Paul Crask’s ‘Living Islands’

I had three dives scheduled in a day and the first was Wibbles Reef. A 20m dive along a pretty reef with hard and soft corals and an extraordinary large number of sea fans and whips. Napoleon wrasse swept by in huge shoals, filling my field of view with a blaze of colour. To the right, a shadow. Moving closer, we saw the eagle ray emerge from the blue and glide past us on its journey over the reef. A beautiful creature, large and extravagant, its graceful movements soon making it disappear once again. Another shadow. This time to the left. Gone. A flash above and looking up, between me and the surface, a huge barracuda circled, giving me the eye and that toothy grin. Another shadow. Gone again. Something was with us, just out of sight. We drifted on, the current carrying us above the reef, aquanauts orbiting a strange world. Then again. There it was. This time I could see it and its size made me breathe just a little harder. A large reef shark, bigger than me, came into the focus and seemed to pause. Then it became a shadow once again, skirting the margins of the dive.

Dive two, and I found myself hovering above the deck of the Veronica. The remains of the wheelhouse and crane were alive with juvenile fish, chromis and Creole wrasse, fighting for space and adding colour and life to the corpse of the ship. In the hold, iron beams criss-crossed the floor and above my head a mirror. Moving towards it, I saw my reflection and my bubbles disappearing. An air pocket. I surfaced within this tiny space beneath the waves and removed my reg to breathe the stale air. Back down, into the hold and out over the stanchions, down to the stern and the large rudder. I circled the wreck then returned to the deck and just hovered above it, watching life return to the dead.

The Underwater Sculpture Gallery was created by Jason deCaires Taylor and he had urged me to see it as part of my Grenada research. Though recent sea surges had caused a little damage, there is no escaping the sheer originality, beauty and extraordinary vision and artistry that went into this magnificent creation. Vicissitudes, a circle of children, though a little damaged, was awe-inspiring. We tried to heave the Lost Correspondent back to his desk, but its weight was too much for us – we needed a lift-bag. Un-still Life, a vase, a bowl and some fruit on a table was coming alive with corals. Grace Reef and Sienna were beautiful and serene, but my favourite, La Diablesse, the she-devil, emerging from the blue and coming into focus, is just one of those underwater experiences I shall never forget. Her image still haunts me.

A day of beauty, of ghosts, shadows and surprise encounters. A day of life under water in Grenada.

The sun had set and people gathered around the cliff top to see the drummers take position with chanteuses and dancers beside them. In the small coastal village of Mt Pleasant, on the island of Carriacou, the village Maroon Festival had begun as the afternoon was drawing to a close, with a feast of smoked meats and provisions that had been cooking over open fires for most of the afternoon. Neighbours shared stories and jokes, Jack Iron rum and beer washed down the fare, and as dusk arrived, so did the eager anticipation of Big Drum.

‘I remember I used to have to carry them drums all the way down the hill with my friends,’ said Don.

‘Really?’

‘Yes. Three of us carried a drum each. I was only small and that drum was bigger than I was. All the way down the hill we carried it. Of course there was all this food waiting for us when we got down here so it wasn’t so bad.’He took a long pull of his Jack Iron and grinned.‘’Course there was no food for us the next day when we had to carry the damn things back up the bloody hill,’ he said. ‘There’s African heritage for you.’

The cot drum in the centre of the three beat out the rhythm of the first song. The bula drums on either side found their groove and all three drummers began in earnest. I couldn’t make out the words sung by both women and men, but it was clearly a lament. Creole lyrics going back to the days of the plantations slaves fused with a drum beat that was straight from the shores of West Africa. It was moving. One lady, dressed in a wide, flowered skirt, began to dance in the circle that had been blessed by a dousing of rum and water. Spectators looked on and urged each other to join in. One by one, they took it in turns to dance solo within the ring, kicking the dirt, picking up and waving the two cloth towels that were placed before the cot. The first song ended and the mood had been set.

‘Of course we weren’t allowed to get away with much in those days,’ said Don.

‘No ?’

‘No. My mother used to send me on a chore and before I went she used to spit on the ground and say that if I wasn’t back by the time it dried up I would be in for a beating. It’s true,’ he smiled to those around who were within earshot of his tales. ‘Mind you with all the witches around, I didn’t need much encouragement to get a move on. Them women used to put the fear of god into us with stories of witches and mabouya, diablesse and all that lot,’ he said.

‘You ever see one a dem ?’ asked Tom.

‘Nah. But I was more afraid of Lizzie Long Breasts than them witches any way.’Everyone burst out laughing.‘It’s true,’ grinned Don. ‘Lizzie Long Breasts. She used to live a few houses away. I didn’t used to want to get caught by ‘er I can tell you.’ He paused.’ Not with dem great tings.’

The drums fired up again. This time two dancers twirled and spiralled around each other. The singing was passionate and loud, the drums from another age. It was beautiful, atmospheric and harked to a time when people of this village sang out those words in sorrow. Lyrics that spoke of a home across the seas, a family split, hardship, a yearning to be free.

‘They once asked me to go out and call the dead,’ said Don.

‘Explain.’

‘If someone in the village died, someone used to go around neighbouring villages announcing ‘so-and-so is dead and will be buried tomorrow’. They had to get them under ground quick in them days,’ he said. ‘Anyhow, they asked me once to go out. It was my first time and I didn’t really fancy all that walking so I talked my friends into pinching some donkeys so we could get it done easier. Any how we were messing about. We was just kids. And any way it started to get dark and we were miles away from home. Everyone started to get worried about witches and ting.’

‘And Lizzie Long Breasts ?’

‘An ‘er,’ he laughed. ‘Anyway, we kicked the donkeys and tried to ride them fast. That’s when I discovered I wasn’t such a good jockey as I thought.’

‘What happened ?’

‘I came right off on me backside. Right there in the middle of the forest in the dark.’ He took a swig of Jack Iron to let the picture develop in our minds.‘You know how me mates found out I was missing ?’

‘How ?’

‘My bloody donkey overtook ‘em all innit.’

Beneath surface of Wotten Waven, in Dominica’s pretty Roseau Valley, a geothermal layer has created a number of hot springs and steam caves along the banks of the Riviere Blanc. Hidden by lush rainforest and a colourful blanket of gingers, heliconias, wild anthuriums and giant tree ferns, this natural phenomena is providing local people with a vital source of income.

Wotten Waven’s spas offer everything from hot sulphur rich baths, steam treatments and mud wraps to Qi Gong, massage and Reiki. The Rainforest Shangri-La Resort has cabin accommodation, a large restaurant, a waterfall and a whole host of wellness treatments. Its grounds can best be described as a mini Valley of Desolation, with steam caves, fumeroles and hot water springs. Tia’s Bamboo Cottages serves up great local food, a winning ‘Bullet Punch’, cottage accommodation and two beautiful hot pools. At Ti Kwen Glo Cho, there is a beautifully natural spa and lush forest gardens that hide a pretty waterfall. Hot and cold water is channelled along bamboo pipes into a series of bathtubs.

Screw has been running and constantly improving his Sulphur Spa for a number of years. His warm and friendly welcome is matched only by the hot embrace of the mineral rich pools themselves. He prides himself on service, greeting everyone personally as they arrive and instantly making his guests feel like lifelong friends. The entrance to his spa is down a short series of steps to the river where he has fashioned several attractive pools from natural rocks to fit seamlessly with the stunning forest surroundings. Tree ferns and wild flowers fill the steep river banks with a kaleidoscope of colour. Each of the pools is moderated by combining the natural hot water springs with channelled river water, creating a cascade of temperatures.

