Dominica

Tuesday 17th March 2009, day 241. 15° 25’.92 N, 061° 26’.20 W. Salisbury, Dominica

To say that Dominica exceeded my expectations would be untrue, because before we came here I barely knew it existed, and would have been hard pressed to point to it on a map, let alone explain how – or even, I am ashamed to say, if – it was a different country to the Dominican Republic. Out of the realm of abstract knowledge, in the real world, it is a beautiful island, up there with Tobago for a stunning natural inheritance, friendly people, and very few other boats.

The island’s history, like most others in the chain, is one of a slow but steady elimination (whether by murder, deportation, or assimilation) of the pre-Columbian Caribs (though in fact Dominica is the only island where there is an enclave for the last of the race), followed by being part of the centuries-long squabble between the French and the English, each of whom have left their mark on the island’s names, so that Woodbridge adjoins the capital, Roseau (defended by Fort Young), Scotts Head can be seen from Soufrière, and the Picard Estate nestles in the shelter of Prince Rupert Bay.

Dominica has very few beaches, and those it has are black sand and often rocky; it also has no international airport, and this has preserved it from the vast, if tasteful, developments of St Lucia, and from the associated alteration of the relationship between the locals and the visitors. We came here expecting to remain a few days, but have stayed and stayed, kept by the wonderful scenery, the mountains, the walking, the waterfalls, sulphur springs, boiling lake, crystal clear water, lush vegetation – and the warmth and openness of everyone we’ve met.

It would be hard to pick a highlight from the past ten days: scrambling up the unmarked path over the dry river bed to the sulphur springs at Soufrière, feeling, with nobody else having walked the trail all day (as we could tell from the spider webs across the path), as if we were discovering them for the first time; being taken by the irrepressible and effervescent SeaCat on a trip to the Victoria Falls, that took in all of his friends and most of the island, feeding us on mangoes, cocoa beans, coconuts, grilled plantains, guavas and passion fruit that he picked up as we barrelled along; a trip at dawn up the Indian River, magical and compelling with white land crabs lurking in the twisted tree roots like drowned skulls; climbing for three hours to the Boiling Lake through pelting rain, pausing to boil eggs in the sulphur pools in the Valley of Desolation, before the final scramble up to stand, awed, overlooking a 250ft wide cauldron of water, whose seething centre bubbled away like an angry kettle – we were 4,000 feet up, and yet the volcanic power of the earth was just there under the skin, barely inches beneath our feet.

On the downside (for those who want a more balanced view of life) I must report that our wind / water generator has totally fallen apart – luckily it has been showing signs of disintegration for a while and the manufacturers have already arranged to send the replacement parts to meet us in Antigua – so we are reliant on the generator to make our power, and the mainsail furling mechanism has jammed for the second time. So when I have finished this, we shall take advantage of a relatively windless moment, and start doing seriously boaty things.