Water Colors Ferrying among the Caribbean islands proves culturally enriching. By Gary Lee The Washington Post Sunday, October 19, 1997; Page E01

I would like to attribute my ability to identify these colors with such precision to that gift poets have of capturing nuances of nature and translating them into simple, tangible terms. In truth, I borrowed the color names from a chart I brought from my neighborhood paint store.

On earlier Caribbean sojourns I had realized that colors -- from the regency blue waters on the shores of Grand Cayman to the peppermint pink cottages along the coast of Bermuda -- are what makes this necklace of islands sparkle. During this trip, I wanted to be able to assign the proper label to every gem of nature that grabbed my attention -- bright orange bougainvillea petals, lemon yellow warbler's feathers, and all. The color chart would serve as my glossary.

But I also hoped it would help me fulfill the secret mission of my two-week tour of the Caribbean horizon. I wanted to see -- really see -- the Green Flash.

To behold that magical flash of emerald, which makes infrequent appearances at the moment of sunset across the Caribbean Sea, is a cherished dream of every frequent visitor to these parts. The Flash, a natural phenomenon, lasts no more than a second and a half. Its

appearance, according to aficionados, depends on the complete absence of clouds and a certain combination of light and greenery along the shore. In six years of Caribbean travel, I had seen it just once, from the veranda of my vacation home in Tobago.

Like my first taste of beer or the smell of my mother's favorite perfume, the memory of that green sunset stayed with me for a long while. Still, I could not for the life of me recall its exact color. Was it the deep green of shamrocks, the soft hue of mints or the turquoise-like shade of a lagoon? The chart would help me pinpoint it precisely.

And so it was with the chart stretched before me, Armani sunshades stuck on like goggles and Orioles cap perched overhead, that I made my way over water among the Lesser Antilles, the group of islands stretching south from Puerto Rico. I had pushed off in a warm summer rain from the frenetic port of San Juan and ended two weeks later in the bustling city of Castries, St. Lucia. Along the way, I made stops on five other islands -- Antigua, Guadeloupe, Marie-Galante, Dominica and Martinique.

Ferry was my principal means of getting from one place to the other. Cheaper than planes, less glamorous than ocean liners, the small passenger boats that run regularly in these parts are the transport of choice for many locals. I selected them for that reason: to give me the opportunity to huddle among Guadeloupeans as they fanned out for a break in Martinique or to rub shoulders with vacationers from St. Lucia making their way home. The ferry also gave me more flexibility and control than I would have had on a cruise ship. By whiling a few days at each stop I was able to breathe in the spirit of an island much more easily than I could during the brief stops that most cruisers make. When I was ready to move on, I would simply go to the ferry office, usually located at the main port, and buy a ticket for the next destination.

Above all, puttering around in small boats provided me with a close-up perspective that would have been impossible to experience from the air. On the fourth day of my trip, for example, as the boat hugged the coast of Guadeloupe, I spied a stunning diva sunning on the beach. Gazing ashore, I stopped just short of yelling to the captain to stop the ship, let down a lifeboat and leave me ashore. I continued staring as we chugged past, my pangs of regret slightly softened by the satisfaction that my color chart had come in handy. The silky skin of that unsuspecting sunbather, it told me, was definitely toasted almond.

Later in the journey, a couple of hours after pushing off from the harbor at Pointe-a-Pitre, Guadeloupe, a commanding hunk of stone, covered by a sweep of pea-green plants, towered before us. I had seen mountains before, but never one that jutted so majestically from the midst of steely blue waters. I could do nothing but stand there helplessly while my jaw dropped. When a fellow passenger saw my reaction he leaned over and explained that what we were passing was the Morne Diablotin, one of the many natural wonders of the island of Dominica.

After a week of island-hopping, however, of lugging my backpack from ferry to ferry and lingering wistfully over sunsets from seven different shores, I had yet to see the Green Flash. Not from the cafe where I sat among the elegant eggshell white mansions gracing the port at Old San Juan. Not from the peak at Antigua, with their stunning view of the volcano coughing up smoke on nearby Montserrat. Not from the modern dockside water fountain in the Dominican capital of Roseau.

