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Obeah on Sunday Island: Fact or Superstition

Roseau, Dominica (TDN) – Known as the Nature Island, Dominica is indeed a special destination for any visitor, and, as anyone who's ever been there can tell you, very different from any of its neighbors.

With an area of roughly three hundred and five square miles , more than eighty percent of its land mass consists of forested mountains and deep ravines or valleys. Dominica's original Carib name, Waitukubuli, means Land of Many Rivers. (Three hundred and sixty-five of them, it is said; one for every day if the year).

Situated between the French islands of Martinique and Guadeloupe, Dominica still remains largely unspoiled, a truly magical place where you can sit beneath towering Gommier trees and hear the rushing of waterfalls, the croaking of frogs, and the sound of the wind.

Here, you can forget the outside world (at least for a few hours) and revel in the pungent scents of wild lemon grass or the resinous bark of the Bois Bonde tree.

This is tropical Caribbean nature in its full splendor, virtually unchanged since the days of Columbus.

Over the years-and precisely because of the fact that its attractions are so different-Dominica has evolved into something which almost no one could have imagined even two decades ago: a busy stopover for passing cruise ships.

This, in turn,has been a bonanza for many local tour operators and taxi drivers. But, on the downside, it has also impacted the isolation which made Dominica so special in former years.

I know this because I was there.

My first visit to the island was back in 1967, while on a photographic assignment for a British magazine to cover the world's last and only Carib Indian reservation. Dominica was very different then: virtually uninhabited in most of the interior, with few roads, no national parks, and only a scant number of tourists.

Bananas were the island's most important crop, followed by grapefruit and lime. Heavy rains and landslides were common occurrences.

To explore Dominica in the way it deserved to be, I soon discovered, required a sturdy four wheel drive vehicle and, above all, a sense of adventure and willingness to take certain risks.

But the rewards were more than anyone could have hoped for. Quite literally, I was smitten by the island's beauty, its amazing history, and the warmth of its people.

I'd finally found my special paradise, I realized; it was a place to which I was determined to return.

And I did, less than a year later. Not as a tourist, but as a 27 year old entrepreneur hoping to start something very different: a four wheel drive tour operation which could take Dominica's more adventurous visitors to places where conventional taxis couldn't go.

My previous visit had convinced me that the idea would work. The company, eventually named Dominica Safaris, was the first of its kind on the island. (Today, there are dozens).

Surprisingly, the majority of our very first customers turned out to be passing charter yachts. But only rarely would they anchor off Roseau because of the heavy swells ; instead, most continued to Portsmouth, a small town about 16 miles further north, where the waters were calmer.

Thanks to a suggestion from one of their skippers, we decided to install a two-way marine radio in our office. From that day on, we never looked back. Reservations kept pouring in through the crackling static.

Within six months, Dominica Safaris had increased its driving staff to four, had hired its own cook to prepare on-board lunches and rum punch, and was listed as a must-do adventure in dozens of yachting magazines.

We soon fell into a routine. Our Safari drivers would leave Roseau before dawn, negotiate 52 miles of narrow, winding roads to Portsmouth (the present road along the leeward coast didn't exist in those years) , arriving in adequate time to pick up the yacht's charter guests around 9 AM.

The drivers would then retrace their route, stopping at numerous attractions like the Carib Reserve and the Emerald Pool (where guests were served a gourmet picnic lunch on a white linen tablecloth).

Meanwhile, the yacht's crew would enjoy a leisurely sail to Roseau, do some shopping at Whitchurch's supermarket to restock supplies, and wait for their guests to rejoin them.

From there, most would proceed overnight to Martinique, their next port of call, or to English Harbour in Antigua.

I soon learned that the yacht skippers offered their guests another must-do recommendation whenever they overnighted at Portsmouth's Prince Rupert bay: a rustic beach bar famous for its barbecued steaks and locally-caught fish, as well as its selection of rums.

