“A map of the world that does not include Utopia is not worth even glancing at, for it leaves out the one country at which Humanity is always landing. And when Humanity lands there, it looks out, and, seeing a better country, sets sail. Progress is the realisation of Utopias.” — Oscar Wilde
In the early 1500’s, shortly after Columbus stumbled upon Dominica on his second voyage, Sir Thomas More coined the term Utopia (or “no-place”), in his book of the same name, to describe an imaginary island off the coast of South America. Utopia would later become synonymous with paradise – an apt descriptor for this small Caribbean nation that time has all but forgotten. The following is an account of my outlandish experience traversing this island, along with my older brother, almost entirely on foot. It would become, without a doubt, the most amazing experience of my entire life up until that point. It is still, arguably, the most amazing experience I’ve ever had.
Preface: This post was written 6 years after the fact. Any discrepancies, or mention of things that aren’t allowed, can be explained away due to misremembering. Pictures were taken with cheap flip phones that were old even back then. The writer and his brother are known for acting like a couple of idiots. That’s part of what makes this such a good story…
I’m trying to keep a rein on my imagination and desperately failing
Contorted on a bench in Puerto Rico’s San Juan International Airport, struggling for a few minutes of rest, I can swear the baggage attendants are laughing at my expense. My head swims with the horrors of previous visits here: the wrath of my ex’s gay uncle, his boyfriends’ nuts slipping out from the bottom of his boxers during a very flamboyant high-kick, hours of throwing money away at a tacky casino. Frustration mounts, knowing that this is my third time here, and I still haven’t been in the sea.
BOOM!!!
I’m jostled awake just in time to see a petite female baggage attendant straighten up after deliberately slamming up against my bench.
“ Damnit! I hate this place! “, I yell out loud.
I have to get out of here. Searching for baggage hold, I drift back and forth in the lobby like some kind of primitive invertebrate caught in the current. I almost bump into the actor Romany Malco.
I order food from a woman so indifferent to me that I cannot imagine her facial expression changing, even slightly, should I be strangled to death in front of her. When asked about the second menu option, she replies by reading it back to me, exactly as it is written, in a tone more lifeless than if it were automated. Tostada is written on the receipt, yet it’s a snow-white pile of meat, eggs, and bread. Unable to find any hot sauce anywhere, I cower off to swallow my rations in a lonely corner. It tastes like salt, which pairs well with the orange juice. It’s freezing cold inside, and the metal chairs scream like death at the slightest touch.
I walk to the nearest beach, and after a long-overdue dip in the Caribbean, I catch my connection onward towards the unknown
From the sky, one can hardly tell that the island is inhabited at all. As the saying goes, Dominica is the only New World territory that Columbus would still recognize. My heart skips a beat. In the modern age, where it seems like hardly a stone has been left unturned by the ruthless onslaught of commercial tourism, I truly feel like I’ve stumbled upon a whole new world. My heart skips another beat, as the aircraft continues it’s descent dangerously close to the jungle canopy below. Just as I feel like we’re doomed to smash into the next tree, a small runway appears.
Our landing is noteworthy in that it’s the only time I’ve ever been on a flight where people don’t immediately stand up once we land and the fasten seatbelt light goes out. I’m so overwhelmed by the environment that I’m actually apprehensive about leaving the aircraft. Once out of customs, I’m bombarded by a small crowd of drivers asking me where I’m going. I myself don’t know, and bluff by repeating the name of the business I randomly jotted down on my customs form.
“I’ll get there with my own two feet”, I say.
