In Chris Doyle’s Cruising Guide to the Leeward Islands he speculates, “If Columbus came back today, Dominica is the only island he would recognize.” I can’t speak for the old explorer but on our recent, visit. that’s how we found it…unchanged, undeveloped, unspoiled. It was literally the same as the first time we visited some thirty years ago.

With great effort, some major steps forward have been taken for the island: cruise ship piers in Roseau and Portsmouth; new and greatly improved roads; a hand full of small bungalows and hotels catering to eco tourism. Mother nature, though, is in charge of the island’s fate and corrects those efforts by hammering the place with a hurricane now and then or, as happened last fall, shaking it up with a whopper earthquake that leveled numerous structures including Portsmouth’s ancient stone catholic church.




Dominica is in a time warp that feels, in this economic turmoil, downright refreshing. It has it’s share of poverty. Many live in mere shacks without proper sanitation, yet no one lacks food or water. Farm and jungle fresh food costs little to nothing and the islands many rivers feed community stand pipes in towns and villages.

On a trip to the weekly market I filled two canvas bags with papayas, each $1 EC each ($.37 US,) a hand of bananas, ($1EC,) 2 pounds of huge tomatoes ($5 EC,) and on it went with plantain, mangoes, passion fruits, peppers, lettuce, onions, sweet potatoes and yams until $30 EC (11.10 US) was spent and I could carry no more.




The little bakery, a closet sized space, sold their products at such a low price , I couldn’t figure out how they stay in business. Inside the grocery stores, a loose term in Dominica, it was the same. Simple foods at minimal prices for people with down-to-earth needs.




It was so very third world yet, oddly, almost every house had a cable TV, blaring the West Indies cricket match that was in full swing. And, I swear, everyone had a cell phone and was on it, talking, texting and checking for messages. Those who had cars had nice ones and the school busses were top notch, leading me to wonder…what would Columbus think of that??

Many years ago a bus transport on the island of Dominica consisted of an industrial sized Bedford truck fitted out with wooden bench seats and a canopy. Access on and off was easy especially for those carrying gunny sacks of produce or livestock. But the ride was a literal pain-in-the-ass as the “bus” sped over roads riddled with potholes.













Bruce and Joyce in Portsmouth

As the Bedfords were thinning out, Bruce painted a mural at Leonardo’s Restaurant in the town of Portsmouth. The proprietor, a friendly woman named Joyce, asked him to make a painting of the countryside and a bus. She, unbeknownst to Bruce, was referring to the modern vehicle which hit the island in the mid-70’s, Toyota vans with seats and windows galore.

Murals take days and on the final one Joyce came to inspect her new art acquisition but was outraged at what she saw. “Dat not a bus! Dat a truck!” Bruce explained that he’d painted the Bedford rig because they would soon be history but Joyce was unconvinced.

After a dozen years and a monster sized hurricane we returned to find Leonardo’s out of business. Our knock on the door was answered by a woman. Bruce asked, “Joyce?”

“Yez, me Joyce.”

“I’m Bruce.”

“Boose? Boose? I tot you was dead!” she exclaimed as she nearly knocked him down with a hug.
Inside the restaurant-turned-house was the mural; the Bedford bus climbing the mountainous road surrounded by lush vegetation. “You wuz right,” Joyce said. “De buses, dey is all gone. I bring de children in ere and tell dem dat dis is ow we use to do it.”

Our visit ended that day on the porch just as a tow-truck rolled past hauling a Bedford truck-bus down the road. That was the last one we ever saw.




Last month we sailed again to Dominica and went immediately to find Joyce. The mural, still on her wall, held the history she still shares with each passing child. Although she misses those old vehicles she loves the fancy new bus owned and operated by her husband, Leonardo. She insisted we take a ride with him on his daily rounds as the postman.



He picked us up, the passenger seat heaped with marked bags, and we left Portsmouth on winding roads that climbed up and down mountains. Groves of bananas and coconuts flashed past the windows interrupted by giant breadfruit and heavily laden mango trees. Dominica is HUGE, collecting rivers of water that produce size XL plants.