I had just returned from the Boiling Lake with some visitors from New York and Washington. It had been cool and wet up in the mountains and our bodies were in need of warmth and revitalisation. The water of the top pool welcomed us like a large blanket and we almost audibly purred at the sensation. With a rum punch at hand and just the sound of cascading water competing with the tree frogs who were starting their warm-up exercises for the night, we half drifted into a comfortable slumber. 

Darkness arrived with its usual abruptness and the steam of the pools became visible against the backdrop of full moon and a sky full of stars. Our eyelids grew ever heavier and threatened to close as we completely unwound, deeply contented in the warm embrace of nature.

A little rain, well actually quite a bit of it really, scattered us like frightened mice to the sanctuary of the nearest shelter in the early hours of this morning. J’ouvert kicked off around 4am but unfortunately so did the weather. Only two bands, it seemed, had braved the elements and the omens threatened a dreary wash-out. But carnival revellers are made of tougher stuff and, once thoroughly drenched, the rain no longer mattered, and we stomped, zombie-like, behind the music, sloshing in the puddles, slopping down the booze.

At one point I clearly remember the rain driving down so hard it seemed to be drilling through the shelter I had found together with a couple of fellow night-time stompers along side the Ruins in the old French Quarter. I realised the Ruins is a very appropriate name as, looking up to see how I could still be getting such a drenching, I saw there was no roof there at all. I did the only honourable thing I could and blamed my friends for choosing a silly spot in which to shelter.

Dawn broke and Triple Kay appeared over the brow of a hill with throngs of devotees. It looked like an invasion as the hordes approached, a swagger to their stomping style, designer threads just daring the rain to take one step closer. Time for me to trudge home and take a break. Once the 15 year-olds arrive, I just can’t help feeling like a silly old fart, dancing crap like a really untrendy dad.

Back at 10.30 though, ready for part two. Unfortunately it was just me and a couple of thousand cruise ship visitors who must have been wondering where the hell carnival had disappeared to. Or perhaps this was it ? I sauntered to the Bay Front and saw a number heading back for the boat. I wanted to call them back and tell them to wait, but they were starting to jog so I let them escape with befuddled impressions of Dominica and carnival. ‘Not much like f***ing Rio, eh ?’ Must have been a Brit. I wondered who Rio was …. then felt silly all over again.

Hurrah. Kick-off. The costume parade began with its usual stop-start splutter as bands tried to synchronise and merge. There were long pauses and large open spaces for a while, but once they had got it together, boy it was fun. Great costumes, colourful and sparkly, often very revealing. Camera shutters whirred. Blokes dressed up, sometimes like women, women dressed up, very much like women, and kids trotting along, faces painted, giggling and happy. The music consumes your body and you just can’t resist that stomping thing again as you seek alcohol, barbeque chicken and bakes. Carnival fuel.

4pm and my legs start to ache. The bands have begun to merge and parties break out sporadically around the town. King George V Street is alive with sound, colour and people. Everyone is bouncing, even us white folks give it a go, even the crap dancing dads in their khaki shorts and Tevas. All-inclusive fun, a melt-down of inhibition, a fusion of culture. Real Mas, the real thing, unfettered, rebellious, honest vibes and unashamedly free.

No longer able to free up as I could several hours ago, I limp away, grabbing a last Kubuli to help see me home. End of part two. I try to fool myself into thinking I’ll be back for part three but I know deep inside that part three is beyond my old bones and I need a rest. But 12 hours isn’t bad for a farty old white stomper like me, huh ?

I met Cobra at 4.30. The sun was threatening to sink over the horizon before its time. Dark clouds skulked over the western foothills of Diablotin and bartered with the fading sunlight over the remains of the day. With the help of river boat captains who were done working, we carefully lifted hefty, hand carved seats cut from thick gommier trunks onto the fragile little boat. Just when I thought it could carry no more, a renewed enthusiasm to exceed the limit shone brightly in the liquor filled gazes of the men around.

‘It takin more, we’

‘Of course.’

And so they came, more and more until the boat awoke from its late afternoon slumber with a creak and a groan.

‘That’s it,’ said Cobra. ‘Let’s go.’

I stepped gingerly onto the bow and squeezed myself in between our precious cargo of heavy furniture. Cobra fired up the outboard and we began our short journey up river.

The contorted roots of the mang wouj twisted their way along the sodden banks of Glanvillea swamp. Moorhens paddled for cover, mountain mullet rolled and broke the surface of the perfectly still water. Swamp gave way to woodland and the mang took complete control. A kingfisher leapt from its perch and skimmed the water, leading us further away from the sea.

In a little while we reached the landing stage of Cobra’s pride and joy. The Indian River Bush Bar and Restaurant is still in progress, but it is nearly there. A sanctuary of wood and thatch, a place to hang out and listen to music, eat barbeque foods and relax. Cobra beamed as he showed me around, explained every joint, every post, every beam. He showed me how the bar shelves would hang, where the craft shop would be, where the band would play. The piece de resistance was the revival of the Dynamite, the traditional rum punch of the Indian River, a spirit once lost to a storm, now rediscovered at last. We drank a few and talked until darkness fell. I lost myself in his vision and enthusiasm.

After unloading his new chairs, we drifted back down river. The sounds of nature took over. Bird cries I had never heard before, the singing of frogs, the mysterious splashing of unseen river creatures. I was filled with awe and beamed an intoxicated grin of camaraderie towards a man who was also realising his dream.

The World Creole Music Festival was great again. You should go at least once in a life time. For my part, I think Creole Week is just about my favourite time of year in Dominica and, having spent my first WCMF two years ago in Roseau’s PMH hospital losing half my cornea, I like to make up for the trauma of my initial months on the island by taking time out to really enjoy all the cultural activities each Creole day has to offer.

I’m sure Beanie Man, self-proclaimed king of dancehall (he reminded us a quite few times ….) will probably be the young people’s choice of performers, but I really enjoyed some of the other musicians just a little more. I guess I got a little tired of ‘take it down … let me see all the Beanie fans in the audience…’

The zouk-metal sounds of Bamboolaz got me going, despite the showers, umbrellas and slippery people, and I loved the original sounds of Togo from King Mensah. Michele Henderson was perfectly polished and I especially liked the last two tracks when she brought on the Rising Stars choir to accompany her. I was probably the only person in the entire stadium who had never heard of Beres Hammond … (but hey, how many of them would have heard of the Talking Heads ?). It was inspiring to hear the crowd singing their hearts out – they knew all the words to all the songs – and he gave us a great, yet somehow quite humble, show (very un-Beanie-like).

I think my favourite performers of the three nights were Kassav. They took the stage at 4am on Monday morning and played with a freshness, vitality and sense of fun that shook me out of the onslaught of slumber to dance, jump and wave my arms on command with everyone else. I had no idea what they were saying (note to myself: brush up on your French), but I grinned, laughed, cheered and yelled like some kind of psycho killer. Perhaps I could even pass as a bloke from ‘Guada’. Mmm, maybe not .. Someone did remind me that I ‘danced like a white man’. I guess they have never seen David Byrne doing Once in a Lifetime …Or maybe they have, but just not to zouk music ….

Kassav were playing when I was in hospital two years ago. I remember listening to them in the early hours from a lonely bench outside the ward in my first few days of half-blindness. I downloaded their album onto my ipod just as soon as I could see my browser again. It was liberating to enjoy them, this time properly, at a stupid hour of the morning, half-drunk, completely exhausted and beginning to ripen.

By the time Grammacks International wound down at 6.30am, the sun was up and the crowd was down to just a few hundred ardent fans and a parro with a broken shopping cart. I gathered myself to go home. How did I get here ? I realised I had just spent the last 12 hours partying and I suddenly felt my age.

