This book review first appeared in the March/April 2010 issue of Caribbean Beat
In all likelihood, Dominica’s Kalinago represent the last of the Island Caribs, a term coined by Europeans for a succession of pre-Columbian tribal groups who migrated from South America and occupied the Antilles. Today, numbering around 3,000, the Kalinago live in a semi-autonomous territory on Dominica’s windward coast. They are famous not only for surviving everything European aggressors could throw at them, but also for their traditional canoe-building and basket ware skills, for their strong ties with nature, and also for their enduring myths.
The Snake King of the Kalinago recounts one of their most famous legends and is told in their own words by Grade 6 students of Atkinson School which is located on the northern fringe of Dominica’s Carib Territory. Bakwa, a giant snake, emerges from the ocean and climbs volcanic cliffs creating a ‘staircase’, known today as L’Escalier Tête Chien (staircase of the snake). Making its home in a mountain cave, Bakwa becomes guardian of the Kalinago, enriching their harvests and helping them escape the swords, muskets and cannons of European invaders.
Access to story books in this region tends to be limited to those that have been written primarily for a UK or US audience and whose content is far removed from the lives and experiences of youngsters here in the Caribbean. A welcome change, this publication breaks that trend and tells a tale that is legendary, familiar and captivating. Beautifully illustrated with colourful paintings, The Snake King of The Kalinago is an original and creative collaboration that will certainly appeal to children, parents and teachers alike.
Author: Children of Atkinson School, Dominica
Publisher: Papillote Press
ISBN: 978-0-9532224-6-9
30 pages
This book review first appeared in the March/April 2010 issue of Caribbean Beat
In 1932 Elma Napier dropped out of London’s high society and, together with her husband and children, began a new life in Dominica which, at the time, was a rather insignificant outpost of colonial Britain. An autobiographical account of her life in Dominica, Black and White Sands was written in 1962 but has not been published until now. It has certainly been worth the wait.
Elma Napier’s matter-of-fact narrative style is illustrated throughout by very humorous and tongue-in-cheek accounts of interactions and conversations with local villagers as well as with her peers on Dominica’s Legislative Council, of which she became a member following the death of her husband in 1940. Her detailed descriptions of exploring Dominica, the frustrations of trying to implement change and improvement, and life in colonial Caribbean during the war years, all make fascinating and very entertaining reading. A strong personality shines through the pages of this book and it is difficult to feel anything other than admiration and affection for its author.
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It was 5am and still dark when we set off along a steep farm track in the heart of Belvidere. The countryside was silent, not a cricket stirred, and only the sound of our feet tramping through rough grass and over stone disturbed the absolute serenity of the morning. We walked for around half-an-hour. A small wooden shack with a red and rusty tin roof emerged from the gloom as the sun began its slow ascent over the horizon to the east. The sorry structure was ramshackle and apparently abandoned, despite a rather hopefully scrawled sign in black paint declaring ‘Private. Back soon.’
Beyond the shack lay a field of bananas that were engaged in what appeared to be a losing battle with ever persistent creepers and weeds. The farm track came to an end and we began to weave our way through the plantation itself, heading towards the foot of a tall ridge where we would begin our ascent. A dog barked somewhere in the distance and a solitary cock crowed. I sensed a warning against this tomfoolery, but brushed it off with a somewhat unconvincing shrug, following the slight figure of Gurry, my guide, as he arrived at the edge of the field.
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