Motors, Mud, Meat - doing with and without

It’s been an eventful week (sort of), since the departure of our guests and our return back to Hog Island.

We survived the dinghy impeller malfunction, made it across to Le Phare Bleu marina, across the epic waves.  We arrived safe but sopped and salty, and then had the dinghy motor lifted and carried away in the wheelbarrow to the engine hospital. An hour later, she was as good as new. The impeller turned out to be a little star shaped black rubber thingy… amazing that it could make or break a motor!

We are just crazy enough to have volunteered for another hash – read mud, mud and more mud. It didn’t help that the skies opened unabashedly for the first time in weeks just as we boarded the bus, en route to Cabier Lodge where the Bastille Day hash was being hosted.  We worried about getting there alive as the windows fogged up, and our driver swerved and overtook cars in washed out roads, while the cruisers inside gasped and held on. We also worried about Shiloh out in the bay, left alone to face the rain and possibly some strong winds. (Secretly I was happy that I’d set up my little rain catcher and was dying to prove to JW that we could in fact catch a meaningful amount if it really rained.)

It really rained. But it was over an hour later when we arrived and it left behind mountains of mud and slime on the trails, for the huge turn out that set off and a couple hours later, completed the hike. 

The crowd heading off on the hike (notice my French colours!)

 The highlight of the day were the crepes on offer back at the lodge. What a reward!

Our boat neighbors and blogger friends at Zero to Cruising, who are definitely the fittest couple we know, took the French theme of the day to another level, sewed up some great costumes, proceeded to run 8km in them, and then deservedly won the prize for best costume!

The after party with Mike and Rebecca from Zero to Cruising

 And all of that led to today. The day we have been leading up to for so long, that we denied and many times lost piles of meat…. The day where we admitted that the freezer was more trouble than it’s worth.

This morning as we listened to the continuing pitter patter of rain on the newly waterproofed bimini, I decided it would be a ‘cooking’ day and headed over to the freezer to pick out some chicken to thaw. But alas all the chicken was already thawed. Along with the steaks and the sausages and the soggy buns I was trying to keep fresh.

A quick sniff told me that most of them had tipped the scale between ok and might kill you in a violent and painful way. So we had to toss everything. Again.

I had that deep down GRRRRRRR anger again, and really it’s just not worth the long lasting effects of stress. I left the world of traffic jams and work deadlines for a reason. No more GRRRRRR.

So after I chewed out JW on learning he’d turned the freezer down ‘ever so slightly’ as it was drawing too much power and necessitating we run the generator for hours every evening, I resigned myself to the loss of meat.

We realised we don’t eat that much meat anyway and if we do want to make something, we’ll buy it that day, cook it up and for dessert we’ll savour the sweet display on our inverter/battery charger, showing such low current draw. We might only have to run the noisy little red generator once every two days!

Boating life takes some adjustments.  Today we are at the second Laundromat, as the first we tried had a power outage.

It’s either hunt around or handwash everything, using up our precious limited water supply on the boat and hope the things will dry, hung along the sides of the boat, as the rain squalls come over one by one…

On the bright side, this marina has fast wi-fi, cold Coke Zeros, and we have left the rolling swells back on the boat for a couple hours.

A beach scene in Bonaire... more adventure awaits!

Our friends on Chaotic Harmony meanwhile, have headed off today on a three day straight sail to Bonaire, and it has me dreaming of all the places we have yet to see. The sailing we’ve yet to do. The plans we're starting to formulate. But those are other blog posts and for now, all the little hassles melt away.

Two days of hashing

Let me take you on a journey - one written with a single hand (as the other one is injured as a direct result of the past two days of fun and struggle). This will therefore be a mostly photographic journey.

Friday was our virgin hash. The implications of this, known only to those in the hashing 'know', and will be revealed later in the post.

It started out like this:

Pretty sweet starting spot!  A motley crew of over 5o people headed up the side of this waterfall, and I noticed a proud Canadian flag hanging up on the left - wondered how anyone got to a position to hang it, but then was distracted by the mud and rocks and trees and hill in my way and had to focus on that.

We passed many hillside farms, and I noticed this lovely sign at the unmarked entrance to one farm:

Some of the farms were more friendly, and the trees proudly displayed their fruits. We saw avocados, passionfruit, breadfruit, mangoes, bananas and cocoa.

This is what our beloved chocolate looks like on a tree, many processes before becoming the bars we know and love!

This was a rum shop crawl though, and no sooner had we soaked in the fresh air of the hills, fell into some mud near the end that was knee deep and smelled quite organic, did we emerge to the road and the first bass pumping local rum shop!

