Suprise! North Again!

Please understand, it’s not we who change our minds, it’s the weather that gets all moody. From wanting to put the Grenadines under a pall, it decided instead to harrass Grenada and Trinidad. (It had probably heard about our altered plans.)

We learned this from Chris Parker’s report on Wednesday morning. We were still in Tyrrel Bay having spent another night listening to the wind’s lament and the rain’s fury. Dampness was everywhere. The few pieces of laundry hung on the lifelines to dry had grown, over the days, to such an extent that it is surprising we still had clothing to wear. All of it drooping moistly, just as wet or wetter than when it had first felt a clothespin.

WW went into captain mode. He decided we would head north to the Grenadines. First we needed to clear out from Grenada. He took Boffo in and caught the EC $3 bus rather than an EC $35 taxi to Hillsborough and the customs and immigration office. In the pouring rain, of course. I stayed aboard, closed hatches, scrubbed soles, and tried to reach our guests to have them revert to Plan A. For some reason, my phone wouldn’t work. It and WW’s are on the same plan...Rogers hates me. Contacting the guests had to wait for his return but we got through at once and the required information was exchanged. It was 10 a.m.

Now all we had to do was get from Carriacou to Admiralty Bay, Bequia, a run of about 35 nm. We could clear into St. Vincent there, in Port Elizabeth, then cross over to Lagoon Marina in Blue Lagoon, St. Vincent, to meet our guests in the evening.

We cleared the northern Tyrrel Bay headland at 10:30 a.m. and set a course that would take us past Union Island and south of the Tobago Cays. Then we’d have a nice reach straight up to Bequia. We watched the foul weather and Carriacou recede and the fair weather over Union Island ahead. Sitting on deck, I was suddenly bathed in sunlight. I actually whooped for joy.

What lay astern over Carriacou

What lay ahead over Union Island

Off the Tobago Cays lies the extensive and mean World’s End Reef. Strong currents run through the North and South Mayreau Channels on either side of it. Waves that have worked their way from Africa pile up on its eastern edge then try to fight their way back. The waters are...active. The going there was a bit rollercoasterish. WW said we’d change course and raise sails after we were our of “this maelstrom”. That happened shortly after 2 p.m.

The mainsail went up first, then the genny. WW shut down the port engine, but kept the starboard going at fairly low revs. We wanted to get to Admiralty Bay before full dark. The winds were 16 to 20 nm/h right on our starboard quarter. WW trimmed the sails, tweaked and adjusted. I was below when he leaned in to grab the camera. “I want a photo of our wake at 8 knots,” he announced with pride.

Django's wake at 8 knots

Django's SOG (speed over ground)

I snoozed for half an hour then came on deck. Things had changed. The wind had shifted and we’d slowed a bit as a result, still making 5 or 6 knots. Over the Atlantic, weather was arriving. We could see Bequia about 10 nm ahead, Mustique off to starboard. We plowed on. We took the sails in as we saw the black clouds draw nearer. At about 4:15 p.m., the squall hit.

Wicked squall coming at us from Bequia

WW, at the wheel, was drenched in seconds. I went out long enough to establish I didn’t want to be there. We both kneeled on the saloon bench and peered out the forward hatches into the murk. Visibility was less than 5 nm since the plotter said that was the distance to Bequia and we couldn’t see land. Finally, it began to clear. We were right on course to clear West Cay and hang a starboard into Admiralty Bay.

We made our way slowly into the crowded Port Elizabeth harbour. It was too dark for us to try to pick up a mooring, so we dropped our hook. It dragged. We took it in and dropped it again. It dragged. We went to sleep with the anchor alarm on, letting us know if we’ve moved more than 0.01 nm from our position when it is set. It went off several times during the night as we moved gently out into the bay. There was no one behind us, lots of room to drag.

This morning, we raised anchor, tied down Tramp, and headed for St. Vincent. WW decided it would be just as easy to make the short crossing, get into Lagoon Marina and take a bus or taxi to Kingstown to clear in.

