Pearls Airport

We drove to Levera Beach, a spawning ground for the leatherback turtle, in the north east corner of the main island. On the way there, Carol had spotted what looked like a long runway on the map, just north of Grenville, and we determined to seek it out on the way back. The GPS got us down a dirt track to an intersection and there we spotted a bunch of guys sitting around a fire. As we slowed to determine our next move, one guy leapt up and ran towards us, his dreadlocks waving as he ran. Carol was uneasy but I wound down the window. “Are you looking for the old airfield?” he said, and he pointed the way – a human signpost had saved us again. 

Hanging Purse

It turns out we’d found Pearls, Grenada’s original airport, built in the early 1940’s and in operation until the US invasion of the island. The runway still runs from the coast towards the mountains, almost as far as the eye can see; the coastal end barricaded by a huge bank of earth. A large area at the far end is set-up for drag racing with the start-line marked by characteristic, vertical lighting masts, one on each side. 

It was here on 25 October 1983, six days after Maurice Bishop’s assassination, that the US Marines landed when the US launched their invasion, codenamed Operation Urgent Fury. As they touched down here, the Army Rangers attacked Point Salines, now Maurice Bishop Airport. At the time, the invasion was heavily criticized by the international community, including Canada and the UK, but the Grenadians welcomed it, largely because of the limited casualties among the local population. And, it restored democracy with a new government, initially appointed by the Governor General Paul Scoon; quickly followed by elections. 

Off to one side of the runway, there are two derelict Soviet-built Tupolev passenger aircraft, operated at the time by Cubana, evidence of Cuba’s involvement in the island. Now, they are sadly hollow; plundered, overgrown and surrounded by grazing goats. One had a woman’s purse (handbag) hanging off the landing gear… …the last passenger to lose their luggage here, or did it belong to the goat? 

The US had received requests for help from the Governor General and other Caribbean governments, although they had their own reasons to attack. Their main justification was the safety of 1,000 American citizens at St George’s University (SGU) campus (students and their families) but US intelligence suggested a Soviet-backed, Cuban-style, military build-up.

SGU Campus

SGU’s campus covers the south west corner of the main island. Commencing classes in January 1977, having been established soon after Grenada achieved independence, SGU focusses on health sciences, medical and veterinary care. At the time of Maurice Bishop’s assassination in 1983 there were 600 students enrolled, most of them American. These days the campus teaches ten times that number and SGU contributes around 20% of Grenada’s GDP. It’s still a popular university for American students.

The SGU students were evacuated and sent to other US universities until the Grenada government stabilized.

It turns out that our friend in Grenada had connections at SGU and she was able to get us into the campus’ private pool one morning. It made for a relaxing soak in the sun!

To this day, you can see signs painted around the island thanking the USA – the invasion date is celebrated as Grenada Thanksgiving Day.

Carol at the SGU Pool

Fort George

For more than 350 years, Fort George has guarded the Carenage (harbour front) of St Georges, Grenada’s principal city. Built by the French as Fort Royal, renamed Fort George by the British after King Georges III, and briefly renamed Fort Rupert in the early 80’s, it has stood watch over Spanish gold, the trade in African slaves, and the Spice Island’s export trade.

Fort George from Carenage

It’s an impressive building that dominates the part of the island that lies between the Caribbean and the harbour. We had to park in its shadow and walk all the way up the hill and then climb between the gap in the walls to find the entrance. It was a hot day - we were glad it was only March. Then, you pay your entrance fee and you are on your own as you wander through the tunnels and roofless structures.

The cast-iron cannons that face the sea date from the 1800’s and are said to be in working order but it’s the Fort’s more recent history that marks it as a local shrine. Grenada achieved independence from Great Britain in 1974 and transitioned to an elected democracy under Prime Minister Eric Gairy. But his rule was plagued with controversy and allegations of intimidation. In 1979, Maurice Bishop leader of the left-wing New JEWEL Movement (NJM) overthrew Gairy’s government and ruled by decree, with policies that moved toward equality for the African majority and women, making him a local hero. One of his first acts was to rename Fort George, Fort Rupert, after his father.

Much of the Fort is a little neglected – vegetation in the lighthouse made it difficult to enter.

