Move to the Rhythm
Topic: Extreme Dominica

Pou Yo Dance

I had learned of Michele Henderson’s music before I arrived, but hearing her on a Christmas special aired on local cable turned me on to her sweet undertones. Like Celine Dion, she is singing in two languages, and the local patois finds her way into her titles and lyrics. Like the great diva, she implicates her family in her work and dedications, easy to do on an island where everyone is somehow linked if not related. She captures the rhythmic sway of the people here, the unworried, unhurried pace.
There are enough walks in Dominica to animate an actor’s cast of characters. The swinging gait of the lovers, the sashay of women shopping, the professional clip of women in heels, the purposeful stride of entrepreneurs, the balancing act of those toting homegoods on their heads, the scamper of kids, the propelled walk of students hurrying home—they are all rehearsing their dance of life.
The quietude of those who barely move is here, too—the infirm and elderly gingerly treading the streets, the lovers eyeing each other contemplating embrace, the refugee Haitians avoiding peril of their troubled nation, the dealers waiting, the babies sleeping cradled in loving arms, those tickled by life, those entranced by the moon or each other.
The difference in Dominica is that it all takes place in the street. The most tender moments are public because many of the people live outside their houses.The stoopside ghetto cacophony, the village plaza conversations, the huddle of bodies is on display.
Partying all night long is not unusual; we spy clusters of friends on balconies as we drive through town. Intimacy is dictated by size of the place; love seems to move freely in the easy smiles and exchanges among the people. Village transport spots post signs warning of HIV and drug abuse; the devotion to religion frowns on promiscuity, homosexuality, and drugs. The real has yet to be revealed, so romantic interpretation permeates our watercolor view like a Gauguin rendering.
I know we will regain our strut, the walk of those who are not ‘cruise ship tourists’, reclaiming our position in the local street. Despite any meeting results, beyond any program, nature rules, calling to the elemental dawning, flooding each of us in new steps.

A Woman and A Man
Topic: Extreme Dominica
Exotica

Faye is a generous woman, observing us drive slowly past wooden cottages named after fruit of the region. Our climb up a steep hill on the southeast side of the island has brought us past the Green Mountain Flowers greenhouses to the acres of land she has cultivated with her husband into Exotica. Their organic farm is a sensory delight, wafting the gentle aroma of flowers and herbs through the mountain air.
She invites us to the caf? for a taste of local juice. Blush sweet cherry and cloudy white soursop stir both palate and vision as we gaze out from the porch over palms and trees that gather nutrients from the air fragrant with the scent of blossoms everywhere: yellow bird of paradise, red hibiscus, bougainvillea in several shades of purple, crimson flamboyant.
She confesses that the gardening is her art. Natural fertilizers and careful planning and landscaping inform her design. She finds it hard to find good help amidst the “landscapers” in name only, who randomly chop away weed and new shoot alike with their machetes. Her delicate nurturing has brought forth generations of indigenous flora in one place.
Faye talks of her travels, the gated communities of Jamaica which keep the locals, and potential thieves, out.
“Dominica is free. You do not have to worry here,” she says. She grew up in town “right by Perky’s Pizza” and knows the people, the lore.
“Oh, that story” she says when we relate hearsay. Her talk is peppered with infiltrating, American colloquialisms. They seem fresh and renewed in the Dominican accent. Although we have no more juice to linger off and she has work to do, we vow to return to live for a while in one of the cottages named after local fruit, perhaps Cashew or Soursop
“You can’t come in April, May, or June..for reasons I can’t speak of,” she adds mysteriously.
“The movie?,” we chime in unison
Yes, that’s it, the Pirates of the Caribbean 2 shoot predicted for the coming months. The north sides of the island are scouted sites; Calibishie is a rumored spot, likely for its towering palms and crashing surf with nary a home in view. Since accommodation throughout the island is relatively sparse, she’s anticipating the overflow south. Exotica meets Hollywood, two fantasy worlds converging in a celluloid moment which is captured today in our camera eye forever.