On the northeast coast the ground seas lashed the black sand beaches. Tiny one-donkey-villages blew by, their occupants waving hello and goodbye. Periodically we’d collect or deposited a paying passenger all amidst the earsplitting sound of the Caribbean’s latest speaker busting music hits. Every once in a while Leonardo would turn his head to us announcing the name of a village. It seemed we might roll forever but a road washout stopped us short, ended the magical adventure.

Back in Portsmouth Leonardo dropped us at Joyce’s store and she greeted, “How it was? Good? You like de bus?”

“Yes, Joyce, it was good. Dat a nice bus!.”

Sailing back to Nevis after a fifteen year absence, we wondered what changes we'd see and it didn't take long to find the answer. The first was the new mooring field in the anchorage that, as we entered at midnight, appeared on our radar screen as a gigantic mine field. The next change rose with the sun as we surveyed the beach before us that held nothing but a bunch of naked trees. Pinney's Beach, famous for it's black sand and swaying palms had been hit by Yellow Leaf Disease which is moving up the mountain, taking every palm in it's path. A bit further down the beach sat the third change, the now defunct Four Season's Resort that was flooded in October by Hurricane Omar.



The rest of the island was, luckily, untouched by time. In the capital of Charlestown, the one and sometimes two lane road meanders crookedly past old pointed-stone buildings.



Scattered about are two story skirt and blouse-style structures and, of course, a handfull of tiny West Indian bars and snackettes. A bus trip up and around the mountain was a time travel to the sleeping village of Gingerland. Nearby a hike up a hillside took us past old sugar plantations and windmills.



Just like the sign, Nevis nice mon, until we stumbled upon the problem...

Clinging to the Four Seasons property is Sunshines, a sprawling rasta colored shack decorated inside with photos of the proprietor mugging with the rich and famous. He sells food, drinks and "Sunny" things like t-shirts. On one of the shirts, to our surprise, was a Bruce Smith image created a decade ago for a rum label. The rum brand never happened but Sunshine, friend of the rich and famous, stole the image and has been printing and selling shirts for ten years without permission, without payment, without even a simple thank you. When Bruce went to chat with Sunshine about the copyright violation, he was met with denial, lies and the threat of bodily harm. Not very sunny, Sunshine.

So Regis and Kelly, next time you're on island, I'd take a pass on the not-so-sunny place and head next door to Chevy's.

Times are tough all over so if you were thinking of avoiding the madness by escaping to a Caribbean island…think again.

The economic downturn has rippled it’s way through the Caribbean Sea, sending waves of whoa onto each and every island.


Oh, sure, private planes and mega yachts still deliver the uber-rich like our neighbor in the anchorage, the world’s largest sailing vessel, Maltese Falcon. The grandest hotels, although not full, seem to be staying busy. Cruise ships continue their rounds bringing fewer guests yet enough to swell the islands they frequent. Tourism is alive but droopy. People are spending money but doing so with care.

As everywhere, it’s the little guy who’s been hit the hardest, the small business owners who are clinging to hope or were forced to shut down. We see a lot of price slashing signs around. In Phillipsburg, St. Marten, the long string of jewelry stores are having bling wars, each one trying to grab more customers by increasing their discounts. 25% off, 40% off, 50% discounts on down (or up) to 80% off. Now if those reductions are legitimate, that’d be a heck of a price cut on a $10,000 bracelet or ring!

In November I wrote about Mario, the Hot Dog Man, a hardworking street vendor selling $2 hot dogs and $1 beers, something surely anyone could afford. We found him recently in his usual spot in St. Marten but without the cart. “Hey, Hot Dog Man, where’s the dogs?” I asked.




“I wasn’t makin any money!” he said. “Da people walk by an dey jus ain buyin.“ Disappointed but undaunted, he re-tooled his business by ditching the cart and setting up a table in the same spot to display and sell the palm frond bowls and birds he creates right there. Still smiling I watched him greet passing tourists, answering their many questions, still St. Marten’s friendliest ambassador.

Perhaps the secret to success is diversification, like the highly painted place in Gingerland on the island of Nevis. Clarke’s One Stop Restaurant and Sports Bar seems to have it all…bread, pastries, groceries, pool room, Mac and Cheese and plenty of customers.

















If for some reason you don’t find what you need there, there’s always the John E. Howell Pansy Parris Plaza where you can shop for fashion, ointments, household utensils, supplies and stationary while you “top up” your phone. Now that is truly a “Super Selection.”







