Month: January 2023

On Sunday, we took a giant, somewhat miscalculated walkabout to the backside of nowhere. It was pretty great.

Since we had a whole day with no other agenda, we schemed some kind of exploration to take us beyond what we’ve already seen. Hog Island seemed like a cool destination. It’s a small, undeveloped island reachable mostly by boat—if you have a boat—but also reachable by walking through Mt. Hartman National Forest, sanctuary of the critically endangered Grenada dove. Say no more.

We figured a bus could get us pretty close to Mt. Hartman, and we’d enjoy getting out of the city for a hike. We just didn’t estimate distances very well. We hopped off the bus and still had some walking before turning off at the Dove Sanctuary sign. As the road led out of town, the ratio of sheep to houses increased. The most common sheep we’re seeing here is the goat-looking Barbados Blackbelly sheep, an African-origin hair sheep (no wool) bred to survive heat, humidity, and parasites. Small fields of pigeon peas had scarecrows that looked like they might be outgrown school uniform shirts. There was an occasional cow. And dogs. Always dogs.

To Stella’s delight, the road was surfaced with pumice-y volcanic rocks. Soon, there were mostly trees lining the road. Even Andrew didn’t know the names of these trees, but some looked like they might grow bananas or papayas and many had fronds of tiny leaves and seed pods, sized from finger length to arm length.

We did not see any doves, which isn’t too surprising since there are only like 140 of them left in the world. The Grenada dove (Leptotila wellsi) is the National Bird of Grenada. They are, apparently, kind of chunky for a dove and, in my opinion, lovely. A thin black circle lines their eyes and they have white underside, light tan head and neck, with dark taupe wings and back. You can take a look at them and check out conservation efforts.

At some point—when the road tapered to a trail—we recalibrated. Hog Island was still a distance away, and while it sounded neat, the only way home after enjoying it would be retracing our steps. We veered right to follow the actual road, heading towards the peninsula of Lance aux Epines. This route took us through some seriously scrubby area, then an industrial area where a security guy eyeballed us—probably wondering how these tourists can get themselves so lost. After a turn through a narrow, woodsy stretch, we popped out by the immaculate Secret Harbour Boutique Hotel & Marina. Again and always, I am fascinated by the juxtaposition of things.

This slice of Grenada—Lance aux Epines—features many rental homes for vacationers and university folks and, as such, has a different vibe than our neighborhood. We wove our way up past some mansion-like houses perched in viewsy locations, then down past white people walking dogs on leashes and students waiting for the St. George’s University bus. With a bit of direction, we found the public access to Lance au Epines beach and sat in the shade of a palm for peanut butter sandwiches and mangoes. 

Swimming refreshed us, then we brushed off the sand, reapplied socks and sneakers, and zigzagged back to the main road to catch a #1 bus back home. It was Sunday, so most of the buses were having a rest day. A guy driving a bus marked #1, which was not running as a #1 bus that day, stopped anyway because he saw us looking like we were stuck needing a bus. He only runs as a #1 sometimes because most of his business is as a taxi for university people, which pays better. Anyway, after four miles of walking, we were grateful for the lift home, where we all had a siesta.

We have not given up on the idea of walking to Hog Island, or on seeing Grenada doves. At some point, we’ll give it another try.

There is arriving, and there is daily living. There are the basic questions our bodies are asking us. Most pressing: What’s for supper?

To be clear, we are not roughing it here. Our Villa has electricity and running water (albeit not recommended for drinking). The kitchen is equipped with necessities for cooking and eating. Even so, it’s been a while since we’ve had a completely naked-inside refrigerator. We brought some dry goods in our suitcases, including the mac & cheese, but needed to stock up on everything else.

Foodland—”Your Family’s Favourite Food Store!”—is an easy walk, just under half a mile down the main road. So far, it has been a good place for basic things, plus jugs of bottled water. Food prices here are generally higher than home, with some items being astonishingly expensive. Our menu choices will bend to what is most reasonably available. This island of spice grows crops like nutmeg, and local fare features curry flavors. Walking the neighborhoods, the smells of stewing curry and grilling meat hit you in waves.  

Within our family, we have a spectrum of palates. Stella prefers neutral tones, featuring vanilla and dairy products and predictability. She will try many new things as long as they are not fruit or fish or weird meat. Sam will eat any fruit, fish, or weird meat. He prefers to have some control over what and when he is eating. I will eat most things as long as they don’t disagree with my gut and are not things like fish eyeballs. Andrew will eat anything. Anything, I tell you.

St. George’s has a whole world of food beyond Foodland. On Day Two, Andrew and Sam headed out in pursuit of fruit and didn’t have to go far to find a stand along the street. They brought home passionfruit, mangoes, bananas, ripe plantains, limes, and a soursop that needed to ripen a few days. We’ve been squeezing limes into our water and tried the soursop today. The flesh is soft and fibrous, with a tangy flavor between papaya and melon or something. Its smooth black seeds remind us of pawpaws, but are smaller. Passionfruit is very seedy with a strong tart flavor all its own.

