Being here, amongst the surging vitality of the everyday, the fluid embrace of growth, stretches me. I am elasticated. The roadside cane cut down to stump last week, is already a foot tall. The lips of the concrete culvert have disappeared. The occasional tethered cow looks up from it’s ceaseless munching as if to say, I’m doing what I can. Perhaps I recognise myself in those eyes, as a little part of this fecund land, knee deep in the nourishing abundance.
The Weatherman, Hi I’m Brian Shields, thank you for joining me, I’ve got you covered, gets a visit once a week. The staples of English forecasting, rain and temperature, are augmented by wind, hurricane, Saharan dust and earthquake updates. I become better at locating Dominica on his satellite images of the greater Carribbean. His wrap up summary passes through all the islands and countries with Carribbean coasts and after a while I see a pattern, a thirty per cent chance of spotty rain is our typical day. Stretched over the topography of this up and down island, that might mean a hundred per cent chance of heavy rain in the mountainous middle, and blue skies on the west coast, or it might not. No one really knows.
A Dominican day begins at 4. Evening is anytime after three, Good Evening! still catches me out. Night is from dark. These might be the only certain parts of tomorrow. Will it be dry, which elements of the sourcing, delivering, visiting schedule will be foiled, derailed or fulfilled? A typical day involves heading off in an unexpected direction. All is adventure.
The walk to Middleham Falls starts at the visitor centre, a nearly finished series of buildings, nearly staffed, and nearly welcoming, at the end of a very unfinished track. It is surrounded by a one day fabulous eco-resort, designed by hobbits and built by a Cuban workforce with concrete and AstroTurf. It’s a Butlins for wealthy troglodytes.
The walk through the forest is fantastic, a well kept trail, no massive fallen trees barring passage, only ankle deep bogs to navigate, and ends with a sharp, switchbacking descent towards the nearing roar. The forest is silent, only occasionally broken by the call of the mountain whistler, and gasps from me as a I come across a giant tree with its ten foot buttress roots snaking down and across the forest floor. A wooden platform provides a great view of the powerful falls and pool, and the narrow route down from there, over boulders to the orbit of mist and spray is occupied by a sunglassed influencer, wiggling her thumbs and joysticks, as her drone hovers nearby. She lands the thing, and proceeds to take every selfie angle possible. Her audience is finer than the spray. As she passes me on the way up, her face is a blank mask. I climb down to the edge to feel the energy of the water. Tash climbs in.
It’s the weekend, so we tear ourselves away and explore. After a tour of the north coast, we visit Mero beach, with it’s palm shelters, recliners, bouyon, families and wave washed shoreline. A hub of vibes and peace at the same time. On another day, a resort on the Atlantic coast, with an unswimmable beach where turtles hatch their eggs, provides lunch that is welcome, but the luxury cabins seem empty, the pool hardly used, and the atmosphere dead, like the sound of a drum with a split skin.
Meanwhile, spoils of gravel, sand and tarish ebb and flow according to a constructive rhythm, and forms, brandished on paper or with words, begin to emerge from the red earthed mudfest. Things are going well. I notice that my interventions, have you thought about this, we’ll need to plan for that, are invariably met by Eddo saying Yes Nick, I was meditating on that. I resolve to say less. The team laugh. The threads of my life are being dyed with bright vibrant colours and their deep hues, and woven into other threads, into what, a prayer mat, a place mat? Maybe time will tell. It’s glorious, even when the shuttle hits a dead stop and threads snag and catch.
We move from our simple cliff side idyll, the sometimes rain battered, wind buffeted, end of the road sanctuary, with it’s cacophony of night sounds, to high end Dominica, two miles upso. The comforts on offer tickle something, but irritate something else. After a while, I realise that even with it’s tin roof and indoor kitchen, Parrot’s Nest is all outdoor. Now I look down onto a beautiful lawn and well kept garden, and feel the distance.
Sparks fly between Irvine and me. Where to put lights, switches and sockets, challenges us both, but somewhat unproductively our wires cross. We are, for a while, an unbalanced circuit, waiting to settle into a constructive pattern, and our resistance and capacities provide entertainment for the rest of the crew. The flashes of lightning illuminate us both.
I am added to.