“That’s twenty kilometers from here!”, one of them replies. “It’ll be totally dark in fifteen minutes! Come with me, I know just the place for you…”
A short while later, we arrive at some lovely residence
He was right. In the space of about ten minutes, it’s become completely dark. For such a short ride, I’m reluctant to pay what he wants, but it was my mistake for getting in the van without asking first. Besides, he’s already shown me to my room and unloaded my stuff for me. I hand him the money, and cut myself some slack – this is my first big international trip after all. No sooner had I done so, than he is already gone. I find myself alone in the great house. I could’ve at least asked how much for the room…
Hesitantly, I lock up my personals and step out into the warm night air. Despite the darkness, the colorful buildings and profusion of plant life overwhelm my senses. Exotic was how the driver described his country, and it wasn’t an overstatement. Passing a building site, a mentally challenged young man begins following me quietly asking for money. Another man quickly intervenes, leaving me in peace. I pass by a small rum shack on my way to the end of a long pier, and gaze up at the star-filled ocean horizon while a reggae rendition of me and my sweetheart’s song, Adele’s “Hello”, pulsates softly in the background.
Before returning to my room, I pick up a few items from a young boy working the counter of some kind of corner store. I’m greeted back at the house by the owner, who charges a reasonable rate, and invites me to sit down with him for the dinner his wife just made. He tells me that a thru-hike of the National Trail will be an extra challenge since hurricane Erika recently ripped through. He’s happy to host me and my brother tomorrow evening, and even offers to drive us to the southern trailhead the following morning.
I’m up at a rooster’s crow to scope out the trail
“Out for a hike?”, the owner asks, peeking out the front door as I slip out into the street. I nod. My phones dead, and I haven’t got the proper adapter to charge it – otherwise I would know that it’s 2:30 in the morning. I pass dark, empty streets in silence. I know I’m in a very safe country, but I’m still jumpy. I’m alone in an unfamiliar place. The growing sound of the surf puts me more at ease…and then a large figure looms before me in the middle of the road. Terrified, I stop dead in my tracks.
Coming from Alaska, I have to repeatedly assure myself that it’s not a bear…but what is it!? After a long standoff, and some serious consideration about turning back, I cautiously approach the beast. It’s a donkey, and the sweetest one alive at that. I pet the gentle creature for a long time, and he escorts me directly to a sign that reads: Waitukubuli National Trail Segment 7. I bid the jackass farewell, then proceed (in exactly the wrong direction) along an unmarked path into the dark jungle.
I reach a small hut almost immediately, and take great pains to pass by without disturbing anyone. A good while later, I hesitantly employ my hand crank flashlight so I can finally move at a normal pace, however my progress only grows slower. This is because I continually hear the sound of a bicycle bell – causing me to switch off the light, move to the side of the trail, and wait for a bike to pass that never arrives. Eventually, I decide that it must be the call of some kind of bird or amphibian. Then a tropical downpour brings me to a complete stop.
The weather breaks, and I come back out from underneath my backpack cover
It appears that dawn is not far off. I pick up the pace, with no need for any extra light now. A good while later, I cross a decent-sized clearwater stream, and climb a small ridge, just as sunrise creeps up on the far horizon. I make it to a clearing and the trail peters out. I’m in a small living area. Nobody’s home. I inspect the small skeleton of a hut to be found, in which I assume the owner must sleep, thinking to myself of how similar in appearance the rogue farm is to homeless camps back in the states – only here one would be safe.
I hurdle back across the stream in order to make it to a better vantagepoint come daybreak. I backtrack for what feels like ages, before finding and taking an alternative route, which circles around to a dirt road eventually. Dawn is approaching, and I’m not sure if I should continue. I pass by clouds of smoke, piles of smoldering brush, and a few huts. In fact, I know that I see signs prohibiting against trespassers, but my whole lifelong I’ve enjoyed this as a pastime, so I continue…until I come across a bleating goat attached to a severed rope. He follows me and is also super gentle. I pet him for a long time, while keeping out a close watch for locals to whom I might have to explain myself.
Nobody comes, but I come across a very dilapidated shack and make an about-face
The view beyond the shack is monumental, but I remind myself that I just wanted to check out the trail before my older brother arrives. I’m able to shake the bleating goat before it alarms anyone to my presence. I manage to leave it behind around some sort of smoking stack of debris. By the time I make it back down to a reasonable elevation, I see a white woman in her bra and panties, out on the veranda of an unexpectedly nice-looking building, putting the laundry out to dry.
