I’ve always called Dominica “my island” – it’s a heritage I proudly proclaimed in London, before I’d ever been to the Caribbean island that my family is from.
When I finally visited with my sister and mum, I felt like I was Odysseus, returning home. It quickly became clear that this wasn’t a homecoming, as I arrogantly thought it would be, but rather the first stop on a long journey of self-contemplation.
Since most of our family emigrated to the UK in the 50s and my maternal grandparents are no longer with us, our ‘roots trip’ was like following a blank map: we moved forward but had no idea what or who to look for. We only had breadcrumbs of information about our family on the island. Yet, in true Dominican spirit, we followed the feeling.
Dominica is notoriously hard to get to. There are no direct flights from the UK, and local flights are infrequent; it’s easy to get stuck on or off this Jurassic Park-like island for a day or two. There are 66,205 people on the island, which is nothing compared to the two million people who attend Notting Hill Carnival each year. Its location and population size has helped Dominica stay authentically itself; there’s a reason why Dominica is known as the “nature island” of the Caribbean.
When we landed at its tiny airport, we were asked the classic question: “what is the reason for your travel?” My mum, bouncing with excitement, shouted: “I haven’t been back for 30 years! And it’s my daughter’s first time!” A line that will be repeated over the next three weeks, even though I was the only newbie. Lily had been to Dominica when she was four and my mum aged 33, the age Lily is on this trip.
Roseau
The day we arrived in Dominica, we walked around its tiny capital city of Roseau, taking in the higgledy-piggledy streets, the cars – oh so many cars (and no traffic lights in sight), the heckles from passersby (Dominicans know how to make you feel beautiful) and the colourful buildings (though many were destroyed by Hurricane Maria). It’s hard to put into words how rugged Dominica is: it’s more analogue than digital and therefore radiates its own vintage texture and colour.
A key deciding factor for visiting Dominica in February was the Mas Dominik Carnival, which will take place on 3-4 March in 2025. We wanted to be in the thick of the celebrations so we stayed at La Flamboyant, a colourful old-school hotel with a communal balcony: the dream spot to watch Carnival from. Carnival starts at 4am with J’Ouvert. The night before, I woke up every hour to peek out of the window – just in case we missed it, I hadn’t felt that way since I waited for Father Christmas to come down the chimney as a child. Finally, 4am came, and I ushered everyone out into the darkness, through the rain, and towards the music. As the light comes up and the costumes start to appear, the sense of freedom brews. Music, drums, rain, beer, chicken, costumes, colour, rum. By 10am, we’re having lunch for breakfast and rum instead of coffee at a local spot we named ‘Aunty Cills’ in homage to my mum’s aunty.
By 8pm, the streets are rammed. ‘Health’ and ‘safety’ are two words that haven’t been inflicted on Dominica yet, which makes it all the more raw and exciting. While walking amongst the crowd, a boy comes up to me and shouts “eh – white lady, are you enjoying Carnival?!” My mum jumps in front of me and yells “She’s Dominican!” in a quasi-Dominican accent she often used when speaking to the elder generation. The boy was stunned with embarrassment, apologised profusely and danced off sheepishly. This is to be the first of many moments when Dominicans box me in as white British.
Amongst the beautiful outfits and children radiating colour, there is one particularly haunting group called the ‘Good Hope Darkies’ or ‘Black Devils’. They are a group of Dominicans covered in black paint parading the streets. One person dominated the group by slapping a long thick whip on the cement floor, making a chilling sound with every strike. These performers are a poignant reminder of the legacy of slavery.
Dominica isn’t exactly a place for foodies, it’s for adventurers. It’s more eco-tourism than ‘piña coladas on the beach’. The island offers plenty, but you have to be willing to take what you can and make it your own. That being said, we had a few favourite restaurants in Roseau. First up, Hi-Rise Beach: a great spot to watch the carnival while enjoying Mahi-Mahi and rice. But our favourite is Lacou, owned by a Canadian-Iranian man called Sutherland who talks you through the menu, which is written on a blackboard. He’s a real vivacious and honest character, who is just as memorable as his restaurant’s dishes. There is one fast food chain on the whole island – KFC, which always has cars queuing for the drive in, for miles.
Once Carnival was over, we moved to Fort Young hotel which, perched right on the oceanfront, offers simple rooms with private balconies overlooking the deep blue Caribbean Sea and nearby mountains – your balcony is an ideal spot to lie back and get stuck into a book, but not on Sundays when a giant cruise is parked in front, blocking the sea view. The roaring horn and the Tannoy announcing bingo that evening isn’t ideal to say the least; it’s a loud reminder that you are never far away from Brits Abroad. The staff are kind though, the rooftop cocktails are great, and it’s an easy place to organise day trips around the island from: Trafalgar Falls is a beautiful waterfall directly inland from the capital, while the fishing village of Soufriere, near the south of the island (where my grandfather was born) has a thermal spa called Bubble Beach Spa.
