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The paintings of Italian-born artist Agostino Brunias, who made a profession of depicting the island in subdued, stylized settings that covered up the harsh realities of colonial control, were my first visual introduction to Dominica. However, as soon as I step onto its winding roads, which begin to twist shortly after I arrive, it becomes evident that this region, which is situated in the center of the Lesser Antilles’ curve, is anything but tame. The two-toned leaves of its bois canot trees, which change color from green to white when they sway in the wind, shimmer and bristle with the power of the volcano. It lulls with the erratic sound of its numerous waterfalls, scatters rainbows haphazardly across its breathtaking horizons, and enchants from the depths with its vibrant coral reefs. And it roars come storm season.
The indigenous Kalinago people of Dominica survived invasion by the French and British, who imposed slavery on the Africans who now make up four-fifths of the island’s population and left a linguistic legacy of English and French-based Creole, by mastering the lush tropical rainforest that covers more than 60% of the island. If you visit Trinidad for roti and Jamaica for jerk, you should travel to Dominica for green things like bush rum and flower teas. There are a ton of medicinal herbs in the forest.
The Jungle Bay Dominica resort, located smack dab in the center of the Soufrière jungles, leans into nature instead, maybe realizing the futility of fighting against the earth’s generosity. When I finally get there, the kitchen is closed. Joanne Hilaire, the operations manager, tells me that they never let guests go hungry, though, so I can feel the warmth of Dominica’s welcome. The cook is preparing an excellently stewed dish of beans with taro, rice, and plantain for our late dinner, off the menu, while I have a refreshing ginger-lime cocktail that is a local favorite. When I wake up the following morning, I find that my villa’s doors open onto a private veranda that faces southwest toward Soufrière Bay, where the Caribbean Sea and the Atlantic Ocean converge. I let the light wake me for the remainder of my stay by leaving my blinds open.
I Felt Disappointed That My Grandfather Left Me Just an Old Apiary, but My Perspective Changed When I Inspected the Beehives
My late grandfather, a master storyteller who spun tales of buried treasure, left me a rather unexpected inheritance: a dusty old apiary. It felt like a cruel joke at first. Who would leave their grandchild a shack swarming with bees? My resentment lingered until the day I finally ventured into the beehives.
One typical morning, Aunt Daphne urged me to pack my bag for school, but I was too busy texting a friend about the upcoming dance and my crush, Scott. When she mentioned my grandfather’s dreams for me, my frustration grew. I had no interest in tending to his bees; I just wanted to enjoy my teenage life.
The next day, Aunt Daphne chastised me for my neglect, threatening to ground me. She insisted that caring for the apiary was part of my responsibility. Despite my protests, I reluctantly agreed to check on the hives. Donning protective gear, I opened the first hive, my heart racing. A bee stung my glove, and for a moment, I considered quitting. But a rush of determination took over, and I pressed on, hoping to show Aunt Daphne I could handle this.
While harvesting honey, I discovered a weathered plastic bag containing a faded map. Excited, I tucked it into my pocket and raced home to grab my bike. Following the map, I pedaled into the woods, recalling my grandfather’s stories that had once enchanted me.
I found myself in a clearing resembling a scene from one of his tales—the old gamekeeper’s house stood before me, decaying but still captivating. Memories flooded back of lazy afternoons spent there, listening to his stories. Touching the gnarled tree nearby, I recalled his playful warnings about the gnomes that supposedly lurked in the woods.
Inside the forgotten cabin, I uncovered a beautifully carved metal box. Inside was a note from Grandpa: “To my dear Robyn, this box contains a treasure for you, but do not open it until your journey’s true end” Though tempted, I knew I had to honor his wishes.
After exploring further, I realized I was lost and panic set in. Remembering Grandpa’s advice to stay calm, I pressed on, searching for a familiar path. Eventually, I stumbled upon the bridge he often spoke of, but it felt further away than I had hoped. Exhausted and disoriented, I collapsed beneath a tree, longing for home.
The next morning, determined to find my way, I recalled Grandpa’s lessons as I navigated through the wilderness. I found a river but was startled when I slipped into the icy water. Fighting against the current, I finally managed to cling to a log, eventually dragging myself to shore.
Soaked and trembling, I rummaged through my backpack, only to find stale crumbs. When I remembered Grandpa’s wisdom, I used healing leaves for my cuts and continued onward, drawn by the sound of rushing water. I finally reached the river again, but the water was treacherous. Desperate, I knelt to drink, but the current swept me away, and I found myself struggling against the powerful flow.
Determined not to give up, I let go of my backpack but clung to the metal box. With sheer will, I fought my way to the bank, finally escaping the icy grasp of the river. I needed shelter, so I built a makeshift one from branches under a sturdy oak tree.
The next morning, I set out once more, the metal box feeling like my only lifeline. Memories of fishing trips with Grandpa warmed me, urging me forward. When I finally spotted the bridge, hope surged within me. But the forest began to close in around me, confusion and despair threatening to overwhelm me. Just when I thought I couldn’t go on, I found a clearing and collapsed, utterly spent.
Then, I heard voices calling my name. I awoke in a hospital bed with Aunt Daphne by my side. Overcome with regret, I apologized for everything. She comforted me, reminding me of Grandpa’s unconditional love and how he always believed in me.
As she reached into her bag, my heart raced when I recognized the familiar blue wrapping paper. It was an Xbox, a gift from Grandpa, meant to be given only when I understood the value of hard work. I realized then that I had learned that lesson, and the desire for the gift faded.
In the following years, I grew into my responsibilities, embracing the lessons my grandfather imparted. Now, as a mother myself, I reflect on those moments with gratitude. The sweet honey from my bees serves as a cherished reminder of the bond I shared with Grandpa, a bond that continues to guide me.
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