Turtle Point

The turtles are vanishing from the planet, the island. Hunted by natural predators, caught in nature’s spin, they dwindle in numbers. The green sea turtle, the leatherback, and the hawksbill find their haunts on beaches to lay their numerous eggs. We see the turtle back logo on the hand-etched sign indicating Turtle Point and swerve off the coastal highway to see if we can observe them.
As we drive towards an edifice colored as a ripe papaya, embossed with the same logo as the sign, it is clear this is either a lodge or someone’s home.
The attractive, mustachioed man standing in the yard comes towards us, accompanied by a boy half as tall with machete in hand.
He informs us that this is indeed a home, his home. Handsomely distinct in his “University of the West Indies” shirt, he speaks deliberately with refinement.
Tom, stimulated by conversation and his whiteness, rare on the island outside the tourist population, asks him if he is related to Lennox Honeychurch, the historical, Dominican writer.
“I am the guy who writes the books,” Lennox says, nonplussed.
I remove my shades to get a better look at a sight I neither expected nor suspected.
“You are younger- looking in person," I blurt sincerely.
Perhaps he is flattered—when I later scrutinize his photo on the book jacket of The Dominica Story: a History of the Island, it is obviously several years old.
He answers our questions informatively: the roads here are new, built in the ‘50’s, 60’s, and 70’s. People did live in isolation, in village communities linked by mule and cart.
The Carib natives were relocated from Portsmouth, where they lived on the banks of the Indian River, and Roseau to the remote reservation, or central forest reserve, where they preserved their culture, language, and way of living. Today the weave baskets, hats, and mats from wide-leafed palms; their half-naked children tumble in houses with no windows, youths stare at us as we drive through their territory.
We bid Honneychurch farewell after taking his photo with Caleb, the healthy neighbor boy who was chopping coconut. I stop at the beach there, enticed by the crashing surf, revel in the discovery of volcanic sand, fine and black beneath my sandals. Later that night, I will find my feet pitch-black with the hue of history, the mark of an epoch long past yet lingering, dormant, above and beneath us.

Topic: Extreme Dominica

“To shine above all”

This motto above the elementary school, built by money from the People’s Republic of China, in the capital of Roseau reflects the spirit of the people brilliant in the tropical sun . Julian, our guide on the aerial tram, is one of those people. He guides us through the rainforest from floorbed to canopy, instructing with folk medicine. I learn that botanists are studying the leaves of the Clusium Major as an HIV preventative. Mistletoe, hidden among the ferns and 19 species of towering palms, is a cancer treatment. Locals know and use the herbs daily as curatives.
This forest is ancient, and the northern reserve above this one even older. The giant leaves, felled by hurricane winds and rains, are a moist carpet below braided vines dangling from the trees as roots. We are circling 4k above it all, the 300 foot gorge visible below. Four hundred feet of rain falls here each year. Dominica is one of the wettest places on earth. Each night our dreams are accompanied by sea dreams as the near-nightly rainfall beats to the constant surf. Each morning we step over puddles pooling at the bottom of the steps on the way to morning coffee or swim.
The 365 rivers complement the days of the year and, although most are not navigable due to the constant flow and resulting currents, they produce numerous pools and falls. We have found the accessible Emerald Pool, its accommodating bowl of water at the foot of a fall which pummels us as we try to inch behind it. We have played with cruise ship tourists who both slowed our passage and lent us a hand up at Trafalgar Falls, a coupling of a “mother” and “father” fall merging from different sources.
In our search for the remote Sari Sari, we missed the road, ending up in the village of Boetica where nine-year-old boys begged to be our tour guides to Victoria Falls. We soon found the sign indicating “Victoria Falls, easy—trail, moderate” and drove down a dirt road past a field to the shack at the end , our Jeep alerting the slow-moving donkey in the road. A returning patriarch, leading his visiting English family, fords the river with his walking stick, limber as a goat.
“It is very difficult…four rivers crossing back and forth…and very steep. If it should rain, the current could increase, and you might never be able to cross back tonight. Do not attempt it without a guide."
The boys were right! We splash ourselves, decide to only fill our water bottles from this pure source. Gingerly balanced, crab-like, hands as claws crouched to use the rocky bottom for balance, I anticipate another trail.