Here I am, feet the thick grey shade of fresh mud, enjoying the first beer.

We carried on along the road and came across some cuties and cute houses, with locals either cheering us on or wondering what these weirdos were doing...

 At the end of the trail, we came back around to the lovely waterfall where some swam and oters had to try to remove a few layers of stinking mud from their shoes and legs...

Then finally, we came back to Mark's Rum Shop and the check in point for the ON AFTER. Food and some more beer!

But it was not over. The virgins were called to the circle and our certificates were presented, along with at least a case of beer as a welcoming shower. I was secretly not impressed, knowing the sticky hoppy ride home to follow!

Trying to look happy with our new certificates while beer dripped down our backs...

Loved the sign at Mark's Rum Shop - the venue for the after party.

Day 2 - the REAL Hash...

Well it turns out day one was a teaser, a namby pamby rum crawl, while day two turned out to be a hike - first all the way down a steep muddy, rainforest mountain, and then right back up it! Shiloh and the peaceful lapping of the ocean were far far away...

I have exactly zero photos of the trek as both hands were required - to hold vines and shield yourself from tree branches, and grasp at the clayish mud as you slid backwards down the hill into fellow hashers. Groaning, panting and many "I give up"'s were heard, but we all made it.

JW on the road for the last leg of the hike - paved and straight, it was heaven in concrete form.

The scene as we arrived back at the beautiful venue for the after party - at the northern tip of Grenada in the hills.

Amazing tree at the top.

Ok, it was all worth it for this view!

On the way back, we broke up the hour plus drive on narrow winding hilly roads, with a crazed driver, by visiting the Victoria food festival that happens in this sleepy little town once a  month.

One of the food vendors - notice the curried bull-pissle and read bull penis. I asked. I didn't try it.

The street scene at Victoria - what it doesn't depict, is the ear and heart crushing bass from the many speakers..

Another interesting menu from a local vendor.

 We tried a few fish cakes and walked the strip, but by then my hand was throbbing and my third finger (luckily on the right hand) was completely, and still is, immobile. I got a glass full of ice and was ready to head back -bus, dinghy, bed.

And so it came to be that I survived my first hash weekend. And here are my battle scars:

The Cult of Hash

We were ‘expats’ for over 10 years. It holds to reason that if you ever get ‘into hashing’ it will be during your stint as an expat. Afterall, hashing started out as a completely colonial endeavor, with British Colonial officers running and drinking beer and calling it a club in Malaysia all the way back to the 1930’s.

Ghana had a hash chapter – though I only knew this after witnessing a motley crew of local and expats in athletic gear, running past our little compound house alley during my volunteer days. I read their bright t-shirts and asked around. It was a running/drinking club called a hash. Oh, ok...

Never have been into running and I maintain I will only run if chased, and maybe not even then. So hashing has never been a club I sought out.

Then we came to the Caribbean and joined the loose subculture of ‘cruisers’ who float around the various bays of Grenada. And through the morning net announcements, we heard about the Inter-Caribbean hash event, spanning 5 days. It promised to be a great way to see the island – inland from our little bays – and get a bit of exercise. AND you didn’t have to run. There are everything from pansy trails to iron man ones. Great!

 We started our association with hashers the best way – at their after party on the first night. We are anchored off our favourite little island ‘Hog’ and the hash led the runners to our quaint beachfront. So the least we could do was hop in the dinghy and join the party.

I learned a lot more about the whole ‘hash thing’ at this event. The more I heard, the more it all reminded me of  a global cult where members had a secret connection, something that seems to bind them all. There are code words like “ON ON” and “ON IN” referring to the trails, and “ON ON ON” or “ON AFTER”, referring to the after parties.

Hashers have nicknames that they defend and cherish with a frightening passion. Some have these names displayed boldly around their necks in black and white beads. There is a hash master and there are hares (those who lead the trails),  and hounds, (who follow).

They call new hashers virgins, who must go through an initiation process that most likely involves being showered with beer.

There is something cute yet creepy about all this.

We met a Canadian from Edmonton who had flown in for the hash and she told us her hash name was Northern Exposure because she had pulled the pants of a hash master down, and the story went on... She explained that she and a few friends now base every holiday around global hashes. And they know that they will be welcomed, their ‘language’ will be understood and their hash names will be honoured.

All I wanted was a way to get some light exercise and a chance to see some of Grenada.

 By tonight, we’ll have completed our first hash and may or may not be covered in a sticky residue of barley and hops…

We will have seen the Annandale Falls and will have met some new friends for sure.

But will we be converted to the cult? On on to find out!