A faction of NJM, led by Bishop’s childhood friend Bernard Coard, wanted Grenada to emulate Cuba – a communist regime supported by the USSR, but Bishop resisted, even as Cuba helped the NJM to build a new international airport near St George’s (Point Salines Airport). The US perceived this airport as a military base increasing the Soviet threat in the Caribbean.

The NJM government gradually split apart. Then, on 19 October 1983, Maurice Bishop and six of his cabinet were arrested and taken to the courtyard in Fort Rupert, where they were executed by firing squad, or obliterated as witnesses related, in an incident that saw more than 20 military and civilian personnel loyal to Maurice Bishop massacred. 

It was a chilling moment when I came upon a commemorative plaque in the courtyard, attached on the wall surrounded by bullet marks. I had to admit I didn’t realize that this had taken place here.

As we reached the highest level of the fort, we came upon two guys singing calypsos and they invited us to join them. Carol found her voice and they sang in ‘Island in the Sun’ – it lifted our spirits for the walk back down the hill, as we remembered singing along to Harry Belafonte in the 60’s.

Maurice Bishop is still a local hero – Point Salines is now called Maurice Bishop Airport, Grenada’s main airport. Bernard Coard was released from prison after serving 30 years.

St George’s Harbour from Fort George Parapet

Election Fever

We arrived on the main island during an election campaign. Two days before election day, we headed north, along narrow, winding roads over the backbone of the main island, the Etang Forest, to Grenville. As we approached the main intersection of this second largest city in Grenada, we could see hundreds of yellow shirts milling around, blocking all traffic; one guy stood atop a truck whirling and dancing.

We took a detour and reached a road that ran along the seashore, a quiet road… …or so we thought. I parked and we left the car to investigate a ruined church, overgrown with vines, and some distance back down the street. It was midday and very hot; we slowly walked along trying to stay in the shade. As we reached the church we heard music from the approaching throng and we turned back toward the car. In our absence, the sidewalks on both sides had filled with yellow shirts to greet the parade as it rolled through. I counted more than one hundred vehicles and what seemed like a thousand people or more.

Grenada, like all former British colonies, is a parliamentary democracy headed by a Governor General who represents the Queen. The population of approximately 100,000 (around the size of Red Deer, Worcester UK or Springfield IL) is governed by its elected House of Representatives; all 15 seats were being contested. Posters of the two main parties were plastered everywhere and we found several major rallies underway.

These two parties were recognisable by their supporter’s shirt colour – green for the NNP (conservative) and yellow for the NDC (centre left). This is not Canada though; in the days leading up to voting day, thousands of supporters flood the streets parading along on trucks and cars, as well as running along beside. The trucks have huge speaker systems blasting out rock and rap music as they call to the faithful.

As we weaved through the crowd toward our vehicle a large man loomed threateningly in front of me. He appeared intoxicated and Carol (as she does) moved to intervene… Before she could get in front of me though a small woman, standing on a wall to one side, shouted: “Janny! …calm down.” He relaxed, but still stood in my way. She snapped: “Janny, let the man pass,” he laughed and stepped aside. I rubbed his arm as I passed and thanked the woman. We got in the car and drove slowly through the crowd as they waved and slapped our vehicle enthusiastically.

Driving south, we came to the end of the parade only to see knots of green shirts waiting beside the road for their trucks to pick them up. And, a little further on, there they were, music blaring, green shirts waving and singing. It was tempting to be part of it – but we drove on to our hotel.

Voting underway

Tuesday came and all the stores were closed; everywhere, people were voting. We drove to the north of the island to seek leatherback turtles and as we drove through each community, women sat at small tables beside the road with their spreadsheets open as people lined up to vote. 

On the way back, we stopped at the Grenada Chocolate Factory (that’s another story coming soon) and were introduced to the owner, I asked him if he’d voted. ‘Of course,’ he said, ‘we all have.’ He held out his fingertip so I could see the ink. “That’s how we make sure you only vote once!”

The strange thing was, I saw thousands of yellow-shirted demonstrators and maybe as many greens, but the green NNP Party swept all 15 seats. 

