In Dominica, loitering isn’t a crime; it’s a way of life. People will spend hours just sitting around, looking at the odd passerby, commenting on the local news, or generally just “kixing off” (clean translation: shooting the breeze). One of the best places to do this is at the Bayfront, a half-mile strip along the coastal shore of the capital, Roseau. The bayfront’s sea wall provides ideal, centrally-located seating for idlers. One night, I sat there from 4-6PM, got dinner, went swimming, came back, and sat from 11PM to 3AM. With friends, of course. Here are a few highlights from my loitering: 

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On a warm weekend in December, over thirty French surfers descended onto the northern part of Dominica for a two-day surfing competition. My notion of surfing on the island consists of heading out to the Atlantic Ocean, wading in the choppy water, and then riding a wave on my stomach before crashing into the sand. When I heard there would be real boards, I was pumped. But then, when I got to Red Rock Haven Beach, I had trouble finding anyone over twenty. It turns out it was a surfing competition for kiddies. Also, it turns out that watching kids surf isn’t that much fun.

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Driving in America is a fairly cushy experience. The roads are mostly smooth and flat. There are typically multiple lanes. People wear seatbelts and follow road rules. In Dominica, driving in the mountains, the roads are exceedingly windy, or in other words, car-sickness inducing. There’s no seatbelt law, no enforced speed limit. And road rules just wouldn’t make sense. People have a hard enough time driving as it is. 

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In Dominica, as in many places, hardcore drunks don’t own cars. This is all well and good, except for the drunks who live up the mountains. After they’ve concluded a night of boozing--or a morning of boozing, as the case may be--they have to manage a two-hour hike home while being drunk. I’ve often passed these poor, persistent souls, plodding steadily up the steep road at two, three, or six in the morning, and I’ve felt bad (but not bad enough to stop my car and risk being mugged). Recently though, my dad and I were unfortunate enough to lock ourselves out of our Honda CRV. I left the keys on the seat to run out and take a picture. My dad followed. We took the picture, went back to the car, and found it locked. What ensued was a cruel lesson in empathy. After two minutes, I was sweating. After five unsympathetic (but friendly!) drivers, I was swearing. The worst part was their condescending waves. Here I was--struggling to make it up the mountain in flip-flops--and there they were--comfy, smiling, and smug. I begged with my eyes! They dismissed me with a wave! I had newfound respect for mountain-dwelling drunks. I barely made it up the road sober. They do it better after a bottle of rum. 

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The way my uncle tells it, thirty years ago he was trekking up the Roseau Valley with his friends when he saw a rock jutting out of the cliff face. It sort of looked like a man so they painted on eyes, a nose, hair and a mouth. Now locals call it “Manface.” In the absence of road signs and house numbers, he’s integral to direction giving.

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