Some West Indian enterprises seem to be holding their own despite a simple stock. The Ice House in Jost Van Dyke backs up their main event with some local jams and jellies but it’s the cold stuff that keeps them going.




Dany’s Hair Fashion is doing well but, really, that’s a business with job security. And, of course, all the little rum shops that dot each island like freckles are as busy as ever because finally, people have a reason to drink.

They’re everywhere in the Caribbean, these free ranging fowl and livestock. Ramble down any road and you’re sure to see some cocky roosters, rounded hens, peeping chicks and an assortment of goats big and small. They roam without permission from neighbor to neighbor, always on the hunt for food.



The chickens are messy but harmless, eating bugs and scraps from the ground and garbage. The goats, though, can do some serious damage, consuming anything green that’s not penned up.

In St. John I watched a gathering of goats clean a ball field of grass before moving on to a flower clad house for dessert. “Who do they belong to?” I asked a friend.

“Well,” she replied, “If you hit one with a car, the owner will step forward and collect the animal’s value. But if one eats your precious tree or wipes out your garden, that goat is a free agent.”

Our seventy-some year old friend in Anguilla, Ralph Carty, reminisces about the old days when people ate island grown food. These days it arrives half ripe by boat or plane. I thought the change came because people gave up gardening. “No," he said. “De goats. It wuz de goats. De people duz let dem loose and dey eat it all. Dey wreck up de place. But back den, we have so much. Dem wuz happy times.”

One quiet Sunday we were chatting to a local fellow and commented, “There aren’t many cars today, are there?”

He jokingly answered, “No. On Sunday we duz lock up de cars and we lets de goats free.”



These pesky goats can be a curse yet somehow they’re revered. Anguilla’s Philatelic Bureau features the four-legged creatures on a beautiful set of stamps with t-shirts and postcards to match. The island of Antigua was recently represented at the world’s largest sculpture garden in Changchun, China by a two-meter high goat named Calypso.

And of course, they’re featured on every menu…curry goat, goat water, goat roti, and stew goat. The chickens are just as popular: baked, fried, curried, barbequed, stewed, roasted, jerked and in roti.


Now if goat or chicken doesn’t entice your taste buds, there’s always bull foot or oxtail. Thankfully, they don’t roam free.

Our big boat takes us island to island, two small ones ferry us to shore. But the moment our feet touch land getting from A to B and Y to Z becomes a Chutes and Ladders game with rules but no reason.

Mostly, for a variety of reasons, we walk. It's often faster, simpler, offers exercise, the most scenic opportunities and sometimes, it's the only option.

Each island has a system, if they have one. Antigua, St. Marten, Nevis, Grenada and a handful of other islands offer the best transportation with plentiful vehicles that cover the entire island for a small fee. If you miss a bus, another is right behind it. These buses are short vans with rows of seats along the sides and fold up ones in the middle. It can be a tight fit when they fill up with four or five people across carrying boxes, bags and the occasional livestock. Chickens certainly make for an interesting ride.


These buses have names like Miss Cherry Bomb, Daddy's Girl, Island Spice or Mr. Lover Man. Paint jobs are often spectacular and can include flames, iridescence and detailed airbrushed art.

Anguilla has a $5 bus for a five mile ride but I've yet to find it. St. John's system is US Government run and therefore, rarely operating. On the rare days it is, one can tour the entire island in air conditioned comfort on a full sized bus for $1. The same is true in St. Thomas but there, locals use the open air surreys or Gypsy's that for $1 stop and start to your needs.


In the Virgin Islands, ferry boats transport people, cars, or both inter-island. They can carry quite a load but rarely do while racing highspeed, using more fuel than sense. My favorite is a roll on/roll off car carrier that runs between St. John and Red Hook in St. Thomas. It operates on an island-regular schedule and actually has amenities.


There's a drink/snack bar, a couple of Mr. Roberts-style potted palms on deck and the vessel is nicely painted in red, white and blue. Best of all is their crew that claims "We is de bes lookin crew in de islands!" I don't know about that but they certainly are the friendliest.

And what other public transportation offers shots of rum?