The Garden Party

Waiting for the Ferry

The ferry from Carriacou pulled into St Georges Harbour on Grenada island late in the afternoon. We were immediately beset by offers of taxis by guys that tried to wrestle our bags from us. ‘No,’ I said, ‘No thanks, someone is meeting us.’ This didn’t seem to deter them…

We’d gone to Grenada to visit a friend but, sadly, her uncle had died suddenly in the UK and she’d had to go there. Her lovely landlady had offered to pick us up, and eventually she spotted us. We’d met briefly a week previously and neither of us could remember what the other looked like. Finally, I saw a woman waving so I held my hand up and the crowd parted for us. Marguerite hugged us. ‘Paul (her husband) came to meet you yesterday,’ she chuckled, ‘I told him he’d got the day wrong but he insisted. He stood here for the longest time – eventually he called out: Is everybody off, now? I’ve lost two white people…’

We laughed and then she introduced a young woman standing with her. ‘Pria has brought your rental car.’

I looked over the little white RAV4 – it was perfect. I handed Pria my credit card. ‘Oh, I didn’t bring my machine – I thought you’d be paying cash... Take the car and you can meet me in the morning to pay.’

The missing couple!

 I drove her home then headed to our hotel. Next morning, we drove to Nick’s Donut World to meet up and pay. Pria was already there and, as we drank coffee, several patrons talked to me. One, Livia, said she had just moved here from London after a long career with the BBC – ‘it’s cheaper and much warmer… …and there’s no traffic.’

‘Grenada is quite a modest place, with a small population – aren’t you worried about access to healthcare?’ I asked

Garden Nook

‘Hey, we all have to die sometime, and I’d rather live out my life in my lovely cottage in a calm, warm country. And the people here are so friendly; it wasn’t always easy being black in UK,’ she said.

At the Garden Party

Driving on the right isn’t the only hang-over from the UK; when we got back to our friend’s house, Marguerite had tickets for a garden party. ‘It’s for charity,’ she said, ‘and you’ll know lots of people there.’ 

‘How is that possible; we haven’t been here 24 hours?’ I said, but we bought our tickets.

The back Garden

The day of the Garden Party came and we followed Paul and Marguerite to the locale. It was a beautiful plantation-style house set in lush grounds looking out onto the sea. Cars were parked on each side of the street as far as the eye could see. It turned out that our absent friend had another couple visiting from Montreal so we brought them with us. Throughout the garden, plants, flowers, seedlings, even trees, were on sale; we walked through small, shaded areas with tables, chairs and statues as we toured. Eventually, we entered the house and picked out sandwiches, cakes and cups of tea, making our way to the veranda.

Carol takes Tea

Marguerite was right – we knew lots of people: Marguerite and her husband Paul, our friend’s guests from Montreal, Livia from the donut shop; Pria was there with her mother, and of course, they introduced us around. ’So, how long have you lived in Grenada?’ seemed to be the commonest question. ‘Just less than a week; we’re just visiting’, was my answer, and yet it seemed we’d been here so much longer… 

What I wanted to say was: ‘We haven’t moved here yet, but we’re thinking about it.’

St Georges Harbour

A Unique Little Island

The young woman helped Carol down from the jetty onto the ferry – it was quite a step down. Moments later she was laying on the floor of the boat with her toolbox open pulling out levers and cogs. “I just got this new part in,” she said, “hopefully it’ll fix the rudder.” Reassembled, she wiped her hands and started the engine. Then she was up in the driving seat and the boat left the dock. It turned out Erica was our Captain. The ferry had filled up as she’d worked and we pulled away from the dock; the passengers all looked like locals returning home with purchases. On the Caribbean once again – it was a smooth ride this time. Just as well, a woman sat beside me balancing eight-dozen eggs on her lap in open, grey cartons.

We’d driven down from our villa in the morning and gone into Kayak Café for a cappuccino. We’d seen a small boat at the dock without realizing this was the ferry to Petite Martinique, or PM as the Grenadian’s call it. 

The sea was calm and we arrived at the pier on PM in less than 20 minutes. It was noon under the hot sun as we disembarked and walked along the beach searching for the Palm Beach restaurant. This is the only restaurant mentioned on the web, and it wasn’t difficult to find, but it seemed deserted as we walked up to the counter to order lunch. ‘Hello,’ I called, and a woman appeared. We made our selections from the menu, grabbed a beer, and walked out to sit in the shade under a beach umbrella. She soon brought our food – fresh shrimp – mmm. Refreshed, we headed into town.

