The Island of Grenada

By Rick Runquist

Two million years ago volcanoes exploded out of the bottom of the Caribbean Basin and formed a chain of islands. The lava cooled and eroded into the soil. Drifting or blowing seeds took root and became plants and trees. Birds and animals found themselves on these chunks of land and survived. Humans migrated from the Amazon basin and settled in, first the Arawaks then the more warlike Caribs.

The destruction of the indigenous communities began when the Europeans arrived after Columbus. The French were the first to build permanent settlements on Grenada. They brought with them germs and guns against which the natives had no defenses. The hounded Caribs fought back in vain. A town in the northern edge of Grenada is named Sauters, “jumpers,” in English. Here, pressed to their limits, the remaining Caribs on the island jumped into the sea and drowned rather than become enslaved.

All the Caribbean islands were caught up in the seesaw battles and politics of the European powers from the 17th century onward, and Grenada’s towns and parishes ring with English and French and Spanish history. The French named their settlement “Fort Royal.” It became St George’s, after King George, when the British won over in 1763. But Grenada is a Spanish name, given, no doubt, by some Captain of the Spanish Main on his way home in a ship laden with gold plunder from Peru.

Today the islands of the Caribbean cruise calmly between the Atlantic Ocean and the Caribbean Sea and between our modern times and days long gone. Grenada floats in its own patch of blue ocean at 5 o’clock on the familiar half circle of Caribbean Islands, just north of Trinidad and Venezuela. It’s the last in the chain of the evocatively named Windward Islands, with its tiny sister island “Carriacou” just over the horizon. It’s an independent country, English is the primary language, cars drive on the left, and British (and European) families love to escape their winters on Grenadian beaches.

Called “The Spice Island” because of its extravagant harvest of nutmeg (and other spices) Grenada is as verdant and beautiful as any island in the Caribbean. Its first-class hotels are famous for their style and comfort and service. Its beaches are spectacular. And the island is largely unspoiled. The forested mountains in its center are a protected National Park.

But Grenada is on the outer edge of American vacation daydreams, though it’s not much further from the east coast than other Caribbean getaways. Maybe that’s because there are so few direct flights. Perhaps it’s the thought of driving in crazy island traffic on the “wrong” side of the road. Or maybe it’s the memory of the communist takeover and subsequent US invasion of Grenada in the 1980s. These and competition from more famous beach blanket hotspots in Florida and Mexico and the Caribbean have kept Grenada off most American vacation itineraries. Not to mention that Grenada just doesn’t have that many hotel rooms.

So how did we get there, my wife my son and I? Every winter the New York Times Travel Show has a charity auction to raise money to train island students in “Hospitality Trades”. I made the $600 opening bid for three nights at the Mount Cinnamon Resort in Grenada and won. And for a couple of bucks more the hotel upgraded us to a two-story suite. When we got there, we couldn’t believe our luck. The place was luxurious, and the view was spectacular. We loved it right away. We could have been happy just lounging in the breeze and sipping wine on the portico for the whole three days. But we didn’t; we had things to do. Important things. Like… breakfast!

Mount Cinnamon is, well, on a mount, a steep hillside overlooking Grande Anse Bay. The price for our world-class view was a stiff walk up or down. Going down wasn’t so bad, and breakfast was the siren call. It called us every morning; and we answered. The dining area was on a breezy veranda with wood plank floors, stucco walls, wooden beams and that great view out over the bay. Palm fronds shimmered in the breeze. Calypso and reggae from hidden speakers sweetened the mood. A tiny bird fluttered over. He took a perch on my bowl and a bite out of my watermelon chunk. He didn’t eat much, and he seemed to like it as much as me. The staff was unfailingly pleasant. They smiled and said “good morning.” We could have stayed there all day, lounging, talking, sipping coffee, watching the cruise ships in the distance inch into the docks in St Georges. But we didn’t. We had things to do. Important things. Like…beach combing!

The Italian/Spanish style villas at The Mount Cinnamon Resort and their red-tiled roofs walk down the hillside toward the water but stop short. A hundred-yard stroll through lawns and gardens and palm trees took us to the beach; Grande Anse beach. It’s a two and a half mile curve of white sand and blue water sprinkled lightly with boats and tiki bars, scuba shacks and bikinis. The hotels don’t announce themselves loudly. The Spice Island, the Coyaba and the Allamanda Beach Resorts and others sneak out from behind the palm trees and step quietly onto the sand. The Spice Island Resort is sedated and classy with low buildings, white table cloths, dark wood, and creamy canvas table umbrellas. In its gardens flowering plants dream away in the shade and stone Buddhas meditate beside bubbling fountains. While the morning joggers pass by on the beach and the pink clouds turn into white cotton, the morning staff sweep the walkways and the barmen polish their wine glasses.

We could have strolled on the beach all day, my son and my wife and I. Sucked up the rays, floated in the water, scooted around the bay on a Hobie, envied the hand holding honeymooners and their slim bodies. We could have, but we didn’t. We had things to do. Important things. Like……Scuba Diving!