My favourite WCMF bits were: Bamboolaz, Michele Henderson, King Mensah (especially the number he played on his cheeks..) and Beres (even though I felt like a complete numb nuts for being the only person in the crowd not singing every single lyric). Top prize to Kassav and a big up to Maxine for a great rendition of the anthem opening up on Sunday (hope you enjoyed the festival Max..).

It wouldn’t be a proper festival without rain and mud, would it ? As thousands of people sought the shelter of canvass tents, trees, umbrellas and rain jackets, others simply slopped around in what was rapidly becoming a quagmire and let the downpour do its worst.

For the last four days the rain had threatened this annual fest of Creole culture, food and music but for the most part had relented and allowed Dominicans, young and old, overseas visitors and the throng of talented artists to do their thing. People laughed, ate, listened, joked, drank, played, sang and had tremendous fun in what has to be one of the region’s most pleasant daytime parties.

Each time I listen to live music in Dominica I am so genuinely impressed at the talent this small island produces. Creole in the Park is a great opportunity to recognise that in the arts, in culture and in all of the many traditional and popular music genres  there is opportunity for people to develop careers, to come together and to enjoy and appreciate all of the big things that come from such a small place. From traditional jing ping, la peau cabwit and steel pan ensembles, established favourites like the Midnight Groovers and First Serenade, and international artists such as Nasio Fontaine, there was such incredible talent and variety on display. See how the animated and lively bouyon collectives such as WCK and Triple Kay light up the young crowd into a frenzy of dance and jump-up, listen to the power of the voices from emerging talents like ImpromtU and Esclav, enjoy the colour and heritage of the many wonderful cultural group performances.

I sit here on a wet Friday morning, listening to the rain and remembering the downpour of yesterday that threatened to spoil the climax of the festival, the very last performance of the week and the very first performance in many years of one of the island’s stars, ‘Nasio’. A storm approached from the west, the skies darkened and unleashed a torrent that drove everyone to seek out whatever shelter they could find. And for many hundreds of the thousands who were there, it meant just sitting it out and getting completely soaked. The park turned to mud, lightening bolts flashed all around and thunder shook the earth. People screamed.

Darkness fell but the lights didn’t go out, nor did people leave. And as downpour turned to drizzle and the thunder and lightening drifted off to the mountains, we all emerged to enjoy Nasio. And he performed. He performed and warmed our hearts, helped us forget about how wet we all were and together we brought this beautiful Dominican festival to a fitting close.

We set off just before noon. Richard, Geoffrey and Naj were carrying the ropes, drill and pins. I was carrying my underwater videography outfit. We were wearing 5mm wetsuits, surf boots, neoprene jackets, buoyancy jackets, harnesses and helmets. Around 20 minutes into the Boiling Lake trail, we headed off to the left, following a faint trace deep into the bush. The day was warm and the dense forest humid, making the trek very tough, especially wearing wetsuits and carrying all our gear.

We held the sound of the rushing water of the river gorge to our left and continued onwards through the forest. A manicou froze halfway up a tree and we paused to catch our breath and watch it. Gingerly, as if on tiptoes, it continued its ascent and we passed below. Several fallen trees created obstacles along with a handful of brooks, trickling towards the abyss of the river gorge.

An hour later we stood on the edge of the precipice. Below us, the gorge plummeted into darkness. Richard fastened off the first rope and Geoffrey began his rappel down the cliff to the river. A few minutes later he yelled that he was clear and I looped the rope onto my rappelling device. Taking up the slack I moved towards the edge and began to lean backwards, letting the rope take the full strain of my bodyweight. Once I was horizontal I began to walk down the cliff.

At the bottom, the river was beautiful and the rock formations truly stunning. Smooth, curving rocks combined with running rapids, deep pools and waterfalls. Once we were all into the gorge, we began our walk down river. Our aim was to go as far as we could, and hopefully reach TiTou Gorge where we would make our exit. After just a few yards, the river disappeared over a ledge. It was a fifty foot waterfall.

This was the first time anyone had tried to follow the river from so far up stream all the way down to TiTou Gorge. Usually, Richard and Geoffrey run their canyoning adventures further downstream, closer to Trafalgar Falls. So here was our first surprise challenge. Richard drilled a hole and banged home a pin. Once set, he rappelled down. My turn. The waterfall was fierce and half way down I had to turn away from the force of water as it smashed into my face making it difficult to breathe. Three quarters of the way down, I decided to let myself drop into the pool. It was deep and a relief to be down.

For the next few hours we followed the river encountering rapids, huge boulders and more waterfalls. And it was stunning. The Charm Waterfall, which Richard named after his daughter, is easily a hundred feet tall and absolutely beautiful.

At four o’clock we agreed that we had to speed things up to ensure we would give ourselves a chance to exit the gorge before nightfall. Filming stopped and intense canyoning took over. Wherever we could manage it, we climbed down waterfalls, boulders, ledges and rapids rather than spend time drilling in pins and setting up to rappel. In many places we had no choice, the waterfalls were simply too tall, and we had to rappel down them.

The gorge narrowed dramatically, the river was much more powerful and less light penetrated down to the bottom. Finding a solid footing in the gloom was difficult and we often slipped and simply let the river take us. At around four thirty we reached the top of a waterfall we recognised. It was the fall at the end of TiTou Gorge. Richard drilled in his last pin and Geoffrey made the first descent. When we heard him yelling and laughing we knew we had made it. I stepped up to rappel down my final waterfall for the day. I was completely exhausted. Running the river at speed for the last half hour, scrambling and rock climbing down steep boulders, overhangs and rapids had sapped my strength as well as taken a good deal of the skin from my hands and fingers. In more than a little pain, I rappelled down into TiTou Gorge and Geoffrey slapped my back in delight. We had made it.

We drifted out of TiTou Gorge into the last sunlight of the day. It had been a true adventure. We were tired but on a real natural high. We had made new and beautiful discoveries, we had tested ourselves – I knew I had been close to my physical limits – and we had made it safely out again. Back at Extreme Dominica, the cold beers tasted supreme.

If you would like to take a look at canyoning in Dominica, here is a film I made.

Though I have walked it more times than I can remember, something I have never done before is hike the Boiling Lake trail on my own. I did it today and it was an interesting though somewhat unusual experience, especially as I didn’t see another soul on either the outward nor on the return journey. I had the whole trail entirely to myself.

Setting out early, the sun was still low in the sky and the interior had a layer of cloud cover, though it didn’t look like rain. The trail still bears the scars of Hurricane Dean. Several fallen trees have not been cleared and guides have made makeshift paths through the forest around them. These detours are muddy and will soon deteriorate. Squelching along them I wished I had brought my cutlass to set about clearing the path properly. In other places, slides have swept away the path and the steps, making for slippery and very muddy scrambles. These areas also need fixing up before heavy rainfall makes them dangerous or even impassable.

The parrots were lively today. Between TiTou Gorge and the Breakfast River their calls were the most distinctive sound I could hear. On the far side of the river, at the top of the ridge, the squawking was particularly loud. Quietly and very slowly I lowered my backpack and took a seat on a grassy bank and scanned the canopy. Within minutes two jaco parrots flew past at eye level. I have never seen them so close up before and it was a truly marvellous sight. I cursed myself for not having my camera ready, though I knew it was worth the walk just for that short moment. Once they had passed, I set off up the steep slope to the summit of Morne Nichols.

By the time I reached the top the clouds had faded away and the views were great all around. To the west I could clearly see Roseau and to the north, Laudat, Cochrane, Morne Micotrin and Morne Trois Pitons. To the south stood Morne Watt and to the east I could see the ridge of the Grand Soufriere Hills in the far distance and below them the steam of the Boiling Lake itself.