I don’t know what to do, or how to react, so I just keep on trucking like I don’t even acknowledge the sight at all. She sneaks back inside by the time I enter the rainforest again. A sign reveals that I’ve made it to the agricultural development I put down on my customs form.
A short while later, I’m approached by the one thing that drew me most to the island in the first place, a native Carib. The visibly Amerindian individual approaches me casually and, using his machete, presents me with half his grapefruit. We share breakfast together on the trail while revealing a bit about ourselves to one another. Hoping for some input, I say we haven’t decided whether to start our thru-hike from the north or the south, to which he replies:
“Well, you have a decision to make then”
Back at the main road, I take a wild guess and turn left
Not five minutes later, an old hoopty rattles up next to me. Inside is the driver from the airport, who engages with me like we’re lifelong buddies. He assures me that I’m heading in the right direction and asks,
“You been out wandering?” I nod.
“You a wild man, hey. God bless ya mon!”
Coming across a small village, I watch a man, through the open cracks of his wood plank shack, wake up, get out of bed, and immediately step out into the street, barefoot and shirtless, to begin his morning commute. I marvel at how carefree he appears, imagining him walking off to his fields somewhere in the mountains, drinking water straight from the stream and enjoying fresh fruit for breakfast plucked from right alongside the trail.
A beautiful stranger picks me up and drives me back to the B&B
I offer a little gas money, to which she just laughs. She explains that it’s only customary to stop and offer a lift to anyone walking in the same direction one is driving.
After double-checking on the status of my brother’s flight, and grabbing fresh fish for lunch at the airport restaurant, I while away the afternoon in the shade of a coconut palm alongside a deserted stretch of beach nearby. When it comes time to meet my brother Chris at the airport, I find a free map of the trail at a small information booth. This would later prove to be indispensable.
Chris steps out of the airport and is immediately lured by the swarm of drivers. I pry him free, and amidst all the excitement, fail to recognize how overwhelming it all is for him, until we sit down to eat at a nearby restaurant.
“Did you see that cat’s butthole!?”, he asks me.
I hadn’t, but he assures me that it was really weird. After finding out that we’re both Texans, the restaurant owner reveals that she spent most of her life in Houston…something we would hear often during our stay.
Making our way back towards our room for the night, Chris points up at the night sky towards the Big Dipper and rejoices in having found at least one familiar thing in this exotic country.
That night, we sleep soundly with the AC on full blast. It would be the last night either of us would spend in a bed over the next two weeks. Little did we know how eventful those two weeks would turn out to be.
“Sylvia! Sylvia! Sylvia!”, our host yells
Five minutes into our journey across the island, he parks in the middle of the road and begins repeatedly shouting at a house up above us. His determination is admirable. He keeps at it for a very long time, while we try and figure out why he doesn’t just walk up and ring the doorbell or try calling her on the phone. At any rate, we leave without her. He laments her laziness, and that of his countrymen in general.
He drops us off at a bus stop in Roseau, and wishes us a safe journey. We offer to pay him for driving us for over an hour, but he politely refuses. A quick search for a propane fuel canister for my cookstove proves fruitless. We hop on the next bus towards Scotts Head and the starting point of the trail.
Absorbing the chaotic beauty of the tropical urban environment, we’re shocked when we realize that the driver and all the passengers are politely trying to help us off the bus to begin our adventure. They point at a pair of blue and yellow stripes barely visible on a brick wall next to the street in what feels like a residential neighborhood. We’re apprehensive, but exit the bus anyway. It looks like an easy start, but from the very first step it feels like we’d be better off crawling.
A few yards down the official trailhead, we’re greeted by a gaping 20ft. chasm
This is what our host was warning us about, apparently. We’ve yet to grasp how to keep an eye on the elusive trail markers without losing our footing and falling flat on our backs, and now we’re already having to scramble down and back up crumbling cliff faces. It suddenly dawns on us that perhaps we are a little underprepared…even after Chris’s extensive training walking around the local IKEA supercenter.
