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LIVING & T RAVEL
Frog In My Throat
Discovering the Island
of Dominica
by David Wallis

Leap to Dominica Travel Tips

The postal workers on Dominica are pissed. Really angry. Much of the mail that reaches the postage-stamp-sized Caribbean island must be returned to its intended destination -- the Dominican Republic, five hundred miles away. To describe Dominica as undiscovered might be the great British understatement, but in many ways Dominica is the great British understatement.
The mountainous terrain, dense jungle and fiercely independent people long frustrated England's attempts to subjugate this Caribbean island sandwiched between Martinique and Guadeloupe. By 1978, when Dominica became sovereign, few Anglo traditions -- besides cricket -- remained. Tea and crumpets are hard to come by.
But it is the perfect location to escape ringing telephones and impending deadlines. With no casinos and few white-sand beaches, Dominica doesn't draw hordes of camera-waving holiday-makers. Instead, the island lures adventurous travelers seeking long hikes to pristine mountain lakes and challenging dives around the well-preserved coral reef that surrounds much of the island.

Jeanne told me of the islanders' reverence for "Mountain Chicken"...known as "big frog" to us. My own unorthodox adventure kicked off at the Hummingbird, a little inn located outside Roseau, Dominica's capital. The doting inn-keeper, Jeanne Finucane, instantly became my mother, only more functional. She wore flowery frocks, smiled broadly, and at breakfast served up warm bread, star fruit jam, and unending tales of Dominica's wonders. One yarn particularly grabbed my attention. Jeanne told of the islanders' reverence for Mountain Chicken. It is known as Leptodactylus Fallux to scientists, crapaud to creole-speakers, and 'big frog' to us.
According to Jeanne, those who eat the Mountain Chicken live longer and feel stronger.
I asked Jeanne for a taste of the frog, which can grow up to a foot in length. Unfortunately, she hadn't seen any in months. "Mountain Chicken is hard to come by. They only come out at night, and live by the rivers. Hunters eat their catch, because they don't want to share such a good ting," she said in a sing-song voice. On the rare occasion that they do appear at market, Jeanne said, each frog fetches three dollars -- quite a sum for Dominicans, whose average wage hovers around eight dollars a day.

"Be careful how you hold them - they'll pee in your eye." My interest piqued, I recalled this pillar of journalism: "If your mother tells you she loves you, check it out first." So I decided to confirm Jeanne's story with the island's Prime Minister, Dame Eugenia Charles, also a fan of the frogs. "Eating crapaud gives you strength. My father loved it, and he lived to 107," she said. "But be careful how you hold them, because they will pee in your eye. It's a defense mechanism."
Blasts of frog urine could not deter me. I planned to dash off into the bush to find the elusive hopping fountain of youth. Realizing the necessity of making an exit from the jungle at some point, I hired a licensed guide, George Nanton.
I drove two hours along the coast road to the town of Portsmouth to meet George. His wooden shack was on a poorly illuminated dirt road muddied by a recent rain shower. George, clad in camouflage and wader boots, introduced me to his hunting partner, a man called "Rambo."
The pair were a study in contrasts: George, a construction worker by day, was 27, solid muscle, bearded, and silent. The type of man who didn't cry at his own birth. Rambo was lithe, perhaps 18, and laughed often at jokes only he could hear.