So, here we are, almost to Kingstown. I’d best go crew.

Arriving at St. Vincent

Weather...or Not

Django and friends in Tyrrel Bay, Carriacou

We awoke on Saturday morning in plenty of time for Chris Parker’s weather forecast from the Caribbean Weather Center aboard his vessel Bel Ami (which, being an American, he pronounces Bellamy). He said the southeast Caribbean was in the midst of an enhanced tropical wave and that another, extending from the Azores to Guyana, was moving down across the Atlantic. He predicted a day or two of peace in midweek before this second system washed over our area.

Before going further, I need to explain that a tropical wave has nothing to do with a row of people on an island with palm trees standing up, waving their arms, and sitting again in sequence. Here beginneth the lesson (and bear with me, I’ll do my best but I’m no meteorologist).

It’s all about keeping the middle warm. When the equator gets too warm, the world has a very clever cooling mechanism, better known as a tropical cyclone (called hurricanes in the Americas, typhoons in the Orient). These form when heat at the equator hasn’t been moved to the poles efficiently enough and water temperatures rise. These cyclones consume vast amounts of energy and leave cooling in their wake.

Your basic tropical cyclone begins life as a little tropical wave which is a westerly moving weather system or trough. A combination of water temperature (over 80F) and wind characteristics allow this little proto-cyclone to develop a bit of muscle and vertical growth. Then the Coriolis effect, produced by the earth’s rotation, kicks in to give it spin, at which point the system is called a tropical depression (no, it’s not sad, it is just a low-pressure area). From this state it can then advance to become a tropical storm and, eventually, a tropical cyclone. The distinctions are mainly in the wind speeds.

Ok, now that I’ve alarmed you all by using the H-word, let me reassure you that the vast majority of tropical waves never get past kindergarten. They can only dream of the tropical depression they will never be. That said, they are still pretty dreary things to be sitting in the middle of. Mind you, WW went on a provisioning run and said to the shopkeeper, “Nasty weather.”

“What?” she said. “It’s not nasty, it’s cooool.”

Which is true. Even a little baby tropical wave is a very effective cooling device. So if you’re into howling winds and hammering rain broken by intermittent periods of lowering clouds and calm, a tropical wave is where you want to be. Oh, and this pleasure persists for several days.

I’m not sure what an enhanced tropical wave is, but if Chris Parker says this one is enhanced, I believe it.

This morning (Monday, November 17), Mr. Parker launched his weather report with “The weather in the southeastern Caribbean is nasty.” He then narrowed the focus to the Grenadines. Well, Carriacou is geopolitically part of Grenada, but geographically, it is one of the Grenadines. And here we are. He said that we are in an intertropical convergence zone (or ITCZ as we in the know term it)...whatever that may be. I think he really nailed the general term to cover the whole experience: nasty.

But nasty in a “sitting on a boat in the Caribbean” sort of way, not in a “middle of a blizzard with no power” sort of way.

By way of breaking the boat-bound monotony, we went for a lovely long walk today, up into the hills behind Tyrrell Bay and down to the south where we had a magnificent view out over the sea to Grenada.

View south toward Grenada

WW remembers visiting here some 20 years ago and meeting with locals in their tiny one- or two-room shacks back in the hills, all cleared areas littered with turtle shells. Today, only crumbling cement work marks where most of these dwellings have gone; larger houses are in vogue. And the turtle shells have been replaced by a horde of free-ranging goats.

The Goat Family is receiving

He found almost no trace of the Carriacou of his memory. It was, regardless, a lovely walk and we lunched at the Carriacou Yacht Club on our way back to Django.

The road down to Tyrrel Bay

As I mentioned earlier, there’s more weather on the way, with that second tropical wave moving down straight for us. So we’ve talked with our guests and will now meet them in Grenada instead of St. Vincent. Yes, we are going to turn around and run away. Pathetic. What would Captain Aubrey say?

