Author: Juan

St. Pierre, in the French island of Martinique, is a picturesque little town with a very interesting history. Founded in 1635, it grew to become the economic and cultural center of Martinique, even though administratively the capital was Fort-de-France. It was known as the “Paris of the Caribbean”, until disaster stroke in the form of a volcanic eruption.

In 1902 the nearby Mount Pelée became active, emitting clouds of ash and rock. The danger was largely dismissed, but just two weeks later a mud flood buried a small town, killing 150 people. Authorities declared St. Pierre was safe, in part because of two valleys that separated the town from the volcano, but mostly for politically reasons, since an evacuation would have implied large financial losses right before upcoming elections.

Still, some people had the good sense of leaving. At the same time there was an influx of refugees from smaller towns and tourists from the capital that came to watch the show. On May 8, 1902, one hour after the Governor had insisted the city was safe, the mountain exploded and a pyroclastic surge—a fireball of superheated gas that the valleys did nothing to stop—rushed to St. Pierre setting everything on its path instantly ablaze, including ships in the harbor. Almost 30,000 people lost their lives. It is said that only two people survived. One of them was a prisoner, saved by the thick stone walls of his cell.

Modern volcanology was born with the study of Mount Pelée’s 1902 eruption. It brought a better understanding of pyroclastic flows, showing that lava is not the only threat volcanoes pose.

A new town was built on top of the ruins, with many buildings reusing part of the old structures. The remains of the most iconic places, such as the prison quarters and the 800-seat, 18th century theater have been left untouched, serving now as open-air museums. This mixture is what gives St. Pierre its unique charm.

The town

Today St. Pierre’s population is less than 5,000 people, far from what it was before the eruption, but it’s still a bustling town.

The ruins

Walking through St. Pierre’s evoking ruins—interspersed here and there around town—it’s not difficult to imagine the former grandeur of The Paris of the Caribbean.

The zoo

I don’t really like zoos, but the Zoo of Martinique is a misnomer. It is more like three museums in one (or four if you count the awkward pirate room). The zoo part is the tertiary one, in my opinion. The Zoo of Martinique is in the first place a historic site: the ruins of a big 17th century estate (“the oldest house in Martinique”) destroyed by the volcanic eruption.

Secondly, it’s a beautiful botanical garden, and only thirdly it’s a decent zoo. Through elevated pathways you can see spider monkeys, jaguars, ibises and anteaters among the ruins. It is actually a peculiar sight worth a visit. Especially if you are anchored right in front.

The distillery

The Depaz Distillery is another gem of St. Pierre. Martinique is known for the production of “rhum agricole”, which is rum distilled from freshly squeezed sugar cane juice, as opposed to the more common rum distilled from molasses, a byproduct of sugar.

The estate and distillery have been around for three and a half centuries. They were completely destroyed by the 1902 eruption. Victor Depaz, a teenage student in Bordeaux at that moment, was the only surviving member of the family. He returned in 1917 to rebuild everything from scratch.

We really liked St. Pierre and enjoyed strolling around its streets, discovering treasure after treasure.

The Martinique Passage is the 25-nautical mile strait that separates Dominica from Martinique. The day we jumped between the two islands the forecast for open waters in the region was 15-20 knots of wind and 8-10ft (2.5-3m) waves. When the wind passes between tall masses of land it gets funneled. And if you add to that a bit of inaccuracy in the forecast, you may end up with the 25-30 knots of winds and the huge 20-25ft (6-7.5m) waves we faced, coming about 60° off our nose.

The word “brutal” comes to mind, but then again, it can get much, much worse during a storm, and I don’t want to run out of adjectives too soon. And, while it was shaky, noisy and wet, it wasn’t unsafe. Of course, if anything goes wrong in those conditions, even something that’s just as a minor inconvenience in calmer waters, things can quickly cascade into something catastrophic. But all that wind at least had us moving fast, and it took us less than three hours to get to the lee of Martinique, unscathed.

Oliver may have a less cheerful perspective of that passage. He was scared an seasick. Yet, nature called, and if you gotta go, you gotta go. The problem was that he was clearly in a hurry, so he left the litter box when he wasn’t really finished (and I’m not talking about emptying the bladder here). I was going to say that he cut the errand short, but if there’s something he didn’t do was to cut anything. The sight wasn’t pretty. The solution, even less.

I think Oliver was so happy to be back at anchor that day that he performed his evening ritual—a tour to the outside world around the cockpit enclosure—twice. He always goes counterclockwise, though; I guess he’s not ready for that much innovation yet.

P.A.Y.S.

“Did you have a good sail?”, asked the Dominica one-person welcome committee. It was Lawrence (of Arabia, as he likes to be called) on his skiff, who motored towards us when we were about to enter Prince Rupert Bay, in the northern tip of Dominica. He pointed us to the mooring buoys in front of Portsmouth, and went back to his strategic position to wait for the next visitors.