By the time the boat to Fort-de-France landed, the hacienda color had spread from the waters to the cityscape and across the clear skies overhead. A group of Martinique school children were jostling for a view of the sunset, but I stood my ground, watching the ball of apricot fire fall silently beneath the sea. It was near perfect, I thought, complete except for one missing element. No Green Flash.

Aesthetic appeal aside, the stark, pure colors of the Caribbean seem to be a kind of metaphor for the raw emotions commonly expressed among residents of these parts. The Campari-red flamboyants blossoming all the way from Anguilla to Trinidad recall the fiery spirit that inevitably emerges whenever locals gather. The blue waters everywhere reflect that "Don't Worry, Be Happy" nonchalance that islanders are known for. The sweeps of mint and cucumber colored trees and plants that blanket the region captured the fresh, optimistic outlook of many islanders I met.

In a few days out among islanders, I encountered more expressions of earnest feeling than I heard in a year inside the Beltway. I think of Lydia, a waitress in La Canne a Sucre, a cozy restaurant in Pointe-a-Pitre. When a dinner guest declined to eat his magret de canard, a house specialty, Lydia expressed disbelief, rejection, hurt, shock. No explanation, including the fact that the diner had simply lost his appetite, could calm her hurt that he had pushed back his duck uneaten.

Later in the trip, a local vocalist performing on the veranda of the Orange Grove, a quaint, mountainside hotel in St. Lucia, struck me as the personification of mellow. In the course of three hours, he covered every song the crowd knew, from Bob Dylan to George Michael, all with a singsong Caribbean twist.

In San Juan, where parties seems to sprout like mangrove trees, I met the embodiment of free spirit. It came in the form of a group of young Latinos, who arrived at the club Amadeus around midnight and broke straight into a lively rendition of the Macarena. Before the night was over, they had done masterly performances of the salsa, the electric side and nearly every other dance I had ever heard of.

A few days later, over a glass of local beer at a free-wheeling song-and-dance-scene party in Antigua, it occurred to me that this easy tendency to express passionate feelings out loud is what attracts many North Americans to islanders. Confronted with a Jamaican smiling as wide as Montego Bay or a St. Lucian who greets a would-be disaster with a shrug, we are charmed into letting that stiff upper lip break into a smile.

This bit of wisdom occurred to me while standing along the sidelines of Antigua's Shirley Heights, an abandoned fort with a spectacular view of the ocean, where European and American tourists are invited every Sunday for a chance to mingle with locals. At first, the mood reminded me of a junior high school dance, with the tourists on one side and the locals on the other. As the rum began to flow, and the steel band swung into a rendition of "My Way," a few of the visitors began to laugh and mingle. Before long, a group of European women had joined a band of local men in a spirited dance.

Surrounded first by Puerto Ricans, then Antiguans, Dominicans and eventually St. Lucians, I gained a fresh appreciation for the phrase people of color. Nowhere I had seen a wider range of skin tones, from the residents of Antigua, who are often the hue of dark cocoa beans to the cafe-au-lait colored residents of Les Saintes, the small string of islands off the coast of Guadeloupe. If other Caribbean outposts are considered, the spectrum of colors is even broader. Citizens of St. Barthelemy, descended from immigrants from the northern climates of Brittany and Normandy, tend to be blond and blue-eyed, for example. Tobagonians, in contrast, sometimes have skin so dark and delicate it is almost blue.

In most cases, the skin tones of residents of the Caribbean islands depend on the extent of mixing between Europeans, blacks, and other races. Originally inhabited by Carib and Arawak Indians, the islands I visited were conquered by European powers between the 16th and 19th centuries. Eventually, all of the colonial powers imported slaves from Africa as laborers in the sugar and tobacco plantations.

Over time, islanders of African and European dissent mixed. On Guadeloupe, for example, the intermarriage between light-skinned Frenchmen and Africans was widespread. As a result, the range of skin hues among Guadeloupeans is wide. During three days there, I met locals as dark as brown sugar, as light as pancakes, as deep toned as coffee grinds or as pink as carnations.

The mixing of cultures has not seemed to soften the sense of racial pride that pervades the Caribbean. The strength of that pride first occurred to me while looking at street signs in Guadeloupe and Martinique. In nearly every neighborhood and village on both islands, there is a road or plaque dedicated to the memory of Victor Schoelcher, the 19th-century revolutionary who led the fight against slavery in the French West Indies.