He’d probably commend us for choosing the lesser of two weevils.

The Run to Carriacou

We raised anchor at about 9 a.m. and motored north along Grenada’s west coast. I had hoped we might be able to pass Sauteurs and head north so as to see the natural stone arch London Bridge, just north of Grenada. The wind was against the idea. It was blowing between 15 nm/h and 20 nm/h and we’d be heading into the teeth of it. We altered course and headed straight up for Tyrrel Bay. And straight over Kick ‘Em Jenny.

We were not alone. A ship and a monohull that was able to point far closer to the wind than poor Django, left us in their wakes as they skimmed over the submerged volcano.

A ship passing us en route to Kick 'em Jenny and beyond

I confess, I cannot report much about the crossing. I had taken a motion sickness prevention pill before we left Gouyave and it knocked me for a loop. I think I slept 16 of the next 24 hours. I do know there was a pretty ferocious squall, with winds gusting to 35 nm/h. The man who won’t use the camera took a picture as it bore down on us.

Squall coming from Carriacou

We were in Tyrrel Bay on Carriacou by lunchtime. We attempted to anchor, but the skipper was nervous in such crowded quarters. Tyrrel Bay is a hotspot for cruisers who, with their boats, congregate there in the dozens. Weather was in the forecast and many had ducked into the safe and sheltered anchorage to wait out the blow. A mooring bobbing by our side solved the problem. We picked it up and settled in.

While I carried on with my intensive sleeping, WW managed to put a couple of extra lines on the mooring. The wind howled, the rain pelted down. We spent our time opening hatches when the rain stopped and battening down when it started again. The wind blew up to 30 nm/h, moaning and wailing through the rigging and around our hulls.

The night brought more of the same. In the following hours, I would learn about tropical waves and intertropical convergence zones and...well, Basic Meteorology for the Tropical Sailor. Naturally, I’m willing to share...in the next post.

Northward Bound

We left Root Rocks and headed up (given a choice, WW always seems to choose the uphill route to any destination) to a road that runs along the hill above the Carenage, following this, we found a flight of stairs down and made our way back to Wharf Road. As we reached it, the rain began. We were a short dash from Nutmeg, a restaurant we had eaten at before and right next to the supermarket we needed to visit.

A Carib beer, a fish sandwich (his) and a BLT (hers) managed to occupy the time the rain fell with typical tropical force. It had worn itself out as we headed out, finished up our provisioning purchases, and walked back to the yacht club and Boffo.
We prepared for immediate departure, stashing the foods, slinging Boffo on her davits, replacing lifelines, tying down Lady, raising the anchor, tying down Tramp.

Why the hustle? We were expecting guests on November 19. They would be arriving on St. Vincent and here we were, a week away with a weekend in the way. We needed to get from Grenada to Carriacou, clear out of Grenada, head to Union Island, clear into St. Vincent and the Grenadines, get to Bequia, then get to Lagoon Marina where we’d arranged to pick up our guests. Sounds like time enough, but there’s always the weather to consider. So far, it had been glorious. The odd tropical rainstorm is not unreasonable in the wet season. The wind was not doing us any favours, and you just never know...

So we’d decided to get a jump on our crossing to Carriacou by heading up the Grenada coast to Gouyave, saving us several hours the next day on our run to Tyrrel Bay, Carriacou. So, up anchor and off we went.

*****

It was about 3 p.m. when we motored slowly between the many fishing boats of Gouyave and dropped our anchor in their midst.

Gouyave is famous for its fishing and is one of the main centres of the nutmeg industry. We had thought of trying to get in for a tour of the nutmeg processing station, but it was late and it seemed likely that we’d be too late. So we stayed aboard, with interested fisherfolk passing by, in boats or swimming, and greeting us. We decided a swim was in order too and were soon pootling about in the water by Django. Very refreshing.