Soon after, to grab the buoy, we got unsolicited but welcome help from Titus on his own skiff. He then went off to help another boat, and came back before long to let me know what documents I needed for clearing in, and to instruct me to be ready in five minutes to go to customs. He left again before I could say that I’d rather have lunch first, and came back four minutes later while I was gobbling whatever I could find.

Titus took me and five other sailors to the municipal dock and directed us to the customs office. The other guys said they didn’t need a ride back, so Titus was going to wait in the dock just for me. When I got back he wasn’t there. Uh oh. I was pondering my options (Walk two miles and then swim to Ñandú? Call Kathy to see if she could radio a water taxi?) when Titus showed up and gave an apologetic explanation. I stepped aboard the skiff but to my surprise he climbed to the dock with a dirty dish in his hand. The engine was running and the skiff wasn’t even tied to the dock. “Hold the boat please. I have to return something to my cousin”, he said and walked up the dock. I could have been bewildered with cultural shock, but instead I was just fascinated with the cultural imbuing I was being administered.

“Would you like to go on a tour around the island?” Titus asked us once I was back aboard Ñandú.

“Yes, sure,” we answered, since the tour was in our plans.

“OK, I have a group for tomorrow, so be ready at 8.”

“Looks like we have a plan for tomorrow,” Kathy and I told one another.

In some of the windward islands boats are approached by a multitude of vendors before you even anchor, to offer tours, produce, craft, take your garbage (to be disposed off responsibly, or perhaps not) or any help in exchange of money. It can get intimidating and winds up having the opposite effect: instead of bringing business to town it scares it off. Tour guides in Portsmouth recognized the problem and got organized forming PAYS, the Portsmouth Association of Yacht Services. When a boat comes in they assign one PAYS member and that’s the one person that approaches your boat.

From our standpoint, it worked very well, including Titus’ somewhat dictatorial but well-intended manners. They have an office with information, they provide security, they maintain the mooring buoys, they offer good services, and they are very punctual (which is rather unsual in these latitudes).

Around the island

Titus picked us up at the agreed time and brought us and the crew of two other boats to the dock, and introduced us to our guide and driver.

“This is Winston,” he said. “He wants to marry my mother”, he added gratuitously.

Skeptics might say that a size of just two samples does not constitute overwhelming evidence, but after touring Montserrat and Dominica I’m concluding that “Winston” is used in this corner of the world as short for “tour guide and van driver”.

Anyway. Around the island we went, Winston at the wheel. First stop was a nondescript corner where Winston picked up a monumentally large sound system and loaded it in the van. Second and third stops required the system to be unloaded first so that we could get off the van. Fourth stop was his modest house where he dropped it off. He stopped multiple other times to crack a joke with people on the streets in an unintelligible patois. I still wonder whether he knew all those people or not.

Dominica and Maria

The Caribs or Kalinago were the original inhabitants of Dominica. About 3000 remain in the Kalinago Reserve. The island was a French colony from the late 17th century to the middle 18th. In 1761 it was taken by Great Britain, after which the French went through a couple of cycles where they’d sign a treaty that formally conceded the island to the British and then have second thoughts and try to recapture it. Dominica gained independence from the British Crown in 1978.

Dominica’s unspoiled natural beauty makes it a dream for hikers and divers. And movie makers too: several scenes of Pirates of the Caribbean were filmed here, and the map you get in the Tourism Office shows the locations where each scene was filmed.

Last year hurricane Maria, the first category five to hit Dominica in recorded history, flattened the island with 160 mph (256 km/h) winds. Dozens of people lost their lives, 95% of the buildings were damaged or destroyed, and the once tropical paradise nicknamed the “isle of nature”, became a war zone stripped of its green layer of vegetation, obliterated by nature itself. Images post-hurricane are sobering.

Seven months later, we saw a resilient island recovering from disaster. Signs of destruction were evident everywhere (toppled trees, closed roads, piles of debris, houses without walls or roofs, bridges washed away). Walking the streets of Portsmouth I noticed a somber mood, in stark contrast with the other islands we’ve visited. But people are coming to terms with their losses and are working hard to rebuild their lives. Temporary bridges reconnected the island, the noise of frenzy construction fills the air, tourism is making a comeback, and the scarred island looks remarkably green again.

Of rivers and waterfalls

Question: how do you say “a whole lot” in the tropics? Answer: 365. That’s what I gathered after hearing a Bahamian say The Exumas has 365 islands, an Antiguan say Antigua has 365 beaches, and a Dominiquois say Dominica has 365 rivers. So, yeah, I doubt the number is accurate, but Dominca for sure has a whole lot of rivers: certainly enough to keep you busy for a whole year if you are into potamology (thanks Google—I had to look that one up). And what do you get when you put a whole lot of rivers in a steep island? A whole lot of waterfalls.

Cabrits National Park

Cabrits National Park, on the north side of Prince Rupert Bay, protects tropical forests, wetlands and coral reefs, and includes Fort Shirley, an 18th century garrison impressively restored. Cabrits is an extinct volcano, and it used to be an island until the action of tides deposited enough material to connect it to the main island.