By far the starkest sign of that pride was in the marble statue of Josephine, Napoleon's wife, located in La Savane, the park in the middle of Fort-de-France, Martinique's capital. Although born on the island, she is blamed for the reimposition of slavery for a brief period in the French West Indies in the early 1800s, an act that Martinicans seem not to have forgotten. As a sign of their appreciation, a group of locals slashed off the head of the statue and dripped a bucket of paint over the neck. The color of the paint, according to my chart, was blood.

Four laid-back evenings into my stay in Martinique, over a sumptuous dinner of Coquille St. Jacques, langoustines and chocolate mousse at La Villa Creole, I concluded that the cuisine of this French outpost -- and that of neighboring Guadeloupe -- is the best in the Caribbean.

It was a sweeping assessment, which I have been given the chutzpah to make by the glass of Martinican rum and lime juice I drank as an appetizer and the robust bottle of Bordeaux I shared with my friend Luc, who had joined me for the last leg of the trip.

As "departments," or outlying regions of France, both islands continue that spare-no-cream-or-butter tradition perfected in the Motherland. But they combine it with the fish, a collard-green-like vegetable called callaloo and other dishes favored in the Caribbean.

During six years of extensive travel through the region, I have encountered few better restaurants than those on these islands. While not gourmet, La Villa Creole, in Les Trois-Ilets, served up as good a meal as you could find at a reputable Paris bistro.

With my ferry trip drawing to a close -- only a stop in St. Lucia was left -- I was moved to make some comparisons of the places I had seen. One advantage of touring by ferry was the insight it allowed me into the peculiar features of a half-dozen different cultures. Moving every few days from one country to another, from recently liberated British colonies to far-flung extensions of France, I was struck by how diverse the islands were.

It did not take much more than a day-long hike through Dominica for me to see that it lies further off the beaten trek than any other stop I would make. Long a favorite of hikers, backpackers and scuba divers, it has managed to avoid the commercialization that some of its neighbors gladly indulged. Standing in the doorway of the Methodist church at the corner of Cross Street and Virgin Lane in Roseau, looking out beyond scattered cottages and a handful of strollers, I felt as if I was in the center of a photograph taken in the 1950s.

In contrast, Guadeloupe and Martinique offered about the same level of style and chic as the Cote d'Azur, the essence of trendiness in southern France. Sitting among vacationing Frenchmen on the veranda of the Auberge de la Vieille Tour in the Guadeloupean village of Gosier, I had been strongly tempted to call off my sojourn and stay put.

The hotel was by far the most lush and well run I stayed in during the trip. The beaches, covered with fine sand, whose color was a soft light brown described on my chart as Pralines N' Cream, were a short walk away. A wide range of French and Creole restaurants were even nearer. In all, for vacationers who wanted to stay in one place, the setting seemed ideal.

Meanwhile, at La Villa Creole, when the Bordeaux bottle was empty and the last of the mousse gone, Guy Bruere-Dawson brought me back to reality. Doubling as the restaurant's owner and key entertainer, he strode onstage with his guitar. In a voice as strong as a summer rainstorm, he brought the room to tears with renditions of songs by French singer Edith Piaf. I ordered another drink and raised a toast to Martinique. An 11th day had passed without a view of the Green Flash. As I sipped my rum and turned toward Bruere-Dawson settling into another tune, however, it did not seem to matter.

Here was a thin man in a straw hat hawking goat's meat, there a buxom woman peddling handmade baskets. Further along were tables of mangoes, limes and papayas, and a dozen different kinds of fresh seafood. Closing my eyes, I took in a deep whiff. The aroma, a bittersweet mix of fruit plucked off the vine and fish pulled straight from the sea, told me that I had arrived in the heart of the Caribbean.

This was the central market in Castries, St. Lucia, one of the best stocked and busiest in the islands. It was so rich in smells and sights that Luc and I were drawn to it like bees to a bed of bougainvillea. Having arrived in a rainstorm on the previous day aboard a ferry from Martinique, we had spent the evening huddled over tea and fish soup, lamenting the lack of sun.

But we had only three days left on this Caribbean voyage and we wanted to squeeze it out to the end. A local man standing in front of the marketplace apparently read our thoughts.

