I am interrupting Dominica with Ireland, which happened the year before. I am doing this because this I just found this entry and it is sort of super awesome. This is my blog, and it will be as disjointed as I want it to be.
I should be keeping up with this more, but I haven't. Truth be told, I have not really had enough time to write anything, anyway. I suppose that's a good thing, right? Run around until we've got nothing left to give to the waking hours and collapse into a fitless sleep until we start again the next day. There has been a lot of coffee since I got here.
So, we are on a train now. A day rail from Dublin to a place called Killarney, which Jeremy suggested. Ireland is beautiful in exactly the way you would expect it to be. All the cliches are true. Rolling green hills spotted with dairy cows and woolly sheep and occasional split rail fences.
It is one of the most beautiful places I have ever seen.
We got to Killarney, a gingerbread town, tidy and tiny and full of pubs. Our hostel is quaint and cozy, and they rent bikes. We biked out to the national park. Started with an old watch tower and then boarded a little whaler onto a glass lake with an old salty Irishman and held our stopped breath in awe of the scene. I wish that I had words for what we saw there. No one spoke much, as we were too distracted by everything we were inside. We docked at Innisfallen, a small island full of moss covered trees and earth and stones. There is an abbey there. A stone cross inside is from the 7th century and was found at the bottom of the loch in the 1970s. People left coins on the cross. I assume the coins were wishes; I assume everything is for wishing.
I dropped twenty cents and wished for my sister's happiness in life.
I felt like I was on a fairy watch the whole time, munching on wild blackberries, stepping over toadstool villages and keeping an eye out for glittering creatures trying to stay hidden. We were like kids running around that little place. Giggling and skipping rocks and painting our mouths purple with blackberries.
Ireland is magic.
We biked all over Killarney, stopping often to rest our legs and marvel with warranted awe. We ended up at a postcard waterfall. Rosy, windburned cheeks and dropped jaws. It seems like every time we start to feel like we might kill each other, we land ourselves in some stunning spot where we forget what we were annoyed with.
As a side note here, if you go into a restroom in an Irish national park, you might see a system of red strings that might lead to a unit on the ceiling that looks a lot like a smoke detector. Attached, curiously, might be an empty toilet paper tube. You might be tempted to pull on it, as there will be no indication of what could happen if you do. In that moment be strong. Resist. Because what happens in a quiet click followed by a not quiet, sustaining beep and a flashing red light.
I still don't know what happened there. I'll have to Google it when I get home. So, now we are on the train back to Dublin. We leave tomorrow. I will remember Ireland the most, I think. Not Dublin, really, as the streets are as gray as the building which are as gray as the sky and the people aren't that nice unless there is a pint glass in their hands. I feel like the rest of this country is what you remember.
Friday, February 17, 2012
9/23
Back to amazing days! We had kind of a rough start. We desperately needed coffee and wanted to get things to cook at JP's cottage for breakfast today and tomorrow, so we drove down to Roseau, where were knew there were coffee shops and a grocery store. Driving in Roseau is a little stressfull--we wanted Bailey's in that coffee. We found a little cafe and ordered bagels and cream cheese with smoked marlin and happy coffee. She looked a little confused when we asked for Bailey's, and apologized for not having any. We ordered Kahlua instead, which she promptly brought out in full glasses, on ice. Oops. Worst coffee ever.
Went to the grocery store and bought random stuff. Cereal, coffee, fruit, etc. Any time we spend in cities frustrates us, and we get grumpy. We are not here to be in cities or to drive on main roads. We are here to be in the rainforest and do waterfall rock scrambles. We want to be muddy and bruised. We want tired muscles. So being at some grocery super center is enough to make us more than a little testy. Let's get out of here and find a waterfall.
We did.
We went to a place called Trafalgar Falls; two beautiful, big waterfalls surrounded by Gulliver-sized ferns and giant bromeliads. There is a staircase sort of built into the hill, and if you want to get to the pool at the bottom of the Mother Falls, you venture off the trail and slippery-rock climb your way up. When we told JP about this little rock climb, she went wide eyed and asked how we did it without a guide. I guess having a guide never occurred to us.
We did just fine on our own, without any disasters or big falls. The waterfall was incredible. We got in and went as close as we could go, though the intense wind and spray to the face made it hard to get too close. I swear this place feels like a movie set.
We spent about an hour there, in love with the falls and the greenery. And then we left, back to the cottage and to say hi to JP. She has been here for three years now. It's been four since she worked in housekeeping with me at Maho. Her email handle is runawayhousewife, which is exactly who JP is. Fed up with suburbian life in Wisconsin, she timed it so she wouldn't hurt her daughter and bolted. Moved to the Caribbean, where she had spent some of her twenties sailing.
She is 50 something now, and is happier than I have ever seen her. She's got a lot, where she has a house slash textile studio. She does batiking and tye-dying all day. She has dreads and signs her emails with "Onelove," and she says things like, "I home now."
She has made plans for the three of us to have dinner at her friend's house tonight, so we have to be back by five. She has laid out two ideas for what we should do until then. One is walk around a freshwater lake sort of near here, and the other is to swim through a narrow gorge to a waterfall. Who needs lakes, really?
We get a tiny bit lost on the way, but manage to park at the rainforest tram and walk the rest of the way.
The only way we have found to get good directions here is to head towards where you should be, roll down your windows, and ask the next person you see if you are still going the right way. We have gotten more than a few raised eyebrows and one comically times "Wrong way, oui?"
It was difficult to know how to get into the gorge, as there was a lot of construction around it and one random set of stairs into some weird-looking water.
Asked and answered, and into the weird water we went. And holy. Shit. I have seen few things as cool in my entire life.. The pool turns into a narrow waterway, turquoise water into black with two rock faces steep and tall on either side, capped with the same gigantic, green ferns we have been seeing everywhere.