The humidity is suffocating. Our knees have long since gone wobbly, and the steep incline makes forward progress impossibly slow. Just as I think the trail can’t get any worse, the incline increases dramatically. A rope appears, and pulling becomes absolutely necessary. Deep ruts gouge the path. We’ve both had a few slips already. In the event of an injury, the proper course of action is far from clear.
Chris is just shy of furious, and I’m at a loss of words. This is definitely way more than we’d bargained for. It seems like we’ve been climbing for hours, with no end in sight, when suddenly the rocky trail gives way to a clearing of verdant green pastureland.
Our suffering is put on hold
Dairy cows graze in this Caribbean Alp, surrounded by remnants of an old plantation, while a local grills his morning catch over an open fire. He shows off his culinary skills, but we marvel in how he managed to make it down and back up in time for lunch. He seems puzzled when we ask if this is his place. We’re invited to freely imbibe on the fruit trees that abound. Even up here, it’s not exactly flat, but we can wander freely without fear of falling down.
As soon as we cross to the other side of the clearing, that fear returns once more. Descending a section of loose rock and slick boulders, Chris is thrown off balance and into a kind of precarious tap dance. Just as he seems to regain footing, he steps back on a stick that rolls out from under him. He’s then thrown backwards, and lands hard on his tailbone. Cursing, he smashes his walking stick to pieces. I disassociate back to the peace we enjoyed only minutes before.
The next few hours are tense. We take it in strides, however. Although the frustration is ominous, we can’t help leaving ourselves vulnerable to what may come. The allure of the trail is too strong. The paradisiacal landscape and back-to-nature homesteads we pass along the way transport us to another world altogether.
Three or four hours after our estimated time of arrival, just as the sun begins to set, we finally make it to Segment 2: Soufriere Sulphur Springs. After spotting a potential campsite hidden among the hot springs (just in case), we set out to find a guesthouse. On our way out, I lend my knife to an old Rasta man, who slowly peels himself a mango. He smiles approvingly. “Irie”, he says.
Two men on the porch of the nearest guesthouse are drunk as skunks. At $100 a night, we acquiesce, until the matter of supper comes up, and they begin yelling like was done to Sylvia just that morning. Poor Sylvia. We leave them shouting, returning to our spot at the springs. Huddled silently in our incognito tent, we split a cold MRE, sardines, and protein powder, wary of any occupants of a lean-to perched on the hill above us, and the music from a party getting started somewhere very close by.
Our sleep is fitful
We’re bombarded by heavy objects throughout the night. Assuming them to be falling coconuts, we flinch and curl into the fetal position at the slightest noise. Chris has the reoccurring nightmare of waking up to an entire village glaring at us. At the crack of dawn, we crawl out from our hiding place. To our great relief, we are alone. What we took to be coconuts were only apple-sized mangos.
Resuming our trek past steam vents inconspicuously rising from the jungle floor, we revisit the conversation we just had with a maintenance worker back at the hot springs. The conversation itself is stilted, as Chris habitually takes off his hat and sweeps through his hair anytime a branch touches his head, and I’ve developed what feels like a jellyfish sting on the side of my neck from a series of little red ants who keep managing to make their way up there somehow. The conversation we’re referring to is equally hard to follow:
“So… you heard him tell us, at first, that camping in the pavilion he was cleaning was not allowed, right?”
“Yeah… I mean when you asked him….when you asked if people could camp there he said no.”
“But then later it sounded like he said exactly the opposite….”
“Yeah I didn’t really understand what he was saying either.”
“Well when I asked if hikers all stay at one of the guesthouses he said ‘No, they also camp in this here pavilion.’
“Yeah, that’s what he said.”
“….then I asked if camping is allowed in the pavilion…”
“…and he said yes!”
