As I
reported in my previous post, Ivan’s parents had their vacation right here in
Grenada. Their flight arrived on the
evening of February 5th and their stay extended right up until the
morning of Valentine’s Day. Since their
departure, we’ve received notice of their safe arrival back home and belated
Valentine’s Day dinner at The Cheesecake Factory (of which I am seething with
jealousy).
If you’re
anything of an avid reader—or as I presume, more accurately, a skimmer—of mine,
you know that I am hopelessly incapable of abridging any of my mundane
experiences, let alone happenings that I consider exciting, captivating or, at
the very least, noteworthy. Submitting
to my wont to drone on and on at the expense of my waning enthusiasts, I’ve
decided to just go ahead and divide our recent adventures into more than one
blog post.
Division One
Vicki
and Larry stayed at the Flamboyant, a resort that caps the western point of
Grand Anse beach. The location was
ideal, providing immediate access to one of the world’s most beautiful beaches
and just a short walk from restaurants, the Spiceland Mall and the SGU Grand Anse
bus stop. From their balcony, Vicki and
Larry had a (somewhat) uninterrupted view of the turquoise Caribbean waters
cradled by the mountainous green island and the constant flow of tourist-laden
cruise ships porting in St. George.
During the day, the orange-roofed buildings around the Carenage harbor
were as visible as the blinking lights of returning yachts in the evening. Were it not for the series of thick, black
electric cables running just above the balcony, the view would have been
perfect.
 |
| Vicki and Larry during our campus tour |
The
Thursday after Vicki and Larry arrived was Grenada’s 39th
Independence Day. Marked by decorations
in the national colors of yellow, red and green galore, the country expresses
its enthusiasm by organizing a festive celebration at the stadium in St. George
(the capital). Ivan and I have never
gone to the stadium on Independence Day (neither this nor last year), but I’ve
enjoyed the pictures posted by my friends of military parades, costumed
dancers, parachutists and the swarming crowds of bedecked Grenadians, forming
undulating masses of yellows, reds and greens.
This
Independence Day was spent at Magazine beach by Ivan and I and his
parents. We snorkeled in the slightly
choppy water, spotting flurries of indigo fish and brittle black sea
urchins. Ivan, my stalwart husband, is
not a natural swimmer. As I can think of
no graceful way of putting it—he sinks like a rock. With his buoyancy belt Christmas present,
though, he was able to snorkel with Larry and me. Of course, without the constant compulsion to
scan the sea floor for Ivan, I became a little too enthusiastic in my diving
and flipping. After choking on and
subsequently swallowing about a cup of seawater (and thus ensuring a fair
amount of evening gastric distress), I gave up and we headed ashore. Stomach ache aside, I had a fun day and the
weather was excellent for a beach visit.
Friday
evening the four of us joined an international crowd of visiting family members
and their respective students to take part in one of SGU’s Family Weekend
events. That is, the school was organizing
and providing transportation (at a nominal fee) for visiting family to take a
trip to Gouyave—Grenada’s largest fishing village—along the northwestern coast
of the island. Gouyave (hometown of 2012
Olympic winner, Kirani James) holds a weekly event referred to as Fish
Friday. A draw to locals, students and
tourists alike, Fish Friday is pretty much what it sounds like. A line of about a dozen tarps supported by
skeletal aluminum frames line an elbow alley in the town and local chefs and/or
fishermen fry (what we assume to be fresh) fish in crudely assembled
kitchenettes, selling their breaded and dripping nosh in Styrofoam boxes.
But I’m
getting too far ahead of myself. First
there was the ride to Gouyave. Six SGU
buses—to you folks at home, that is the standard school bus in size—were
required to cart everyone up the island.
This event was pretty popular, it seemed. We cut through the capital first, zigzagging
our way up impossibly steep hills and unforgivingly narrow avenues, before
emerging in the heart of the town. This
being Larry and Vicki’s first glimpse at St. George, I tried to point out a few
landmarks as we made our way through the lamp-lit streets. On the
left is Sweet Traditions Bakery and the Esplanade Mall; on the right is the
Shipwreck souvenir store and the spice market; on the left is the bus terminal
and the fish market; on the right is the meat market.
St.
George’s meat market—an open-air sort of building, with mullioned windows of
shattered glass and iron bars—has been a curiosity of mine for some time. I haven’t actually ventured inside, but have
milled around the front gate where women sell offal out of white mixing buckets
and hot effluvia escapes from the barred windows in thick waves. I’m planning to go inside some day; I just
have to work up the nerve. I’m afraid
that once I’m inside, I’ll end up buying something unusual to try out of an odd
urge to haze myself—like I’m a freshman of Grenada and this is all part of
integration.
