Author’s note: To get the most out of this story, I recommend you first read the previous blog about the place. Thanks!
Rose traveled to Dominica to mend a broken heart. Amid the lush tangle of tropical vegetation, the squawks of birds and chirps of insects, the imposing mountains and rivers and volcanic formations, infinite stars in a primeval sky—amid all that, she imagined she could forget, for a bit, the lover who left her for another woman.
A day after her arrival, her despondency drew her to the mountainous interior of the island, to the Boiling Lake, a rocky cauldron of water heated from below by molten magma. Breathing in the sulfur-scented vapors would clear her mind, she felt sure, sharpen her spirits. In spite of warnings to go with a guide, she chose to hike alone. A former marathon runner, she was in good shape; besides, the thought of making small talk with other tourists turned her stomach. She also decided to spend the night beside the lake, at one with nature.
Her bag stuffed with water, snacks, and mosquito netting, she took off in early afternoon. A trek through sultry rain forest brought her to a ridge with majestic views across tiers of deep-green mountains down to a turquoise sea. Her heart fluttered to life. Next, she cautiously descended treacherous steps and barely perceptible paths through a ravaged landscape known as the Valley of Desolation, skirting bubbling mudpots, hot streams, and fragile crusted scabs. Beyond was more rain forest, now gloomy in the late afternoon sun. At one point, she heard the voices of a returning group of hikers and hid from view behind a grouping of tree ferns.
When at last Rose reached her destination, sweaty and exhausted in spite of her fitness, she braked to a stop, fixated on the view in front of her. No gaseous vapors swirled above the lake. In fact, there was no lake at all, only a shallow pond of motionless blue-gray water. “Nooo . . .” Angry despair shot through her body. Even the Boiling Lake had turned against her.
After her anger subsided, Rose noticed a gradual slope on one side of the cauldron. She looked around. “Why not?”
Stripping to her underwear, she skidded down the slope, and, at water’s edge, tested it with her hands. Cool enough to bathe in. She did just that. The water soothed her tired muscles. For the first time in weeks, her mind relaxed, her cares faded. Time seemed to stand still.
That is, until bubbling water rose up in the middle of the pond, a gurgling fountain that rapidly grew in size. Almost simultaneously, she heard the scattering of loose gravel behind her. She turned to see a deeply tanned man in a loincloth sliding down the slope as if he were on skis. Before fear could cause her to back away, he grabbed her across the chest and scrambled up the slope with her in tow. Throwing her onto the ground, he squatted beside her, and, out of breath, they watched as the fountain became a geyser, the pond a bubbling lake, and the vapor a swirling cloud above it, all in the space of a few minutes. She never would have been able to climb out in time on her own.
Suddenly aware of her state of undress, she slipped into her clothes, then studied the man. With bronze skin and high cheekbones, he appeared more Indian than African, but his black hair haloed his face in unkempt dreadlocks. “You saved my life,” she told him.
He didn’t answer, merely stared at her and nodded slightly. Then he got up, and, with a wave of a hand, motioned her to follow. The sun had bowed out of the sky, and, one by one, stars switched on. In a short distance, the two reached a house at the edge of scrub forest. Poorly made, it had a sloping thatched roof, wattle and daub walls, and trunk stakes two feet high to raise it off the ground.
The man motioned her inside. Most likely he was being gracious, allowing her to spend the night there. However, she shook her head and pulled out her mosquito netting. With an indifferent shrug, he entered the house and came back with a thatched mat. Placing her hands together in thanks, she laid the mat on the ground, arranged the netting around her, and immediately fell into a deep sleep.
When Rose woke, the house was bathed in sunlight, the man nowhere to be found. She rolled up the mat and placed it at the entranceway, then waited a bit longer. When he didn’t return, she walked to the Boiling Lake, now full and half hidden under a cloud of vapor, marveled at it for a moment, and made her way back to town.
In her remaining day on Dominica, Rose asked discreet questions of the hotel manager. Yes, he told her, the Boiling Lake had been known to drain and refill at a moment’s notice, catching foolish bathers unawares. “Da water would cook a body in seconds.” No, he said with great emphasis, no one lived in the area, and there were certainly no houses. After all, it was a natural park, “World Heritage Site,” he added with pride. A guide passing through the lobby agreed. “No houses.”
Rose returned home, stunned and disoriented, but her heart, at least, was no longer broken.
