Articles > Dominica

Dominica is the most beautiful and unspoilt of all the West Indian islands. When passengers look down from their in-coming plane, they see a landscape that is now very rare in the Caribbean: dramatic green mountains, almost entirely unscarred by roads.

Although the island is still undeveloped and has no resorts, it is great favourite with a certain type of tourist, precisely because it isn't like nearby Martinique, with its skyscrapers and six-lane highways. Dominica is still a wild place, beloved by walkers, botanists, dendrologists, and every type of enthusiastic nature lover. The island's roads seem to be little more than timorous incursions into the lushest and most exuberant vegetation to be found in the Caribbean. Walkers could spend weeks in secluded valleys without once retracing their steps. After climbing above the banana groves, they can follow nature trails through rampant greenery - enormous leaves like elephant ears, forty-foot high clumps of bamboo, and gnarled fruit-trees dripping with orchids. In every valley, rivers pour through boulder-filled pools, sometimes tumbling over cliffs and becoming spectacular waterfalls. When you continue to climb, the tree trunks become larger and larger, until you are among huge, majestic trees, part of the world's only remaining island rainforest.

If lucky, you will hear a squawk from above, for Dominica still has two precarious populations of parrot, one of which is unique to the island; even boa constrictors still survive among the dense greenery (offering no threat - indeed there are no poisonous snakes here), and iguanas of a most luminous green can be spotted scuttling across the road.

Even someone as well travelled as the Victorian adventurer, William Palgrave, was ecstatic about the island's beauty:

"In the wild grandeur of its towering mountains, some of which rise to 5000 feet above the level of the sea; in the majesty of its almost impenetrable forests; in the gorgeousness of its vegetation, the abruptness of its precipices, the calm of its lakes, the violence of its torrents, the sublimity of its waterfalls, it stands without rival, not in the West Indies only, but I should think throughout the whole island catalogue of the Atlantic and Pacific combined".

Why has this ravishing island remained so unspoilt? There are several reasons. First, there are no good beaches: most are of black sand, many are unsafe and several are dangerous. Although some people come to the island for its excellent scuba diving, no one comes here for the swimming. Another reason for the lack of tourists is the rain. The wonderful lush green vegetation isn't the result of hosepipes; at some times of year it rains day after day, and parts of the island are among the rainiest places in the world.

Dominica's precipitous mountains have also helped defend it against the ravages of the twentieth century: as recently as the 1950s the island was almost devoid of roads, logging has rarely proved economical, and the steep hillsides are unsuitable for the types of large-scale farming which so often creates an ugly and monotonous landscape.

The island's infrastructure is still so limited that there aren't even enough suitable hotels for the forest-loving 'Eco-tourists' who come to enjoy the nature trails. When the visitor gradually learns about the island, the reason becomes apparent: Dominica has a long history of defeating any type of enterprise, especially by expatriates. In the Eighteenth Century, soon after its colonisation by Britain, there were as many as 1,500 foreign settlers. By the end of the Nineteenth Century the numbers had dropped to 35. Crop after crop failed as a result of pests or disease, and if by any chance the crops flourished, the plantation owners were still sure to be ruined by a collapsing market. Such staples as cocoa, coffee, and sugar all failed. Later, Dominica became the world's largest producer of limes - producing most of the fruit for Rose's Lime Juice - but even these orchards succumbed to disease.

At the beginning of this century a new effort was made to attract settlers, and they were lured with offers of lush Crown land. A handbook, published by Adam and Charles Black in 1906, announced that "The soil and climate are of such a nature that almost any tropical product can be grown". And it added further encouragement:

"The island has been fortunate in the class of white men who have made their home in it. They are men of education, and gentlemen who in most cases have trained in the old country, at one or other of our public schools. Some are university men who have taken to agriculture instead of classics, and are thoroughly enthusiastic in their efforts to grow oranges, limes, cocoa or sugar. In fact all seem to feel so certain of great success from their labours, and in the future of Dominica, that one almost fears the presence of optimism".

The writer's fears were correct. Although at first the number of settlers reached 600, the usual problems defeated them, and of the current population of 83,000 less than a hundred whites are permanently resident on the island, of whom fewer than a dozen were born here, most of these coming from just one family.