January 20, 2009, was one of those days not to miss because some day, someone will ask, "Where were you?" With no tv on our boat and only scratchy NPR reception, we set off on a mission to find a screen, some seats and a crowd of strangers. Although it would be watched in every Caribbean nation, we opted for the US Virgin Islands where officials predicted a day of so much limin' that they went with the flow and declared it a Virgin Islands holiday. Government was definitely closed but all the bars were wide open.




The nearest one to our anchorage was the center of the Coral Bay Universe, home of the island's best burger, Skinny Legs Bar and Grill.







Early on the big day we took seats at the bar before four large screens next to strangers who quickly became friends.




The CNN commentary flowed and everyone around us thickened it with insight and opinion. As the Inauguration stands filled with Senators and dignitaries, so did the seats at Skinny's with sailors, tv-less villa guests, campers and a random collection of tourists.

As if we, too, were freezing in the capital, our crowd clapped when appropriate, cheered politely, sang the National Anthem with Aretha and when the Chief Justice said, "Please stand," everyone shot out of their chairs.














We were there but not there. we were with the Obamas, the Bidens, the world, in our Skinny Legs way. We, the shady people on the sunny beaches.

Lobster in the Caribbean is probably one of the most popular dishes despite the lofty price they fetch. The Lobster Grille at the Bolongo Bay Beach Resort in St. Thomas charges $40 (1 ½ lbs.,) $48 (2 lbs.,) $60 (3 lbs.,) $74 (4 lbs.,) and if it’s bigger than that, their menu says, “We’ll talk.”


Bruce met the lobster.

Four pounds seems like a lot of lobster but they get a heck of a lot bigger than that. The largest on record was 3 feet long and weighed a whopping 26 pounds!
Not only do they come in all sizes, they have many different names; spiny lobster, langouste, rock lobster and crayfish. But despite their differences they all have one thing in common…great taste.

Recently, Bruce returned to the boat to tell me that Foxy Callwood of Jost Van Dyke had kindly offered him a bag of fresh fish. Unfortunately, Bruce had to decline because we no longer eat fish in the islands, having almost been killed by one that was ciguatoxic.



Foxy's grandson, Adrienne, isn't sure of the beast.



Foxy understood but he really wanted to share his days catch so he handed Bruce a box containing a good sized lobster and said, “Now don tell me ya don eat dis.”

Bruce’s’ incorrect reply was, “No, Foxy, we don’t.”

When he relayed the story to me back on the boat I looked at him in disbelief and squawked, “A lobster didn’t try to kill us, ya know!”

An hour later, back on shore, we watched as Foxy took a piece of fishing line in one hand, that big lobster in the other and flipped it around like a cowboy roping cattle. In a matter of a minute that lobster was bound and tied like Houdini in a tank of water.


Foxy ropes it up.

I was perplexed so I asked, “Foxy, why’d you tie it up?”

He held it up to show us and replied, “So he don splash all de wata from de pot.”


Ready for the pot.

That tidy lobster went to dinner at a young lady’s house and we had beans and rice.

When we pulled into Jost Van Dyke’s Great Bay on December 28th, we were the fifth transient boat in the anchorage. Two days later we had 107 new neighbors and late on New Year’s Eve there were far too many to count. Everyone was there on a pilgrimage to attend the world famous blow-out held annually at Foxy’s Tamarind Bar.

Several publications count it among the top dozen places in the world to drink the old year out and dance the new one in. Since we haven’t had the opportunity to experience the other selections and we don’t even know where they are, we can’t compare Foxy’s to much. What we can do is share our experience of joining several thousand revelers for a night on the beach under a star studded sky, bringing to an end a year of change, loss and hope.

The only way to Jost Van Dyke is by boat. Besides those in the tightly packed anchorage, there were speedy ones zipping in, ferry boats loaded to capacity, over booked charter vessels, sport fishing contraptions, ear-splitting cigarette boats and a crazy collection of small craft all low on their lines. All day long and into the night it was standing room only at the docks as each boat poured out their load.

Party fever began early in the day as guests hit the beach, checking out the escalating action.

Local entrepreneurs were busy driving nails into makeshift shacks hastily built to dispense barbequed chicken, fried chicken, jerk chicken and an endless flow of beverages. Heinekin beer banners and flags hung from every available surface; Christmas lights spiraled up palms; a mix of reggae, soca, and calypso filled the air.
Corsair’s was putting on a few final touches using a cement mixer and one of several bands was filling a stage with enough equipment that even Tortola would hear the party.

