just north of Portsmouth. It is a fort and garrison first built in 1763 when the Treaty of Paris ceded Dominica to Britain.
A large umbrella shaped mango tree stood in front of the garrison, offering its fruit to all. Shaded from the intense morning sun, we breakfasted there on the mangoes. Many a soldier would have done the same.
A plaque on the garrison wall explained that this had been the site of a slave revolt in 1802. The 8th West India Regiment’s African slave soldiers had taken over the garrison for three days. Their action that day resulted in the freedom of all slave soldiers in the British Army.
Geneva and the southeast coast
Jean Rhys is a Dominican national hero and the author of Wide Sargasso Sea. We wanted to find the place that inspired her descriptions of plantation life and found the site in Geneva, near Grand Bay. One can still see the remains of massive stone buildings, now covered in tropical vines. Daily showers, volcanic soil and cooling ocean breezes create an ideal environment for banana, papaya and mango. Ferns grow as tall as trees.
Fifty years ago, this Atlantic side of the island was not accessible by road. Horse carts carried people over the mountain trails to the more populated side of Soufriere and Roseau. Today, we found this side of the island sparsely populated. Buses were few but the local people were friendly, often giving us rides.
Everyone we met that day mentioned Rosalie Bay Resort. Here, the Rosalie River empties into the Atlantic, creating a sheltered bay of palm trees and a beach of fine black volcanic sand. Giant leatherback turtles arrive on these shores to lay their eggs. The Dominica Sea Turtle Conservation Organization has done an excellent job of informing and training locals to protect the turtles and their young.
At the Rosalie Bay Restaurant we lunched on pumpkin soup and salad.
Back at our Mont Bruce cottage in Roseau, a basket of freshly picked grapefruit welcomed us. Ma Harris, a spry octogenarian, treated us to the fruit from her orchard. Exhausted from a day of hiking, busing and photographing, the fruit tasted refreshing and sweet. We were ready to call it a day. Then our neighbour, Yvonne, stopped by. Would we like to enjoy an evening of Caribbean food and music at a local hotel? How could we pass up such an offer?
At the Anchorage Hotel, sumptuous international and Creole dishes were served. The evening sky darkened over Caribbean waters, the stars came out and a local band played reggae and folk music. It was the perfect setting for a day in paradise. This hotel knows how to serve up not only culture and taste but eco tourism as well.
The Anchorage Hotel, managed by Yvonne, is an island pioneer on whale watching and scuba diving. Andrew Armour, a ‘whale whisperer,’ dives in this area. Ten years ago, Andrew found an injured giant sperm whale in these waters and befriended it. Andrew dives in the waters, calling to Scar, the whale, which will leave its pod and swim to the diver.
Tete Morne
The next morning, we were walking towards the bus stop when an open door along Victoria Street beckoned us. Inside the small sign painting business, Ras, dreadlocks hanging to his waist, welcomed us from a seated position on the floor. He was stringing a bead necklace as a shaft of sunlight streaked into the sparsely-furnished room. Paintings hung on the walls and two pots of natural herbal lotions simmered on the stove.
Ras, a Rastafarian, explained that he wears his dreadlocks as a matter of principle and not as a fashion statement. Ras told us of his interest in preserving the culture of his island.
“Education should include the arts as well as academic goals,” he explained.
From the centre of Grand Bay, we hiked upwards to the hamlet of Tete Morne. Wearing a bright yellow polo shirt, blue shorts and a wide smile, Desmond greeted us warmly inside the village’s only store. He insisted on showing us where he had spent his childhood. At the end of Grand Bay’s Main Street, facing the ocean, we discovered a large stone Catholic Church, built by the Jesuits in the 1700s. No houses were nearby, but banana groves and grazing cows. It seemed strange to see this giant stone edifice standing like a sentinel, alone against the elements.
Desmond expertly manouvered his small car over potholes as we headed for Soufriere. A group of people were gathered on the beach where a fisherman had caught a large blue marlin. The fish was about 1.8 metres long and about 50 cm in diameter. Wearing shiny yellow coveralls, a large man was using a machete to cut the fish into slabs. Every member of the local fishing co-operative would get their share. Pails and baskets appeared as each fisherman held out for his share of the fortunate catch.
Marigot
Monday morning, our last day, was rainy.
I had hoped that we could visit the Kalinago Territories on the way to Melville Hall Airport. However, rain changed the plans as most of the Carib craft and cultural centres were closed. We settled for stopping at the town of Marigot.
Once again we found a little store where we could talk with the locals.
Val the storekeeper was full of information about local foods, places to see and people to meet. We sat on a narrow bench on the porch of Val’s store and watched village life go by. As people came and went, we were introduced to each one.
The rain had stopped and it was time to catch a bus to the airport.
In five minutes, we were at Melville Hall Airport.
Horrified, I realized that my bag was missing. Eric hopped back on the bus and returned to the village while I stayed with the photo equipment.
Before I had time to start worrying about the lost bag, a white-haired man in a red tattered T-shirt stood beside me. He was leaning on a crutch and as he spoke, I noticed that he had only one tooth.
“Madame, is this your bag?” he queried.
I felt like embracing him as I blubbered out many thanks for his kindness.
Eric reappeared to say that Val had sent the man and the bag after us.
What a people! What a country! What an island!
Mirjam Rand is a local freelance writer.