Before too long, your feet can't touch and I found that I was thankful (again) for my nerdy Tevas, which sort of acted like flippers. The water was so cold and so dark and if it weren't for the light coming in from the top, I would have thought we were in a cave. We heard water up ahead, so we kept swimming. It felt like something out of The Goonies. We could not see where we were headed and before too long, we couldn't even see where we had come from. At some point in our blind swim, we discussed the unlikely, albeit entirely terrifying prospect of a sea creature living underneath us, Nessie style. We wouldn't have known. And we would have had no defense. We allowed that kind of talk for maybe a minute. But we were already in the water, we were too curious to turn around, and it seemed like it would be a good way to go if that was our fate. So. Keep going. We couldn't get too close to the waterfall; it was way too strong and pushed us from it.
It was incredible. The rock faces were maybe 15 feet from each other, like some funhouse hallway. It twisted and curved and there wasn't much to hold on to. I am not sure how much time we spent in there, but it was the kind of place where you marvel every second.
We went to have drinks with JP's friend Elsbeth later. She, her husband and 5 kids worked a tugboat starting in the late 60s. She is, we think, in her 70s now and has turn what once was Trafalgar's premiere nightclub in an octagonal home with a beautiful wandering garden. We toured through and munched on watercress that we pulled from the ground as she showed us her avocados, dasheen, tangerines, coconut palms, coffee trees, cocoa trees, breadfruit, cinnamon and almonds. I would love to talk to her more; I can tell that she has a million stories.
We walked to a little snackette for dinner. A woman named Maryann made us fish broth, johnny cakes, salad and rum punch. These snackettes are little food stands. They stand in neighborhoods and are clearly a social hub. The women sat around and gossiped and ate, JP and Lisbeth complimenting Maryann on everything she had cooked, recommending this type of rum punch to us instead of the other. I played hide and seek with Maryann's son. Despite the fact that we have not felt unsafe on this island, Erin and I talked about how we never would have ventured here on our own. It's intimidating to be the minority. Well, that's a weird thing to say. We are the minority on St. John, as well. But it doesn't feel quite that way, and that island is familiar, so we do not even notice. Here, we notice. So do the Dominicans. It is sad to think about the things people miss and the things we have probably missed because we are unduly scared. But then, I got mugged when I wasn't as scared as I should have been of a place. One or the other, I guess.
Afterward, Erin, JP and I headed to a place called Screw Spa. A naturally hot sulphur spring belonging to a statuesque West Indian man named Screw, who descending from the ceiling of the front desk wrapped from the hairline up and the waist down in sarongs. When I say descended, I mean it. I think he lives upstairs, and the man slowly and deliberately used his considerable arms to drop from the beams above the desk. It was a sight.
Holy mother, is that place stunning. Red and white rope lights line stone grottoes where you sink into opaque, steaming hot tub water. He plays trance-inducing slow reggae and it is hard to tell if you can actually smell weed and incense, or if that's just what your mind is telling you that you should smell. The pools are steps, getting hotter as you make your way up nearer to the spring. The place glows, really, and the steam that rises from the pools clouds anything sharp. It is not the kind of place where you speak much. You just kind of float around and let whatever it is doing to you happen. It was surreal and awesome.
It didn't take much to call it a night after that. With jell-o muscles, we wobbled out and home and crashed early, ready for the six hour hike to Dominica's boiling lake in the morning.
Went to the grocery store and bought random stuff. Cereal, coffee, fruit, etc. Any time we spend in cities frustrates us, and we get grumpy. We are not here to be in cities or to drive on main roads. We are here to be in the rainforest and do waterfall rock scrambles. We want to be muddy and bruised. We want tired muscles. So being at some grocery super center is enough to make us more than a little testy. Let's get out of here and find a waterfall.
We did.
We went to a place called Trafalgar Falls; two beautiful, big waterfalls surrounded by Gulliver-sized ferns and giant bromeliads. There is a staircase sort of built into the hill, and if you want to get to the pool at the bottom of the Mother Falls, you venture off the trail and slippery-rock climb your way up. When we told JP about this little rock climb, she went wide eyed and asked how we did it without a guide. I guess having a guide never occurred to us.
We did just fine on our own, without any disasters or big falls. The waterfall was incredible. We got in and went as close as we could go, though the intense wind and spray to the face made it hard to get too close. I swear this place feels like a movie set.
We spent about an hour there, in love with the falls and the greenery. And then we left, back to the cottage and to say hi to JP. She has been here for three years now. It's been four since she worked in housekeeping with me at Maho. Her email handle is runawayhousewife, which is exactly who JP is. Fed up with suburbian life in Wisconsin, she timed it so she wouldn't hurt her daughter and bolted. Moved to the Caribbean, where she had spent some of her twenties sailing.
She is 50 something now, and is happier than I have ever seen her. She's got a lot, where she has a house slash textile studio. She does batiking and tye-dying all day. She has dreads and signs her emails with "Onelove," and she says things like, "I home now."
She has made plans for the three of us to have dinner at her friend's house tonight, so we have to be back by five. She has laid out two ideas for what we should do until then. One is walk around a freshwater lake sort of near here, and the other is to swim through a narrow gorge to a waterfall. Who needs lakes, really?
We get a tiny bit lost on the way, but manage to park at the rainforest tram and walk the rest of the way.
The only way we have found to get good directions here is to head towards where you should be, roll down your windows, and ask the next person you see if you are still going the right way. We have gotten more than a few raised eyebrows and one comically times "Wrong way, oui?"
It was difficult to know how to get into the gorge, as there was a lot of construction around it and one random set of stairs into some weird-looking water.