“Alright, as long as it’s not just me. I felt like he told us two completely opposite things, one right after another.”
“Yeah he did! I wasn’t sure how to react either. Maybe he didn’t know, or he didn’t really understand the question.”
By midday we cross a sheer 100ft. cliff of debris
From my vantage point, closing in on the other side, I watch as the rock and gravel from underneath Chris gives way. Like sand cascading down through an hour glass, it appears that my brother’s time is up. Seconds before sliding off the side of the cliff face, shouting ‘Jordan! I’m falling! I’m falling Jordan!’ He plunges his hands deep into the rockfall, securing himself. The loose material plummets without him to the bottom of the valley below us…so far below that we hardly hear anything at all.
We take 5. I thank God, and pray that nothing similar lies ahead of us. Chris rejoices that his last ditch effort payed off. Thoughts of our poor mother leave a sobering feeling. Taking inventory of our supplies, including a growing fruit collection, we move out…doing our best to tread a little bit more carefully than before.
The highs and lows of the rest of the day are fully eclipsed by the narrowly avoided disaster. We’re totally beat by the time dusk finds us at a lonely pavilion on a rare flat patch of land just to the side of the trail. Assuming that the beginning of section 3 is not far ahead, we’re lagging behind the official estimated hiking time by a factor of two. We finish off the rest of our peanut butter and crackers for dinner, along with a couple avocados and citrus fruits we picked up along the way.
We break camp in the morning like Minutemen
Eager to make good time, we’re conscious of every setback in losing the Waitukubuli trail markers, refilling our water bladders, and crossing streams. We filter our water out of old bean cans with Lifestraws. I’m carrying cooking supplies, two hammocks, and an extra pair of shoes – all of which are never used. Half of what I’m carrying is simply deadweight.
Informational displays testify to the history of the area’s colonization by Maroons. We walk through old plantations and along paths built by the hands of slaves. Every now and then, we stumble upon small homesteads that transports us back hundreds of years into the most enchanting of Treasure Island fantasies.
The effects of any recent hurricane damage become less apparent. Other than our dwindling food supplies and total lack of cash, our problems slowly fade away as we settle into the rhythm of the Nature Isle of the Caribbean. We’ve become accustomed to the locals and how seemingly unaccustomed they are to seeing folks like us. We’re relishing in being the only two hikers on the trail so far.
Early in the afternoon we arrive at the Waitukubuli National Trail Park Headquarters hoping to register and pay our usage fees, but the only people there are the landscapers, who seem totally indifferent to our presence. We can’t seem to find a trashcan either. As far as problems go, things could be worse.
Late in the day we have a visitor
At a ridge near the summit of Morne Prosper, we hit a fork in the trail where the marker had obviously been tampered with. The guiding double-arrow, which had originally indicated the direction from which we came and the correct path to continue on, now points down both forks of the trail simultaneously. Just as the old “which way to your village” riddle springs to mind, so too does a devious-looking young man from out of the undergrowth before us.
Immediately apparent is his almost indecipherable manner of speech that carries on, unbroken, as if he’s a wind up toy. While most of it is a jumble of Boomhauer-like sounds, a few intelligible words can be picked out here and there. One idea ends and another presumably starts when he stops to let out a cocky chortle. Based purely on environmental cues, I gather that he was bathing in the natural pool just below the ridge, and that the residence he stands before belongs to him.
I repeatedly explain that we are not in need of a guide, and that we will not be paying him for any services. After what feels like ages of listening to his blathering, he finally escorts us along what we hope to be the right way. It’s getting very dark now, and the wind picks up as we pass through the local village. The villagers cast looks of horror our way. They shout out for us not to enter the forest at night, while our wily new companion chuckles and shouts back things that we don’t understand.
Before we reach another pavilion, my journal slips out of my backpack and falls down the side of a mountain. The chatter-box notices, but continues rattling on without so much as a taking a breath. It’s the first of what would become a series of instances that I envision myself punching him square in the mouth.