"Want to make an island tour, mon?" he asked. "My name is Pascal. I can show you sulfur emitting from the earth and other things you things you never dreamed about. And I can do it cheaper than any other guide on the island."

I took a hard look into his eyes. Despite his youth, Pascal looked weathered by sun and wind, which told me he was probably a reliable worker. Within minutes we were huddled in the back of his white van, headed south. Our destination was the town of Soufriere, home to a volcano and a sulfur springs.

It was a two-hour drive along a hilly coastal road, providing us with dramatic views of fishing villages and the ocean below. Twice we could not resist stopping.

The first time was for a coffee break at a roadside stand overlooking the village of Canaries. Although not listed among St. Lucia's major attractions, its white sandy beaches and multicolored cottages grabbed my attention. Reaching for my camera, I was chagrined to learn that I had run out of film. I made a mental note to buy some in Soufriere and click a few shots on the way back north.

The second stop was to behold the Pitons. Twin peaks formed by a volcanic eruption 30 to 40 million years ago, they rise above the island in the shape of two perfectly shaped cones, covered by tropical vegetation. Against the background of banana plantations and small villages, they seemed like sentries, keeping the spirit of St. Lucia alive.

When the French colonized St. Lucia in the mid-1600s, they made Soufriere the capital. The British, the ruling power here until the country gained its independence in 1979, move the capital to Castries. But the French influence still lingers over the small fishing village. Many streets carry French names and when locals gather over wine, they often fall into French dialect.

For all of its rustic charm, the village is dwarfed by the nearby sulfur springs, which receive hundreds of visitors a day. Advertised as a walk-in volcano, the springs date to the same volcanic eruption that created the Pitons. The eruption shattered the walls of the volcano. Now the curious can drive or walk in.

Before Pascal pulled his van up to the entrance, we knew exactly when we were nearing it. Our warning came from the stench of the sulfur, reminiscent of rotten eggs.

Still, the spectacle of the springs was remarkable. It consists of about 20 pools of black sulfurous waters belching up underground at temperatures that would instantly sear human flesh. In fact, a few years back, a guide jumped up, fell into one of the springs and boiled to death while the crowd looked on helplessly. Since then, visitors are kept at a distance, behind a fence a couple of dozen feet away from the springs. Die-hard enthusiasts can romp around in a nearby stream that is blended with the sulfur and other minerals.

Following the visit we made a whirlwind tour of the area, including a walk through a tropical botanical garden, an early dinner of pumpkin soup and fish cakes, and a stop to buy film at a drugstore.

I was eager to return to Marigot Bay, a tree-covered cove at the other end of the island, for a rum punch and a view of the sunset. When Pascal acknowledged that the return trip would be impossible to make so quickly, I resigned myself to another day without the Green Flash.

As if to compensate, the clouds that had been hanging overhead lifted, providing a clear view over the regal blue waters, with white foam folding over them. It was such a picture-perfect evening that I insisted that Pascal stop at the Canaries overlook for a photo opportunity.

Down below, the villagers seemed to be winding down a day's work, lulling along the beach or wandering home. The orange-red ball of fire was just dropping beneath the ocean when it happened.

"Hey, look," I yelled, nearly bursting with excitement over what was happening at sea. But by the time Luc and Pascal glanced around, the strip of green, a deep but soft hue appropriately identified on my color chart as Italian dusk, had already glowed in full brilliance, and passed.

See the Details box for the Caribbean on Page E8.

Details : The Caribbean

GETTING THERE: For those interested in ferrying, I suggest flying to Guadeloupe and proceeding by water from there. (I departed from San Juan, but ferry service out of Puerto Rico is irregular.) American Airlines is quoting a round-trip fare from Washington to Pointe-a-Pitre, Guadeloupe, of about $675, with restrictions. For not much more, you can fly back from the final ferry stop, whether it be St. Lucia or another island. 1/4

GETTING AROUND: From Guadeloupe, the Caribbean Express (011-590-83-04-03) in Pointe-a-Pitre operates service to Dominica. The journey takes 21/2 hours and costs about $68. From Dominica, the same company runs boats going to Martinique, and from there to St. Lucia. Fares and duration of ferry travel are similar to the Guadaloupe-Dominica leg. Shorter, cheaper trips from Pointe-a-Pitre are also possible to Marie-Galante and Les Saintes, both under the jurisdiction of Guadeloupe. Those daily trips are made by a couple of companies, including the Transport Maritime Brudley Freres (011-590-90-04-48) from downtown Pointe-a-Pitre. Departures from Guadeloupe are from the nearby central port. Ferry reservations are helpful but not required. 1/4

WHERE TO SAY: For most of my trip, I opted for moderately priced accommodations that were convenient to bopping around by boat.