Asked and answered, and into the weird water we went. And holy. Shit. I have seen few things as cool in my entire life.. The pool turns into a narrow waterway, turquoise water into black with two rock faces steep and tall on either side, capped with the same gigantic, green ferns we have been seeing everywhere.
Before too long, your feet can't touch and I found that I was thankful (again) for my nerdy Tevas, which sort of acted like flippers. The water was so cold and so dark and if it weren't for the light coming in from the top, I would have thought we were in a cave. We heard water up ahead, so we kept swimming. It felt like something out of The Goonies. We could not see where we were headed and before too long, we couldn't even see where we had come from. At some point in our blind swim, we discussed the unlikely, albeit entirely terrifying prospect of a sea creature living underneath us, Nessie style. We wouldn't have known. And we would have had no defense. We allowed that kind of talk for maybe a minute. But we were already in the water, we were too curious to turn around, and it seemed like it would be a good way to go if that was our fate. So. Keep going. We couldn't get too close to the waterfall; it was way too strong and pushed us from it.
It was incredible. The rock faces were maybe 15 feet from each other, like some funhouse hallway. It twisted and curved and there wasn't much to hold on to. I am not sure how much time we spent in there, but it was the kind of place where you marvel every second.
We went to have drinks with JP's friend Elsbeth later. She, her husband and 5 kids worked a tugboat starting in the late 60s. She is, we think, in her 70s now and has turn what once was Trafalgar's premiere nightclub in an octagonal home with a beautiful wandering garden. We toured through and munched on watercress that we pulled from the ground as she showed us her avocados, dasheen, tangerines, coconut palms, coffee trees, cocoa trees, breadfruit, cinnamon and almonds. I would love to talk to her more; I can tell that she has a million stories.
We walked to a little snackette for dinner. A woman named Maryann made us fish broth, johnny cakes, salad and rum punch. These snackettes are little food stands. They stand in neighborhoods and are clearly a social hub. The women sat around and gossiped and ate, JP and Lisbeth complimenting Maryann on everything she had cooked, recommending this type of rum punch to us instead of the other. I played hide and seek with Maryann's son. Despite the fact that we have not felt unsafe on this island, Erin and I talked about how we never would have ventured here on our own. It's intimidating to be the minority. Well, that's a weird thing to say. We are the minority on St. John, as well. But it doesn't feel quite that way, and that island is familiar, so we do not even notice. Here, we notice. So do the Dominicans. It is sad to think about the things people miss and the things we have probably missed because we are unduly scared. But then, I got mugged when I wasn't as scared as I should have been of a place. One or the other, I guess.
Afterward, Erin, JP and I headed to a place called Screw Spa. A naturally hot sulphur spring belonging to a statuesque West Indian man named Screw, who descending from the ceiling of the front desk wrapped from the hairline up and the waist down in sarongs. When I say descended, I mean it. I think he lives upstairs, and the man slowly and deliberately used his considerable arms to drop from the beams above the desk. It was a sight.
Holy mother, is that place stunning. Red and white rope lights line stone grottoes where you sink into opaque, steaming hot tub water. He plays trance-inducing slow reggae and it is hard to tell if you can actually smell weed and incense, or if that's just what your mind is telling you that you should smell. The pools are steps, getting hotter as you make your way up nearer to the spring. The place glows, really, and the steam that rises from the pools clouds anything sharp. It is not the kind of place where you speak much. You just kind of float around and let whatever it is doing to you happen. It was surreal and awesome.
It didn't take much to call it a night after that. With jell-o muscles, we wobbled out and home and crashed early, ready for the six hour hike to Dominica's boiling lake in the morning.
Thursday, February 16, 2012
Day Something or Other
So, where were we? Tiny, murderous crustaceans. Ok.
Apparently, when faced with physically insurmountable odds, Erin and I will forever be undeterred. When I say that we were holding onto tree roots to stay upright, our Teva-ed feet slipping on the mud under us, I mean it literally. We could call part of this hike a climb and not be lying. But we wanted to see these secret pools, damnit, and we had time to spare. So, really, why not? To be honest, I am not sure how many times we went down one path-looking thing and had to turn around because we couldn't get past it. The number is fairly large, I'm sure. At one point, we saw bare footprints in the mud. They were headed opposite way that we were headed. We are still not totally sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing, but we kept going.
We FINALLY found a pool. We think. I don't really know if we were where we should have been. The thing is, this river is long. And we have spent so much time climbing up and down on its boulders and trying not to slip on its algae-covered stones, and there are pools all over the place. The right ones, the wrong ones. Pools with strong currents. Pools that are too deep to feel totally comfortable jumping into (though we do, anyway), pools that are cold and clear, pools that are tiny or huge or easy to get into or impossible to get into. The whole river is full of pools. This one seemed fairly unremarkable, all things considered, so we probably never found it. There was a whirlpool involved, and we got a picture of me sticking my toe into it to test the super-strong death current. And that was that.
The trek back wasn't as bad. Nor as interesting, obviously. If it weren't for Erin, I would still be lost in the Dominican jungle. But the girl knows how to navigate, and we made it back in one piece. Super dirty, covered in mud, bruised and 4 hours later than we thought we would be, but in one piece.
We made it back to the hotel, where we said goodbye to Nigel and Girl and went on our way from Hibiscus Valley to Roseau, which is the main port of Dominica. The plan was to drive North along the coast, so we could see more of the island. We could have driven straight across, but that sounded dull. We thought we could get to Roseau, where our friend JP has a guesthouse, in maybe an hour. First, we had to stop in Wesley, where the airport is, and switch out our rental car. The one we had made strange shrieking noises when we braked. This is a volcanic island; there is a lot of braking.