I wondered if Hemingway had ever chased frogs. We jumped into my rented jeep, switched into four-wheel drive, and lurched up a crude mountain track. Twenty minutes later the jeep bounced to a stop at the first hunting ground -- a small clearing in a Cinnamon Tree forest. George had brought his pump-action shot gun, which seemed like a lot of firepower to stop even the deadliest frog. But he cleared up the confusion, as he pointed to the gun's blood-stained handle. "This was last night's wild boar," he said. "You never know what you're going to find out here."
"Bon Champs," Rambo uttered in thickly accented Creole. George explained that tradition dictates a return salutation to ensure a successful hunt. I bastardized "Bon Champs" to my compatriots, and wondered if Hemingway had ever chased frogs.
We scurried through the thick verdant brush, which reminded me of the "Apocalypse Now" film set. Rambo imitated a deafening high-pitched mating call, and George used a powerful flashlight to spy the pesky critters.
After an hour, our take was two grapefruits and a bunch of bananas.
"Should have had frogs by now," George complained. "They sing before and after the rain." Despite a recent storm, the frogs remained silent.
undaunted, we moved camp to the shallow banks of the Mile Long River. The water was fast and the grade steep. Jeans and plastic hiking booties restricted my speed, so I took up the rear flank.
We climbed over slimy rocks and crawled under low bridges to no avail, as the beams of our flashlights crisscrossed through the surprisingly cool night. I spent more time keeping an eye on my guides than I did searching for frogs. Without my guides, I imagined that my remains would one day be found by a troop of Dominican scouts on a nature walk.

After three hours, we were still frogless. After three hours we still were frogless. I considered returning empty handed, but George cut off debate. Visitors are scarce. He promised results, and would deliver.
A few minutes later, George and Rambo began frantically shouting. The decisive moment had arrived. Man versus beast. The red eyes of the frog illuminated the night, as he sat motionless on a nearby rock. Rambo lunged, but missed. The frog hopped madly toward me, and I positioned myself like an infielder waiting for a hot grounder. But the pesky critter slipped through my grasp. Rambo gave chase, arms outstretched, splashing through the water with an alligator's speed. He pounced, and the black and green frog squirmed in the hunter's hands -- yelping like a wounded puppy.
Rambo walked into the woods, found some vine, and deftly tied the frog's feet to his belt. Within minutes, our prisoner had visitors, as we seized two more hiding beneath a stone bridge. George looked over at me, and without speaking we agreed to call off the hunt. Rambo tossed the croaking trio into a burlap potato sack.
I suggested that we celebrate with a Pina Colada or two, but George -- wet and tired -- was eager to return home. After all, there were frogs to skin.
At his house, he instructed me to tightly grasp each frog around its slimy underbelly and rinse it off in an iron pot of warm water "to relax it." One by one the frogs took a final lap, then George took them from my hands.
He slammed each one against a butcher's block. With an incision worthy of a surgeon, George unwrapped their white bodies. "Look, they jump right out of their clothes," he chortled. He then placed the meat in a plastic shopping bag, filled it with ice cubes and bid me "Bon Appetit."
The next morning, I presented my quarry to Jeanne. After deliberation, she informed me that Mountain Chicken Stew -- a recipe her grandmother gave her long ago -- would be served for dinner. The concoction simmered throughout the day.
I predicted that the meat would taste like chicken, but it possessed a sweetness recalling rabbit and was surprisingly tender. Just as Jeanne promised, soon after finishing the meal I felt a surge of new-found energy. Sleep would be impossible. So, I ventured into Roseau to sample the local night life. But the city's streets and bars were empty. It became apparent that frog hunting is night life in Dominica.

TIPS FOR TRAVELLING IN
Dominica
Reaching Dominica takes tenacity. Fly either American or Continental to St. Maarten, then connect with an LIAT plane/scooter for the final hop.
Contact William McLawrence at the Dominica Division of Tourism (809) 448-2045 to arrange a hunt. Mountain Chicken season lasts from September 1 until February 20. No special license is needed, yet. Guides cost $40 for a four-hour tour.
Reservations are a must at The Hummingbird (449-1042). Rooms are $65, double occupancy. Owner Jeanne Finucane will make Mountain Chicken Stew with advance notice.
Mountain Chicken can also be sampled at La Robe Creole, a restaurant located on Victoria Street, Roseau.
Portsmouth offers slim pickings for accommodations.
The Picard Beach Resort (445-5131), a clean and quiet property, offers the most amenities, but is expensive at $140 to $260 per night double occupancy.
Inside Dominica
Maps, facts, history, accommodation (including pricing), how to get there, and even how to get married there.
Dominica Online
Local news, where to stay, and what to do.

David Wallis has written for "The New York Times," "Esquire" and "George."
Illustrations by Federico Jordan, a freelance illustrator based in Mexico.