We determine our New Year’s day destination to be Middleham Falls, the largest falls on the island at 300 feet The Forestry and Park service signs say it is an easy 45 minute trek. We soon discover this is also a case of false advertising.
The few hikers here attest to the remote difficulty of this endurance test. The trail is a series of worn timbers worn tubular and smooth, some rotted to pulp, through a wet and often muddy rainforest path. We use roots as handholds as we climb down, finding footholds meant for small feet. One false step would hurl us to certain death hundreds of feet below this precipice. We cross a dried streambed, ford a wet one, and discover the small fall where we can refresh ourselves. Besides the perpetual green, the only color is the color of sweat as it pours down our faces like manna of the ordeal. Long reach and flexibility are required to bridge some of these ‘steps’. We’ve hiked 1 ? hours and not yet found the source.
Returning hikers warn us of slippery rocks and a false path: turn right at the boulder marked with palm leaves and rocks; that is the true trail. We follow that course, hear the falls before we see it. The stupendous cascade cools us with a fine, abundant mist scattered through the air. A native family moves swiftly and gracefully, lunch sacks in hand, over the rocks to land’s end, edging over to get a better view. They barely ruffle their short skirts; their clothing, unlike mine, isn’t mud stained. We decide to follow their lead and to head back before impending darkness.
The sudden rainshower urges us to move into the shelter of the dark palms, head faster toward the bamboo grove. Arrival at the makeshift shelter signals the parking lot nearby. Vermilion sunset colors the lot as I take off squeaking waterproof boots.
Tom drove the narrow, winding road back like a Dominican, hitting the lowbeams twice for the few vehicles coming up the mountain. We returned to a patio barbecue where the circus of wild divers has reassembled in sedate tables of couples, families, friends. We eat fantastic ribs and rice
by the light of sand-grounded candles enveloped in paperbags. Resolutions were not made this New Year’s day, but our resolve has been called on, naturally, in a typical, Dominican day.

waterfall

Dominica Diving
Topic: Extreme Dominica
Dominica Diving

Along the Eastern Coast of Dominica, the self-designated “Nature Isle of the Caribbean”, the Rivi?re Blanche is dotted with villages until river meets the ocean in a triumphant burst of sounding surf at the Southern point past Grand Bay. As we stop to contemplate distant Martinique, we decide to stay south in the capital of Rouseau so we can escape driving the hairpin turns on the potholed road north to Portsmouth. Derek has invited us to snorkel at his place, an invitation most appealing by nightfall .
“Here it is! Stop!”, I exclaim as we clip pass the enclosed blue-and-white villa. We put the jeep in reverse to enter the driveway, noticing the comforting touches welcomed in hardcore Dominica: a birdbath in the garden; the patio bar, YAMAN license plate on the wall, where Rolle rules as he shakes pina coladas; hot tub and pool under breadfruit trees; immaculate rooms with huge showers; the balcony dining room where we’ll soon swap tales of extreme hikes over creole rice and beans, family style Derek has even christened his boats after his children.
Some claim Dominica as one of the best dive spots in the world because of the steep cliffs and volcanic past of the island. Our haven has given us a view of divers here from all parts of the planet searching for seahorse, batfish, unusual marine life. Although most folks come from the States, France and Sweden are currently represented. The forgotten paperbacks in Italian, German, Dutch, and Japanese attest to the global clientele traveling distances to get here.
The night divers breathing bubbles through tropical moonlit waters are the most astounded. Phrases like “Awesome, “another world” ripple through their talk. Their wetsuits, slung over the yard’s railing, hang black and marine blue like rare birds on a wire. The row of individual, empty shapes, recently filled with expanded lung capacity and beating hearts, are resting, drying for another dive. Out in the harbor, small craft motor past them in the dying light of day. Showered divers amble out to the patio for rum punch, clinking ice waiting for dinner. This dinner--flying fish, tuna, whitefish, or mahi mahi—was likely caught outside this same harbor, and will be served with local ‘provisions’, the traditional vegetables which slaves were allowed to grow for themselves, or creole concoctions like breadfruit pie and salted fish.
Divers are a rugged lot, rising early to fuel up with a healthy breakfast of banana, papaya, and French toast before embarking on the morning dive. The people from Marseille hop onto the advanced dive boat with a “voil?” attitude . The rest of us travel the 20 minutes out to the Marine Reserve, jump into a sea of sergeant majors, blue chromis, coral of all kinds, and barrel sponges wide enough to ‘swallow’ several of us. Our guide Gus snorkels the 25 feet to the bottom to point out the moray eel, but nobody else get close. The past whispers to us as we dive through tepid bubbles at Champagne, as Gus showers us with warm bubbles gathered from below in his snorkel tube. At Soufri?re my stomach kicks at me from the overhead sun, but we are entertained with sensational lore the guides think tourists want to hear: how Scott’s Head was named after the beheaded governor; why the sorcerer’s sat and cast spells on colonists from the pinnacles above; how the colonizers encountered cannibals. Traveler, be aware there is no evidence of those ‘feasts’.
After returning for conventional lunch, we’re ready for an afternoon whale safari. We soon observe the blue shadows of several sperm whales, spot their blowholes from afar. The catamaran’s hydrophone enables us to zone in. One cetacean does her Christmas dance for us, alternating hiding and sunning herself. The rainbow migrates as the rain does from village to village, settling for moments in an arch of splendor. It appears fore grounded against the mountains, disappearing into them at both ends of the spectrum. I imagine villagers bathed in indigo, swathed in red, their auras constantly brushed and their third-eyes open.
Two fishermen at sea struggle with a swordfish, hauling on a solitary line until it is in line to harpoon. They beat it ‘til its blood seeps through the Caribbean as it loses energy and changes colors, grabbing its sword to pull it onto ZEZ, the dory also ironically tagged “Grammpar”, belying their energy.
“Your wife will be happy tonight," one of our staff shouts. He gives the fishermen rum punch in celebration as they cruise by us, motoring home.
We power back into the sunset, followed by dozens of dolphins spinning in and out of the ocean, flirting with our immense presence. They reappear just when we think they are out of our scope. It is a wondrous moment, caught for all time to the Christmas song of the rumpunch drunk in his Xmas-red, Creole Radio shirt as he flirts with the female tourists to his nature island. Everyone smiles, even the stoic Nordics; it has been another Dominica day.