WW was much taken with the onshore activity where a group of people were hauling personfully on a line. Following its line, WW determined that a massive net encircled the entire harbour. He was entertained right up to RP o’clock with the activity. The following are the work of the man who won’t use the camera:

Two gangs hauling on either end of the net that must have encircled the entire harbour

Setting up the trap

Sharing the wealth: fishermen come to pick up a load of bait fish

A Brief Visit to St. George's

Fort George at the mouth of St. George's Harbour

On Thursday morning, bright and early, we left our anchorage and motor sailed to St. George’s, dropping our anchor in the Lagoon.

The beautiful Carenage area of St. George's harbour...
one of the most photographed in the Caribbean, and you can see why

This was to be a brief stop for provisions and to find Roots Rock, the music store Lennox had recommended.

We left Boffo at the Grenada Yacht Club dinghy dock and walked over to the Carenage and along Wharf Road. Then we cut over and up (mainly up), to arrive on the steep road dropping down to the market. I had wanted to buy a pair of leather sandals from a craftsman there, but he wasn’t in his shack.

We headed back to the produce stalls where WW tried to find a pawpaw. The first woman we asked pointed us to the inner area, crowded with stalls and stall keepers. We prowled the rows, asking for pawpaw and being pointed in first one direction, then another. The last set of directions had us emerge at approximately our point of entry and about six feet away from what must have been the only pawpaw in the market. With it, limes, bluggoes, green bananas, and sugar apples (we’d never had them before), we left the market and started asking the way to Roots Rock.

Up the hill, turn left, ask again. Along the road, turn right, up a flight of stairs and into a room lined with racks of CDs...reggae, calypso, soca. Stacks of vinyl in the back, and stacks of burned CDs of one sort or another on every remaining surface.

Following Caribbean etiquette, we said good morning to everyone in the place. This consisted of a man leaning in the doorway, a woman at a computer, and a thin man, his braided hair wrapped in a halo around his head, who was standing behind the counter. He turned, smiled cheerfully and returned our greeting. His left eye was white opaque and presumably blind, but the other was bright, brown and alert. I gave him the names of the artists Lennox had recommended. His eye lit up and he trotted over immediately to get a CD from across the room.

“Yes, Morgan Heritage are very good,” he said. Then he started to pull down CDs from near and far. He’d play a track or two, then bring on another. His knowledge was extensive, and his greatest pleasure seemed to be in sharing this music he knows and loves so well. He agreed with Lennox that soca—locally known as jump-and-wave—probably wouldn’t be our style. He played “his” reggae, by which he meant the stuff we’d grown up with: Jimmy Cliff, Desmond Dekker, Toots and the Maytals, Bob Marley (of course). He played a new star Duane Stephenson: “He’s smooth, he’s mellow.” He played Beres Hammond, a reggae eminence grise. He played Third World. He played a Jamaican saxophonist doing Marley, Dean Plays Bob. He played a reggae Christmas album.

WW sagged in a corner as the beat went on. We finally chose five CDs, but our friend had decided we needed more. The woman at the computer was instructed to burn us several compilation CDs. While she did so, the music went on. It was great. Loaded with wonderful sounds, we promised to come back. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.

Repairs Beget Repairs

The Palm Tree Marine Services team who worked on Django were Mike, the head guy, PJ and Kevon. On Friday, Mike and PJ had removed the fuel and fuel tanks. On Saturday, one tank had been cleaned. Monday morning, the second was cleaned and, shortly after lunch, PJ and Kevon arrived to replace them.

PJ worked below, tidying some wiring and removing the hot water tank. Since we don’t have a hot water heater and the tank was rather in the way, WW decided it could be jettisoned. Then the tanks went in. Progress was definitely being made.
On Tuesday, the tanks were hooked up to the filler and the engines. Our polished fuel was delivered boatside. The refilling of the tanks began. That’s when it was determined that the hoses connecting the filler hole to the fuel tanks had passed their best-before date. Old and tired, they had resented being moved about. They leaked. We would have to wait for replacements. Our planned Tuesday departure would not be happening.