On Day Three, we all walked into downtown St. George’s, which is double the chaos of our own neighborhood and deserves its own blog posts. We delighted in the market, where we stocked up on the spices that make Grenada famous—nutmeg, curry, cinnamon, paprika, bay leaf, all sold in little baggies. We also bought produce—breadfruit, papaya, callaloo, cabbage, onions. One vendor, a woman about my age, was kind enough to explain the identity of some clumps of dried, squiggly, tan-colored stuff everyone was selling. Sea moss. She also explained how to make it into a smoothie, so I bought some.

Meanwhile, Andrew and Sam wove their way to the fish market. They returned with a tuna chopped into steaks, plus half the head, all packed on ice. That night we seared the tuna steaks for supper, then the next night, seasoned them into fish burritos with cabbage in lime dressing and a side of fried breadfruit, which tastes like potato.

As a treat, we sat down for lunch at BB’s Crabback Caribbean Restaurant—”I Can Resist Everything But Temptation”—in a lovely spot beside the harbor. As the food took an hour to be served, it was good practice in sitting still and taking in the light on the water and the salty breeze. We had the lunch special of creole fish or chicken, fried plantains, and rice & beans, and one order of mac & cheese and French fries. It was all delicious and soothing to the spirits.  

Not all our meals are so exotic, though. We are also eating spaghetti and peanut butter sandwiches, and the kids have tapped the pop tarts we brought. It seems true that where ever you go, there your appetite is.

We stepped down from the plane into the steamy heat on the tarmac of Maurice Bishop International Airport, then went inside, got our passports stamped, and grabbed our suitcases—all there—then rolled our suitcases back into the heat. Ray’s Taxi & Tours Service loaded us up and honked our way out of the airport. At the right turn onto Gray Stones Road, he stopped and put the little van into four-wheel drive to navigate the road’s steep pitch.

The Villa at Gray Stones Road is the second house on the right, a small cheerful yellow and blue house up on concrete blocks. A palm tree full of coconuts and anoles grows in the yard. We are nestled in a neighborhood of Grenadians. People walk by our open gate to catch a bus to work or get kids to school. Loose chickens patrol the yards.

Last evening, we walked back down to the curvy main road and followed it for five minutes to the nearest beach. To our rural sentiments, the traffic is bonkers. Chaos reigns the road, but people who are not us seem to understand the game, which involves a code of honks and shouts. The sidewalk is skinny and often tilted and sometimes there is a car parked on it and you need to wait for a break in traffic to dodge around it. Pressed against the sidewalk is a cement block wall part of the way, and some houses with tiny bars or shops or just porches adorned by laundry.

We walked single-file with Andrew leading and me in the rear with my cortisol surging. We turned down a paved road past a yard full of fruit trees—banana, breadfruit, mango—then emerged onto Mount Pandy beach. At least I think that’s what it’s called. Unlike the pure white sand of the famous Grand Anse beach, this one has some white sand and tiny dark pebbles. Just about ten feet from shore is some coral reef teeming with multi-colored fish, to our complete delight. Also unlike Grand Anse, this beach is littered with shells and occasional trash instead of sun-baked tourists. The only beach-goers besides us were a handful of Grenadians.

After swimming, we walked back to our Villa to change, then walked about half a mile to the FoodFair. We bought a few items, mostly jugs of water, since it’s not recommended to drink tap water here. Our day had started at three a.m., so the kids barely stayed awake long enough to eat mac & cheese before crashing. Andrew fell asleep fast, too, but I lay awake a long time listening to the dogs barking just outside our windows.  

On Day two, we walked the same road, opposite direction towards Grand Anse beach. We walked until a woman on a porch hollered and waved for us to turn right there to get to the beach, which was very obviously the destination of this white family. A pathway took us downhill onto the very nearest end of Grand Anse.

Stripping off shoes and socks, we followed the white sand as it curved towards the resorts and their umbrella chairs. We declined offers of chairs and drinks then spread our towels under a seagrape tree. We swam and sat. This beach is undeniably beautiful, but the kids were hungry. We walked off the beach past the Spiceland Mall to get some roti—a Grenadian classic that’s kind of a burrito with fillings of curried potatoes and meat.

To get home, we got the number one bus, which runs the main road between St. George’s and Grand Anse, right past our road. The bus is a white minivan. It has four rows of seats behind the driver. Four people per row, plus two passengers in front with the driver. Plus the guy I’m calling the Hustler, who handles the sliding door and jumps in and out to wrangle passengers. So that’s a full load of nineteen. When you get where you want, you tap a coin on the window, and the Hustler snaps his fingers at the driver who stops immediately. Then the passengers rearrange, getting out as needed to let people out, then squeezing back in. These buses go fast and honk a lot and lurch around corners, but other people’s shoulders hold you in place.

Crammed in and jostling along, I feel something beginning to shake loose in me. Maybe it’s the tight grip I keep on life’s details. The need for control. Maybe it’s the roti. These first days have been a full sensory overload. Each moment shouts at me: We are definitely here.