Dominica Extreme
Topic: Extreme Dominica

Trip date: December 14th, 2004 - January 8th, 2005

Dominica Extreme
By Claudia Belleau

I have come to Coconut Beach in Dominica, the Nature Isle volcanically spit and shaped in the Lesser Antilles, to spend Christmas holidays with my spouse Captain Tom.  The island suffered the only major earthquake in its history-6.5 on the Richter, out 10 kilometers from the east coast ?at 6 a.m. on Sunday, November 21st, 2004, shortly after his arrival on November 20th. It rocked the place awake, a cacophony of people running into the street, as it blew the steeple off the Catholic Church hours before the first service, crushing the blessedly empty Methodist bus, leaving a pile of rubble. The cement houses, skywhite or lime bright, withstood. The aftershock lasted for days: Tom wondered if his hand was shaking on the doorknob or if his room was still trembling.
?This is the second-most mountainous country in the world? a native son, returning to visit after garnering an MBA and a Baptist bible in Missouri, tells me. The airplane arcs, angles, and circles the 29 x 16 range of rainforest, swamp, and black sand before touching down at Melville Hall.
Tom drives the jeep through a winding, narrow cliff road on an island where landmarks are designated by their color or position ?right of the pink house?, ?at the top of the hill?. Although I?m occupied on the cell phone trying to find my waylaid bags, I?m overwhelmed with vibrant signs of life?coconut palms, banana trees, and vibrant tropical green fern, leaf, and fruit jamming for space . A solitary cow grazes, her ribs jutting out. There are more of these underfed critters, joined by foraging goats and dogs. The shanty lean-to?s, built of corrugated tin and open-air space, shelter playing children, old men smoking, a clutch of moms and kids.
We see mudslides, evidence of loose rocks, yawing stretches of space where there once was land. Highway crews are cleaning up the hard-hit east side of the island . The landscape defies this scruffy muddle of daily life, calling to the spirit of the islanders who exist epically in full frontal of the horizon of paradise. The magnificence of perpetually clouded summits on rainforest hills meeting the sea becomes magical when the rainbow swaths the sky with its daily, misty double exposure of reality.

Portsmouth town is divided by the Indian River, hosts Ross Medical School, offers an industrial maritime beachfront and a collision of narrow streets mirroring British history. This deepwater port once harbored both Columbus? ships and Yankee whalers. Yachts and tall ships with international flags, commercial vessels loading bananas, cruise ships- flooding the island with tourists darting to waterfall or market on speeding buses- are moored in sight of Cabrits National Park.
The squad of hawkers and tour guides have supplanted the tribe of original inhabitants. These Carib Indians were relocated to the Central Forest Reserve south of the villages we?ve grazed whose French names correspond to their purpose: Dos d?Ane--Donkey?s Back-- La Source, Bornes (milestones). This Carib territory is distinct. It is still taboo to allow non-Carib men to live in the area for more than a few visiting days. Carib women who marry outside their clan must leave the region.
The mountains here, Morne aux Diables and Morne Diablotins to the south, are verdantly green, yet ?morne? evokes dismal, denotes dreary. Could this signify the reported murders of the Carib chiefs as Dominca was tossed between the English and French colonists, or the purported untimely ends to unfaithful spouses by enforced ?jumps? from the cliffs ?

