Mercredi 01.11.06 Living off the kindness of strangers
How did we overlook the fact that today is a public holiday? It’s not as if there are no buses at all, but there were only two; one at 5,00 and another at 5,15. It wouldn’t be so bad if we had only arrived at the bus-stop at 6,00 but we were there from 5,30 – waiting, watching, trying to wave down random vehicles. There are no taxis today either.
While we’re contemplating either hiring a jet-ski to zip across the bay or hopping on the back of a bin-truck a Citroën Saxo pulls up. Our knight in shining armour is a Frenchman, from Bretagne, and his Saxon steed dashes down the motorway to the Gare Maritime. We’re eternally indebted to this kind creature. It’s a godsend. We’re all chat; mostly praising the beauty of Guadeloupe and endorsing the generosity and helpfulness of its inhabitants. Of course Ronan Keating has to go ruining it by crooning away to Father and Son… but Monsieur alerts us to the sad and sinister sides of the dice, and the paradise paradox becomes clearer as he talks about poverty, despair and voodoo.
By 11,30 we’ve docked in Dominica’s capital, Roseau, but we’re not on our way until after midday since everybody must fill out forms with their personal details and passport particulars so the border police have something to quiz us on before we’re let into this country; the Commonwealth of Dominica. Dominica is one of the Windward Islands. It is located between Guadeloupe and Martinique. There are no direct flights here from Europe or America instead you must either catch a ferry or take a plane from one of the neighbouring islands. Many people confuse Dominica with the Dominican Republic which makes up the eastern half of the island known as Hispaniola – Haiti occupies the western half. I suppose once you land on Hispaniola and realise the country isn’t festooned with parrot-patterned flags then you know you’re in the wrong place.
Everywhere in Dominica is adorned with the national flag, and not just during this time when independence is being lauded. It seems to be the proudest emblem of the country. Kids wave flags as they waltz to school, each watering-hole, restaurant and shop flies the national standard, people’s homes and boats are decorated with the national colours and fluttering flighty fabric is the standard for every back window and bonnet of every vehicle on the island.
The most distinctive thing about Dominica’s flag has to be the central symbol - the Sisserou Parrot, the National Bird of Dominica. The circular emblem of red bears the Sisserou Parrot perched on a twig encircled by ten lime green stars. These stars represent the ten parishes of the country, each with equal status, thus the equality of the people. The red central emblem symbolises Dominica’s commitment to social justice. This is superimposed on three vertical and three horizontal stripes of yellow, black and white forming a triple coloured cross against a background of forest green. The triple coloured cross represents the Trinity of God and the cross itself demonstrates belief in God since the Commonwealth of Dominica is founded upon principles that acknowledge God’s supremacy. The yellow stripes represent sunshine, agricultural products and the native inhabitants, the Caribs and the Arawaks. Black signifies the African heritage and the rich black soil of the land. White stands for the purity of the people, and the clarity of the rivers and waterfalls. The general background of dark green symbolises the rich verdant forests and the overall lushness of the island.
It was Columbus who discovered this island in 1493. He simply named it after the day he discovered it – Sunday. Dominica’s history is perhaps most notable for the continuous presence of the Carib Indian tribe. The mountainous terrain made it difficult to conquer and so when it was colonized the Caribs did not leave, they retreated to the Atlantic side of the island where their territory remains today in settlements such as Bataka, Salybia and Sineku.
After many years of tug-of-war action, between the British and the French, Dominica became a British colony. In 1834 slavery was abolished in the British colonies and the British yielded so much power that Dominica became the only island to have a black-controlled legislature in the 19th century. However, by 1865 the British had taken back control of the legislature, and it wasn’t until 1978 that Dominica received its independence. 2006 marks the 28th year of Dominica’s independence.
It feels like 28 years have passed by the time our turn at passport control comes around. The Dominican police service must also have a fetish for giant, gruff female guards – like in Martinique. This bitch doesn’t bark, she growls; her husky, gravely tones can only be heard at close proximity. Nicola and I pass through unfazed but David gets a grilling – especially when he says he’s here with us two. “You and two girls?” she growls semi-surprised, semi-suspicious. She stares him out of it for a moment and eventually adds, “You’re a lucky man.” David tells her otherwise. She may have added her vague view but she forgets to stamp his passport.