PM is a unique little island with a reputation for going its own way. Known for shipbuilding, fishing, as well as smuggling, it has no Customs station and no visible signs of tourism – most Caribbean islands feature resorts or sailing clubs, but not here. And, it boasts some pretty unusual traditions, making a boat launch, a wedding, or a religious holiday (Whitsuntide) into a grand event, although sadly, we didn’t witness either. The community was established in the 1700 by a Frenchman named Mr. Pierre; he produced various crops employing African slaves but in his later years divided up the land and sold it to them. Despite subsequent attempts to re-enslave them the islanders have retained their autonomy and many of their original customs. Petite-Martinique

A boat launch involves all of the 700-or-so islanders with religious blessings, roving musicians, and a huge feast, as the boat rolls into the water on logs. And PM builds a lot of boats. 

The wedding ceremony lasts several days and again involves the whole island in a street festival. Two male dancers each wield a large flag, signifying the bride and the groom; later two women gyrate, each bearing a large cake. These sensual rituals represent the courtship and consummation of the marriage, all preceding a traditional Catholic wedding in the island’s only church, before the celebration continues.

A bright sign greets you as you enter the town, showing music and dancing, evoking the spirit of these ceremonies.  The town comprises a few streets hugging the harbour with two schools, the church, two stores, which were both open, and a combination post office and bar, which was closed. The island is also famous for lobster fishing, although much of its catch goes to the French island of Martinique, to the north. Not all though; later that evening we had our last meal on Carriacou and, of course, Carol had lobster. Now, this is not the cold water Atlantic Lobster we’re familiar with in Canada, this is the warm water Spiny Lobster, with a larger body but no claws. Just as delicious….

This lobster was served in the Green Roof Inn, a hotel and restaurant that we’d driven past several times a day since our arrival without realizing it was there. The restaurant was set on an elevated patio looking out over the Caribbean and the harbour of Hillsborough.

But, before we sailed back on Erica’s ferry, we walked out of the village to the north where we found some haunting, derelict houses – they looked like no one had lived in them for years – remains of strange ghostly, tall plants kept watch in their yards. We wondered what rituals they had witnessed...

Eating Carriacou

Carriacou brings new meaning to the word ‘local’. It has a population of less than 10,000 people, mostly concentrated in Hillsborough. We headed down there to buy food for breakfast and lunches. As we food shopped, every store we went in had employees glued to the radio, although, try as I might I couldn’t make out what they were listening to – it was obviously a sports event. Eventually, I asked a girl at the supermarket checkout: “What’s the big game?”

Caught up in the Parade

“Oh, it’s the High School Football match.” There are two high schools on the island and each year they play against one another. 

But, I hadn’t realized how big it was until I tried to drive through the town the next day. The streets were blocked as every high school kid on the island thronged behind large pickups blasting music as the winners held up their trophy. The whole town was gridlocked for a couple of hours – it was hard not to get caught up in the enthusiasm.

There are three supermarkets in the town but they seemed to be stocked mostly with canned or frozen food and alcohol. But, I was surprised that there was no bread or fresh fruit & veg. It took us a couple of days to realize that fresh produce was sold at stalls in the streets – I had to get used to the one-way streets before I found them!

Conch Shells

Of course, Hillsborough is a haven for visiting sailors and we soon discovered Patty’s Deli where they get their provisions – fresh bread, cold cuts/sliced meats, cheese, and wine. And, they do a mean cappuccino too – it became a morning go to!

So, we were well set for breakfast with fresh eggs, mango and papaya from the street stalls and lunch with bread, ham, and cheese from Patty’s. That left our evening meals…

All around the island you see conch shells washed up on the shore. But, it turns out that they are more than just a device to listen to the waves. In Grenada they eat the flesh – it’s on the menu as ‘lambi’.

Bogles Roundhouse

Given the size of Carriacou, you’d think that a good restaurant would be hard to find. I thought I’d found one worthy of our Wedding Anniversary – Bogles Roundhouse – and we drove there to eat and book a table for our evening. The restaurant was some distance north of our villa in a small village and I drove slowly, no honestly, along a narrow road to find the entrance. Still, I missed it and had to turn around. Then, I saw the tiny sign pointing down an even tighter laneway; as I turned down it, the road dropped away almost scraping the bottom of the vehicle.