Scuba shops dot Grand Anse beach. Echo Divers, Aquanauts, Dive Grenada, etc. Tucked away in pastel wooden shacks, the red and white scuba flags on their walls signal a chance to check out the deep. Coral reefs and shipwrecks are scattered all over the bottom of Grand Anse Bay and of course further out around the island. We went out with Dive Grenada, the dive shop partnered with the Mount Cinnamon. Owned and run for years by British expat Phil Saye, the operation is professional but relaxed. They take out only small groups of divers to Dragon Bay, the wreck of the Veronica, the Molinere Underwater Sculpture Garden and all of the rest of the reefs and wrecks in the area. They also go out to the stunning and famous 600-foot long wreck of the Bianca C cruise ship, a bucket list dive in 110 feet of water, (advanced divers only please).

The dive masters and captains were local guys (and girl). Divemaster Brittany smiled for a picture as she lugged three scuba tanks at once from the shack, across the sand, out into the water and onto the boat. She wasn’t even breathing hard. All the crew were experienced, helpful, and great company too. They smiled and joked with us while they helped us gear up. Strong ocean currents run up from South America and around Grenada. So the rule is that everyone flops backward off the boat at the same time and the group stays together. That we did with a splash, clearing our ears and signaling “OK” as we sank to the bottom. Scuba diving is time spent in a kind of dream, gliding silently over the coral reef in all its shapes and colors and resident fish. We came to a small wreck with its winches and hatches encrusted with coral and frozen in place. Spotted moray eels peered out from their hideaways, a hovering barracuda gave us a sinister grin, and a shy sea turtle lumbered off into the blue distance. Every scuba diver dreams of drifting weightlessly all day through these scenes. Alas, it isn’t possible. And anyway we had things to do. Important things like…Lunch!

Once the dive boat put in back on the beach and we rinsed off our masks and regulators, we realized we had worked up an appetite. Along Grand Anse beach there are lots of places to have an excellent meal, or a beer and a burger, or a couple of exotic umbrella drinks to get your party started. Mount Cinnamon’s beach eatery, Savvy, is a big open-air tent with a bar and a sophisticated menu. The Spice Island restaurant has lots of inviting tables under a roof in the shade on the patio. But we walked further down the beach to check out the more budget friendly “Umbrellas” next to EcoDive. It’s a double-decker burger shack open to the breeze, with a balcony view of the beach.

The noontime Caribbean sun is hot, and we called for some cool drinks while we waited to experience the islands traditional foods. After the exertion of the morning dives, it was great to sit back and take in the scene. European and South American families were checking out the menu. The Grenadian waitresses were quick and friendly. A group of pretty American coeds from St Georges Medical School were ordering Bahama Mamas and Crimson Mojitos. They clinked their glasses and made toasts to “studying more and partying less” while they chatted and giggled and slowly got smashed. It was fun to watch them but hard to see how this was going to help.

At first, the bill shocked us. Ninety bucks for a light lunch? But that was in “EC,” Eastern Caribbean dollars. It came to around $36 US for the three of us. Not bad for a tourist place on the beach. We could have stayed there all day, talking, sipping, watching the dive boats load up and head out in the blazing sunshine for their afternoon dive. But we didn’t. We had things to do. Important things. Like… a road trip!

A guy we had met offered to take us around the island for a pretty good price, and we were due to meet up. John, a Canadian, had moved down from Toronto seventeen years ago. He was a practical and energetic sort, an engineer. He was perfect in a way for the islands, yet in other ways at odds with the Caribbean soul. He loved it in Grenada though and was full of information about the island. What it was like when hurricane Ivan hit, where the best island food was, inside scoops on government corruption and how the Chinese were working on aid projects to ingratiate themselves in the hemisphere. He picked us up and drove north around the bay, through St Georges town, and up the high road into the mountains.

We passed signs for waterfalls and hiking trails as the road curved and climbed, and the woods grew thick. The rainy season was over, but the green remained. I was amazed at the extent of the forest when we finally got to a high point. Green mountain tops went on for miles. Development and deforestation stop, I guess, when the slopes get too arduous. And these low mountains were sharply cut and steep. The clouds were grey now, and the chilly wind swept them low. My picture of a rainforest is one hot and humid with dripping wet leaves and muddy trails. Now with the rains gone these woods were dry and crisp, and the dirt paths were hard.

John pulled over, and we took a walk up a trail that had been carved out by the park service. After a while, it leads to a wooden lookout tower. Oh well, surrounded by tall trees and mountains it didn’t give us the 360-degree view we had hoped for. Just peeks at tiny white sails away on the blue horizon between green mountains. We hiked and talked and took a dip in a pool below a waterfall. We looked for monkeys, but today they weren’t hungry for the bananas John had brought along. Mona monkeys are old world primates whose ancestors survived the trip over on slavers centuries ago.