Left to right: Lily Bertrand-Webb at Trafalgar Falls, Dominica, aged four; Bellaray Bertrand-Webb at Trafalgar Falls on her recent trip to Dominica
We had one beautiful breadcrumb moment on our last day. We were drawn to a yellow and red building. When we entered, the room was filled with stacks of paper; the sun shone through holes in the roof. It was The Dominican Trade Union. As we looked, a man of about 90, with blue eyes and dark elastic skin appeared. He was called Bernard. To our amazement, he knew our mum’s uncle Bubba, and had been to my mum’s christening in Ladbroke Grove. After some tears and exchanging of memories – including a quest along the Harrow Road in and out of bookies – we were on our way, with the hope more meetings like this would paint a fuller picture of our family.
Portsmouth
Portsmouth is about an hour’s drive from Roseau – stop by Boyd’s Bakes on the way; you’ll find it in the tiny village of Layou and it has the best baked goods on the island. Plus, it’s open late for a post-9pm sweet treat. Here, we began our stay at Secret Bay which was truly special, and ideal for privacy. We stayed in a villa – that was more like a small house in the hills, and came with a private plunge pool – hidden amongst the rainforest-like trees.
Staff, who drove us around the compound on golf buggies, were all incredibly welcoming. I noticed something changed once my mum told them we were Dominican; a layer of defence or separation dropped away, although our middle-class British accents and light skin still remained a barrier of some kind. At the hotel, there’s a restaurant and a beach, but the highlight of our stay was a tour they arranged, the Indian River tour.
It was early in the morning – and slightly rainy – when the hotel staff drove us down to the beach where, our guide, Fire, in his red raincoat, picked us up in his wooden boat. Fire talked us through the developments happening on the beach: the history of buildings, the names of each tree and plant and their healing powers.
Fire grew up in Portsmouth, which is also where my aunty grew up. He’d spent his childhood running up and down the Indian River, so he knew its nature as if it were family. During the tour, we stopped off at a bush bar playing reggae music, then continued on to where they shot Calypso’s house in Pirates of the Caribbean. We were met by a man who opened a fresh coconut, poured rum into it, and handed it to us. He declared to my sister that she was Black, a strange pick-up line but it got us thinking, I was “the white lady” and my sister was Black. How could two sisters who are usually seen as twins, be two different races in Dominica?
On the way back to Secret Bay, we detoured to Portsmouth town, because my mum wanted to see where her sister grew up. Fire took us to multiple places while my mum asked the locals about her family, but the more she asked and shared, the more we realised how unknown and confused our family’s story was. We really hadn’t made the most of the elder generation when they were alive, and had wasted all those opportunities for questions and answers.
That evening we visited a reggae night at Roots Rock Bar & Grill in TanTan (thanks to Fire’s invite). Feeling like proper Brits, we turned up at 10pm on the dot and were the earliest there. As the night went on more people arrived; it was the only reggae night happening (and a very well-known one) so it felt like the whole island was there, both young and old. My personal highlight was a woman telling me how Dominican I looked, I caught a glance of my reflection in the mirror and, oh how smug I was. I needed that validation, because the longer we were in Dominica, the less Dominican I was starting to feel.
The second place we stayed in Portsmouth was an old-school, family-run business called Picard Cottages; it’s formed of wooden huts on the beach, each named after the Pirates of the Caribbean crew members, who had stayed there while filming. The huts’ interiors offered an authentic (if slightly dated) charm, but nothing could beat the pure joy of stepping out of the hut and into the sea.
The sunsets were unlike anything I have ever seen. They would last for hours – even late at night, the sun shone its orange light down onto the sea, illuminating the darkness around it. Dafa, who owns Picard Cottages, is a great host – taking us to reggae karaoke, which involves local men singing love songs as good as Al Green, in the hope that one lucky lady will fall for their soppy R&B tunes. I confess, I was one of them – shamelessly asking the taxi to turn back, just so I could give a guy my number.
Toucari
Toucari is a small beach village with about three wooden bars along the coast, and my favourite beach in Dominica. I spent hours in the sea here; watching the Jamaican cricket team do flips into the water, while women stood knee-deep, cooling off, looking chic in their hair bonnets, with kids playing in the sand.
In Toucari, we stayed at Coconut Cottage – up a hill from the beach, and very tranquil. It’s small, but it works for two to three people. It has a more American than Dominican feel, but the location and the terrace views are wonderful. On the beach is Keeping It Real, a restaurant hot-spot that came recommended by everyone for its fun vibes, slow service, and great food.
After one dinner here, and with some new friends we met at the reggae karaoke (another mixed race, stylish single-mum family), we went to a party at the yacht club and found that everyone we had met so far on the island, was also here: Dafar, Fire, an aspiring actor we met on the river tour, a travelling American, two hitch-hiking French men and more, all standing outside the yacht club while it blasted ABBA songs (reggae was quickly put on after our arrival). This eclectic crowd showcased the type of person Dominica is really for – the free spirited, the wanderers, the curious, the people who have broken away from their day-to-day office jobs.