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LIVING & T RAVEL Frog In My Throat Discovering the Island of Dominica by David Wallis Leap to Dominica Travel Tips	The postal workers on Dominica are pissed. Really angry. Much of the mail that reaches the postage-stamp-sized Caribbean island must be returned to its intended destination -- the Dominican Republic, five hundred miles away. To describe Dominica as undiscovered might be the great British understatement, but in many ways Dominica is the great British understatement. The mountainous terrain, dense jungle and fiercely independent people long frustrated England's attempts to subjugate this Caribbean island sandwiched between Martinique and Guadeloupe. By 1978, when Dominica became sovereign, few Anglo traditions -- besides cricket -- remained. Tea and crumpets are hard to come by. But it is the perfect location to escape ringing telephones and impending deadlines. With no casinos and few white-sand beaches, Dominica doesn't draw hordes of camera-waving holiday-makers. Instead, the island lures adventurous travelers seeking long hikes to pristine mountain lakes and challenging dives around the well-preserved coral reef that surrounds much of the island.
Jeanne told me of the islanders' reverence for "Mountain Chicken"...known as "big frog" to us.	My own unorthodox adventure kicked off at the Hummingbird, a little inn located outside Roseau, Dominica's capital. The doting inn-keeper, Jeanne Finucane, instantly became my mother, only more functional. She wore flowery frocks, smiled broadly, and at breakfast served up warm bread, star fruit jam, and unending tales of Dominica's wonders. One yarn particularly grabbed my attention. Jeanne told of the islanders' reverence for Mountain Chicken. It is known as Leptodactylus Fallux to scientists, crapaud to creole-speakers, and 'big frog' to us. According to Jeanne, those who eat the Mountain Chicken live longer and feel stronger. I asked Jeanne for a taste of the frog, which can grow up to a foot in length. Unfortunately, she hadn't seen any in months. "Mountain Chicken is hard to come by. They only come out at night, and live by the rivers. Hunters eat their catch, because they don't want to share such a good ting," she said in a sing-song voice. On the rare occasion that they do appear at market, Jeanne said, each frog fetches three dollars -- quite a sum for Dominicans, whose average wage hovers around eight dollars a day.
"Be careful how you hold them - they'll pee in your eye."	My interest piqued, I recalled this pillar of journalism: "If your mother tells you she loves you, check it out first." So I decided to confirm Jeanne's story with the island's Prime Minister, Dame Eugenia Charles, also a fan of the frogs. "Eating crapaud gives you strength. My father loved it, and he lived to 107," she said. "But be careful how you hold them, because they will pee in your eye. It's a defense mechanism." Blasts of frog urine could not deter me. I planned to dash off into the bush to find the elusive hopping fountain of youth. Realizing the necessity of making an exit from the jungle at some point, I hired a licensed guide, George Nanton. I drove two hours along the coast road to the town of Portsmouth to meet George. His wooden shack was on a poorly illuminated dirt road muddied by a recent rain shower. George, clad in camouflage and wader boots, introduced me to his hunting partner, a man called "Rambo." The pair were a study in contrasts: George, a construction worker by day, was 27, solid muscle, bearded, and silent. The type of man who didn't cry at his own birth. Rambo was lithe, perhaps 18, and laughed often at jokes only he could hear.
I wondered if Hemingway had ever chased frogs.	We jumped into my rented jeep, switched into four-wheel drive, and lurched up a crude mountain track. Twenty minutes later the jeep bounced to a stop at the first hunting ground -- a small clearing in a Cinnamon Tree forest. George had brought his pump-action shot gun, which seemed like a lot of firepower to stop even the deadliest frog. But he cleared up the confusion, as he pointed to the gun's blood-stained handle. "This was last night's wild boar," he said. "You never know what you're going to find out here." "Bon Champs," Rambo uttered in thickly accented Creole. George explained that tradition dictates a return salutation to ensure a successful hunt. I bastardized "Bon Champs" to my compatriots, and wondered if Hemingway had ever chased frogs. We scurried through the thick verdant