This feature first appeared in the may/June 2010 issue of Caribbean Beat
I really enjoy hiking, always have done, even though these days I know that my aging muscles and bones will gripe at me afterwards. But recently I have discovered that the days when I would take on a hiking challenge just for the hell of it (and the reward of cold beers at the end) appear to have been transcended by a desire to learn more about the beauty and diversity of my natural environment. Don’t get me wrong, I still relish those beers, but the hike itself has become as much a journey for my mind as it always has been for my body.
I like to hike with Octave, a good friend who has grown up on the island and for whom trees, plants and flowers have become an intrinsic part of life. He is a Rastafarian who makes a living as a tour guide and who, together with his wife Rahel, runs a small eco-cottage called Hide-Out on the banks of the pretty Geneva River on Dominica’s south coast. In the low season Octave tends the fruits and vegetables of his garden, repairs his simple house, and sells coconuts for a few dollars at the market in the capital, Roseau. His garden is an education in itself, indeed he often spends time walking around it with his guests, pointing out the wide variety of fruit trees, flowers and unassuming plants most would overlook but which he uses to make exotic bush teas; delicious herbal infusions whose combinations offer a bewildering assortment of natural remedies.
On a climb up the steep slopes of Morne Trois Pitons, namesake of one of Dominica’s three national parks and itself a UNESCO World Heritage Site, Octave crouches and points to something in the dense foliage of the rainforest. “Siffleur montagne, the mountain whistler, properly known as the rufous-throated solitaire,” he whispers. “Listen.” The unmistakable whistle of the bird that accompanies hikers through Dominica’s elevated rainforest habitat, yet which is notoriously illusive, almost pierces my eardrums it is so close. I stare into the foliage, determined to spot it. My eyes strain so hard they almost bleed as I follow Octave’s extended arm and finger. And miracles do happen, because I do see it. Indeed, how on earth could I miss it, I wonder ? With its light grey chest and bright red throat, this unassuming bird sits on the branch of a young balsa tree, a bois flot, belting out a tune just for us, it seems. Octave grins at me, “You see it now ?”
He has eyes for this kind of thing and I am envious. I grew up in a Yorkshire mining village where the most exotic birds I saw were distant silhouettes disappearing into a grey backdrop of chimneys, cooling towers and cloudy skies as they migrated to magical lands far, far away. I have so much to learn about my new surroundings that it is almost like being reborn. As we tramp onwards and upwards, Octave points out bois bandé, a tree whose bark is considered an aphrodisiac, tabac zombie, a plant whose leaves make a warming tea to combat colds, and bois fou fou, the vibrant hummingbird tree. Right on cue, a purple-throated Carib enters from stage right, performs an airborne pirouette, and then exits in a blur.
Trying to consume and retain information about Dominica’s natural environment is a little like attempting to eat all the food at a wedding reception. There is so much, you just can’t do it. “Is there a bush tea that might help me remember all these things?” I joke. “You could try basilic”, Octave replies earnestly. “Mixed with a little rosemary.”
There are around 200 recorded species of fern in Dominica. A bewildering thought. The island boasts two endemic Amazonian parrots, the Sisserou and the Jaco, 4 endemic species of hummingbird, 75 species of orchid, around 200 observed species of birds and 50 of butterflies. Rainforest is by far the most widespread vegetation type, most of it untouched by man. There is an incredible diversity of plants, trees and flowers; from the mighty gommier or gum tree from which Kalinago, Dominica’s indigenous people, continue to hand-craft canoes, to variegated anthuriums, ginger lilies and heliconias. It is an explosion of life and colour.
At the peak of the mountain the views extend in all directions. A blanket of green clusia and miconia bushes interrupted by occasional protrusions of mountain palms and bromeliads fills our entire field of vision. In the distance is Dominica’s highest volcano, Morne Diablotin, and beyond it the hills of Guadeloupe. We have been scrambling up rocks and climbing through tree branches for the last half hour and I am nicely caked in a thick soup of sweat and sticky mud. And beneath this layer of grime, my skin has become decorated with a fine patchwork of razor grass scratches. In complete contrast, Octave is so clean and tidy he looks like he has simply drifted up the mountain on the light trade winds. Annoyingly, he does this every time.
On the way back down the mountain, two Jaco parrots take off from the canopy in a cacophony of squawking, their brilliant green and red plumage illuminated by the afternoon sun. A little further along the trail, an agouti nibbles at a piece of gommier fruit, a windfall for this timid forest mammal. It pauses for a moment, sniffs the air (I realize I must be fairly ripe myself by this point), and then skedaddles at full pelt into the darkness and mystery of the undergrowth.
“Z’ailes mouches,” says Octave, pointing to a preponderance of dual lobed palm-like leaves. This one I know. These plants are traditionally used by the Kalinago for roof thatching and to line the inside of larouma basket ware to make it waterproof. “Elephant ear anthurium, “ I grin, looking at a plant with huge leaves that is clinging to the trunk (appropriately enough, though no pun intended) of a beautiful giant tree fern, known locally as fougère. “Birds nest anthurium,” says Octave. “And look, a bee orchid,” he smiles, cradling a delicate yellow flower in his leathery hands. I know this is a contest I will never win but I really enjoy the taking part. Because to me this is what hiking in Dominica has become. No longer a forced march, a get-to-the-end-if-it-bloody-well-kills-me challenge, a walk in these pristine forests has turned into a consummate pleasure, and a marvelous education.
We get back to my truck and Octave borrows my cutlass to open a couple of coconuts we brought along. They are a real treat and we sit on the lemongrass verge sipping their delicious waters and scraping out the sweet jelly to eat. Before us is the mountain, Morne Trois Pitons, once again majestic and serene. Yet beneath the canopy of its verdant shroud hides a world of such mesmerizing magnificence and complexity, no words can ever adequately explain it. Somewhere up there the mountain whistler is still singing, the hummingbirds still dancing, and an agouti is nibbling away at a piece of forest fruit whose name I have already forgotten.