Kalinago
Kalinagos are the indigenous people on the island; and refer to Dominica as Wai’tukubli, meaning ‘Tall is her body’. Sherwin, our driver, drove us the hour from Toucari to Kalinago, on the island’s north-east coast. Past the airport; past Calibishie (a sweet colourful beach town where I wish we had spent more than one-rum-punch worth of time); past Batibou (a secret beach); past the banana fields, now empty because banana trade isn’t the main export anymore. Past people sweeping their bars; playing music from their sound systems; riding motorbikes; and playing dominos. Past the casual people watchers; the children playing; and the changing face of the sea, until we got to Kalinago. Here, the road became dusty and bumpy, more sparse with significantly fewer people.
In Kalinago, we stayed at a house owned by a man called Louis, who welcomed us with freshly-cut coconuts to drink. He designed and built the house himself, it’s the last house on the cliff before the Kalinago Village. The sound of the sea constantly crashing onto the rocks, roaring day and night, with birds hidden in the trees was like we were cocooned by nature’s orchestra, it was both dramatic and comforting. Louis gave us delicious fruits from his garden and told us a particularly gruesome story of a Kalinago massacre, leaving us in tears. Louis knew his history, his lineage, and his land, and – as much as I was in awe – I was also envious of all he knew, and all I still didn’t know about my family, especially as my family are part Kalinago. Allegedly our relative was a chief, but who knows… That night I cut down banana leaves from the garden, and barbecued fish inside them while drinking a Kalubi beer.
One day, I had the brilliant idea to walk up the hill, in the boiling midday heat and into the village (which is a generous description) to buy some Dominican bread called ‘cassava’. On my quest, I passed a man sitting at the edge of the cliff, amongst the trees, carving away at a wooden boat – the sound of his carving echoed into the valley he was facing. On my return, I passed a builder who asked if I was okay (I was dripping with sweat and downtrodden by returning empty-handed). I told him I was looking for bread but couldn’t find any. “Wait there,” he said and disappeared into his house. Moments later he returned with a loaf of bread, giving it all to me, and refusing to be paid. Just another testament to the wonderful people I met on this beautiful island.
Marigot
For my whole life, I was told my grandmother had bought land in Marigot. It was starting to feel like a myth, another question mark to our family history. But on our very last day in Dominica, we went to Marigot only to find that the tale was true.
Sherwin
Sherwin drove us to Pagua Bay, where we were staying. Located right on the beach, it’s perfect for avid surfers and spear-fishers. It is a sweet and stylish hotel, with rooms designed like Dominican homes. It has a small pool and is owned by a couple who live down the road. As we checked in, my mum asked about her cousins’ bar, and the hotel staff knew it right away, quickly arranging a taxi to take us there.
So, on our last day on the island, we drove to find our cousins’ bar, hidden on the hill, amongst derelict houses. Outside, Rasta men sat on the raised terrace, while inside it was a grocery shop and a bar, with Mad Max playing on the TV. It was strange at first but quickly felt familiar, we were with family at last. This was when I had an epiphany: my family in London aren’t mad, they’re just Dominican – spiritual, loud, unapologetic, eccentric and funny.
Cousin Swin took us to his farm on another hill, it was vast, with lots of goats overlooking Marigot below and the sea beyond. Here we watched the Dominican sun set for the last time. Afterwards, Swin drove us to my grandmother’s overgrown land, which she bought around 1975, sadly dying in 1979 without making her mark on it. While standing on Granny Jean’s land in the blue evening light, I felt so connected to this stranger, my grandmother, and her unfulfilled dreams. My roots and my grandmother’s legacy were laid bare on this derelict triangle facing the sea, completely untouched, waiting for us to come and build new life on it. Back at the hotel that night, my mum and I cried ourselves to sleep, so adamant that we won’t get on the plane the next morning.
Our flight was early in the morning; before we left, I watched the sun rise over the sea, trying to take in every bit of the island: the sounds, the smell, the sights, the feeling. At the airport, we were crying so much that the security guard hugged us goodbye, and said “you will be back.”
Our family trip to Dominica was a rollercoaster of emotions, situations, people, landscapes, rum, beer, music, laughter, and legacy. Yet, being in Dominica made me realise how culturally British I am. I learnt that culture and heritage aren’t just where your grandparents are from, but it’s also the relationship that you, yourself, build with a place, mainly through time. I need to put the time and energy into bonding with Dominica.
It will never be “my island” but I’ll keep going back until I feel Dominican in my own personal way. To have an immigrant heritage, is complicated, it’s personal – like all relationships are – and it’s hard work, like all families are. So, all in all, the “roots trip” to Dominica was essential, even though I left with more questions, and more work to do. It may not have been a homecoming, but I definitely felt the Homeric hospitality from the Dominican people. Dominica is an island for soul searching – whether you’re Dominican or not. I guarantee you will discover something about yourself; and be forever changed by its magic.
Image credits: Bellaray & Lily Bertrand-Webb
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