Well past dark, I suddenly realize we’re not alone.
A figure is looming directly behind Chris, who’s standing aloof in his whitey tighties. It’s so dark that the only thing I can make out is a large cutlass in the individual’s hand. A friendly voice begins the casual introduction of a dreadlocked man, whos dark skin is effectively invisible to us. Like the workings of a ghost, the invisible hand lifts up my brother’s shirt, allowing his unmentionables to become the only thing clearly visible to any of us, as he uses it to wipe clean the contents of a coconut bowl.
For such a harrowing introduction, the man is surprisingly unassuming. Almost immediately, we resume whatever we were doing before his haunting, pausing only to answer his soft-spoken questions as he thoroughly inspects every piece of our embarrassing collection of backpacking gear. He plays music from a portable mp3 speaker, and asks if he can lay down in our tent. Satisfied, he asks Chris if he wants to try Rasta food. Chris enthusiastically replies yes. They trade places in the tent, as he promises to return shortly.
“Wait! Before you go” Chris starts, “is there a place around here where I can poop?”
“Sure! Wherever you want!” the stranger replies, “Go poop, and I’ll bury it for you!”
“Hey, thanks!” my brother replies, matching his enthusiasm.
An hour later, using the hand-crank flashlight I’d lent him (and wasn’t sure I’d ever see again), the man returns and hands a cold chicken wing out for Chris to take a bite of. Half asleep, he leans his neck out of the tent flap, like a turtle’s head from out of a shell, takes a slow bite, and let’s out a long, practiced “MMMMmmmmm……”, before settling back into slumber.
Now it’s just me and him in the dark. The two of us happily conduct small talk, while he pulls out the coconut bowl he cleaned with my brother’s shirt earlier, and empties into it a few crack rocks. Very naturally, he keeps up his end of the conversation while taking a fat rip from a small bamboo crack pipe.
“You know” I start, interrupting him, “I’m not actually ok with that. I’m going to have to ask you to leave now.”
“Ah yes, a’ course.” he responds, high but unfazed. “I chose not ta hide this ’cause true friends are real with each other.”
“Well, that’s very thoughtful.” I reply. “I wish you a good evening, my friend.”
“same to ya.” he says leaving.
Early morning efforts to slip away are in vain
Just as the walking mouth arrives to add white noise to our day, our night visitor comes to return my flashlight. They both have their own backpacks and walking sticks, just like us. Passing the nearest hut, almost immediately, our company is reduced down to 3, as a small cloud of crack smoke soon fill the air. We’re looking forward to a nice dip in the local hot springs, so seeing the pools bone dry on arrival is a huge disappointment.
The fat grin on our “guide’s” face adds to our predicament. He nods his head, mid-sentence, at my asking if this is the hot springs. “Where’s the water?” Chris asks. A longgggg story follows. At what we take to be the end of it, my brother and I piece back together what we think was said. “The Mountain destroyed the springs because of the wickedness of the Dominicans?” I ask. “Yes” the man replies.
It dawns on us that a greater cultural divide exists than we had originally thought (if what the man says is true). We keep this in mind as we enter Wotten Waven – a small village in the center of an active volcano. Our 4th party member catches up with us for a few moments before getting waylaid again behind a shack for a hit of the crackpipe. Crossing a small field, we are greeted by the household of a very small hut.
It’s New Year’s Day!
Dawn has barely broken and everyone but us is intoxicated. They’re all standing around an opossum with massive head trauma, poking it over, and over, and over again, with a bamboo staff, telling us “It’s not dead! Look! It’s not dead!” Five LONG minutes of this pass…the poor creature clenching it’s jaws and squeezing it’s toes with it’s little fingers, before the attention shifts to the inside of the hut.