The modern era has also been one of disaster. In 1979 a hurricane hit the island; two-thirds of the houses were smashed to smithereens, forty people died, and five thousand were injured. And now a devastating financial hurricane is on the horizon. Bananas, which are very suitable for growing on the tiny mountainous farms, have been the only significant export from Dominica, and are the only important crop to raise cash. However, they still can't compete with the enormous agri-businesses of central and southern America, which can produce them cheaper. The market has survived only because Britain, the former colonial power, has given Dominican bananas preferential treatment. It now seems almost certain that the European Community will ban any such protection, which will make this agricultural nation destitute. In The Orchid House, Phyllis Allfrey's novel about Dominica, a character laments: "Beauty and disease, beauty and sickness, beauty and horror: that was this island".

Not surprisingly, Dominica has attracted a strange type of expatriate, often romantics, crooks, misfits, or eccentrics. It is not altogether a surprise to learn that Lord Bristol has been an investor. And just as disease always seems to infect the crops, an intangible blight seems to affect many expatriates, gradually overwhelming them like a creeping virus, turning many into manic-depressives or drunks.

And as if the existing stock of whites weren't weird enough, Dominican governments - always desperate for cash - have often tried to attract the strangest collection of freebooters and carpetbaggers. Numerous stories are told of complicated deals with panicking South Africans or representatives of the Ku Klux Klan. Negotiations have taken place (and fortunately collapsed) to lease a substantial proportion of the island to mysterious groups of businessmen. The latest wheeze is to sell Dominican passports at huge prices to rich Taiwanese, some of whom are already investors on the island. Libellous posters can be seen on the walls of the capital, accusing the Prime Minister (the redoubtable Dame Eugenia Charles, who backed President Reagan's Grenada invasion) of every type of malpractice.

When I went to the capital, Roseau, to hire a care, I found a homely, ramshackle, Caribbean town, which still hasn't entirely shrugged off the countryside; old ladies lean over wicket-gates and - defying the noise of ghetto-blasters - still manage to chat to their neighbours; chickens and the occasional goat searches for food between pink and blue shacks on the side-streets. I bought the island's weekly newspaper, the News Chronicle, and found that its agony column 'Dear Aunt Kate' reflects the parochial atmosphere. The main letter complained "The other day I went into my favourite snackette in Cork Street, which is a little oasis for me in mid morning, away from the bustle of the office. But when I arrived I found that a cassette player was on, the cashier obviously enjoying it and jigging in front of the cash register". Aunt Kate pronounced herself stumped by this problem, and commented, "I never tried earplugs myself, but it could be that we will soon have to consider them seriously". On sexual matters Aunt Kate follows a strict line that has long disappeared from our tabloids, and she resolutely forbids all pre-marital sex.

Having hired my car, my destination was a village festival in the east. Although the island is tiny - only twenty-nine by thirteen miles - it took me more than an hour to drive to the village along the spectacular, twisting, mountainous roads. The small lane approaching the festival was jammed with cars, so I had to park nearly a mile away. After leaving the car, I passed in front of a party of dreadlocked Rastafarians chatting around their motorbikes. "Viens", one of them shouted at me. I was mildly nervous, even though I'd now learnt that most Dominicans were exceptionally easy-going and friendly. In fact the Rastifarians only wanted to ask, "Where are you from? Where are you going?" and to add, "Be sure to have a good time!" I in turn asked them whether "Viens" was just an expression, or whether they spoke Creole (a language mostly derived from the Eighteenth Century French settlers, with an African syntax and a few words of the original Carib and Arawak languages).

The Rastas told me that they are bilingual; they tend to speak Creole to each other, and they added that any joke is sure to lose it'sf lavour if told in English; however when chatting up an unknown girl, they always talk to her in English. They said that many of the older, rural inhabitants can speak only Creole. This could explain why elderly church-going matrons may be seen wearing T-shirts with the English message, "Bring a condom on your holiday". (Caribbean businesses also make vigorous use of T-shirts for promotion. Mourners at Dominican funerals are likely to be given free T-shirts displaying the motto, "If I die, don't cry, just call the North Eastern Funeral Association".)

I later saw groups of Rastafarians in every corner of the island. They aren't perceived as a threat, and indeed many of their habits are hardly different from those of their neighbours. Most of the Rastas are vegetarians, and a few grow hashish in jungle clearings. There is, however, one precept to which all of them rigidly adhere: they will on no account tolerate white bread, and will never eat anything but loaves made from wholemeal.