In fact, the Coconut Oasis, as it was called, had also received rave revues in the same yachting magazines which had featured our tours.

Its owner, whom I first met during a New Year's lunch on the beach, was a local Dominican man in his mid thirties named Byron. (Not his real name, but let's leave it at that).

Byron never seemed to stop moving or barking out orders to his staff, most of whom seemed genuinely cowed by his presence.

When he wasn't admonishing his employees in his deep, throaty voice, he would hop between the guests' tables, dressed in his bright red Calypso shirt and shell necklace, and charm them with somewhat risqué local anecdotes which invariably brought raucous bursts of laughter.

At times, he would even sing to his customers while he danced barefoot in the sand around the log fire. With his flashing smile and never-ending talk-talk-talk, it was easy to understand his popularity with tourists.

It didn't take long for me to figure out what had made him such an obvious success: Byron knew exactly where these rich white people were coming from, and how they perceived Caribbean black people to be: gregarious, funny, entertaining, and friendly, just like they imagined Harry Belafonte to be. Byron, it was obvious, had long ago learned how to play his expected role to the hilt. (What he really thought about his pampered customers, though, was anyone's guess).

I got to know Byron better over the following weeks. Although from completely different backgrounds and cultures, we had one thing in common: we were both entrepreneurs.

Often, when I was doubling for one of our drivers, Byron, in town for his errands, would spot me waiting at the pier and walk over for a friendly chat.

One morning, he asked me if we could talk business for a few minutes. "Sure", I said. "Anyway, my passengers aren't here yet. Climb in and have a seat."

Byron proceeded to reveal that all wasn't as as good at Coconut Oasis as things might have appeared. He needed some help.

His landlord, the man who actually owned the beach property where the restaurant was situated, had never been willing to give him a formal written lease.

Everything was verbal, he explained; Byron had become increasingly worried that the landlord might decide to pull the rug from under him and sell the existing business to someone else at a profit.

But, he added, he might be willing to formally lease it to me, a foreigner, if I told the landlord that I wanted to enter into a partnership in the restaurant. "He'll trust you. You're a white man", Byron assured me.

"That's how people think in Dominica. They don't feel secure doing business with each other"

There could be other advantages as well, he continued. Especially for getting food supplies for the restaurant.

He'd tried bringing them up from Roseau on buses or other peoples' trucks, but this had turned out to be unreliable and very costly. On the other hand, our Jeeps came directly from Roseau almost every morning, and, since they were empty on that leg, it would be easy to bring items for the restaurant, especially perishable ones.

After all, he reminded me, we now shared the same customers. As for profits, he was willing to split them right down the middle if I were willing to help him.

Just then, I spotted the dingy carrying our guests approaching the pier. "Give me a few days to think about it," I told Byron. "I'll get back to you."

The following week, I decided to pay a visit to Byron's landlord, a stooped, grey-haired man named Friendly Wallace. Wallace, I'd been told by the locals, was a solitary and eccentric man who sometimes , when the spirit possessed him, could be found preaching fire and brimstone to passers -by in the streets.

When I first met him, I had to admit to feeling a little intimidated because I couldn't really see whom I was speaking to.

He wore a white surgical mask over his nose and mouth, with a flap which extended down over his throat. His voice seemed to emanate from an echo chamber, as if from another world. (I would later learn that he had contracted leprosy in his youth , which had left him severely disfigured).

"What can I do for you , sir?" Wallace asked after I'd introduced myself. He gestured for me to take a seat. As I did so, I was startled by a harsh shriek from behind me.

Turning in my chair, I realized that we had company: a large green parrot, head cocked to one side, staring at me from its cage in a corner of the porch.

Wallace chuckled behind his mask. "Don't worry about old Maggie . She'll quiet down in a while. We don't get a lot of visitors up here."

The parrot had broken the ice, and Friendly Wallace and I were soon engaged in conversation. But I was still a little unsure of how to approach him about the real reason for my visit.

Instead, I began asking him general questions about life in the countryside.
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