Car switched, we saw a fruit stand near the airport. We have been talking about getting fruit from one of these stands since we got here, and this one had avocados the size of our heads, so we stopped. Oops. As I try to haggle with the woman behind the table over the price of avocados a couple of guavas,and some orange thing I had never seen before, Erin was getting really impatient. Really, really impatient. There was an older woman of questionable mental capacity standing near her, and I heard them talking a little, but didn't pay much attention. Oops number two. The next thing I know, this tiny old lady has her nails dug into Erin's arm and is trying to get her to go into the house behind this whole operation. Bad news bears. We grabbed the avocados, which I am sure I paid too much for, and bolted. The lady came to the driver's side window to tell me about her sick mother and beg for money. It took driving off and wondering if I was going to run her over to get away. Pretty intense, really, and not awesome.
The Dominica travels are sort of a work in progress. The thing is, I was tired every. Single. Day. All of them. So I didn't write as much as I probably should have and I am writing a lot of this in retrospect. Which is, well, exhausting. It makes me want to get to the parts I wrote when I was there, which I know to be accurate and not shaded or stained by however many months have passed since. So, I will stop this one and say that we spent four incredible hours in a car getting taken advantage of by locals, buying approximately twenty starfruits (by accident), seeing our first Dominican black sand beach, taking cell phone pictures at a Pirates of the Caribbean sunset, getting horribly lost multiple times and finally finding our way to Roseau, which confused the hell out of both of us. I can talk about these things, but racking my brain to try and write them is too much right at the moment. Now I am going to return to the things already written for me. Because I feel lazy.
Apparently, when faced with physically insurmountable odds, Erin and I will forever be undeterred. When I say that we were holding onto tree roots to stay upright, our Teva-ed feet slipping on the mud under us, I mean it literally. We could call part of this hike a climb and not be lying. But we wanted to see these secret pools, damnit, and we had time to spare. So, really, why not? To be honest, I am not sure how many times we went down one path-looking thing and had to turn around because we couldn't get past it. The number is fairly large, I'm sure. At one point, we saw bare footprints in the mud. They were headed opposite way that we were headed. We are still not totally sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing, but we kept going.
We FINALLY found a pool. We think. I don't really know if we were where we should have been. The thing is, this river is long. And we have spent so much time climbing up and down on its boulders and trying not to slip on its algae-covered stones, and there are pools all over the place. The right ones, the wrong ones. Pools with strong currents. Pools that are too deep to feel totally comfortable jumping into (though we do, anyway), pools that are cold and clear, pools that are tiny or huge or easy to get into or impossible to get into. The whole river is full of pools. This one seemed fairly unremarkable, all things considered, so we probably never found it. There was a whirlpool involved, and we got a picture of me sticking my toe into it to test the super-strong death current. And that was that.
The trek back wasn't as bad. Nor as interesting, obviously. If it weren't for Erin, I would still be lost in the Dominican jungle. But the girl knows how to navigate, and we made it back in one piece. Super dirty, covered in mud, bruised and 4 hours later than we thought we would be, but in one piece.
We made it back to the hotel, where we said goodbye to Nigel and Girl and went on our way from Hibiscus Valley to Roseau, which is the main port of Dominica. The plan was to drive North along the coast, so we could see more of the island. We could have driven straight across, but that sounded dull. We thought we could get to Roseau, where our friend JP has a guesthouse, in maybe an hour. First, we had to stop in Wesley, where the airport is, and switch out our rental car. The one we had made strange shrieking noises when we braked. This is a volcanic island; there is a lot of braking.
Car switched, we saw a fruit stand near the airport. We have been talking about getting fruit from one of these stands since we got here, and this one had avocados the size of our heads, so we stopped. Oops. As I try to haggle with the woman behind the table over the price of avocados a couple of guavas,and some orange thing I had never seen before, Erin was getting really impatient. Really, really impatient. There was an older woman of questionable mental capacity standing near her, and I heard them talking a little, but didn't pay much attention. Oops number two. The next thing I know, this tiny old lady has her nails dug into Erin's arm and is trying to get her to go into the house behind this whole operation. Bad news bears. We grabbed the avocados, which I am sure I paid too much for, and bolted. The lady came to the driver's side window to tell me about her sick mother and beg for money. It took driving off and wondering if I was going to run her over to get away. Pretty intense, really, and not awesome.
The Dominica travels are sort of a work in progress. The thing is, I was tired every. Single. Day. All of them. So I didn't write as much as I probably should have and I am writing a lot of this in retrospect. Which is, well, exhausting. It makes me want to get to the parts I wrote when I was there, which I know to be accurate and not shaded or stained by however many months have passed since. So, I will stop this one and say that we spent four incredible hours in a car getting taken advantage of by locals, buying approximately twenty starfruits (by accident), seeing our first Dominican black sand beach, taking cell phone pictures at a Pirates of the Caribbean sunset, getting horribly lost multiple times and finally finding our way to Roseau, which confused the hell out of both of us. I can talk about these things, but racking my brain to try and write them is too much right at the moment. Now I am going to return to the things already written for me. Because I feel lazy.
Friday, February 10, 2012
And I Lose Track of the Days
Ok, a few pages back, I was writing about yesterday, but I don't want today to fade before I get to write about it.
We woke up a little late this morning. Ate breakfast and asked if it might be ok to take a little swim in the river before we had to leave the North part of the island, which is comfortable and easy now, and feels like home.
On our way to the pool we already knew, we remembered Nigel's Secret Pools. Directions were as follows: Go down the road until you see where a concrete building used to be. Turn and find with your eyes the track with ginger lilies on your right. There is some dirt on the left.