We’re invited to enter. Leaning at a very precarious angle, it looks dark and empty inside. Upon closer inspection, a half dozen or more people are staring out at us from atop a bare mattress inside. We opt instead to try our first ever stalk of sugar cane – offered us by a tipsy volunteer firefighter. My brother tries asking if there’s a way that he can get his phone charged…
This leads to great confusion…
“Uhhh… would it be possible for me to charge my phone somehow?” he repeats. A hush settles over us all. He tries again.
“If I need to charge my phone, is there anywhere around here where I could do that?”
It remains uncomfortably quiet…
I debate whether or not he should just drop it… maybe it’s a touchy subject. Is he being intrusive? Is the town without power?
No sooner does he pull out his phone, indicating low battery, than the man nearest him swipes it out of his hand and takes it away, sprinting. Not sure what to think, we settle into a nice break with our new company. A while later, the charged phone is returned. Greatly impressed by the hospitality of the locals, we leave with a resolve to refrain from the use of conditional sentences.
A passerby offers us up his lit joint. A polite refusal clearly upsets him, to the point of him calling us pussies. My brother responds that what we’re up against requires full concentration. When he realizes that we’re both thru-hiking the Waitukubuli, he emphatically congratulates us.
“Yah mon!” he cheers “Ya doin’ it right! Ya gonna experience tha real Dominica, not like them otha tourists! Best of luck to ya and enjoy tha island!”
By midafternoon we haven’t seen a single trail marker since the opossum
We’re suspicious of having spent nearly the entire day walking on pavement and through neighborhoods, often waiting while our tagalong visits with people he knows. He smokes joints and drinks beer but never water. We never see him eat. One acquaintance of his drives taxi, and we take full advantage of the opportunity to hitch a ride to an ATM in order to withdraw cash from what we later find out to be one of only two available locations on the island. We resupply at a local grocery where the cashier tells me I’m dirty. In hindsight, this chance encounter saved us from disaster.
It doesn’t make it any easier to be around such an annoying person. As the evening slowly arrives, his prattle becomes an ominous warning to avoid the next village on our trek. I assure him, many more times than I should like to have to, that he’s not taking us off our course. The gig is up, in my eyes. He’s been playing us this whole time in order to eventually cash in. I tell him that he’s ill prepared for a night in the forest and had better get while it’s still light out.
His response is a legendary attempt at diversion – shrugging off my growing aggression while repeatedly urging us not to continue to Pont Cassé. “Please, please come to Cochrane!” he begs. The glorious Middleham Falls suddenly bursts into view below us. Making sure Chris is beyond view, I pull a bill from out of my left pocket, ball up my right fist, look the squirmy leech dead in the eyes, and demand, in all seriousness “You need to go! Now!” He nervously chuckles. Cutting him off just before he says another word, I yell “Go! Right now!”
Taking the cash and not the fist, the scoundrel vanishes
We bask in the peace and quiet of the jungle for the remainder of the evening, reaching a bar on the outskirts of Pont Cassé come nightfall. I ask a young man standing outside if there’s a place to sleep in town. He gives a total cold shoulder. I wonder then if the warnings we got before were justified, but luckily we come across a restaurant shortly afterwards where the people are as warm and welcoming as can be.
We are served an amazing plate of traditional Dominican food along with several bottles of the irresistible VitaMalt beverage. The company and atmosphere are amazingly wholesome, lifting our spirits to new heights. The restaurant owner is even gracious enough to allow us access inside the gated churchyard next door, where we pitch our tent in privacy. Such kindness is taken as a true Godsend.
We’re flagged down first thing in the morning by the town drunk
We indulge the man long enough for him to order himself three rounds that never arrive. He’s so involved in trying to give us a deal on part of his estate in the nearby hills that he doesn’t even notice. Our reentry into the forest is so visually stunning that I am captivated by a sense of being magically transported back to the Garden of Eden. Chris then fires a question of utmost concern, as we pass a public building of some kind: “Hey. Do you think I should try and poop!?” Such riddles remain unsolved.