The drop down into the Valley of Desolation is always a slip slidey affair. The wooden steps are steep and usually completely submerged in water running down the mountainside. Today was no exception. At the bottom, a landslide had changed the path along the river and I had the impression more mud and rocks would fall sometime soon. In the bright sunshine and with no-one around, the Valley of Desolation looked quite stunning. Steam billowed from fumaroles and rivers bubbled and whistled through rocks and cracks in the earth.

The Boiling Lake looked lonely today so perhaps it was glad of the company for the short time I sat on a rock and watched it. I noticed that the ferocity of the bubbles at the centre appears to have a rhythm. Watch it next time you are there and see if you agree. It goes quiet for a few seconds, then really bubbles up fiercely before settling down to a steady simmer and then going quiet again. Each cycle seems to take around a minute or so. I was entranced.

On the way back the jaco parrots teased me with their calls and once or twice launched themselves into the air just a few yards away from where I stood. I expected to see hikers on their way to the lake but there were none. Just over five hours since I started, I emerged at TiTou Gorge where I was very relieved to see a lady selling cold beers.

‘That’s your vehicle below ?’ she asked.

‘Yes.’

‘And where are the rest of them ?’

‘The rest of what ?’

‘You’re alone ?’

‘I am.’

‘You walked there alone ? When I saw the car I didn’t know whether to come up or not, but I thought maybe it was full of hikers.’

‘Sorry, just me,’ I said. ‘You came up here just for me, I’m afraid.’

‘No matter. Maybe some people will be coming to the gorge for a swim,’ she said. ‘How was the hike?’

‘Nice. Lots of parrots.’

‘You have pictures ?’

‘Unfortunately not,’ I said. ‘They were too quick for me.’

‘Never mind. You want another beer ?’

‘Sure. I think I should,’ I said.

‘I think you should, too,’ she smiled.

One of my very favourite hikes in the south of Dominica begins at the Soufriere Sulphur Springs and heads right up to the summit of the ridge. The trail passes along side the large sulphur scars on the face of the mountain above the village and, from time to time, the air is filled with that unmistakable bad egg aroma. From the dizzy heights of the ridge, the views down the valley are beautiful. Not only can you see the village, but also on a good day like today, the reef formations of Soufriere Pinnacles and La Sorciere dive sites are clearly visible beneath the waves.

It is the first proper hike for me in a little while and it is great to get out again. The day is perfect, hardly a cloud in an azure sky, with a cool trade wind keeping the humidity levels down. In around three quarters of an hour I reach the summit and follow the track down the other side.

After a short distance, small houses appear and then the sleepy village of Tete Morne proper. I am greeted by a young woman heading out into the fields, her dogs yapping around my ankles. A little way down the road I reach the ruins of an old house and pick up the trail to Palmiste. It is a steep walk, sometimes a tricky climb, through the Palmiste Estate to the summit of Morne Vert. Along the way there are great views to the north and the east. I make out the peaks of Morne Anglais, Morne John and Morne Watt against the clear sky. Below me Tete Morne village becomes smaller and smaller as I gain ever more height.

Through a portal of large boulders I reach the summit of Palmiste and the views transition from east to south. Grand Bay is stunningly beautiful though it is a little too hazy to see across the channel to Martinique today. Along the summit of the ridge to the littoral woodland peak of Morne Vert, the landscape transforms to an open grassy pasture. I take a seat on a rock and embrace the view, the big sky, the breeze and the sun.

It is hard to get up and move on. I could easily stay planted here all day. Farmers working small holdings on the top of the ridge wave to me as I pass. A cow gives me a disgruntled stare.

‘How on earth did you get up here ?’ I ask. But it ignores me and gets back to the serious business of grass chewing.

I pass through the farms and down the ridge to the right. The path is very hard to follow but I still remember it from the last time I was up here. I also remember how steep it becomes. Once through a beautiful area of dense forest and bamboo thickets, the environment changes to dry coastal forest and the track itself, originally used by Caribs, becomes a steep scree run. Using my backside for a brake, I scurry down the trail until I reach the valley bottom. It is difficult to follow in places and I am glad I have been here before.

A short distance later the trail emerges from the forest on to a vehicle track. To the left is the Bois Cotlette Estate and, though I have seen it many times, I can’t resist a short wander around the beautiful restoration project until I reach the windmill tower on the south side. This was the only sugar, lime and coffee estate on the island that ever used a windmill to drive the machine works and crushers. It is a historic place, full of beauty, and hardly ever visited.

Backtracking, I follow the vehicle track to the main road from Soufriere village to the Sulphur Springs and soon I am at my car again. I feel good. It took a little under three hours to complete the circular hike and I could not have wished for better weather. As I am hot and sweaty, I decide a dip in the sea is in order.

Reaching Cachacrou, I park up near the Caribantic building and launch myself into the calm Caribbean. That feels better ! Magnificent frigate birds circle high overhead and a lone fisherman skulls his old wooden pwi pwi around the bay. I sit on a rock, dripping, and gaze up at the mountains, where I have just been. It was a very nice way to spend Tuesday morning.

My life gets more surreal by the day. I took a call yesterday asking me if I would be able to make a film of an American guy who is doing a show called Around The World For Free. He was going to be doing some canyoning with Extreme Dominica and would I be willing to give my time for free to film him ? Well I happen to love canyoning and it was a chance to showcase Dominica on the web and on the CBS Early Show so it was a no brainer. Besides, I am starting to realise that my life is a little bit around the twist, often out of control, for pretty much most of the time - so I’ve learned just to roll with it these days.

Alex Boylan, winner of the Amazing Race and US TV host, is trying to make his way around the globe with no money. He relies on his interaction with and the generosity of the people he meets to get him from A to B and to show him some of the sights and sounds of the places he visits. So I packed up my camera equipment, waterproof housing and set off.

I met him, and he’s a nice guy, completely in love with Dominica already, and in no hurry to move on yet. Extreme Dominica was giving him a free canyoning trip and I was going to be spending my day being his videographer. He was excited and it was plain to see even before we set off that this was really going to be worth the effort.

The canyoning was fantastic as always. The canyon is beautiful and the waterfalls spectacular. We rappelled down them all, jumping into crystal clear pools, wading through the river, scrambling over rocks, telling stories. It was fun. It has changed a little since I last went. Cathedral Canyon was enhanced by two huge trees that had been lifted and washed down the river following Hurricane Dean. Spookily, they had become wedged in the entrance to this part of the canyon in the shape of a large cross. Tree roots hung down from high up on the surface, giving the appearance of church organs, and the smooth walls have been shaped over the millennia to form beautiful sweeping curves and arches. Cathedral Canyon is one of Dominica’s least known, very rarely seen, but in my view, most spectacular natural attractions.

By the time we returned to Extreme Dominica, Alex was telling us that this experience was one he would always remember. My film would be edited by his producer right away and would then air on his website the following day (Wed 10 Oct) and on the next CBS Early Show update. I said my farewells and drove home thinking I had given something back to Dominica today. I reflected too on how my life is just so completely full of the unexpected, the interesting, the downright weird and whacky, and of course the incredibly beautiful. There is a richness that was just never there before and it is very welcome.

Watch the canyoning film

Hats off to Jay for bringing Alex to Dominica, for housing him and for giving our island such great exposure.

I spent last night in a small aluminium fishing skiff with two friends. We bobbed around just off the Roseau bay front, Newtown and the port at Fond Cole from midnight to around 5am. I have been fishing with them before and they are always good company.