That's all, folks. At the time, we thought these directions more than sufficient and did not foresee any problems. This trek would be a solid predictor for the rest of the day, but we couldn't have known.
And off we went. We found where the building used to be; there was a patch of dirt that had clearly been home to something concrete at some point. We were not sure what ginger lilies actually looked like, but we were willing to bet that the giant red flowers on our left were what Nigel was talking about. It wasn't entirely clear where the path was, so we shrugged our shoulders and walked in. It was a lot like Field of Dreams, where they disappear into the cornfield. No trail of crumbs to find our way back, no real idea of where we were going, and we didn't really care.
Eventually, we found something that actually looked like a path. There was a fork, which we didn't give much thought to. The track seemed pretty obvious, running along a crop of banana trees that seemed to have been tended to. The grass was stomped and we felt good about where we were. Calf-deep in mud, maybe, but good just the same.
And then. We are practically whistling along this path, we are so secure in where we are and where we're going. I am looking down at my feet, trying not to slip and die on the four inches of mud we are sludging through when Erin says, "Jamie, oh my God." Now, the last time Erin said this was in Greece. And the subject of the concern was a Serbian man at a dead run through the streets of Santorini trying to catch us as we first ran away and then ducked behind bushes. It's not a phrase the girl uses lightly, as neither of us are all that worried about much when it comes to travel. But here it was. The Erin code for "Holy shit, something very bad is maybe happening." I look up from my muddy feet to find us under a house. Yep. Under. A. House. This is my cue to turn on my heels and pretend like I know how to get back. Erin was a little braver and inched closer until we heard, "Hello" from above us. The dude was hanging out his window, maybe or maybe not surprised to find two girls trekking under his home. Dominica is still home to natives, maybe of whom live like this. In sort of stilted houses right next to whatever they grow and sell. This particular family likely lived off of the bananas we walked past. If I were to guess, I would say that those bananas are their entire livelihood.
He came down to us, tried to introduce us to a woman and their child, and asked us if we were headed to the Secret Pools. Clearly not the first time this has happened. He was very sweet, cutlass and all, and walked us to the proper trail, explaining that we saw the track to his house and assumed that it was the right way.
So, this Asian-looking man with a West Indian accent set us the right way with a smile and went back to his own life. And we were off again, this time convinced that we were going exactly where we should be. Ha.
The travel dynamic between Erin and myself is funny; when it comes to meeting or following or trusting a stranger, I am all in. I don't even question it. Erin inevitably gives me her scrunched forehead and the look that says, "Jamie, are we really doing this? This does not seem like a good idea." And then she comes with me and we either have a great time or a really good story.
Conversely, when it comes to trails, she's 100% down for anything, including trails that (eventually) end underneath some dude's house. She damn near sprints into rivers without checking the current and walks until it is physically impossible to stay upright on whatever muddy, slippery, vertical spot of land we find ourselves. It's my turn, then, to give her scrunched looks and wonder about her sanity. But, just as she figures it will be interesting at worst to follow whomever wants us to follow, I figure it will be interesting at worst to follow her into the Dominican jungle. We balance each other out quite well and have never found ourselves in actual danger, despite begging for it more times than is really ok.
So, we are now attempting to walk on a vertical piece of land. There are crabs here, and they don't seem too friendly. They definitely don't think that we are cute the way we think they're cute. And they have big claws. It is already difficult to navigate a virtual cliff face without little crustaceans attempting murder at every tree root. But we haven't died yet. And we haven't found the pools. Keep going.
Oh, there is so much more to this day. But I have to stop and have a Kabuli and call it a night. More tomorrow.
We woke up a little late this morning. Ate breakfast and asked if it might be ok to take a little swim in the river before we had to leave the North part of the island, which is comfortable and easy now, and feels like home.
On our way to the pool we already knew, we remembered Nigel's Secret Pools. Directions were as follows: Go down the road until you see where a concrete building used to be. Turn and find with your eyes the track with ginger lilies on your right. There is some dirt on the left.
That's all, folks. At the time, we thought these directions more than sufficient and did not foresee any problems. This trek would be a solid predictor for the rest of the day, but we couldn't have known.
And off we went. We found where the building used to be; there was a patch of dirt that had clearly been home to something concrete at some point. We were not sure what ginger lilies actually looked like, but we were willing to bet that the giant red flowers on our left were what Nigel was talking about. It wasn't entirely clear where the path was, so we shrugged our shoulders and walked in. It was a lot like Field of Dreams, where they disappear into the cornfield. No trail of crumbs to find our way back, no real idea of where we were going, and we didn't really care.
Eventually, we found something that actually looked like a path. There was a fork, which we didn't give much thought to. The track seemed pretty obvious, running along a crop of banana trees that seemed to have been tended to. The grass was stomped and we felt good about where we were. Calf-deep in mud, maybe, but good just the same.
And then. We are practically whistling along this path, we are so secure in where we are and where we're going. I am looking down at my feet, trying not to slip and die on the four inches of mud we are sludging through when Erin says, "Jamie, oh my God." Now, the last time Erin said this was in Greece. And the subject of the concern was a Serbian man at a dead run through the streets of Santorini trying to catch us as we first ran away and then ducked behind bushes. It's not a phrase the girl uses lightly, as neither of us are all that worried about much when it comes to travel. But here it was. The Erin code for "Holy shit, something very bad is maybe happening." I look up from my muddy feet to find us under a house. Yep. Under. A. House. This is my cue to turn on my heels and pretend like I know how to get back. Erin was a little braver and inched closer until we heard, "Hello" from above us. The dude was hanging out his window, maybe or maybe not surprised to find two girls trekking under his home. Dominica is still home to natives, maybe of whom live like this. In sort of stilted houses right next to whatever they grow and sell. This particular family likely lived off of the bananas we walked past. If I were to guess, I would say that those bananas are their entire livelihood.