We’re in a bit of a daze after all the commotion, confusion and queuing. Parrots are not the first thing to descend on us. There are taxi vultures at the gate and even though we manage to manoeuvre by them there are more lying in waiting at the roadside. After a bit of bartering we hop into a battered mini-bus taxi with gentle Jerome and his loud, chatty co-pilot, Patrick; mores the pity that English is spoken here (and Kwéyòl too). Patrick tells us that his father lived in Ireland; a likely story but he sure did inherit the gift of the gab nonetheless. Though that’s not the only gift he’s offering… He offers to bring us on a tour of the island. “It’s a gif’,” he says. At EC$360 it sounds more like a rip-off. He sounds like a bit of a cow-boy – changing his prices and altering routes. Previous assistantes have warned us about the rouge traders here in Dominica. Two former assistantes went on a day trip with a guide, in his car, to the Boiling Lake and when they returned from their 5 hour hike he told them they had to splutter up another few hundred just to get back to civilisation.
The 12km journey from Roseau to our accommodation in Scotts Head, at the most southerly part of the island, takes half an hour. For the most part we cruise along the rocky coast past ramshackle aluminium shelters and peeling painted huts though the road soon starts to narrow as we ascend into the hills. The piers and pebbles are instantly replaced by terrifically tall trees, long wild grasses and manic twists and turns. We nearly make mince meat of a wandering cow which saunters out of the grassy bend ahead without a care in the world.
We slowly descend taking in the magnificent view of Soufrière Bay. It’s not only the steep incline which sucks us in but also the sheer beauty of the green hillsides, the curved pebbly bay with clear, calm waters of jaded-emerald and alluring-sapphire, and the pretty, yet pretty weather-beaten fishing village of Soufrière nestled below. Beyond Soufrière, the road curves around the bay revealing charming Scotts Head with its village of brightly coloured tin shacks and equally vibrant fishing boats which bob beneath the peninsula. The headland cuts an outrageously stunning outline on the horizon with the Atlantic Ocean and Caribbean Sea uniting just below the ruins of Fort Cacharou at the tip of the headland.
The taxi bus turns left, lurching up a hill and jolting us from our voyeuristic viewpoint. Patrick and Jerome are kind enough to drop us right at the door of our accommodation in Scotts Head. I suppose they want to know where to find us in case we ring to avail of their tour, but our EC$100 (€35) fare should definitely command this sort of door-to-door service.
We’re staying at the Ocean View Apartments - just a quick downhill ramble to the village. True to its name there is a sprawling view over the Atlantic and the craggy coastline. Dominica’s appeal has nothing to do with beaches – we left the silver strands in Guadeloupe, and what few exist here are paltry or pebbly.
Dominica is one of the Caribbean’s best destinations for low-impact environmental tourism. Eco-tourism has been the driving force behind Dominica’s foreign consumer conscience with local employment, local produce, water conservation and green lodgings impacting the environment, the economy and the community. Many places on the island go beyond the task of being certified as environmentally friendly and are renowned to do a great job promoting the philosophy and character that fits in with the environs. Ocean View Apartments are not certified, but they should be, and not for the reasons you may imagine…
There are four apartments to be found under the owner’s home. We’re the only lodgers there. Our apartment is at the far end of the plot and, like the others, it is basic yet comfortable with a kitchen/living area and two bedrooms all around a rather old fashioned open-plan design. Saloon doors divide one bedroom from the living area and the other bedroom is separated by a low wall and a blind. It’s no palace and it’s a bit dusty and dull but we’ve no need to complain – yet.
Of course there’s a bathroom. It’s small and has been cleaned by men throughout its existence. Looking past the manly maintenance and into the cistern we find that it’s not only lacking a womanly touch but water too. One flush and that’s our water ration for the evening. Damn Eco-warriors always get it wrong. There’s too much water in these lush hills and they still conserve and cut-off supplies as if drought was a comin’. I hope they have something for the smell that will soon be wafting from each apartment once we’ve used the four facilities to unload our daily loaves!
There is something to subdue the stink. We will end up smelling like roses because roses, orchids, chrysanthemums and various other marvellous blooms are to be found all over the garden. The garden is set on various levels; there are individual walled spaces in front of each apartment with different flowers, shrubs, herbs and decorations adorning the walkways and trails. Everywhere you look there are trees swollen with berries and other bulbous wares such as papaya, coconut, mango, banana, passion fruit, oranges, christophine, breadfruit, pineapples, okra and limes. The garden is well kept with neat, weedless flowerbeds, meticulously swept pathways and unique natural ornaments adorning each corner. Cats sun themselves on the tiered wicker lookout stand and dogs cool down under the shade of homemade shelters.
Our hosts seem committed to environmental care and attention. But our hosts are actually nowhere to be found. Instead we’re shown around by Dominica’s own Grounds man Willy. His name is Luke. Lucky Luke. Laid-back Luke. Luke the Loop. He is loopy. He’s the one who has been tending the garden. He’s definitely committed to his work though it’s him that needs to be committed. He slaves away in the garden all day. Every time I see him he’s either sweeping invisible leaves or savouring imaginary scents. His English is dire. He resorts to grunts and communicates by waving or pointing his machete or brush as needed.