The fishing was slow, very few bites and we were only catching a handful of small snapper. Accompanying us were two other small boats belonging to local fishermen. Their bouzzaille, traditional open flame torches, burned brightly, illuminating their boats and creating an image that seemed to belong better to the past. Every now and then, one of them would pass by, shifting position, looking for some better action.

‘They bitin’ ?’

‘Nah, nothing biting, we. I checkin lower down.’

‘I expectin’ kawang. They say tonight is the night.’

‘But they not giving up, we. At three o’clock they biting for sure.’

‘We jus’ waiting’ then.’

‘An prayin’.’

‘Is true.’

Music played across the still waters from a bar on the bay front. A couple of young men exchanged angry words about their mothers. A motorbike roared down the stretch. More music from south of Newtown, a live band, the singer reaching for notes like a banshee. Bass boomed.

The moon emerged from the eastern horizon, above the dark silhouette of the mountains. To the west, stars shone brightly in a clear sky. Two flying fish broke the surface and skipped in a blur past the boat. A small bite tugged my line. My fingers twitched waiting for confirmation before striking. Minutes passed. Nothing.

I reached for my flask of rum and coke and took a long slow pull. The alcohol warmed and woke me. I smiled inside, reflecting that I could still be working a nine-to-five in England, waiting at the railway station each morning, shivering in winter, cursing the rain and the monotony. Every day the same, the politics, the hassle, the dissatisfaction. The challenges and interest had faded away. Perhaps I missed the money, I certainly missed my friends, but I didn’t miss that life. I had managed to get away. And now, in warmer waters, in the peacefulness of the night I reflected on how much I loved it here.

‘Boy, I needin’ some little piece of action soon, we.’

‘Nearly three,’ I said. ‘The action should start soon.’

‘I hopin’.’

Another bite. A gentle enquiry. I tensed a little. The bells of the Roseau cathedral chimed the hour. The music faded, conversations stopped. I could hear my breathing, my heart pounded. My fingers pulled gently on the line, lifting my bait from the bottom just a fraction. Then another bite, good and strong this time. I struck, raising my arm high into the air. Immediately I recognised the weight of the fish fighting the hook. I began to retrieve the line, filling the spool, maintaining the tension.

‘You have something ?’

‘Yep, there’s something there.’

‘Kawang ?’

‘Maybe.’

‘Boy, it happenin’ now. I ready. Come now fish.’

In an instant the line went slack.

‘Lost it,’ I sighed.

‘You lose it ?’

‘Yeah, he’s gone.’

‘Boy, it was a good size ?’

‘Maybe,’ I said, retrieving my line. The bait was gone, along with the hook.

At 5am, we motored slowly back to the harbour. The eastern sky was beautiful as the rising sun, still hidden behind the dark outline of the mountainous interior, illuminated a broad patchwork of clouds across the sky. An idyllic scene.

The fish had not kept their promise and the evening’s catch was thin. But it didn’t matter. After packing away the boat and equipment, I passed through the Roseau market. Even at this early hour it was already lively and bustling. People were up and about, noises grew louder, colours returned. A new day was beginning.

As the waters of the Atlantic and the Caribbean begin to cool and the hurricane season passes its peak, Dominica emerges from a period of brief hibernation and readies itself for the start of a new season. Activities across the island bear witness to the fact that visitors will be with us again very shortly. It is what many have been waiting for.

Those who suffered damage with the passing of Dean can still be seen driving diggers, fixing posts, hammering nails, clearing paths, shoring up landslides, painting, cleaning, hosing down, checking equipment. Dive operators are bringing back boats from sheltered harbours, cleaning and repainting hulls, servicing engines, testing tanks, valves, compressors, regulators. Staff regroup, back from off season odd-jobbing, relaxing, liming. Forestry officers and labourers clear trails, cut new steps. Vendors check their stock.

The rains are still falling and will do so right up to the festive season, but the blue skies of early morning and late afternoon hint at an awakening. It is nearly time.

The tourist season is vital for Dominica’s economy and the months between November and May are when many people will make the bulk of their annual income. Hence the activity, the preparations, the edge, the nervous anticipation of things to come. Hard work, long days, short nights. Excitement brews.

Telephones begin to ring, email enquiries increase, bookings are taken, discounts negotiated, deposits paid. Bank accounts look less emaciated and their hungry bellies begin to swell. Audible sighs of relief all round.

Independence is here. A time for Creole, for colour, for culture, for a last big bash before the season’s work kicks off in earnest. For we know that when the last band has left the stage on the third night of the World Creole Music Festival, there is no respite until carnival Monday.

Just like anywhere else, Dominica transitions through changing seasons. But our seasons have different qualities, and an altogether different meaning to the island’s people. Wet season (too much water), dry season (too little water), hurricane season (no money, maybe no house), and right around the corner, tourist season (man, that’s a relief. Finally I get paid).

So the hammering, shovelling, cleaning and testing continues late into the October nights, in eager anticipation of that first cruise ship of the season breaking over the Caribbean horizon.

I went to England, my former home, for a couple of weeks. It was the first time back in two years and I was curious about how it would feel. I had convinced myself that all I really missed were family, friends, fish and chips and real beer. Would it turn out that way, I wondered ?

I arrived at London Gatwick, tired and smelling of airplane. I hadn’t slept thanks to the boy in the seat next to mine, bouncing all the way across the Atlantic. Gatwick looked the same as the day I had left it. Too busy, too dirty. No ‘welcome home’ as I passed through passport control. No sense of belonging at all.

I drove my rental car out of the airport lot and panicked. Speed was something I had not been exposed to in quite some time. I was used to narrow mountain roads, potholes and a sedate 25mph. I tried to figure out how fast I was going. Cars screamed by on both sides making me jump. I felt like I was in a rocket and I forced myself to refocus when the speedo told me I was only doing 45.

But after an hour I was back into the UK groove. Comfortably, I drove at 80 along the motorways, passing familiar routes, landmarks, service stations. In fact the whole two weeks smacked of familiarity, as if I had never been away. I drove from A to B without really thinking about it. Friends were still there doing what they had been doing when I left them. Why wouldn’t they ? They still looked the same, still complained and joked about the same kinds of things. Family members too, save for poor grandfather, seemed to have aged and changed little. Everyone was pleased to see me, to hear my stories, to hear what the grass was like on the other side. From their side.

For my part, I guess I had been interested in the the other side too. Would it have changed, would it have an allure that would make me feel uncomfortable about returning to Dominica ? Though curious about my escapades, I could see that my friends and family were comfortable with their lives and that I was just that, a curiosity. And I did feel a little odd. My life had been turned upside down, theirs were the very much the same, as mine would have been had I stayed. During my two years on the island, it seemed like only a single minute had passed in the place I had left behind.

The fish and chips were nice, but I can take them or leave them. As for the beer, I prefer Kubuli. And why was everyone so paranoid about (all) muslims ? Why so (verbally) aggressive about eastern European migrants ? I thought we were past all that. I am too naive, too hopeful, too often too easily disappointed.

My grandfather made me cry. He looked older and more frail. As I waved goodbye I wondered whether it would be for the last time. He hugged me as if those were his thoughts too. Naturally I felt sad, but I also felt selfish. My life came first, didn’t it ? What could I do ? It was uncomfortable and still is.

When I returned my car to the airport I felt relieved. Perhaps I had exorcised some ghosts.

This morning I awoke as the sun was casting the day’s first light over the mountain ridges to the east. The tree frogs were now silent and the birds were beginning to sing. From across the valley I could hear police cadets performing their morning drill. I resolved to call my grandfather. The morning light was beautiful, the air fresh, the sky blue and almost cloudless. I cut a coconut and drank its water. I was home.