He came down to us, tried to introduce us to a woman and their child, and asked us if we were headed to the Secret Pools. Clearly not the first time this has happened. He was very sweet, cutlass and all, and walked us to the proper trail, explaining that we saw the track to his house and assumed that it was the right way.
So, this Asian-looking man with a West Indian accent set us the right way with a smile and went back to his own life. And we were off again, this time convinced that we were going exactly where we should be. Ha.
The travel dynamic between Erin and myself is funny; when it comes to meeting or following or trusting a stranger, I am all in. I don't even question it. Erin inevitably gives me her scrunched forehead and the look that says, "Jamie, are we really doing this? This does not seem like a good idea." And then she comes with me and we either have a great time or a really good story.
Conversely, when it comes to trails, she's 100% down for anything, including trails that (eventually) end underneath some dude's house. She damn near sprints into rivers without checking the current and walks until it is physically impossible to stay upright on whatever muddy, slippery, vertical spot of land we find ourselves. It's my turn, then, to give her scrunched looks and wonder about her sanity. But, just as she figures it will be interesting at worst to follow whomever wants us to follow, I figure it will be interesting at worst to follow her into the Dominican jungle. We balance each other out quite well and have never found ourselves in actual danger, despite begging for it more times than is really ok.
So, we are now attempting to walk on a vertical piece of land. There are crabs here, and they don't seem too friendly. They definitely don't think that we are cute the way we think they're cute. And they have big claws. It is already difficult to navigate a virtual cliff face without little crustaceans attempting murder at every tree root. But we haven't died yet. And we haven't found the pools. Keep going.
Oh, there is so much more to this day. But I have to stop and have a Kabuli and call it a night. More tomorrow.
An Unfinished Day
Yesterday, we left from Hibiscus to drive the whole North of the island. We were told about Penrice Spanny falls by the girl whom we call, "Girl" because we don't know her name. I think the guy who ate dinner with us ("Guy" from Maine) told us about Jacko Falls, and Nigel, the shy, sweet chef at Hibiscus, told us about a place called Secret Pools, which we would eventually maybe find today, although we can't really be sure.
The directions to each of these were a bit difficult to follow. Vague, fairly unhelpful, and generally followed by, "You know, just ask anyone you see and they'll tell you."
We left a moping dog behind us and got into the car, armed with Tevas and swimsuits and clothes that could get dirty. Before we knew it, we came to a sign. For what, we had no idea, but we were not about to pass it by. It looked like some business had existed there, but we couldn't make out anything but the grass-covered stairs that we knew we had to climb down.
Annnnnd waterfall number one. Everything here looks like Ferngully. The leaves are broad and thick and everything towers and is green. We get in the water there, which always feels much too cold at first. And then, we were done. Not two girls to waste time, we were off to the next place.
I stopped writing here. Distracted or happy to have a beer or too busy talking about the day to continue writing about it. Who knows? This is where I hope my best amazing travel buddy with fill in the spaces. We really need to get together and make this comprehensive, no?
The directions to each of these were a bit difficult to follow. Vague, fairly unhelpful, and generally followed by, "You know, just ask anyone you see and they'll tell you."
We left a moping dog behind us and got into the car, armed with Tevas and swimsuits and clothes that could get dirty. Before we knew it, we came to a sign. For what, we had no idea, but we were not about to pass it by. It looked like some business had existed there, but we couldn't make out anything but the grass-covered stairs that we knew we had to climb down.
Annnnnd waterfall number one. Everything here looks like Ferngully. The leaves are broad and thick and everything towers and is green. We get in the water there, which always feels much too cold at first. And then, we were done. Not two girls to waste time, we were off to the next place.
I stopped writing here. Distracted or happy to have a beer or too busy talking about the day to continue writing about it. Who knows? This is where I hope my best amazing travel buddy with fill in the spaces. We really need to get together and make this comprehensive, no?
The Real Day One.
9/20
Holy crap, what a day. We woke up about an hour and a half before breakfast, so we did some exploring. Down the road led us to friendly locals, teeming fruit trees and a river, with a few spots to get in. Completely amazing. There were pools in the river; deep, blue part to get all the way in and try to fight the current. Breadfruit, passion fruit, guavas, avocados, starfruit, grapefruit, mangoes, bananas, wild ginger...
And there is a path to the river from Hibiscus Valley and the air is saturated with ginger. Such agriculture.
The locals and friendly and funny. It seems that they don't know how to react to you until you react to them They mostly kind of stare at you until you smile and wave and say hello. Then, the faces soften and smiled are returned. They are curious about us. Truth be told, we haven't seen any other white people since we left the airport.
The men call us beautiful, which is not true. We are sweaty and messy. Red-faced and without make-up, and I'm sure that we look concerned and lost at least most of the time.
We so want to pick fruit off the trees, but we definitely don't know what belongs to whom. No interest in stealing. We did manage to scavenge a little from fruits that had fallen off of the trees. Erin's first passion fruit (which was a little mushy and probably a little rotten, but we ate it, anyway.) and Erin's first guava (not mushy or rotten, but perfect and sweet and delicious). And a wild grapefruit, identifiable not by color at all, but by taste. Which is good, since we decided to eat it before we knew what it was.
We came back fro breakfast. Dominican coffee, local lemongrass tea, fresh bread with guava jam or ginger grapefruit chutney, fresh oranges, scrambled eggs and starfruit juice with lime. Perfect.
We asked how long it would take to walk to Marigot, the closest town. The word "town" is fairly generous here, but we'll go with it. The front desk woman told us that it would be about an hour's walk, and there would be shops and restaurants and a nice beach. One of the property dogs, Jack, decided to accompany us.