brush, which reminded me of the "Apocalypse Now" film set. Rambo imitated a deafening high-pitched mating call, and George used a powerful flashlight to spy the pesky critters. After an hour, our take was two grapefruits and a bunch of bananas. "Should have had frogs by now," George complained. "They sing before and after the rain." Despite a recent storm, the frogs remained silent. undaunted, we moved camp to the shallow banks of the Mile Long River. The water was fast and the grade steep. Jeans and plastic hiking booties restricted my speed, so I took up the rear flank. We climbed over slimy rocks and crawled under low bridges to no avail, as the beams of our flashlights crisscrossed through the surprisingly cool night. I spent more time keeping an eye on my guides than I did searching for frogs. Without my guides, I imagined that my remains would one day be found by a troop of Dominican scouts on a nature walk.
After three hours, we were still frogless.	After three hours we still were frogless. I considered returning empty handed, but George cut off debate. Visitors are scarce. He promised results, and would deliver. A few minutes later, George and Rambo began frantically shouting. The decisive moment had arrived. Man versus beast. The red eyes of the frog illuminated the night, as he sat motionless on a nearby rock. Rambo lunged, but missed. The frog hopped madly toward me, and I positioned myself like an infielder waiting for a hot grounder. But the pesky critter slipped through my grasp. Rambo gave chase, arms outstretched, splashing through the water with an alligator's speed. He pounced, and the black and green frog squirmed in the hunter's hands -- yelping like a wounded puppy. Rambo walked into the woods, found some vine, and deftly tied the frog's feet to his belt. Within minutes, our prisoner had visitors, as we seized two more hiding beneath a stone bridge. George looked over at me, and without speaking we agreed to call off the hunt. Rambo tossed the croaking trio into a burlap potato sack. I suggested that we celebrate with a Pina Colada or two, but George -- wet and tired -- was eager to return home. After all, there were frogs to skin. At his house, he instructed me to tightly grasp each frog around its slimy underbelly and rinse it off in an iron pot of warm water "to relax it." One by one the frogs took a final lap, then George took them from my hands. He slammed each one against a butcher's block. With an incision worthy of a surgeon, George unwrapped their white bodies. "Look, they jump right out of their clothes," he chortled. He then placed the meat in a plastic shopping bag, filled it with ice cubes and bid me "Bon Appetit." The next morning, I presented my quarry to Jeanne. After deliberation, she informed me that Mountain Chicken Stew -- a recipe her grandmother gave her long ago -- would be served for dinner. The concoction simmered throughout the day. I predicted that the meat would taste like chicken, but it possessed a sweetness recalling rabbit and was surprisingly tender. Just as Jeanne promised, soon after finishing the meal I felt a surge of new-found energy. Sleep would be impossible. So, I ventured into Roseau to sample the local night life. But the city's streets and bars were empty. It became apparent that frog hunting is night life in Dominica.
	TIPS FOR TRAVELLING IN Dominica Reaching Dominica takes tenacity. Fly either American or Continental to St. Maarten, then connect with an LIAT plane/scooter for the final hop. Contact William McLawrence at the Dominica Division of Tourism (809) 448-2045 to arrange a hunt. Mountain Chicken season lasts from September 1 until February 20. No special license is needed, yet. Guides cost $40 for a four-hour tour. Reservations are a must at The Hummingbird (449-1042). Rooms are $65, double occupancy. Owner Jeanne Finucane will make Mountain Chicken Stew with advance notice. Mountain Chicken can also be sampled at La Robe Creole, a restaurant located on Victoria Street, Roseau. Portsmouth offers slim pickings for accommodations. The Picard Beach Resort (445-5131), a clean and quiet property, offers the most amenities, but is expensive at $140 to $260 per night double occupancy. Inside Dominica Maps, facts, history, accommodation (including pricing), how to get there, and even how to get married there. Dominica Online Local news, where to stay, and what to do. David Wallis has written for "The New York Times," "Esquire" and "George." Illustrations by Federico Jordan, a freelance illustrator based in Mexico.