Having been out of the water for a few weeks I am keen to get wet again so I pack my dive gear into the car and head down to Dive Dominica. The sea is perfectly calm and even from the dock I can see rocks and corals lying beneath the surface. Underwater visibility looks good and I am eager to go. The last few tourists of the season are already on board assembling their equipment - around a dozen divers and half a dozen snorkelers – chatting and making friends, anticipating the morning. By 9am our boat pulls away from the shoreline of Castle Comfort and begins the short journey south.

Soufriere Bay lies at the southwestern tip of Dominica. It is a submerged volcanic crater, thought to be around 2000ft deep at the centre, and is the home of the Soufriere Scotts Head Marine Reserve. On the northern edge of the bay there are a number of dive sites. Some of them are located on tall pinnacles, or sea mounts, that rise majestically from the ocean floor. Other sites are wall dives with short, shallow reefs and drop-offs that simply plummet into the deep. On the southern edge of this underwater volcano, the sites have a similar geological formation, running around and beyond the isthmus of Cachacrou.

Our first dive would be at Danglebens North, part of a larger formation that includes Danglebens Pinnacles and Coral Gardens dive sites. Everyone gears up and we begin our descent. There is a little current near the surface but as we make our way down to 60 feet the water is calm and beautifully clear. This dive site, like many along the west coast of Dominica, is adorned with hard and soft corals, crinoids and sponges. The marine life is plentiful and large shoals of juvenile reef fish sometimes fill your entire field of vision. On this particular site there are some magnificent examples of giant barrel sponges. I hover over them for a peak inside.

An adult male hawksbill turtle appears from the south and passes over the reef. We watch him pause to graze on a piece of coral before picking himself up and continuing on his way. Turtles are thankfully a common sight on the reefs these days, in fact it is actually quite unusual not to see at least one. Though I know the dive sites well from guiding, instructing and filming, I choose to stay with the main group as they are clearly experienced divers, moving slowly, taking their time and enjoying their environment. We find a seahorse attached to a sea plume and a number of spotted moray eels poking their heads out dark crevasses. Jacks torment shoals of baitfish and a large barracuda hovers motionlessly above the reef, big toothy grin and large eyes watching the commotion taking place in his back yard.

After an hour we ascend and climb back on to the boat. The sun is shining and Dominica looks beautiful. Moving further south, we spend our surface interval ambling along the shoreline in front of Soufriere village. Though this is not the first time the visitors have seen it, the lovely old Catholic church draws cameras from bags and the quiet air is momentarily filled with the sound of electrical whirring and digital snapping.

Our second dive is in the sheltered southern part of the bay at Scotts Head Drop-Off. As the name suggests, this is a wall dive that begins on a fairly shallow, sandy reef which meets coral formation and a steep wall that plummets down to around a hundred feet before descending again to the depths of the bay. This time I choose to dive alone and let the group head westwards while I take the formation to the east. Most dive tours seem to head west but I think it is a better dive to head east towards the village. The reef is beautiful, full of fish and corals. There is a small cave that is full of chromis and blackbar soldierfish, and there is always a large shoal of Bermuda Chubb cruising up and down the same patch of coral reef. Large mutton snapper swim by, scornfully ignoring the fishing pots that lie on the sandy shelf below. After 30 minutes or so I turn around and head back towards the boat. On the way I spot a large longlure frogfish clutching a coral, waiting for a tasty meal to swim by. After an hour I am back under the boat in time to see the last of the group climbing up the boat’s ladder. I ascend to rejoin them.

Scuba diving in Dominica is an activity that helps you complete the whole picture. As I watch the green mountains pass by, I acknowledge that I am lucky enough to have seen their reflection beneath the waves. Dominica’s underwater environment very much mirrors that of the surface. It is a dramatic topography of volcanic formations, colours, growth and life. As I pack away my dive gear I sense a feeling of immense satisfaction and peace amongst the group. Everyone has enjoyed their experience with nature and we all go home with something enriching inside.

Here’s a short dive film I made …

I returned to hiking this week to see how two of my favourite places had fared during the storm. The access road to the Middleham Waterfall from Laudat has a small, though somewhat precarious landslide on one side. Several trees had fallen but were being cut and removed by a gang of private contractors. Chainsaws buzzed. I stopped to chat with one of the men who told me that the trail was passable though there were several fallen trees across the path. He was right, though with little effort I was up and over them and on my way. The sign at the junction with the spur trails to the waterfall and to Cochrane had been given a solid whack and was straining under the weight of another victim. It painted a rather sad picture. The waterfall itself was full and magnificent. The viewing platform was still standing and the pool was completely clear of debris.

The trail to the hidden waterfalls of Soltoun was covered in fallen branches. I had brought my cutlass along and spent a considerable amount of time swinging, hacking, cutting, pulling and dragging. I cleared as much of the trail as I could though a small landslide and fallen tree were too much even for my frenzied efforts. Reluctantly I decided that this final obstacle would require a detour rather than a severe and probably fruitless session of tree bashing. The waterfalls and pool were as beautiful as ever though a large tree has fallen downstream. Having generated a real head of steam with my trail clearing efforts, I was thankful for the refreshing bathe in the cold water.

Each time I have visited the waterfalls at Soltoun I have seen another waterfall higher up to the right, through the dense bush. And each time I have spotted it I have declared that I must one day try to find a way up there. Perhaps inspired by my session of bush cutting, I decided that today would be that day. On previous occasions I had determined the route I would take, so off I went, over boulders and across the river. I climbed up a full cascade of water, boulders and loose rocks for around twenty minutes or so, getting thoroughly drenched, slipping and sliding, and hoping I was heading in roughly the right direction. Finally I made it to the top and saw in full the waterfall that had eluded me for so long. Twice the size of the main lower Soltoun waterfall, it was full and very pretty, though unfortunately there was no pool. Grinning like a kid at my ‘man versus wild’ efforts, I sat and admired my find. After all, it isn’t every day you get to discover a new waterfall, right ? I named it ‘Paul Falls’ and then proceeded to do exactly that – pretty much all the way down to the bottom of the cascade.

Back at the main waterfalls, I grabbed my bag, my water and, of course, my trusty cutlass, and headed back up the somewhat clearer trail.

From what I have seen so far, it was not the hurricane’s wind but instead the shear volume of water that did most of the damage. There are landslides in many places. Some big, some small, some way off in the distance on the sides of mountain peaks. Unfortunately some of them are along main arteries such as the Imperial Road near Sylvania and present quite a challenge, both physically and financially, to put right. But people are getting on with doing exactly that and I am encouraged that, despite a beating, the island seems to have found its feet and is getting back on track.

The past week has been a blur. Disjointed images, like a dream I can’t quite remember properly, fade in and out of my consciousness when I sleep. I’m slowly catching up with things. Getting ready for Hurricane Dean was jumbled up with preparations for uncle Bernard’s funeral. Creating films of old photographs for the family was interrupted only by jobs I had never had to do before, like taping up windows and filling drums with water. It felt like I was getting ready for war, or getting over one, I’m not sure. Emotions were as highly charged as the bundles of batteries that had appeared from the hurricane box, feelings were just all over the place, out of reach and confused.

From midnight on Thursday and for the next 24 hours we took a battering. My windows bowed and threatened to burst, tiles flew from my roof and water seeped indoors from cracks and holes that I swear were never there before. Pacing up and down, I walked miles and miles within the confines of my fragile home. The Roseau River became a raging torrent, trees fell, branches and leaves took to the air, shacks collapsed, rooftops got scalped. Rolling waves smashed violently over sea walls and the Roseau bay front became a swimming pool. Fruit crops were decimated and utilities lines collapsed in the most exposed areas. And the water just kept on coming and coming. Saturated earth created landslides island wide. In complete bliss, the crapauds in my garden sang their way through the deluge.