“It’s like pulling a thread on a shirt,” WW said.

Mike came by to check on the work and WW discussed the power issue whereby the port engine must be run before the starboard will start. They decided two new starter batteries, one for each engine, would be the answer. They would be part of our main bank but with the possibility of being isolated for starting work only.

Wednesday arrived with Mike, PJ, Kevon, lengths of fuel filler pipe, two snazzy new batteries, and unrelenting heat. PJ crawled about in small dark spaces. Mike crawled about in small dark spaces. Then, sodden, grinning, victorious, they emerged. PJ tried the port engine. Vroom! PJ tried the starboard engine. Vroom! Water poured from the wet exhausts. Django was up and running and ready to go.

We restowed the larder and workshop, cast off and, stopping only long enough to fill our spotless fuel tanks and pay the bills, we headed out. It was RP o’clock, marked with due ceremony. We motored only a short distance, as the sun was about to set, dropping our hook in a tidy little cove behind Hog Island. Our travels had finally begun.

The Blue Lighthouse

Sunday we spent lolling in the heat, letting the fans attempt to combat the effects of sun and humidity. A rain shower at midday cooled things briefly. We read, snoozed, pottered. And we showered.

Le Phare Bleu is named for the blue lighthouse atop the Västra Banken, which is parked at the marina dock. The lighthouse is not an afterthought. Västra Banken is a lightship. She was built in Stockholm in 1900/01 and spent most of her life in different locations, playing the role of lighthouse. Lightships are anchored for years at a time in spots where it is impossible to build a lighthouse and where currents, rocks, shoals, wrecks and other marine hazards make a lightship more than useful. Lightships are named for their location and their names change when their posting changes. The Västra Banken had three or four such name changes, ending her lighthouse career on the Västra Banken where she stayed more than a decade. She was decommissioned and was used as a houseboat for a time. Finally, she was bought, extensively refurbished, and shipped to Grenada.

The Vastra Banken

She contains the marina offices, a fancy restaurant (WW wouldn’t take me), a toilet (marked “toilet”), a urinal (marked “pissoire”), a lounge, a video library, a book exchange, and four showers. The showers are entire rooms with teak flooring, a sink and toilet, a little teak slat table, and each room has a porthole at just about passerby eye level. The doors bear the brass plaques with the Swedish names of the original areas on the ship: machine shop, engine room, etc.

The Västra Banken is built of steel or iron...whatever, her sides are riveted heavy metal. One of the Palm Tree Marine Services people warned me before my first shower, “If you bend over to pick up the soap, keep your bum away from the hull. You’ll burn yourself.” She was not lying. I put my hand on the hull very briefly, and withdrew it in haste. Very warm. Hot. Searing. The net result, apart from possible bottom burns, is that the showers can duo as saunas. It’s reasonably unpleasant to get out of a cool shower, only to be as sweaty as when you began before you can begin to dress. Fortunately, stepping out into the merely 34C outside cools you right off.
So passed our Sunday as we waited for Monday and the reinstallation of the fuel tanks.

Falls and Jumps

The torrential downpour of the morning made the Annadale Falls more spectacular than usual. A smaller fall on the way rushed into a stream at spate as it thundered under the bridge we crossed. A bit further on, Lennox pulled off the road and we started along the damp cement walk to the Annadale Falls proper. We were joined by a muscular fellow dressed in red, green and yellow (the colours of Grenada)* and sporting magnificent dreadlocks. I was busy photographing the amazing flowers while WW chatted with this fellow.

At the base of the falls is a platform on which stood a simple wooden box. It, too, sported the Grenadian colours, and the inscription “Annadale Jumpers Association Money Box”. I wondered if it was some sort of suicide prevention charity.

The donation box

Then WW said, “You need to go down there. You’ll get a better picture.”

“Of what?” I asked. Down there was in the midst of the hearty waterfall’s spray. It looked...wet.

“Of him.”

“Why of him?”