Dear old Luke, however, is no slave to fashion. He’s never seen wearing shoes. Later that evening we meet him in the village and even then he’s blissfully barefoot. He wears dark, cut-off denim shorts and a faded, back-to-front, inside-out, palm-tree patterned t-shirt. It’s a tad too small for him but his lanky, lean black body never rejects this shrunken shirt. He must get multiple wears out of it. Straight-away I can count four; right-way-round, back-to-front, inside-out and the previously described combination. Also, there must be various clean, dirty, sweaty and torn combinations which add to its alternative fashionable flexibility.
He does seem to embody the whole back-to-basics and mingle-with-Mother Nature attitude of many environmentally friendly sorts, though we find that he verges more on the mental side rather than environmental and his forthcoming friendliness as a surrogate host soon edges towards hostility rather than hospitality…
When we arrive at Ocean View Luke is there to greet us. He shows us to our humble apartment and despite not being a great conversationalist he manages to show us hospitality by providing us with homemade passion fruit juice and fresh coconut milk. He also asks if we’d like the hammock to lie on and we help him haul it from one apartment to the next. He mumbles that he has to do some work and so he wanders off down the path into the shrubbery.
Nicola lounges on the hammock, David lights up and I stretch out to read. Its such a pretty, peaceful place to be calm and quiet. Luke’s organic gifs won’t keep us going long so David heads down the hill to explore the village and get some provisions. Nic and I are content to stay in the sun and we savour the sights and delights of the garden. We spy Luke and he takes us on a tour telling us about his plants and pets. There are numerous cats and three dogs; Blackie, Brownie and Ratty. We ask him how runty, Rattie got his name. I can barely hear him mutter an explanation. He seems to say something like: “It’s because of eating,” but I presume it’s not due a diet of rats but more so to do with breeding. Luke points to the lofty trees laden with fruit and asks if we want some papaya and banana-jaune. We take him up on his offer and he’s soon hanging of tree limbs, by his own lanky ones, hacking off fresh produce. He tells us how to prepare and cook them, and we thank him, going off to bake ourselves in the sun.
David returns with cookies, crisps and rolls. Nicola can’t eat it due to her wheat allergy but she has her rice-crackers to keep her intact. Supposedly the village stores hold limited stock with tinned non-perishables, rum and Oh Henry chocolate bars apparently taking up all the shelf space. Off course with plenty of fish in the sea, fruit on the trees and rain to wash it all down the locals can surely get by without these costly conveniences. We’re all lounging around when Luke reappears; he straight-out insists that we give him some money. His ragged form obviously gives the impression that a few coppers could help him a lot. I only have one EC$1 coin and the others don’t have any change. However I’m unsure whether to give him anything anyway. I try to be tactful and ask him why he needs the money. He mentions something about coconuts and papaya, and it suddenly dawns on me that they were gifs with a view to getting monetary repayment. His sudden demands, his constant loitering and his rapid ranting don’t soften my soul. I tell him that we accepted them as a welcoming offering just as we had with similar generosity in Guadeloupe and Martinique. I thank him for his kind gestures but tell him that he should have made his enterprising environmentalism more apparent. Of course my words fall on pollen-filled ears. I see him as a child who will keep coming back for more. I don’t budge from my seat or my decision despite his constant mutterings. Am I a mean Cavan whoare? After all EC$1 is not even 35 cents! It’s more the principal of the matter. Tourists help the economy here but nobody likes to be ripped off by sneaky additions. Luke hangs around in silence for a while and eventually gets up and snakes off in a huff.
We’re relishing our peaceful privacy but things start to go a bit pear-shaped once we find out that our toilet won’t flush. On top of this there doesn’t seem to be any water in the taps anymore. David is sent out to find the water mains. Luke finds him outside the entrance turning taps and brings him back behind the apartment to a well. David and I spend the next while ferrying pots full of water into the bathroom – it sure beats the dribble of coconut juice David previously tipped into the cistern in an earlier attempt to flush away his faeces. We also leave a reserve of water-filled pans by the kitchen sink. We later find out that there were works being done on the village water system but I can’t help thinking how timely the cut-off was and how smug Luke looked when he led us to the well.
We all need to get out of the orchard so it’s down the hill to Scotts Head we go. We only need to cross the road before we’re at the edge of the pebbly bay. There are numerous, multicoloured, wooden boats with painted appellations such as the mighty stripy green Mambo and the tiny blue and white Titanic. Locals are hanging around the bus-stop behind us, some are waiting for a ride but, most are happily wiling away the day on the long, rickety wooden bench or chatting openly on the side of the road.
