A year afloat: to the Caribbean and back - To the Boiling Lake and back

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