Our
charter cruises often took us to the beautiful island of Dominica in
the Leewards. Wild and primitive, her lush green mountains rise precipitously
from the sea, while deep, jagged ravines run inland from bays and coves
with black volcanic sand beaches. Of all the Windward Islands, Dominica,
with its verdant jungle, is perhaps the most naturally stunning.
The village of Portsmouth is situated
at the north end of the island in Prince Rupert Bay, a large natural
harbour giving superb shelter in most weather conditions. A long sandy
beach lined with coconut trees runs from the colourfully painted houses
and shops of the town to a heavily treed bluff to the north.
He
caught everyone's attention with the bit about Venus the belly bottle
dancer, and we leaned further over the rail to find out more.
Nestled in the rugged mountains above the village, a lush green valley
holds the only remaining enclave of Carib Indians. At the time of our
visit in 1973, they were perhaps the last living remnants of the once
war-like tribe that had ruled the islands of the Eastern Caribbean.
A company called Dominica Safaris began operations that year using zebra-stripped
Land Rovers, with drivers dressed in bush jackets and safari hats. They
drove tourists into the remote mountainous centre of the island to visit
jungle waterfalls and old plantations, the high point being a visit
to the Carib Indian reservation in the north.
The Jungle River runs inland from the
town of Portsmouth and we often ferried our guests there to see the
many species of exotic birds and dense tropical rainforest lining the
banks.
That Christmas in 1973, we anchored the Janeen in Portsmouth, and that
night we had the good fortune to see the remarkable "Venus"
at the Spotlight restaurant, the only entertainment establishment there
at the time.
Within a few minutes of the anchor hitting
the bottom, a fleet of little row boats, manned by young local lads,
came out to us with fresh fish, vegetables, straw hats and various handicrafts.
Some offered coral jewelry and turtle shells, while others had conch
and live lobsters. This floating carousel market circled around us,
eager to sell their wares.
One particular rowboat, slightly larger
than the others, came alongside with a very dark and distinguished-looking
gentleman sitting at the stern. He introduced himself as Mr. Lamb (he
pronounced it "Lumb"), the owner and operator of the Spotlight.
When he had gained the attention of a
few of our guests and crew, Mr. Lamb launched into a well-rehearsed
and animated pitch. "Come to de Spotlight restaurant. We have everyting;
steel band, limbo dance, Venus de belly bottle dancer, and bah-becue
Christmas mountain chicken," he said smiling and waving his arms.
Venus
began dancing around the small concrete floor while two assistants brought
out a flaming limbo stick.
He caught everyone's attention with the bit about Venus the belly bottle
dancer, and we leaned further over the rail to find out more.
"What does this Venus dancer do
then?" one of our passengers asked.
Mr. Lamb, obviously enjoying himself,
offered a more detailed explanation of his exclusive featured performer
and her main act.
"She does de belly dance, de limbo
dance and den she does mash up all de empty bottles in de resraunt,
an do de bottle dance pun de bruken glass," he finished emphatically.
This brought a few guffaws from guests and crew alike. It sounded as
though Mr. Lamb was a con artist trying to lure clients into his restaurant.
"Doan laugh, what I say is true,"
he said in earnest.
The host of our charter party turned
to my father in amazement. "You mean she dances on broken glass,
Skipper?"
"I guess. Do you want to go in and
find out?" he replied just as curious as he was. So seats were
booked at the Spotlight restaurant for the show and barbecue Christmas
mountain chicken dinner, whatever that was.
Generally the crew were not allowed ashore
during charters, but an exception was made this time so that my father,
my brother and I could witness this dubious-sounding event. The crew
gassed up the launch and cleaned it out in preparation for the evening's
ferry service.
At seven p.m., we made our run to the
beach in front of the Spotlight. It was calm and we put the bow to the
shore. Mr. Lamb had the area lit up with kerosene torches and the steel
band was already pinging away. The Spotlight was right on the water's
edge and built of woven coconut palm siding, with a thatched roof held
up by bamboo poles. Tables and chairs of roughly sawn local cedar timber
stood awkwardly in the sand, surrounding a 20-foot cement dance floor
in the centre.
The party was seated and rum punch with
hibiscus flowers popping out of each glass were served. The evening
menu was delightfully simple. You could choose rum punch or Carib beer,
and either mountain chicken with breadfruit, or the Christmas chicken
dish with rice and vegetables. Our guests chose the rice version. Mr.
Lamb then told us he had once visited America and been to a seafood
restaurant where you could choose your own live lobster straight out
of a tank. He was so impressed by this, that he installed his own program
along the same lines.