Friday
evening the meat market’s insides were black and dead. The gate was closed, its iron bars reflecting
the orange street lamps. Except the last
window. Glowing from between the black
bars and lit like a glossy hourglass column of pale wax was a pig, strung up
and eviscerated, white like tallow in the fluorescent work light. I tried to point it out to the others, but
I’m not sure they were able to see it in time.
That, I thought, that is something I would have to request to witness back home. That is nothing I would accidentally spot out
of the window of the school bus.
It’s all part of that integration.
The trip
(about ten miles in a straight line from point A to point B) took us roughly an
hour. With emphasis on the roughly.
Like, a lot of emphasis. We’d heard from others that the best way to
get to Fish Friday was via boat. As SGU
had not chartered a boat for the evening, we had no choice but to brave the
gut-wrenching curves at break-neck speed, stopping ourselves from looking out
the windows at the sheer cliffs we narrowly swept along. Thankfully the buses are equipped with
handles as they were much needed that evening.
I felt like a popcorn kernel, rocketing around in my seat and, seeing
the jostling heads of everyone in front of me, knew I wasn’t alone.
Our
arrival must have been an astonishing moment for the Fish Fry vendors (if they
weren’t forewarned) as our crowd of two-hundred crashed into the alley, cameras
flashing at the novelty and simplicity of a tiny country’s conventions and its
residents’ reactions. The first tents
were swarmed utterly and the vendors within greeted their impatient patrons
with the customary Grenadian apathy—that is to say, there was no greeting, only
the typical lackluster response to orders and threadbare conversation
otherwise, if any at all. Initially off-putting,
the apparent surliness of many local vendors and clerks is happily counterbalanced
by the many other perfectly cheerful ones.
One just needs to know where to look to find the cheery vendors (i.e.
the souvenir stalls, the steel drum tent, the booze tent, etc.). I don’t believe the (now expected) surliness
is genuine. Who could be surly when
raking in so much money? But it can be a
little startling when your shining excited smile and gleefully skippy tone is
met with stone-faced indifference. This
is some sort of culture difference that I have yet to figure out.
Barely
able to squeeze between the throngs of Hawaiian-shirt-wearing eager
camera-wielding visitors, we trudged on down the line of tents to find an
available counter and order our supper.
We finally found a tent trailing a reasonably short line of customers
and squeezed in, craning around to spot what, exactly, was for sale at this
particular kitchenette. We ended up with
half of a spiny lobster, a mahi mahi pasta and some fried skipjacks.
The mahi
mahi pasta was fabulous. The lobster was
still cold (having been pre-cooked and frozen before hastily thrown on the
grill) and tough. The fried skipjacks
were also cold and had the taste and consistency of fish jerky. I still ate almost everything, but at that point
began wondering what exactly was the draw of Fish Friday. I don’t particularly care for deep fried
foods so I may be a wee bit biased in my assessment; that being said, my
favorite part of the evening was probably watching the stray dogs (as there are
always stray dogs) ripping up and down the crumbling concrete walkway,
snatching bits of fried fish heads and macaroni pie.
We spent
most of our short stay at the end of the elbow alley. The exit was guarded by our tour guides, corralling
us like livestock into the small dining areas and prohibiting our wandering
into the underlit recesses of Gouyave, where visiting families of students may
have their unspoiled impressions of Grenada corrupted by the desperate poor,
with nothing to peddle, lingering upwind of the wealthy tourists. At the designated time, we were funneled in
safe and secure channels, back through the charmingly derelict alleys and onto
the buses.
The ride
back to school was considerably smoother, with everyone feeling heavier with
food and lighter with drink. The bus
driver’s enthusiasm seemed to have ebbed and he kept a comfortable distance
from the cliffs and slowed easily for the speed bumps. It was fully night for the hour ride down the
island and we kept to the coast most of the way. It’s easy to see the beauty of the island
during the day, when the sky is a candy blue and the sea is a rich turquoise
and the island is a rolling landscape of velvety greens. At night, though, the horizon is consumed in
a blinding darkness and the only evidence of the sea are insignificant specks
of ship lights, glaring through the inky blackness. Watching those manmade stars pinned against a
backdrop of nothingness is the most calming way to end the day.
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