Dinner in Bogles

Set on a cliff above the shore, Bogles really is a round house with round glassless windows, each one unique and the food was exquisite – we started with shrimp, octopus and lambi, of course, with dipping sauces, then Carol had Spiny Lobster and I had Rack of Lamb – I could have eaten there every night. That said, we couldn’t eat there on our anniversary, it was closed on that day, a Sunday.

Relaxing in Off-the-Hook

On our actual anniversary, we ate in the Hard Wood on Paradise Beach, a hang-out for the locals. The Hard Wood is a bar on the beach that on first glance reminds me of an old picnic shelter from the beaches where I grew up. But the fish with mac & cheese that we shared was yummy! And, then we walked along the sand to ‘Off the Hook’, the rambling beach bar where visitors hang out. The sun set over the water as we strolled. Back at our patio, it was the darkest, quietest night we’d experienced; they take Sunday seriously here!  And, in case you were wondering, it was our 46^th Anniversary...

Sunset on Paradise Beach

The Driving Lesson

Grenada is a modest country. Driving is rudimentary and, like so much of the Caribbean, it follows the British régime – driving on the left, and lots of roundabouts – I was in my element. You see few traffic lights but there are roundabouts, even on simple T-Junctions; there’s not much room at these junctions so, often, it’s just a pile of tires. And, on major intersections, in order to ensure that drivers slow down, they simply put a large speed bump a few feet back from the junction on all the approaches – simple but effective. On our drive to the ferry, many motorists beeped at us as we drove along. I asked our driver; 'What’s with all the beeping?'

'Oh, they’re just saying Hi!'

Roundabouts

Perhaps the most endearing local feature, we saw again and again, is the human signpost. It seemed that every time we might go wrong, there was someone there to guide us; often before we knew we needed help … 

Driving south on the main island western coast road we encountered a bridge that was closed; a Diversion sign told us to turn inland. I turned left and headed down a road, looking for the next sign. Ahead, I could see a bunch of kids playing soccer/football in the street, but before we got close to them, they stopped playing, en masse, and pointed to my right. I saw the street they were indicating and, as soon as I put on my indicator, they went back to their game…

Another time, we were driving down a road in a suburb and saw a guy under the hood(bonnet) of his car up ahead. As soon as he heard me approach he stood up and pointed to my left – I waved and followed his direction. Not a word passed between us.

There were occasions when we spoke, usually when I got ahead of myself – I drove past a bunch of guys only to see one of them run into the road behind me shouting and waving. I stopped and backed up. I might have thought: ‘What are you doing? We don’t know these people?’

But then I thought: ‘Hey, this is Grenada. Chill out…’

And sure enough, the guy said: ‘I don’t think you want to go up there – it doesn’t go anywhere. You should turn left here.’ He was right of course.

Red-Footed Tortoise takes a shower

I did have one near disaster on the road – and there were no signposts to help. We drove to a remote part of the island and headed down what looked like a concrete road. It was quite steep with an unfenced sheer drop on one side; I proceeded down with care. I was hoping that we could reach the shore at the base of the hill. Like so many roads here though, it led nowhere and I turned around to head back up. I spotted a red-footed tortoise crossing the road but, as I got out to take a shot, it started to rain. 

I got back in the truck and began the drive back up the hill as the rain turned torrential. The truck slowed to a stop and, as the wheels spun, it gradually slid to the left … …towards the sheer drop. Turns out what I’d thought was concrete was actually mud – it had turned to slime. Carol freaked out: “We’re going to go over the cliff!!” and despite my pleas for calm, she leapt out into the deluge and slithered her way up the hill. 

Our Jeep in calmer times

I decided now would be a good time to look for the 4-Wheel-Drive lever. Whew, I found it and once engaged the truck started to move upward. But, it wasn’t over – across the top of the mud road there was a lip where the asphalt started, and the truck stopped dead there, with all four wheels spinning. As Carol urged me on with gestures of shock, horror and despair, I slowly reversed back down the hill to take a run at it. Success; as I popped up over the lip, the rain stopped, and Carol climbed back in… It was a damp and quiet drive back to the villa.

Note to self – be careful where you drive when visiting strange places, and always keep a bottle of wine in the villa’s fridge!

A Tall Ship in Hillsborough Bay picks out sunlight after the Storm - view from our patio