Two uphill, dehydrating, dog-tiring hours later, we finally land in Marigot. The walk was pretty rough, actually. There is a lot of construction here, so we kept having to scoot to the sides of very narrow roads to avoid being hit by bug work trucks, nearly all of which slowed to a near halt to say hello and ask how we were liking Dominica. the damned dog turned into a bit of a chore. Too late, we realized that he would not be turning back after we passed his imaginary "gone too far" line. We were a little worried about him the whole time, not sure that he would make it all the way and equally unsure that he would be able to get back on his own.
*That dog is laying under me right now. Passed out under this hammock and showing no signs of wanting to be anything other than completely asleep.*
When we finally got to Marigot, we were starving and tired. So, starving and tired, we asked someone if there was somewhere to eat. He pointed to "J's Spot," a place that serves plantains, stuffed Johnny cakes, saltfish and the like, and also looks to be a hangout for a group of men talking, to whatever degree, about the presence of white people at their restaurant. It was the kind of place with a few plastic tables outside, a dirt floor and a roof that slanted a bit and was made of corrugated steel and seemed as surprised to be there as we were to see it.
The people got less friendly the deeper into town we got (isn't that often the case?), and we were cashed, so we asked the girl working how we get from Marigot to where the airport is, which is where we were going to rent a car.
The face she made when we told her where we had walked from was hysterical and makes me wonder when the last time anyone from Hibiscus Valley walked that "hour" into town might be.
A man overheard us talking and offered to drive us to the airport. The man's car, it turned out, was a bus. A big one that was likely about fifty years old. We thought that the dog would be fine and could find his own way home. We thought this because this is what we were told by the staff at Hibiscus. So, we hopped in. Jack had a different idea and, with locals yelling at us that he wanted to come and with him pawing at the bus wheels, I don't think we had a choice. It was quite a scene, really. As little as probably happens in this town, I suspect the story of five men screaming at two white girls who were trying to escape their canine companion by hopping alone into a stranger's strange, giant bus made the rounds and entertained (or confused) them for at least the next day. *As a side note, this was true. We were definitely recognized as those girls every single time we drove our little rented car through Marigot. People came out of their houses. Honestly.* Bus door open, dog in, and off to rent a car.
The car rental place didn't have much to say about Jack coming with us. Not that there was an option.
We made it back, tired and tired of the dog and ready to get into the river again, which is exactly what we did.
In this hammock now, waiting fairly impatiently for dinner at 7. I am hungry. And I want a beer. And then I want to sleep, because I am jealous of this unmoving dog.
Holy crap, what a day. We woke up about an hour and a half before breakfast, so we did some exploring. Down the road led us to friendly locals, teeming fruit trees and a river, with a few spots to get in. Completely amazing. There were pools in the river; deep, blue part to get all the way in and try to fight the current. Breadfruit, passion fruit, guavas, avocados, starfruit, grapefruit, mangoes, bananas, wild ginger...
And there is a path to the river from Hibiscus Valley and the air is saturated with ginger. Such agriculture.
The locals and friendly and funny. It seems that they don't know how to react to you until you react to them They mostly kind of stare at you until you smile and wave and say hello. Then, the faces soften and smiled are returned. They are curious about us. Truth be told, we haven't seen any other white people since we left the airport.
The men call us beautiful, which is not true. We are sweaty and messy. Red-faced and without make-up, and I'm sure that we look concerned and lost at least most of the time.
We so want to pick fruit off the trees, but we definitely don't know what belongs to whom. No interest in stealing. We did manage to scavenge a little from fruits that had fallen off of the trees. Erin's first passion fruit (which was a little mushy and probably a little rotten, but we ate it, anyway.) and Erin's first guava (not mushy or rotten, but perfect and sweet and delicious). And a wild grapefruit, identifiable not by color at all, but by taste. Which is good, since we decided to eat it before we knew what it was.
We came back fro breakfast. Dominican coffee, local lemongrass tea, fresh bread with guava jam or ginger grapefruit chutney, fresh oranges, scrambled eggs and starfruit juice with lime. Perfect.
We asked how long it would take to walk to Marigot, the closest town. The word "town" is fairly generous here, but we'll go with it. The front desk woman told us that it would be about an hour's walk, and there would be shops and restaurants and a nice beach. One of the property dogs, Jack, decided to accompany us.
Two uphill, dehydrating, dog-tiring hours later, we finally land in Marigot. The walk was pretty rough, actually. There is a lot of construction here, so we kept having to scoot to the sides of very narrow roads to avoid being hit by bug work trucks, nearly all of which slowed to a near halt to say hello and ask how we were liking Dominica. the damned dog turned into a bit of a chore. Too late, we realized that he would not be turning back after we passed his imaginary "gone too far" line. We were a little worried about him the whole time, not sure that he would make it all the way and equally unsure that he would be able to get back on his own.
*That dog is laying under me right now. Passed out under this hammock and showing no signs of wanting to be anything other than completely asleep.*
When we finally got to Marigot, we were starving and tired. So, starving and tired, we asked someone if there was somewhere to eat. He pointed to "J's Spot," a place that serves plantains, stuffed Johnny cakes, saltfish and the like, and also looks to be a hangout for a group of men talking, to whatever degree, about the presence of white people at their restaurant. It was the kind of place with a few plastic tables outside, a dirt floor and a roof that slanted a bit and was made of corrugated steel and seemed as surprised to be there as we were to see it.
The people got less friendly the deeper into town we got (isn't that often the case?), and we were cashed, so we asked the girl working how we get from Marigot to where the airport is, which is where we were going to rent a car.
The face she made when we told her where we had walked from was hysterical and makes me wonder when the last time anyone from Hibiscus Valley walked that "hour" into town might be.
