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...