“He’s going to jump.”

Good grief. But when I looked, “him” was disappearing up the hillside and, moments later, appeared on the far side of the falls on a clifftop decorated with various bits of Grenadalia. I went and stood in the spray and snapped away. I’ll never make a sports photographer. I have him on the cliff and I have the sploosh as he lands. Ideally, I should have had the descent. Sorry.

Our jumper prepares

The central sploosh is our man

On our way out we were met by a young man selling Grenadian spice necklaces he had made. These are a combination of seeds and spices which they sell for $10 EC (about $3 US). We bought one. I has white seeds of some sort (purely decorative), fresh cloves, chunks of turmeric root, bay leaves, plain nutmeg and nutmeg with mace, and cinnamon. We have hung it in the salon as an air freshener.

Our Grenadian air freshener...

...hanging in front of the beautiful embroidered cloth my Tante Marie gave me

From Annadale Falls, we headed back to Django. On the way, Lennox drove us by the new national stadium, on the outskirts of St. George’s, built by the Chinese for the people of Grenada. It is magnificent. A new government was recently elected and, Lennox says, is using the stadium a great deal. Under the previous government, it was more of a white elephant, rarely used and unappreciated.

From there, it was a straightforward run back to Le Phare Bleu, Django, and our RPs.

*Lennox explained the colours of the Grenadian flag. Red is for the blood shed by patriots. Green is for the agriculture. Yellow is for the tropical sun. These are also the colours of the Jamaican flag and, hence, of the Rastafarians.

To the Rain Forest

Just north of the distillery is Lake Antoine, a 16-acre lake in the crater of an extinct volcano. Lennox halted the van so we could take in the glorious view of the lake. It is privately owned and surrounded by lush agricultural growth, so we were able to see it only from afar.

Lake Antoine

Several places we would like to have visited—Seven Falls, Concord Falls, Sulphur Spring, Levera Pond—were a serious hike from the road and Lennox opined that our sandals were inadequate. So we did the lazy tour. Next time.

With Lake Antoine, we had come almost as far north as this tour would take us, continuing on only far enough to turn around and head toward GraniteTown, er, Grand Etang. We returned to Grenville, then cut inland, watching the cocoa, nutmeg, plantain, bananas, bluggoes, breadfruit, and papaya roll by. Lennox pointed out a very large tree whose name I heard as the silk-cotton tree. These grow to enormous heights, said Lennox, because people are afraid to trim them. Apparently a branch fell and injured someone long ago. It was decided that ghostly ancestors inhabited the tree and were annoyed at having the branches pruned. He pshawed the tale as mere superstition. Asked if he’d prune a silk-cotton tree he said, “I would if it needed it.” Regardless, there are those who take the tale seriously and the huge trees loom out of the lower growth, protected by their spirits to grow as they will.

The landscape changed dramatically as we headed into the interior and climbed toward the rain forest. Off to the right, Mount Saint Catherine (at 2,757 feet, the highest on the island) rose above lesser peaks at her side.

Mount St. Catherine

The typical rain forest vegetation started to appear: ferns, fern trees, bamboo, more bamboo. Cascades of a small, delicate, feathery fern created banks at the side of the road. “That’s the national fern,” said Lennox. He told us it is used for decorations at all manner of celebrations, from christenings and weddings, to Christmas, political rallies, and street parties. I asked its name. “The national fern,” he said.

Deep in the rain forest, he took a side road and we arrived at Lake Grand Etang, Grenada’s water reservoir. This lake is not privately owned, but the walking trails were beyond our footwear, according to Lennox. Instead, we walked up to the information centre on a hilltop overlooking the lake. It has quite a good display on the flora and fauna of the area, on the destruction caused by Ivan, and on the ecology of the region.

Lake Grand Etang

Small monkeys were released in the area some time ago as a source of meat. They have done reasonably well and several small colonies persist, though it can be tough since some Grenadians still think of them as food. They appear each morning to be fed. We, alas, were there in the afternoon so didn’t have the opportunity to make their acquaintance.