At midnight on Friday the tail had passed and I managed a few hours of sleep. The next morning, I was up on the roof, patching up the damage and, in the afternoon, digging out a landslide in an uncle’s back garden. Caked in mud and with no utilities operating, we washed ourselves off in the river. Several feet above us, the high water mark of the night before was etched into the broken trees of the river bank. I heard news that a mother and her son had been killed by a landslide in the village of Campbell. So very sorry.

I also heard about the medical students who left the island is droves before the storm. My cousin who had arrived for the hurricane (oops) but really for the funeral, told me about those he saw who couldn’t get tickets, screaming and crying in the departure lounge at Melville Hall. Some parents chartered private planes to evacuate their children. Meanwhile Dominican’s just went about their business. It was a world apart.

On Monday we buried uncle Bernard. An island son, a pioneering physician and a figure of Dominica’s history, Bernard was laid to rest in a cathedral ceremony attended by president, prime minister, doctors and nurses. In the cemetery, the sounds of the gravediggers’ shovels, scraping and digging into the earth, seemed a fitting composition to these days of tragedy.

But the world is still turning and things will soon be back to normal. The government and services organisations have been excellent. Landslides have been cleared, rivers are subsiding, Roseau has had a big wash and the sun is shining again. On the down side, the banana crop has gone and the industry will take several months to fully recover. The Elmshall bridge faces a costly rebuild and roads and services in some parts of the island are in bad shape. But Dominicans seem relatively unphased by it all. Why does that surprise me ? Aunty J, a veteran of Hurricane David in 1979, gave me the perspective I lacked.

‘Man, that was nothing. Jus’ a lickle breeze, we ! Look aroun’ here,’ she said, pointing at her neighbourhood. ‘It jus’ take a few tiles an’ kill a cow. It not so bad.’

Sitting on a rock on the narrow stretch of land between Scotts Head village and the rugged rock of Cachacrou, I take a long pull on a cold Kubuli I bought from the Caribantic bar and take in the scenery. In front of me, across the sheltered water of Soufriere Bay, is the dramatic pinnacle of La Sorciere, a volcanic formation that continues straight down beneath the sea and into the abyss. Two sites, L’Abym and La Sorciere, offer divers a staggeringly beautiful and dramatic underwater reflection of the volcanic topography most people only ever see on the surface of the island. Tall underwater pinnacles, adorned with colourful hard and soft corals, crinoids and sponges, adjoin a reef and a wall formation where the sea simply plummets straight down into a deep, deep, endless blue. Reef fish fill your field of vision there and, in the shallows beneath the cliffs, juvenile hawksbill turtles attend survival school.

The deep drop-offs all around Cachacrou are equally stunning and you can even see some of the bricks that were part of the fort that once stood on the headland, guarding the bay and protecting the island from invasion from the south.

My legs have developed a gentle ache from snorkelling from the Caribantic building to the tip of Cachacrou and back again. I have been too long out of the water and my finning muscles are beginning to complain about being so rudely roused from their wet season slumber. I like that feeling of weariness that follows exertion. It seems to make the beer taste better, too.

Today the sun is bright and warm. A light wind has developed into a strengthening breeze, rippling the surface of the sea in the bay. The pages of my book begin to flap and magnificent frigatebirds, despite a little buffeting, continue to soar above the brightly painted fishing boats that rock gently in the shallows off Scotts Head village. In the distance to the north, a cruise ship sits at the berth in Roseau, and to the west, the high speed ferry from Martinique has just rounded the point of Cachacrou on its way to the island’s capital.

I turn to look at Martinique, clearly visible today, with a backdrop of blue sky and whisps of delicate white clouds that hover above the waves of the channel. Further beyond, out into the expanse of the Atlantic ocean, darker clouds rest ominously on the distant horizon. A storm is coming.

According to Father Raymond Breton’s ‘Dictionnaire caraïbe-français’ , published in 1665, the Kalinago of Dominica referred to escaped African slaves with an Arawakan word, ‘kachiona’. In the hills above Colihaut is an area called Kachibona and, a little further to the south, an area called Negres Marons. It was from the depths of the rainforest in these areas that bands of maroons, escaped slaves, led by their chief, Pharcelle, launched raids on the plantations and settlements around the area that is Colihaut today. It is surely no coincidence also that one of the islands most famous la peaud cabwit troups, the band mauvais, hails from this area. To witness the sensay costumes twirling through darkened streets accompanied by goat skin drummers, is a haunting reminder of the cultural heritage of Dominica. From emancipation, back through slavery and beyond to the tribal costumes and dances of West Africa, it is easy to imagine the ghost of Pharcelle and his followers watching you from the darkness of the rainforest in the heights above the village.

Father Breton, who visited Dominica between 1642 and 1650 in an attempt to convert the Kalinago to Christianity, built the first church on the island in a settlement which is now Colihaut. The village is located at the foot of the Colihaut River valley and on the shores of the Caribbean Sea. A narrow street lined with mango trees leads you alongside the river and into the heart of the village where the Roman Catholic Church dominates the small houses, convenience stores and bars. The Church of St. Peter is constructed from stone with large wooden louvre windows and a tall bell tower. On the north side of the church is a small garden and in front of the entrance gate a message of love has been tiled into the pavement.

It was near this message of love that people assembled for the Colihaut 2007 Reunion Hike to Kachibona Lake. To meet and greet people who now live in the UK but who have both past and a present relationships with Colihaut, was a real pleasure and I couldn’t help but feel admiration and respect for those who had made the effort to support their village. Strangers made friends quickly and a spirit of comraderie seemed to develop quite effortlessly.

It is the history, both human and natural, that is the draw for this particular journey.The hike is tricky, through dense forest, following a trail that can be hard to follow and which, in many places, simply disappears. Passing through farmlands and through a river gulley, the route climbs a steep ridge and past some of the largest trees the forests of Dominica have to offer. Huge chatanier with simply enormous buttress roots are a sight to behold, and the largest gommier I have ever seen stands majestically on the crest of a ridge, ruling the forest, dominating history. Down a second deep valley and across a small river, we braced ourselves for a final tough climb. Once at the top of this second ridge, the trail meanders this way and that through the thick forest, and after around two hours, a small opening in the canopy ahead reveals the location of the tranquil water of Kachibona Lake.

And what of this lake ? Well, it is more a small pond these days. Victim of landslides and fallen debris, it is a sad reflection of its former self. Along side one of the shallow, muddy banks lay a large boa constrictor, some six feet long, in the slow process of digesting its breakfast. It began to rain. I imagined how it must have been for those maroon slaves, plucked out of the forests of Africa to survive sea crossing and torment before eventually ending up here. I wanted one of the organisers to say a few words, to remind everyone of the history of the place, but rain, tiredness, a snake, and the thought of lunchtime had stolen centre stage. On the walk back, our guide made a couple of diversions to show us the source of the Coulibistrie River and a beautiful stretch of river rapids. By the time we returned to Colihaut, we had given our muscles a good work-out, we had muddied a few clothes, and we had made some friends. I hope also that we had paid a little homage to those less fortunate who had walked there before us.

The name of our island, Wai’tukubuli, is derived from the name said to have been given to the island by Arawakan speaking Amerindians. Father Raymond Breton, a French missionary, spent five years with the Kalinago people of Dominica, during which time he created his celebrated dictionary ‘Dictionnaire caraïbe-français’, which he published in France in 1665. The Kalinago are believed to have displaced the Igneri, also an Arawakan speaking people from the Amazon River basin, only around a hundred years before Columbus turned up and decided to call the island Dominica.

