To the Boiling Lake and back
A year afloat: to the Caribbean and back
Sam and Alex Fortescue
Sat 5 Feb 2011 21:27
We skivved the big Haitan music bash last night, in
a daze of tired knees and weary legs. The hike to the Boiling Lake was, as
promised, an eight hour affair, if you include the 30 minute helter-skelter ride
up and down the hill in a minibus. We made the trip in the company of a gaggle
of French sailors who looked at first sight, intimidatingly fit. When Earl, our
guide, told us of a bunch of Lithuanian hikers who'd done the trip in four
hours, it felt like the pressure was on. Happily youthful joints outlasted
experience and we found ourselves well within the pace.
Nonetheless, it was a serious mission. The path up
seemed to continue forever - hour after hour up through the twilight under
the rainforest canopy. The only sign of wildlife was the odd chirrup and an
eerie whistle which turned out to be produced by tree branches rubbing together
in the wind. We clambered through mile after mile of luscious green tree ferns,
palm trees, cedars and a host of lesser greenery I didn't recognise. Orchids
hung in festoons. Eventually we climbed up onto a ridge, over which cloud was
pouring from the windward side of the island. Then, suddenly, it was back down
again. First, slipping down vertiginous mud slides, then teetering down tiny
steps cut in the rock, along the razor-sharp edge of the ridge where the wind
howled. The Valley of Desolation suddenly opened up before us - a vast expanse
of bare rock and mud, bereft of vegetation, and steaming from numerous vents.
Closer inspection revealed the ground was springy and bubbling everywhere with
escaping steam. All the water flowing down the valley was hot. Before we could
admire it too closely, though, a torrential tropical downpour caught us so we
scurried for cover under sparse trees farther down the valley. Another hour more
of trekking and we finally rounded a silent corner and found ourselves on a high
promontory cantilevered out over the Boiling Lake, which simmered in a huge rock
cauldron. Steam poured off the surface and was gusted up into our
faces,obscuring the view. Every now and then, through a gap in the steam, we
could glimpse the point in the middle of the lake where the boiling water rushes
up from the hot rock below. The lake itself was fringed with bright yellow
sulphur deposits. Retracing our lengthy steps on the way home, we stopped to
bathe in a hot spring which formed a natural pool. Rain of near biblical
proportions started up, turning our pool into a kind of jacuzzi.
Today is market day on Dominica, and the whole town
seems to be in Roseau, the capital. Wandering round the endless stalls of fruit
and veg, a strange mix of passion fruit and pineapple; carrots and white
cabbage, we bumped into Chubby - the local calypso star we'd met in Scott's Head
a few days ago. Greeting us like friends, he invited us to watch his latest
filming session among the women selling veg in the market. His producer Gerard
marched us off to get some young coconuts, filled with sweet water, which he
stiffened with some local fennel brew. He's given us contact details and we're
going to get in touch in his native Guadeloupe.
While the filming was going on, we enjoyed some
top-quality, grade-A people spotting. Enlivened by the catalyst of a star in
their midst, half of the idlers in the market started offering up their own
musical interpretation's of Chubby's tunes. One youngish fellow wearing a black
stocking over his hair starting shouting wildly that people weren't respecting
Chubby enough by carrying on hawling their produce. "Me get a gun and
trrrr-rrr-rrr-rrr-rrr-rrr," he declared, spraying lead around the marketplace
with his fingertips. Another chap started bellowing at a toothless man who'd
just had his photo taken with Chubby. Before long the two were skirmishing
verbally, and the whole episode looked as if it was going to spill over in to
punches. The militant who'd started the argument suddenly crouched down, pulling
one fist back and started chopping the air in a ninja style with his other arm.
"I'm a black belt," he declared.
The toothless character almost skipped with glee as
he shouted: "Me a black man, not a Chinee. Me a black man."
After waving his arms around in a haphazard way and
making a few schoolboy feints, the black belt limped off, clutching an unopened
bottle of some local liquor to his chest and swearing vengeance. By an large,
though, the market continued unperturbed, except by a steady stream of people
wishing Chubby 'one love'.
As well as being the music island and the nature
island, Dominica seems to be the turtle island. We've spotted lots of the little
fellows circling around Summer Song. They're hard to see in all but the
smoothest water, just poking their heads above the water for a quick snort of
breath. Though we're anchored in more than 10 metres of water, you can see
straight to the bottom, and watch fish bustling about in the
seagrass.
Summer Song moored in Dominica
Trafalgar Falls
David and Jarvis, who befriended us on the
seafront
Tropical cricket
Scotts Head, home to the clearest water since the
Tobago Cays
...where Chubby was filming the video for one of
his tunes
And again in Roseau market today
On the way up to the Boiling Lake
Valley of Desolation
Boiling Lake
Roseau market
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