After admiring the view and the flowers, we returned to Lennox and the van. Next stop: waterfalls.

St. Antoine Rum Distillery

Abandoned Soviet-era planes at Pearls airport

Pearls Airport is just a couple of miles north of Grenville. Lennox turned off onto a potholed access road and onto the runway. To our left were the corpses of two airplanes. One is an old Russian Aeroflot plane, the other a Cuban aircraft that was sent just before the US invasion and damaged during that episode. It is eerie to drive by them. Lennox let me out onto the airstrip. At one time, it was possible to visit the duty-free shop, abandoned with its specials still posted. Now the buildings have been taken over by businesses.

Pearls Airport runway

From Pearls Airport, Lennox took us further north to see the St. Antoine Rum Distillery. My guidebook said there would be no tours on a Saturday, but we went to take a look anyway. We were pleasantly surprised, therefore, when a woman came forward and said, “We’ve been giving Saturday tours for a long time now.” She proceeded to lead us around and, in the same I’ve-memorized-this-information-for-tourists voice Lennox would adopt from time to time, gave us the tour.

This is the oldest water-powered distillery in the Caribbean. Its water wheel was installed in 1785 and it has been crushing locally grown sugar cane ever since. But, to save on your word-weary eyes, here’s the place in pictures...

The huge water wheel that runs the crusher

Our guide beside the crusher

Conveyor belt carries sugar to the crusher

The water wheel connection to the crusher

Sugar cane residue (has a special name I've forgotten) is used as fuel to run the boilers

Entry to the boiling room

The proto-rum is manually moved from dish to dish using massive ladles

Fermentation tanks

Wood is also burned to heat the syrup

How to make rum

Boilers...

...and

...condensers

WW checks the specific gravity of the current batch

The final product

Up to Grenville

Lennox adjusted his headset volume to be sure we could hear him in the back. He is a lovely man, chatty, profoundly polite, and knowledgeable. He has friends all over the island and a quick honk is always met with a grin and a wave. Every so often, his converstational tone would change and it would be clear that he was reciting “information of interest to the tourist”.

“Grenada is 30 miles long and about 7 miles wide. It has a population of 110,000,” he intoned. We learned its principal industry is agriculture, with nutmeg and cocoa being it’s major crops...until Ivan. Grenadian cocoa is considered the best in the world and it was the second largest producer after Ghana. Since Ivan, India has taken that laurel. Cocoa trees take five to seven years to start producing, so it will be a while before Grenada moves up from third place, but Lennox is sure it will happen.

Nutmeg production is huge on Grenada. The Gouyave Nutmeg Processing Cooperative alone produced over 3 million pounds of nutmeg each year. Nutmeg jam (made from the pericarp, not the nut) is delicious as is the island’s fabulous nutmeg ice cream. Like cocoa trees, nutmeg trees also require several years before they begin bearing, but already recovery is well under way.

It being Saturday, a number of places we would have liked to visit were closed. This included a spice garden on our route. These gardens are planted with all the herbs and spices that are grown on Grenada. Nutmeg (and the mace that envelopes it) and cocoa are just the beginning. Cinnamon, turmeric, bay leaves, ginger, cloves, mauby bark, star anise, thyme...all part of why Grenada calls itself the Isle of Spice.

Lennox, being the pleasant chap he is, had no objection to stopping at the oddest places so I could take photos. Once he’d figured out what I was after, he was tireless...cruising along looking for the perfect cocoa pod, the prettiest nutmeg.

The prettiest nutmeg

The prettiest cocoa

He drove us up past St. David’s in the southeast toward Grenville, Grenada’s second largest city, about midway up the Atlantic (east) coast. I was keen to visit the lively market there. The coastal road approaching Grenville passes through a number of small settlements where fishing is the way of life. Tiny, one-room shacks (reminiscent of the ice-fishing shacks of home) line the roadside and house entire families. Boats and nets bestrew the beach. A plant with long spikey fronds grows in abundance. It is harvested and the dried fronds are used to weave hats and baskets which are displayed for sale in doorways and windows. It looks a tough life, but there is a lot of energy, whooping children, and smiling to be seen.