During the day dress was funky casual but that night fashion ran from barely-there bikinis to long flowing prom gowns. Jewels and sequins adorned clothes, masks and headpieces. Glow in the dark tubing snaked around wrists, necks, ankles and through hair. Many took it all in from behind battery powered 2009 glasses including the host of Jost, Foxy Callwood. LED gizmos spun wildly in the air putting on a light show or spelling out words, all first world toys on a third world island.

Foxy’s normally has one bar but on Olde Years Night they open and heavily staff five. A buffet barbeque dinner happens downstairs and a lucky 130 guests take the evening in from the upstairs for the $300 per person, Upper Crust dinner featuring seven courses and a bag of light and noise producing toys.


Music started in the main bar under the flapping closet of autographed t-shirts with boat-balladeer, Eric Stone. He warmed up the crowd so that by the time the DJ took over with ear-splitting, chest thumping island music, everyone was a tangled mass of hips, legs and arms. Out back in the field a brass band played followed by the Zac Harmon Band that had the auspicious duty of counting down the final seconds. Foxy floated onstage to join them, “Ten, nine, eight….one...Happy New Year!!!”



For some revelers that was a sign to head for one of the soon departing ferryboats but for many, that was just the beginning. Corsairs, finished with serving dinner, placed a wall of speakers on the beach where an impromptu limbo began. Every shack and official business in between played random music but somehow, mixed together, it all sounded right, even as the sun was lighting the sky.



By 11:00 am on January 1st, the beach was clean, the anchorage empty and everything was back to Jost Van Dyke normal, if ever there was such a thing.

Yesterday we were motoring out of the crowded anchorage of Soper’s Hole, Tortola. The Christmas winds were at work, shooting arcing blasts past boats, knocking them every which way. Carefully we picked our way through, taking care not to get hit by a skating sloop or a dancing catamaran. The boats were packed tight; some we passed with only feet to spare. Just as we were nearing the last few rows and open water we heard a loud shriek. “Aaaaaaaaa!“ Alarmed, our heads spun around, looking for the source, fearful of what we would find. The old nagging question, “WHAT NEXT?” filled our heads.

When our eyes met eight waving arms and four friendly, excited faces on a nearby boat, we knew what it was…NEIGHBORS! Not the kind we make in the Caribbean for a few days or weeks. These were the real deal from our home, so very far away, the town of Gig Harbor in Washington State. It was the Bujacich family, down for a week of tropical sun and sailing.




We knew they’d been in the area but we hadn't met up because we spent Christmas in the US Virgins and they'd been in the British islands. We were on our first day of a BVI cruise; they were on their last. Our paths crossed for all of a few minutes in an archipelago that holds dozens of islands, each dotted with an abundance of places to drop an anchor. The chance of us randomly finding each other was like locating a snowball in a blizzard or your lost child at the mall.

This SMALL WORLD phenomenon happens to us now and again. Last spring we dropped anchor off Virgin Gorda’s Baths after a sixty hour sail from Antigua. We were deep asleep until we heard a dinghy motoring nearby and a voice saying, “Gig Harbor? Gig Harbor?! That boat is from Gig Harbor!” Then louder, “HEY! GIG HARBOR!”

I jumped up and the minute I looked into the dinghy, the voice and I both screamed, “Aaaaaaaaa!” It was Sylvia, our former next door neighbor. She was down from Gig Harbor with her husband and friends for a week of sun, sailing, rum and lobster. Back home, Sylvia and Bruce had been members of the Bus-Moms-Club that walked our kids to and from the bus-stop. But that day, we were in one Caribbean spot at the same time, for all of a few minutes, but somehow we found each other.

Each SMALL WORLD encounter is astounding but the most amazing one happened years ago in St. Marten when we were anchored off uninhabited Green Key. Bruce and our young son were alone on the beach when a dinghy motored up. One of the three occupants pointed to Woodwind and asked Bruce, “Is that your boat? Where’re you from?” It turned out that she was the sister of our close friend from Gig Harbor. She was visiting St. Marten for one day on a cruise ship. To get to Green Key she had taken a long bus ride, walked down a long beach and hired the small boat. Phenomenon;miracle; act of God; fate; call it what you will but please, let it happen to us again…and soon.!