January 26, 2010
by paulcrask
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The boatman calls himself Nature Boy. He rows standing up in the stern of his colourfully painted wooden skiff, on the look-out for a boa he saw yesterday that was resting on the pale and twisted branch of a bloodwood tree. I am seated on a damp bench in front of him. The river disappears around a bend, curtained in on both sides by a jumble of liana vines, contorted mangrove roots and the mysteries of swamp and forest. For the most part the journey is silent and uninterrupted, save for the occasional cries of mangrove cuckoos, a jaco parrot somewhere high in the canopy, or the splash of a barracuda on the prowl in the dark margins of the brackish river. (more…)
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September 30, 2009
by paulcrask
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I was at Layou village on Sunday, enjoying the second annual Titiwi Fest. The food was great; an imaginative variety of dishes included titiwi ackras, steamed titiwi, smoked titiwi sancoche, titiwi pie, titiwi pizza, and there was, apparently, even titiwi punch (I decided to stick to Kubuli). But the thing that struck me most about Sunday’s fete was that there were actually people there before sunset, and absolutely loads of them. You see, quite often in these parts, when you say an event will start at 12 noon and finish at sundown, most people will start turning up at dusk in their party outfits anticipating a jump-up. And they get it, so the die is indelibly cast. And Sunday did have a few tardy arrivals, for sure, but for the first time I can recall in quite a while, Dominica’s late night booty shakers seemed to have come early for a change. Seeing so many people out enjoying themselves at what is an exceptionally pretty venue, was what made the fest so memorable for me. And it was just as fantastic, if not more so, for the lovely villagers of Layou. (more…)
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June 28, 2009
by paulcrask
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When I tell people where I live, many, perhaps even most of them, imagine a different place altogether. And so did I before I came here. Having youthfully backpacked with the best of them, I was more than a little irked to discover my knowledge of the globe had a flaw. It seemed I had plenty of company, however. Imagine what it would be like to have to say to everyone “I live in England. No, not New England. England. It’s near France.” It’s a bit like that for me nowadays. Instead of England, I say “Dominica. No, not the Dominican Republic. Dominica. It’s near France.” Actually, it’s baguette-sandwiched between two Caribbean compartments of France, Guadeloupe and Martinique, which makes Christmas wine and cheese runs a little more exotic than taking a ferry from Felixstowe. (more…)
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The boatman calls himself Nature Boy. He rows standing up in the stern of his colourfully painted wooden skiff, on the look-out for a boa he saw yesterday that was resting on the pale and twisted branch of a bloodwood tree. I am seated on a damp bench in front of him. The river disappears around a bend, curtained in on both sides by a jumble of liana vines, contorted mangrove roots and the mysteries of swamp and forest. For the most part the journey is silent and uninterrupted, save for the occasional cries of mangrove cuckoos, a jaco parrot somewhere high in the canopy, or the splash of a barracuda on the prowl in the dark margins of the brackish river. (more…)