Father Breton’s dictionary entry is written Oüiátoucoubouli, the name he says the Kalinago gave to Dominica. Whether this was a name given originally by the Igneri or later by the Kalinago, we probably do not know. Most believe the meaning of Oüiáitoucoubouli, or Wai’tukubuli as it is usually written today, is ‘tall is her body’. So where does this come from? I decided to take a look.

The prefix Oüiá appears in Father Breton’s dictionary against several entries. Lennox Honychurch quotes oüáïtúmpti, meaning ‘it is large, or tall’. There are several other entries with this prefix such as oüaïháli, meaning ‘it is old’, oüáïhanum, meaning ancient, and oüaïriátina, meaning ‘I am large / tall’. The prefix Oüiá would certainly seem to represent the adjective ‘big’ within the context of these words.

The dictionary contains an entry nócobou, meaning ‘my body’. The possessive pronoun ‘my’ is usually in the form of a prefix ‘n’ which is placed before the noun. We could derive, therefore, that ócobou means ‘body’. The possessive pronoun for ‘her’ is ‘t’ which is also placed in front of the noun. Thus tócobou would, in theory, mean ‘her body’.

Two related entries kacóbouti and mancóbouti, meaning ‘it has a body’ and ‘it does not have a body’ respectively, would suggest the the suffix ‘ti’ has something to do with the possessive too. Several examples in the dictionary also have the suffix ‘li’ in a possessive context, particularly when relating to a person. Put the component parts together then: Oüiá tócobou li and we almost have our island.

When it rains, it really rains. The skies open and raindrops, like large, smooth diamonds, completely fill your field of view, smothering the air, pounding trees, plants, flowers and the earth in a relentless onslaught. Pavements hiss with steam. Gutters leak and overflow. Streams become rivers and rivers become torrents. Galvanised steel rooftops come alive with the sound of nature’s drumming. People seek shelter beneath shallow awnings, an excuse to eat, to socialise and to watch the world turn for a few minutes without them.

Just before the rains stop, the sun breaks momentarily through the cloud. A magical, awakening moment when the dripping trees and bright leaves become a verdant, glimmering green. The yellow fronds of coconut palms glisten in a hue of gold. Everything shines. Everyone smiles. A rainbow appears and with it bands of bananaquit emerge from the depths of carambola and cherry trees to discuss the weather in loud, high pitched conversation. A crapaud groans with pleasure from shimmering long grass and ground doves snap up the meal of bugs and worms that have surfaced to see what all the noise is about.

Puddles like small lakes appear, filling potholes in the roads. Drainage ditches sing like mountain springs, eaves drip, drip, drip and stray dogs shake themselves again and again, trying to get dry. People slowly emerge from their refuge and reluctantly go about their business once more. Until the next rains fall.

Every Saturday morning at about seven I go to the Roseau market. I like to park on the north side of the west (outbound) bridge and walk to the market from there. Often I will have made a brief stop to buy hot penny breads from the traditional stone bakery at the bottom of Federation Drive. Other times I will buy some of Nora’s fresh butterzopf from Karen at her Roots Farm stall, especially if I have decided to order organic produce from her in advance.

I walk over the bridge and make some comment to myself about the height of the river and the rains coming, and then I run the gauntlet of the bus stop. Each week I see if I can make it past the drivers without at least one of them asking me if I’m going to Portsmouth. I am used to being mistaken for either a tourist or a medical student nowadays, and the hairs on the back of my neck have even stopped bristling when someone assumes I’m an American, too. This last one used to really annoy me. I could put up with being mistaken for a tourist, but for an Englishman who grew up in the northern villages and towns of Lancashire and Yorkshire, being mistaken for an American was just far too much to accept. Now when some Dominican guy ‘yanks’ it with me, I just smile politely and say ‘no thanks old chap,’ or ‘not today thanks old fellow’ in the most English of English accents I can muster. I get a very confused look as I grin and walk away.

‘So, what are you doing today, man?’
‘I’m sorry?’ I said to the man who had appeared next to me.
‘What are your plans for the day, man? Where are you heading to, dude?’
‘Dude?’
‘Yeah, man. Where are you heading to now? Whatcha gonna be doing today, man?’
‘Well, after I’ve been to the market I suppose I’ll be going home, taking a shower and having some breakfast.’ I said.
‘You live here?’
‘That’s right.’
‘But you American, right man?’
‘No, I’m English.’
‘You need a bus to Portsmouth, man?’
‘Not, today, thanks old chap.’

I usually wonder down the northern side of the market first, along the river. Often there are pick-up trucks laden with coconuts or watermelons or pineapples when they are in season. I check to see whether the charcoal man is there and ask him to fill up a sack for me to pick up later. The market is bustling and people are meeting and greeting their friends and acquaintances. I see Mr Rolle almost every week at the same spot and he always gives me a warm greeting and asks me to remember him to my wife and mother-in-law. He never fails to tell me how much he loved my father-in-law when he was alive. This is the market, not just fresh produce and crowds, but a meeting of people, a reunion, a tradition. And I love to be a small part of it.

Turning left along the bay front I check out the carrots, dasheen and green beans of the stall holders. I never buy on my first circuit of the market, I just look. And I rarely buy from the same people. It’s not that I lack loyalty, it’s just that I want everyone to get a little of the small amount of business that I bring. It’s also because I have a tendency to buy something from one stall and then a few stalls later prefer the look of that lady’s beans, lettuce or tomatoes to the ones I have just purchased. I usually make a note to remember them for next week, but then just forget. I think I’m getting old.

It seems that each week there is one particular vegetable or fruit that is in short supply. A few weeks ago it was limes. Hardly anyone had any and those who did were selling them for as much as one or even two dollars each. It was a pure market economy of supply and demand but that did not stop people from venting their anger at the traders who were holding them to ransom. One woman refused to sell limes unless you bought a hand of fig or plantain too. Again, more heckling and banter. More abuse, even foul language. I love it and have a long standing mental note to learn Creole so I can join in.

Today it seems that citrus fruits – both oranges and grapefruits are in short supply. Avocado pears are just coming into season and, because only one or two stalls have them, the price is a little high. There are still plenty of mangoes, but mostly mango long or mango rose. Too stringy for me. My favourite grafted mangoes appear to have disappeared. Turning back to the east I wander through a maze of stalls and a real hubbub of early morning shoppers. Having almost completed my first circuit, I stop at the Roots Farm stall to buy bread, beautifully fresh broccoli and sweet basil. Then on my second circuit I buy beans, carrots, tomatoes, lettuce and Chinese cabbage. I bump into Mr Rolle and he greets me with a big grin and a slap on the back, asking me to pass on his wishes to my wife and mother-in-law.

I enter the fisheries building and the ladies welcome me with a perceptible enthusiasm. Months ago, in an attempt to be ‘local’ I asked for some ‘dowad’. This is patois for dorado, often also called dolphin (and that is a story for another time). The ladies, covered in fish filth and sweat, seemed to appreciate my efforts so the next time I came, I did it again. Only this time I didn’t quite get the accent right and came out with a very English ‘dorrad’. Since that day, I have been greeted with ‘Good morning ! Some dorrad for you today?’ Without fail, even though it happens every week, they all laugh and say ‘dorrad’ or dorahdo’ in very English accents. But they also give me a nice piece of fish and a warm smile. I flush at their jokes, but inside I love it.

Walking back through the market towards the bridge, both hands weighed down with bags of fresh fruit and vegetables and dripping fish, I take one last look at it all. The colour of fresh produce and local people fills this small corner of town in a kaleidoscope of life and real living. Turning towards the bridge I cringe at the sound behind me.
‘Sir ! Sir ! Portsmouth ?’