In Guadeloupe, I started out at the Hotel St. John Anchorage (011-590-82-51-57) in downtown Pointe-a-Pitre, three blocks from the ferry dock and affordable at $78 double with breakfast. Lots of little things didn't seem to work, however, such as the hot water. When I complained, the desk clerk responded, "You're not in France."

I then moved to the Auberge de la Vieille Tour (011-590-84-23-23) in Gosier, just outside of the capital city. It is a wonderful oceanside hotel exuding charm and elegance. Starting at $178 for double rooms, including breakfast, it is worth every penny.

In Antigua, I stayed at Club Antigua (1-800-777-1250). My only all-inclusive lodging during the trip, it was a mixed experience. The rooms were basic, with neither phones nor TVs. However, the food was good, the drinks flowed and the staff was friendly. At $100 a night, it was a bargain.

In Dominica, I stayed at the Sutton Place Hotel (25 Old St., 809-449-8700), a nicely decorated and efficiently run hotel a few blocks from the port in the capital city of Roseau. The service was great, and its restaurant and bar seem to have a local following. Double rooms start at $97 a day, including breakfast.

In Martinique, I overnighted first at La Pagerie Mercure (1-800-221-4542) in the island's Trois Ilets section. It has probably seen better days but is nonetheless clean and neat and has a great swimming pool. Doubles, with breakfast, are going for $99.

I later moved to La Petite Auberge (011-596-62-59-70) in Ste. Luce. It is a cozy guest house arranged around a reliable French restaurant and a swimming pool. The small double rooms started at about $45 a night.

In St. Lucia, I stayed at the Orange Grove (758-452-9040), a moderate-size mountainside place with a nice swimming pool and a warm ambiance. The rate for a double is about $77, including tax. Those opting for an all-inclusive plan, with drinks and good meals, are charged $77 a day per person, including tax. An excellent choice for budget travelers.

For those interested in renting a villa or house on an island, I suggest Island Hideaways (1-800-832-2302), a Maryland rental service that offers an extensive range of elegant homes throughout the Caribbean.

WHERE TO EAT: On Martinique, La Villa Creole, in Les Trois Ilets, is a good, romantic choice. Owner Guy Bruere-Dawson serves tasty local dishes, including langoustines and shrimp, as well as some great French standbys like coq au vin. Dinner with wine and dessert came to about $90 for two.

For special occasion, Le Fromager, overlooking the red roofs in the wonderful town of St. Pierre, can't be beat. The atmosphere is soothing, the food delicious. I had an avocado vinaigrette and a plate of marinated octopus. For two, with wine, the tab came to $80.

On Guadeloupe, Le Flibustier (between Ste. Anne and St. Felix) is a festive place with a buccaneer theme. In spite of the touristy feel of the place, the food is quite good. I had a pate appetizer followed by a big lobster and a hearty salad. For two, with wine, the tab was $100.

On St. Lucia, lunch at Camilla's (12 Boulevard St.), in the southern town of Soufriere, was tasty. I had a hearty pumpkin soup and a salad made from fresh fish. For two, the bill was $22.

Otherwise, for good home cooking, try one of the small eateries specializing in local cuisine down by the central market place in Castries.

INFORMATION:

Caribbean: Caribbean Tourism Organization, 212-682-0435, http://www.caribtourism.com

Guadeloupe: French West Indies Tourist Board, 900-990-0040 (50 cents a minute), http://www.france tourism.com

Antigua: Antigua and Barbuda Department of Tourism, 212-541-4117, http://www.antigua-barbuda.org

Dominica: Dominica Tourist Office, 212-475-7542

Martinique: Martinique Tourist Board, 1-800-391-4909, http://www

.martinique.org

St. Lucia: St. Lucia Tourist Board, 1-800-456-3984.

-- Gary Lee

© Copyright 1997 The Washington Post Company

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