Les Chutes (Falls) de Cabret Guadeloupe Mar 5,2006

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Another day, another climb. The highest falls is 377 feet. Cows/Steers are everywhere tied next to the road I mean everywhere - including the city The rain forest is like a prehistoric garden of Giant plants with leaves like elephant ears This diagram shows how the clouds Rain on the windward side of the mountains The windward side contains the rain forest The shortest of the falls As first seen through the trees At the foot of the shortest falls A warm up for what was to come The tallest of the falls: 377 feet A stunning display of nature Clouds hide and reveal the falls Making them seem mystical Imagine the water flowing over the same rocks For millions of years On the way up, I avoid the mud On the way down, I am too tired to care “Chutes,” what a great word for water falls. It was another day and another climb. After spending two months on a boat, my legs and aerobic state were not in the greatest shape. I felt a dull throb in my legs from climbing Soufriere yesterday. But, I was here; the mountains were here, so what was I to do? Climb, I was to climb, that’s what I was to do, shape or no shape. On the way up, I did about 60 steps a minute (one a second); on the way down, I did about 100 steps per minute. That is, it took 67% longer to go up than to come down. It was harder to go up, but more dangerous to come down. The ground and rocks were always wet and slippery. More than once I landed on my but in the mud or on a rock. Slow down, take your time. Your fingers are just about healed, don’t break a leg or sprang an ankle now. It is another two and one-half hour climb. Is it more difficult than yesterday, or am I just more tired? My legs tell me not to do this; they have had enough. My mind says otherwise. It ignores the message to rest. It screams adventure, adventure. Don’t waste this opportunity. Go forth and conquer. And so I do. I forge streams, climb rocks, get soaked in rain, trudge through mud, and reach the most beautiful sight you can image. Falling 377 feet is a stream of pure mountain water, so pure, I don’t hesitate to drink it. It has just fallen from the sky. I expect to see a Perrier bottling plant right on sight. An interesting side note to the falls is that there were no black people present, none on the trail and none at the falls. Visiting the falls and hiking to exhaustion were clearly something only self actualizing white people did. There were, however, may black bicyclists on the roads, motivated perhaps by the “Tour de France.” There was a clear racial divide between both activities. On the narrow road, winding down from the Chute de Cabret, there was a local Creole restaurant. I needed sustenance; I needed a beer. When I entered, I was confronted by three wrinkled up old guys missing most of their teeth. Once we greeted each other, they were off and running. I couldn’t tell if they are speaking French, Creole, or Chinese. I tell them I don’t speak French; they proceed to bounce in their chairs with belly laughs. The empty spaces between their teeth take up more space than the teeth themselves. The best I can guess is that they barely spoke French, let alone English. I am pleased I could make them laugh. I choose to stay anyway; it’s all part of the adventure. The menu is a mystery. When I get home, I look up the words in my unabridged dictionary, nothing. It is all Creole. I do recognize “poulet,” chicken. It has an adjective “Colombo” after it. I have no idea what that is, but it has to be a Creole sauce of some kind. I order that. The waitress tells me that I also get an “assiette Creole” as an entrée. Entrees are appetizers, not a main course, in France. When the assiette Creole arrives, I recognize the lettuce, tomato, and shredded carrots. I do not recognize the little black tube tied at both ends that looks like a miniature water balloon. I poke it to see if it pops. No, it does not pop; it is sausage, but not your routine sausage; it is blood sausage. My first reaction is total rejection, but as I stare at it, my curiosity mounts. The locals clearly like it or it wouldn’t be served. “Go on try it,” I say to myself. I do. It’s not bad, but I wouldn’t say it is good either. I pass on the rest. When my chicken Colombo arrives, I don’t recognize it as food. It is camouflaged under a green canopy of gorilla mesh. After blood sausage, how bad can this be? I pour the chicken and its camouflage sauce over a bed of white rice. I dip my fork in and cautiously bring it to my mouth. I know this taste. It is not Creole; it is Indian curry. I now know that “Colombo” is a code word in Creole for curry. I must test this theory at another restaurant. It must have been good, because I used a piece of bread to mop the last bit of sauce from the serving plate. The French and the Europeans always eat with a fork in the left hand and knife in the right. They rarely put the knife down, using it as a shovel, pry bar, and knife. It is so much more efficient that the American way of picking up the knife and constantly switching hands between the knife and fork. I adopt the French way. Previous | Next