The quake aftermath impacts the people visibly in the serious demeanor of the celebrants at the Christmas Eve Midnight Mass. The service is held at the Portsmouth Market, an open-air space, roof held up by columns, by the low seawall barricading the streets from the Caribbean Sea. Tonight the market is a temple. The storage containers by the seawall stand silent sentinels; rows of folding chairs face the altar decorated simply by a palm at the base. A half-dozen servers sit ready at the back of the altar. Panels of linens strung on line form the back ?wall?, blown by the breeze which foreshadows the nightly rain.
The choir, standing facing the altar from the seawall side, raises melodious voice in an hour of prayerful song. The lilting Dominican accent threads through the Anglicized words. Deep African faces, straight Carib hair and bones, attune the voice and attitude of the season. 80% of Dominicans are Black.
The kiss of peace is a respectful handshake or hug; folk in elaborate straw hats and polyester tropical prints exchange blessings. Community is born over coffee and cake sold to rebuild the church; kinship pours into and up onto King George Street where many youth sit watching, waiting.
? Babylon,? some say, anticipating only another day in a nation where the average wage is $1700 US per year.
The last strains of ?Joy to the world? recessional die out in the night which gives nothing up but the exchange of air for the sweat of its people.

Ritual in Dominica is embedded in the daily rhythm of life as the same tasks are repeated with deliberate attention to detail. Hiking is our ritual, and we set out on Christmas morning to find Syndicate Falls, one of the crescendo of cascades testing the ability to forge streams, to use roots and rocks as footholds. Our desire to trek eight hours to Boiling Lake, the cauldron of volcanic steam, has been foiled; it?s stopped boiling since the quake. We use our local knowledge to find the Falls : it?s by the mango tree, near the pineapple field, close to the small shack.
We spot the banana-green shack used by harvesters of the same. I?m compelled to pick grapefruit from the countless felled from the trees by sheer weight and wind. We arrive at a crossroads, bearing always right through a narrow trail cut between groves of bananas, oranges heavy as grapefruit. The dirt-stained man in high, black boots, cutting down his Christmas share of plantains with a machete directs us to the correct path which is back again, off the ?highway?, itself no more than a narrow, paved road up the mountain.
?They raise the price on bananas, but I get peanuts?, he states simply. My waterproof hiking boots become muddy, and I think of barefoot natives harvesting in the rainy season.

Driving Dominica is an exercise in dexterity. Legend states that Columbus, when asked about the topography of the island by Queen Isabella, crumpled a balled piece of paper and dropped it to the ground. The reflexes of a jaguar, the presensing sonar of a bat, and an eagle-eye are foundation for survival on these erratically twisting roads filled with continuous curves, unforeseen flora thrust in your face as you navigate the narrow coastal road.
Many Dominicans do not drive at all, preferring to take the ?transports? from village to village, or to walk those miles in an effort which keeps them solidly fit from navigating steep slopes. People lived in villages linked by mule transport until the first road was built in the 1950?s. Dominicans have been driving only for decades, and approach the wheel of their favored Toyota, Nissan, or Mitsubishi with the abandon of teenagers. It?s not unusual to find them in the middle of roads with no yellow midlines, swerving to avoid potholes marring the road every ten feet or so, cutting the air between as they whiz by. The Astaphan department store trucks delivering home goods throughout the island, the industrial trucks barreling down the road from Roseau to Portsmouth, shake cars in their passing. Being bumped into a ditch could mean a fall hundreds of feet into a gorge. Horns are used coming `round the bends, replaced yearly if possible.
Many have pimped their rides with tags announcing their intentions: Jah Peace, Scummy, Powerblaster. They affix the stick-on banners at the top of their windshields with the same showiness which scrawls ?puppies for sale? or ?2-PAC ?on the walls on homes.
The many pedestrians carrying loads on their heads is a strikingly unexpected yet somehow natural. Folks with cans of cola for a whale watch, bananas, groceries, the old woman at the police station with her attache case of papers balanced upright?they are balanced, unwavering.
One of the guys fills me in on a trick: you can ball up your tee shirt and put it on your head, underneath, for grounding, like yoga exercise where the salute to the sun seems insufficient, the serpent a mere metaphor, and the cat a warmup to what walking this knotty jungle calls for in dexterity.
I hear the creatures that inhabit Dominica through my string of island nights: the `mountain chickens? croaking, prolific as the ban on using them as food protects humans from their parasites. The hummingbirds, the rainforest insects, the sand crab tapping gently on my window are here on my portside, the constant starboard surf lulling me to sleep with a constellation of codes I must decipher before I can navigate this complex new world.