We could have explored around these woods all day. But we didn’t. We were getting hungry again… and John knew a place…

We climbed back in the car and drove down the mountain road heading for Grenville, a town of about 2500 souls on the Atlantic side. The road winds down from the hills and forests, past little houses and little towns. Gradually the sun came out again and with it the afternoon heat as we rolled into town. Grenville was named after a British Prime Minister when the Brits pushed the French out in 1763. Before that its French name was La Baye and some locals still call it that as it sits on a wide, deep bay. It’s been a center for shipping out spices since colonial times. Today it wasn’t exactly a bustling port, but in the heat of the afternoon, nobody was moving fast.

Still, parking was at a premium on Gladstone Rd, where we were headed. John said it was a great place for authentic island cooking as he dropped us off and went looking for a spot to put the car. It looked authentic alright, a hole in the wooden wall building with 5 or six wooden tables and benches. A rough sign said “Good Food” over the door. The big square open windows gave some relief from the heat, but it was up to the drinks that we ordered to cool us off a little more.

The menu was on a chalkboard up on the wall. Okay, but what were Oil Down, Callaloo Soup, Fried Bake and Saltfish Sousse, or Ground Provisions? The words and recipes had come from different cultures and centuries. Who knows what slave or sailor first called root vegetables “ground provisions”? What black woman with her hair bound up in a red bandana cooking up a stew for her overworked clan first called it “Oil Down”? This mix of vegetables and meat and island spices in coconut milk became the national dish of Grenada. It got its name from the way coconut milk simmers down and releases its delicious oils and flavors. My wife Virginia, born in the Philippines and no stranger to coconut cooking, couldn’t wait to try it. Ian and I went safe with a saucy chicken dish. John ordered Callaloo soup; a recipe traced back to West Africa. It was all delicious and fun, and a treat to be in a shack, eating and laughing, and learning about Grenada and it’s nourishing dishes as we watched island life go on down the dusty street.

We could’ve stayed there all afternoon. We, Ian and Virgie and I, didn’t have anything left to do. It had been a long day, and we were bushed. And the afternoon sun had lost none of its heat. But John had things to do. Important things. He took his “tour guide” status seriously and was determined to show us as much of the island as he could before nightfall. So we manned up and piled back into the car once more.

Now we motored down the eastern coast. Mount Cinnamon and Grand Anse are on the other side of the island at about 7 O’clock on the map, not far as the crow flies. But the road heads south first, rising and falling around the inlets and bays and ridges of Grenada’s serrated Atlantic coast. And John had stories to tell, interesting things to point out and favorite spots he couldn’t wait to show us.

We saw the newly sprouting sugarcane fields that a British company had planted. They’re building a new rum distillery and have reintroduced sugar cane to the island to make once again a total island-based “field to glass” rum — a significant and optimistic investment. We saw the housing development that almost was. The local investors pulled out when the government demanded additional “fees.”

We turned down a small one lane road and stopped at a modest factory. The lettering on the wall was in Chinese characters, and the Asian workers were making building materials. Apparently, three decades after the US invaded Grenada to put an end to a Soviet/Cuban supported uprising, the Chinese are coming in quietly, and with money.

Past the factory, we drove to a white sand beach in a half moon cove at the southern tip of the island. John said he and his wife loved it here. It was quiet and beautiful and practically deserted. There was a small hotel and restaurant surrounded by palm trees. John said that Hurricane Ivan had blown down most of the palm trees on the island. But here in the protective cove at La Sagesse beach the old ones had survived. I could see the attraction for someone who lived on the island and who knew its secrets, and who liked getting away from the tourist spots. It was a perfect hideaway.

We made our way back up the lane to the main road. Hot and tired Virgie and I and Ian were thinking of the pool and our porch at Mount Cinnamon. Now we were heading northwest, back up the Caribbean side of the island. The hills rose and dropped as we drove in the slanting sunshine on our final leg. We passed towns with English style churches and houses sometimes small and sometimes spectacular. Everywhere a mix of old and new, rich and well, not so rich. John drove us up the last hill and through the Mount Cinnamon entrance. The parked car purred on the steep entranceway while we got up the energy to climb out. We said our thank yous and goodbyes. John backed the car out onto the road and took off. The three of us, step by step, made our way up the hill. We unlocked the door and walked into our cool and comfortable home away from home, oh so glad to be back.

Showers and clean clothes first. Then a rum and coke with lots of ice, or a glass of wine. We laid back on the cushions on the portico and watched the sun go down. The lights came on like stars in St Georges away across the water. And the stars and planets winked between the shadows of the slowpoke clouds. The cruise ships joined in. Their lights glittered on, and they set off on their nighttime sail to the next island paradise. We could have sat and drank in the beauty of that scene all night. But we didn’t. We had things to do. Important things. We had dreams to dream.

The Island of Grenada

By Rick Runquist

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