Everyone is all smiles. They’re civil and polite (the British did do some good I guess). “Good evening” is the most common salutation but the younger males like to add lovely lady into the mix. They’re less forward and intrusive than the Martinique and Guadeloupe men. There’s the odd wizened creature to be seen serenely slumped under a tree with an empty bottle bobbing on his belly or flung out to the side.
The buses here seem to be reasonably frequent. Like the boats they all have been baptised; The Top, Batman, Day Tripper… Just Cruisin’ is down the road being washed. The owner salutes us and it’s not long until we’re deep in conversation with him and about five others. His name is Kelvin and he’s a construction worker as well as a taxi driver. Once March comes around he’ll be back on site but for now he has plenty of work with cruise-liners coming in to Roseau every second day. He seems to be a genuine chap and so we enquire about a tour of the island. He distributes his details, names his price and leaves us be. His cousin Justin doesn’t miss a beat as he joins in to tell us about the boat tours he does. As it happens he’s free this evening and so we decide to take in the bay the nautical way. We pop back to Ocean View to pack our snorkels and put on our swim gear. On the way up we encounter another environmental entrepreneur who tries to off-load us with oranges. He tries to put them in my bag but I decline, thank him and pass by quickly.
Half an hour later I’m manoeuvring Justin’s motorboat around Soufrière Bay. It only costs EC$150 (€17 each) for the two hour trip to take in the sights:
First on the agenda is whale and dolphin watching. Supposedly there are sightings about 90%. I guess we’re part of that other 10% today. I convince myself that I can see jets of spray now and again but apart from that there’s no sighting of huge, fleshy mammals. We do however catch sight of a huge sea-turtle and some flying fish.
Next up is Soufrière’s main attraction, Champagne Beach. Once again there is no beach as such but the spot is so named because of the bubbles from the offshore waters. All you need is a snorkel and mask or a pair of goggles to see the bubbles below; though you only have to lie back in the water to hear the enchanting effervescence. The reef is also there to be explored. I do jump in with my mask and snorkel but I’ve the banjaxed one so I just stay in long enough to get the fizz effects. Luckily enough you can see the fascinating reef formations, fish and sea life from the side of the boat through the clear blue waters. There is a fulltime guide employed by the Marine Department. Upon seeing us he swims over and makes a tour of the reef.
Our final stop is the hot springs just on the outskirts of Soufrière. It’s such a nice way to spend the evening; in a hot, shallow communal pool with the locals, over looking the bay and watching the sun set. The pool is sectioned off from the sea by giant rocks. Now and again you can feel the cooler sea water lapping over into the pool but just as quickly you get the hot gushes bursting back from the springs way down below. I would be content to stay here, floating, relaxing, sipping imaginary cocktails all evening...
Justin drops us back at Scotts Head and we arrange to meet later on for drinks. There’s no need to exchange numbers as he’ll easily find us in one of Scotts Head’s four eateries. We’re well washed after our sun set soakage session but more water works lies waiting for us at Ocean View. While we were away the town water supply was put on again. With all our previous futile tap turning we were oblivious to the fact that the taps were left open. The puddle outside the entrance sparks that inkling feeling that something has been tinkling all evening. When we open the door all is confirmed. The kitchen sink is overflowing, our flip-flops are floating, my book The Water Star is now truly an absorbing read and to top it all off the whole kitchen unit is holding most of the water in the drawers, casseroles and dishes; that’ll be a breeding ground for the new mosquito clan. The next half an hour is spent wringing out cloths and playing tug-of-war with saturated beach towels. Thankfully we were supplied with towels so we use them to mop up most of the mess. We turn on the air-con and all the lights and ironically take showers, splash ourselves with sweet smells and run down to town for some grub.
Roger’s Café is where we dine. The menu is limited; we’re given the option of chicken or tuna, or tuna or chicken. It’s limited but adequate – at least the national dish mountain chicken is not on the list. There are no chickens in the mountains, only toads. They serve CocaCola in glass bottles here in Dominica, and in half litre bottles at that! The island has two local rums, Soca and Macoucherie. But the island’s best drink is its tasty local lager, Kubuli. We later settle for rounds of the latter in a local bar. Justin joins us. Just in time. Just in case. Just inbred. He’s not exactly full of chat. We got more out of the wringing towels earlier. It has been a long day so we decide to head home. Justin accompanies us and asks if he can come in. The rain comes and he scarpers off saving us having to hear his pleas. We could have played Monopoly all night but the paper money is drying on the line. Instead we head to bed. David tucks us in and the mosquitoes tuck in too.
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