In Grenville, Lennox dropped us off by the market and went to park. We wandered through the stalls, bought a couple of items, and took some photos.

Spices at the Grenville market

Grenville market

At one point, just as I was pressing the shutter, I saw that a woman in the frame had covered her face. “You should ask before taking a person’s photo,” Lennox told me later. “Some people don’t like it.”

Learn to ask permission before taking people's picture...

We waited at the roadside when we were done. People chatted with us. The heat and humidity were oppressive. Finally Lennox appeared beside us and escorted us back to the taxi. He had parked it beside the Grenville nutmeg processing plant, the largest in the country. Tours are available, Monday to Friday. Sigh.

Grenada Tour Begins

At precisely 10 o’clock on Saturday morning, Lennox was walking toward Django as we were heading toward him. He lead us to his taxi, which was quite different from the little blue beat up car he’d picked us up with on our walk. This van could seat 16 and came with all the mod cons...including, thank heavens, air conditioning.

Lennox and our conveyance

Lennox dug up a map and, in consultation with it and our Rough Guide to the Caribbean, we decided on a route that would let us see much of the island and sites that had particularly piqued my or WW’s interest. We set off first toward St. George’s, planning to pass to the northeast of it on our way to Grand Etang (which, given local pronunciation, I kept hearing as “Granite Town”) Forest Reserve.

Lennox pulled the taxi over at a lookout point up by a fort built by the French during their occupation of the island. Grenada, like many other Caribbean Islands, changed hands during the period of European colonization.

The British arrived first but it was the French who built the first town, in 1650, which sank into St. George’s Lagoon. The Carib inhabitants put up a fierce resistance to the French presence. Eventually, the last 40 fled and, finding themselves at the northern end of the island with the French in hot pursuit, they all leapt from a 100-foot cliff rather than surrender. The place is called Sauteurs or Caribs’ Leap.

Grenada passed to Britain as part of the 1783 Treaty of Paris and, barring a peasant rebellion in 1795, the British ruled peacefully until 1877 when Grenada was made a crown colony. It gained full independence in 1974 under the rather corrupt leadership of union leader Eric Gairy and his notorious Mongoose Gang (secret police). A bloodless coup replaced Gairy with Maurice Bishop’s Revolutionary Government in 1979. This was the government that became embroiled in the Cold War, receiving assistance from the USSR and Cuba. This eventually led to invasion by the U.S. in 1983, ostensibly to evacuate American medical students. However, concern over increased Soviet influence in the Caribbean undoubtedly played a significant role. Grenadians still seem miffed by the high-handedness of the action.

Since that time, Grenada has been puttering along nicely, with the exception of Hurricane Ivan, which slammed into the southeast of the island in 2004, followed almost immediately by Tropical Storm Emily, which mangled the northwest.

Agriculture, the basis of Grenada’s affluence (by Caribbean standards) was annihilated. The rainforest was levelled. Buildings were razed. However, the people have rebuilt their lives and their homes, and the greenery cannot be held back. I mentioned to Lennox what a comeback the island seems to have made. “Oh yes. Grenadians are resilient,” he said.

But revenons a nos moutons...the reason for visiting this hilltop fort was for us to have a glorious view of St. George’s from high above the city. Nature had other plans. The cloud was so low as to obliterate almost any trace of the town, with only the nearby prison visible in the murky downpour. Lennox decided to try an alternate route and save the rain forest for later in the day, when the weather might be better.

The nonview over the Grenadian prison down to St. George's

(The fort houses the offices of national emergency response body. Lennox told us it was originally called NERO for National Emergency Response Organization, however, its poor performance during and after Ivan had the head of government call it ZERO. It has since changed its name.)