"Yeah man, you can choose you own
Christmas mountain chickens," he said proudly ushering our passengers
towards the back.
We followed him behind the bar to a dimly
lit corner. There sat a grotty chicken wire cage filled with dozens
of really huge frogs.
"Wait a minute, you said you were
serving chicken?" my father asked slightly taken aback.
"Yes, but dis is de famous Dominica
mountain chicken, a real delicticassy," Mr. Lamb said, equally
taken back that we did not immediately recognize his supposedly famous
dish. "We always eats it for Christmas."
Going to the corner he picked up two
broomsticks with three inch nails bound tightly to the ends, and smiling
expansively he handed them to two of our men.
"You got to jook de frogs you want
to eat and give dem to me," he explained, smiling.
Our charter party accepted this in good
spirits and we watched amused as they engaged in this bizarre activity.
The men tried to spear the big frogs through the mesh and whenever they
managed to jab one, Mr. Lamb would politely remove it from the end of
the stick and take it away to be cooked. The ladies in the group emphatically
declined, saying they would leave the spearing of the frogs to the "boys."
The "boys" found it wasn't
as easy as it looked. The agile frogs were definitely not about to sit
around and get skewered, and they hopped around making loud "rib-bit"
noises, spiritedly avoiding the deadly stick.
The men worked up quite a sweat as they
jabbed away, doing double-duty to catch ones for their wives. They prevailed
over the fast-moving frogs in the end and returned to their seats.
As the rum took effect, no one seemed
to bother much about the swarms of biting mosquitoes buzzing about,
and our guests sat at their table and waited for the waitresses to bring
their mountain chicken. The frog legs were fried and tasted just like
small chicken drumsticks. The steel band banged away and we were all
beginning to get a little impatient when Mr. Lamb finally announced
that the show was about to begin.
The long-awaited Venus finally appeared
on the stage, amidst a fanfare of whistles and clapping hands. Attired
in a very skimpy bikini with scores of sparkling sequins, she was a
beautifully shaped young woman with skin black as ebony. Her dark skin
glistened in the dim light and her gold-capped teeth sparkled when she
smiled.
Venus began dancing around the small
concrete floor while two assistants brought out a flaming limbo stick.
With the encouragement of the audience, she managed to navigate this
at an impossibly low level. After this she jumped to the sandy floor
searching the audience for an unsuspecting helper. My brother and I
managed to leap behind the bamboo partition just in time and we watched
from this position as Venus pounced on one of our unfortunate charter
guests and dragged him to the dance floor where she gyrated seductively,
much to his embarrassment. The other men found this tremendously amusing,
but the wives weren't looking any too happy and glared venomously.
Finally, the steel band slowed to a steady
beat and Venus's two assistants placed a white canvas on the dance floor.
They then made a round of the restaurant with two cardboard boxes, collecting
the empty beer, rum and wine bottles that had been consumed during the
evening (which amounted to quite a few).
As we looked on in amazement, they broke
the bottles into a deadly mass of jagged edges, and swept them to the
centre of the stage. The jagged glass was clearly visible from where
we were sitting and there was no evidence of concealment or chicanery
on anyone's part.
The steel band picked up momentum again
and without warning, Venus suddenly jumped barefoot onto the glass.
There was a cry of horror from everyone even though this had been somewhat
expected. The band beat a lively rhythm and Venus danced away. Her feet
stomped up and down in the glass and she wiggled and squirmed while
clapping her hands. There was no hesitation on her part and she actually
seemed to be enjoying it, smiling and laughing all the while.
She put a wooden chair on the stage and
stood on it before leaping down into the glass again without sustaining
a single cut (from what we could tell). She then made her most audacious
move. Her two assistants were strong-looking men of good stature and
probably weighed quite a bit. Venus lay down in the broken glass and
writhed around while one of the assistants stood on her stomach. He
was a sensible fellow and wore his shoes.
To this day, I don't know how Venus managed
her act without being horribly injured. After the show, she went from
table to table displaying her smooth unblemished skin to all. Some of
us went to check the glass as they were cleaning it up, only to find
it was real enough.
As the years went by and we continued
to sail the Windward Islands, I took many people to the Spotlight restaurant
in Portsmouth for mountain chickens and we were always amazed by Venus
and her bottle dance. One year Mr. Lamb's place unfortunately burned
down and we never saw him again. No one in the islands ever heard what
happened to the mysterious Venus or where she went, but she certainly
had an unusual talent. I am still baffled, but there are some things
in life that just can't be explained. And the frog legs? I have to admit
that I haven't had any since then. 