When I arrived at the festival, a traditional Creole band with an accordion was playing for a group of dancers on a makeshift stage; some of the shifting crowd, most of whom were amiably drunk, occasionally joined the dancing. After dark, a discotheque opened up in the schoolroom, and this was immediately jam-packed. Caribbean discotheques don't play any 'Viva Espana!' nonsense; instead the deliberately monotonous and stunningly loud music sends such an overwhelming, hypnotic rhythm through your body that even the most prune-faced dowager would get off her chair and dance. No one in the village disco ever remained still, and it was quite in order for either men or women to jig about by themselves. As usual in the Caribbean, some of the couples were dancing in a fashion which would make Aunt Kate's hair stand on end; they cling to each other (preferably against a wall), and while remaining almost motionless, sensually rotate only their hips.


In my collection of cuttings about Dominica every writer had mentioned the Carib Territory, the home of the only descendants of the original Caribbean inhabitants. During the century following the arrival of Columbus in 1492, almost the entire indigenous population of the islands was exterminated by war or disease. In Dominica, though, a very few survived - probably because its mountainous terrain made it easier for these warlike people to fight and hide. In 1748 the British signed a treaty by which Dominica was to be the only island in the Lesser Antilles reserved for the Caribs, with no foreign settlers allowed. But the French repeatedly broke the treaty, and after further periods of warfare, the island was broken up into lots for auctioning, and only 230 acres were left for the Caribs.

Because I did not believe that the Caribs could genuinely have survived as a race apart, I presumed that the Carib Territory was hardly more than a gimmick to attract tourists. As long ago as 1790 it was reported that only thirty families still existed. At the end of the Nineteenth Century the entire alleged Carib population numbered no more than 500, of whom only a hundred were considered to be of pure blood; furthermore the future of the race was in doubt because many of these were marrying Negroes. In 1990 a reporter for the National Geographic discussed the Caribs with the President of Dominica, who told him that "The Caribs are absolutely integrated into Dominican society. At this point I truly feel it is better for them".

However, when I first drove along the island's north-east coast I was astonished. One moment I was driving along a road where everyone was black, and then after an invisible barrier - there is no change of vegetation, no fence, no signboard - many of the people look completely different. Although some were clearly of mixed race, many showed not the slightest sign of African descent. They had straight hair, pale skins and looked as if they could have come from some remote Indonesian island; often noticeable, too, was a Mongolian or Red Indian cast to their faces.

I stopped to buy fruit at a stall kept by a woman who was clearly black.

I asked, "As you are living in the Carib territory, does that mean you are a Carib?

She laughed, "No, of course I'm not. Can't you tell that from my hair?"

"Then why do you live here?" "Because I'm married to a Carib".

Further along the road, I stopped to photograph a bright green house built on four short stilts. While selecting the best angle, I heard a soft rustling from beneath the house, and only then saw two men quietly watching me from the shade. They were weaving intricate basketwork, which along with building dug-out canoes (our word 'canoe' comes from the Carib word 'canaoua') is one of the few customs that distinguish them from their neighbours.

After I crawled under the house, they shouted to a nearby hut, and a pale teenage girl with the perfect, regular features of a Polynesian emerged to give me an opened coconut. I longed to photograph her, but had heard that the Caribs, not surprisingly, were sensitive to being treated as creatures in a zoo. The men, however, were delighted to discuss the survival of their tiny community. They explained to me how at the beginning of this century, the British colonial government had extended their territory to 3000 acres; but now the men are worried that the present government isn't protecting their communally owned land from encroachment by 'blacks'. I asked whether they thought that the Carib race would survive. They seemed optimistic. Although their women often left the territory and married outsiders, many of the men stay behind and marry within the community. And although their land is insufficient to produce much cash, in this fertile land there is never any danger of starvation. They said "Life is difficult for us, but we shall survive".

They may be right. When writing about a Caribbean island, it is usual to end with the lament that the current state of paradise cannot possibly survive, and that a massive condominium is about to be constructed on the last untouched bay. Indeed in Dominica the new Taiwanese investors are planning an enormous ritzy hotel in one of the most sublime and secluded valleys. But Dominica, which has defeated French soldiers, British settlers, the Ku Klux Klan, and a German health-farm, will assuredly manage to subjugate a Taiwanese hotel; and I'm certain that for many years ahead only a few enthusiastic walkers will be slipping and sliding along the nature trails on this beautiful but melancholy island.

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