A man overheard us talking and offered to drive us to the airport. The man's car, it turned out, was a bus. A big one that was likely about fifty years old. We thought that the dog would be fine and could find his own way home. We thought this because this is what we were told by the staff at Hibiscus. So, we hopped in. Jack had a different idea and, with locals yelling at us that he wanted to come and with him pawing at the bus wheels, I don't think we had a choice. It was quite a scene, really. As little as probably happens in this town, I suspect the story of five men screaming at two white girls who were trying to escape their canine companion by hopping alone into a stranger's strange, giant bus made the rounds and entertained (or confused) them for at least the next day. *As a side note, this was true. We were definitely recognized as those girls every single time we drove our little rented car through Marigot. People came out of their houses. Honestly.* Bus door open, dog in, and off to rent a car.
The car rental place didn't have much to say about Jack coming with us. Not that there was an option.
We made it back, tired and tired of the dog and ready to get into the river again, which is exactly what we did.
In this hammock now, waiting fairly impatiently for dinner at 7. I am hungry. And I want a beer. And then I want to sleep, because I am jealous of this unmoving dog.
Day One
This is going to move backwards in blogworld terms. I'm not sure how else to do it.
First morning in Dominica. The trip in yesterday was interesting. Liat, a Caribbean airline, is comically inefficient. Like everything else in the Caribbean, I suppose. We left St. Thomas at 1:25pm and, after three short, uncrowded flights, landed in Melville Hall Airport.
The airplanes are funny in airlines like this. It's sort of like getting into your friend's older brother's beater car in high school. You know it passed inspection and emissions, but it makes strange noises and there are rusty bits and you are not totally sure that it's going to make it all the way.
The airport is about what you would expect. Tiny, a little grungy and bursting with people who would really love to take your bags and No, ma'am, there's no charge, but I do require a tip. But they're friendly, it seems, and we haven't felt at all threatened.
The Hibiscus Valley Inn cooked dinner for us last night. Mahi, West Indian sweet potatoes, plantains and chutney for dessert. We haven't found out if we are going to be charged for that yet, but breakfast will be served the same way tomorrow and I guess we'll find out when we leave.
We arrived in the dark last night, and had no idea the kind of tropical greenhouse we would wake up to. Maybe this is how Dorothy felt when she opened her door to Oz, black and white world behind her. We opened our door to a guard dog names Scottie and a jungle of green and purple and red.
First morning in Dominica. The trip in yesterday was interesting. Liat, a Caribbean airline, is comically inefficient. Like everything else in the Caribbean, I suppose. We left St. Thomas at 1:25pm and, after three short, uncrowded flights, landed in Melville Hall Airport.
The airplanes are funny in airlines like this. It's sort of like getting into your friend's older brother's beater car in high school. You know it passed inspection and emissions, but it makes strange noises and there are rusty bits and you are not totally sure that it's going to make it all the way.
The airport is about what you would expect. Tiny, a little grungy and bursting with people who would really love to take your bags and No, ma'am, there's no charge, but I do require a tip. But they're friendly, it seems, and we haven't felt at all threatened.
The Hibiscus Valley Inn cooked dinner for us last night. Mahi, West Indian sweet potatoes, plantains and chutney for dessert. We haven't found out if we are going to be charged for that yet, but breakfast will be served the same way tomorrow and I guess we'll find out when we leave.
We arrived in the dark last night, and had no idea the kind of tropical greenhouse we would wake up to. Maybe this is how Dorothy felt when she opened her door to Oz, black and white world behind her. We opened our door to a guard dog names Scottie and a jungle of green and purple and red.
Oh, Neglected Blog
So, I have to find the rest of my Greece journal. It's somewhere in the million boxes I packed when I moved back to the states. In there somewhere would also be the journal from my Europe trip a couple of years ago, but I was far too busy living that trip to really write about it, anyway. So that doesn't hold much. BUT. I found my Dominica journal today. An acquaintance of mine is traveling right now. A lot. He is writing a blog about it and sending the posts out to friends and family and anyone else who has signed up to receive the latest. I am one of them.
Here's the thing; anyone who has a stamp in his or her passport has had THE conversation. The one where someone tells you that they wish they could travel. Where you tell them they can. You explain that it's mostly a matter of wanting it and a little bit about saving for it and that anyone can go nearly anywhere, really. For me, a lot of these conversations have proven fruitless. The asker continues to wish they could travel and leaves it there. They think it's scary. Or they think it's too expensive. They don't realize that it can be both of things, and that it is worth it. 100%, zero question, zero doubts, zero debate worth it. So this is for them. I'm going to post, word for word, my journal from Dominica. And then I'm going to find my Greece journal and the bits of paper I found to write on when I bounced around Europe with my five crazy friends and I'm going to post all of it. In hopes that one of my beloved wishers will read it and stop wishing. Which is why I started this thing in the first place.
Here's the thing; anyone who has a stamp in his or her passport has had THE conversation. The one where someone tells you that they wish they could travel. Where you tell them they can. You explain that it's mostly a matter of wanting it and a little bit about saving for it and that anyone can go nearly anywhere, really. For me, a lot of these conversations have proven fruitless. The asker continues to wish they could travel and leaves it there. They think it's scary. Or they think it's too expensive. They don't realize that it can be both of things, and that it is worth it. 100%, zero question, zero doubts, zero debate worth it. So this is for them. I'm going to post, word for word, my journal from Dominica. And then I'm going to find my Greece journal and the bits of paper I found to write on when I bounced around Europe with my five crazy friends and I'm going to post all of it. In hopes that one of my beloved wishers will read it and stop wishing. Which is why I started this thing in the first place.
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