The Section 5 signpost reveals that our little detour yesterday caused us to bypass Morne Trois Pitons National Park World Heritage Site. Although we missed the highlight of the entire trail, in retrospect, it probably wouldn’t have been so enjoyable starving and penniless. An enthusiastic passerby takes interest in our map, and were it not for Chris, he might’ve made off with it. Surely, this would’ve proven disastrous, as we spend at least an hour most days trying to figure out exactly where we wandered off the official trail.
At one point, while taking a break in the shade, a large vehicle comes barreling up the jungle nearby. I took it to be a footpath, and when it gets stuck I’m not the least bit surprised. Before helping push him free again, we get to talking and find out he used to live in Houston. When we ask how he liked it, he said it was like how he imagines Hell to be.
We’re roughly at the center of the island now
Before long, we find ourselves treading over an old cobblestone path dating back to the early 1800’s known as the Old Carib Trace. Our progress is beginning to feel more like a pilgrimage than a jailbreak. Rounding a corner, we come across a good candidate for the legendary Fountain of Youth – Dominica’s famous Emerald Pool. Fighting the urge for a long-awaited dip, we press on. We know better by now. Besides, our target is the Atlantic coast by nightfall.
Sure enough, a set of suspension bridges spanning a river set us back a good half hour. The first is impassable, and the second has no trail markers along the far side. After doubling back, and fording the river across from where the trail ends on one side, we find our way once more. Dusk finds us scurrying past candle-lit huts and over endless cattle pastures. Well past dark, the land simply ends. The sound of waves is the only indication that we’ve made it. “What now?”, I think to myself in total darkness.
“You guys lookin’ for a place to camp?”
Startled by a voice directly beside us, we give out a confirmation to empty space. With ease, we’re somehow led in silence by a very tall young man towards the local village, where we stock up on the usual staples of biscuits and sardines, and sit down for fried chicken with fries. “I’ve never had chicken like this before”, I tell him. To which he replies, “Never had chicken with a fresh guy?” It comes as no surprise when we later find out that he’s quite the fan of old spaghetti westerns.
The next morning we were offered tea, gifted handmade bamboo mugs, and given a tour of the garden. We watched the local news with them while they lit up a fatty and expressed their love for the island of Dominica. When they found out about the journal I lost, they gifted me a new one, along with a pencil and a Rudolph-the-Red-Nosed-Reindeer eraser. As we left, I made a promise to myself that if I ever make it big, I’ll gift them rental kayaks and help them develop a proper campground.
After a quick dip in the rough Atlantic, we close in on Kalinago territory, where a road crew addresses us as Chuck Norris and asks if we need any prostitutes. We decline the offer, only to be accused of being two faggots…”they always gotta go for the low blow”, Chris laments. I think it was pretty funny, myself.
The level of difficulty suddenly rises
The reservation on Dominica, similar to what can be found in the States, seems rough. I notice an indigenous man, sitting on a coconut, just after we accidentally veer off the path. About an hour later, we pass the same spot and the man is still just frozen there. A little while later, a gorgeous Kalinago woman (with her boyfriend in tow) confronts my brother, very animatedly, to say that he is the spitting image of her brother.
The landscape holds an incredibly dramatic beauty. A large man doing road maintenance approaches us for money, as if to appear intimidating. “No”, is all he gets. We pass a glorious wedding procession taking place upon a wide embankment that overlooks the crashing sea. Shortly thereafter, a gruff man yells for us to come over and marvel at traditional oven he’s cooking with. “Ever seen an oven like this before!?”, he asks boastfully. “Yes!”, my brother lies.
A pair of local officers step in, and tell the man to calm down. The elder of the two could easily pass off as Mayan. Coming up on the reconstructed traditional “Kalinago village by the sea” or Kalinago Barana Aute, it’s only fitting that the only person there tries passive aggressively mocking us, by suggesting that our poor legs must be tired. His Jersey accent throws me off. Such unnecessary confrontation is something our first host had warned me about: “Their ancestors, the Caribs, weren’t known for being friendly after all…”
