Pictures are worth a thousand words

Today, due to continued impairment in the finger department, I thought I'd share a photo collage of Grenada - the island that has welcomed us as long term visitors:

Thought I'd start with a scene from any tourism brochure, luring all the northerners from their frosty cocoons. You want white beaches and palm trees in the sun? You got it!

Here is a house, or should I say epic mansion in Mt. Hartman bay where we're anchored today. This is not what I'd picture had someone described a 'green' house built into a hillside with a grass roof!

Here's an entirely different kind of house, we walked by it on the hash, far up in the hills, away from roads and miles from anything but vegetation as neighbors. We met a roots man on the porch, he had the look - dreadlocks and the smell of a natural weed ... but he was chatting on a cell phone!

Vegetation is everywhere in Grenada. One feels that if you dropped a seed and came back in a week, there would be a plant growing. The day we walked through St. George the capital, we walked up some steep concrete steps toward the old fort, and either side of us, trees grew up, offering fruits, blocking the view of the concrete homes beyond. This is a breadfruit tree. You cut these open and boil them, then pretty much treat like potatoes. I've yet to have some! I hear they make a great addition to a breakfast fry up.

St. Georges fort sticks out, high above the city like a decaying monument to a colonial past. We saw people on guided tours, but we declined. I've never liked being led around like cattle through damp old buildings with their dead energy. It does have an interesting past though, and has been nicely summarised here.

Much more my thing, down below, the vibrancy of the city, with it's people, sights and smells.

A few cafes on the Carenage sea front road. Notice the Schnitzel Haus!

A local vendor sells lambi (conch) and tortoise shells

I love Grenada's road signs. I assume lick means wear in this instance!

This monster is a Princess Cruise ship - it was the second last one for the season to grace Grenada's shores. It holds about 3000 passengers and 1200 staff. I guess the spice sellers and vendors of cheap Chinese 'Caribbean' trinkets will have a lean few months ahead...

Finally, a scene closer to 'home' for us. A boat yard (where many people 'haul out' their boats for the upcoming hurricane season). If you look closely, a cruiser lies in her hammock on one of the boats, probably deciding whether to pack it in, as the impending black clouds were moving fast. (We did get safely to De Big Fish for a beer and protection before the rain hit!)

Letting go of the fear

The idea of a life at sea is so compelling for me that I didn’t let my complete lack of experience stop me from barreling forward, tripping over my flippers to get here. But in the back of my mind, I knew that deep down it terrified me.

I do know that experience squelches fear and practice makes perfect, or at least calm. I am counting on this, and I know JW is doing the same, as he sees the noticeable tension across my face each time we decide to move.

I am at home when Shiloh is safely at anchor, all the moving over with, the GPS having given us the peace of mind that we are held in place, that the anchor is nestled snugly into the mud deep below us.

But I do not handle stress well when it comes to the boat. Our anchor has been giving trouble since we collected Shiloh from her charter company. When we’ve swung into a nice position in a bay, and JW calls out for me to drop, I begin with the remote and the anchor disappears into the water, the chain pummeling after it, heavy and loud and ominous. 

 And then when I let go, the chain doesn’t stop. I start imagining the chain flying so fast, pulling so hard that it will just fly off and we will be left without an anchor, the boat floating dangerously close to our neighbors in the new bay and with the knowledge we cannot actually anchor or stop anywhere. And then my heart races and my hands shake. I become useless as a first mate. All I want to do is jump up and down and cry or retreat below deck and bury my face in a pillow.  Anyone who sails, knows this is a completely irrational, unnecessary and counter-productive response. It simply doesn’t help. Neither does panic at the suggestion that we try out the new autopilot, since the memory is still strong, of how we reached out into heavy seas and the autopilot decided we should turn in jerky, bouncing, jarring circles. Sigh…

My mind plays tricks on me - it teases me with the worst case scenario - at any given moment we could end up beached on rocks, overturned or drifted out to sea with no instruments...

I believe this post is cathartic. Therapeutic. I’ve admitted my silly fears, in the hopes of killing them off one by one, so I can get on with enjoying not just the new bays, with their inviting patches of white beach and pretty ice blue reef patches, but the sailing as well. The amazing freedom of wind in your face, Shiloh the strong and brave vessel, carrying us along to somewhere new.

Each day a new lesson, a bit more experience, a feeling of belonging and purpose and each day the fear dissipates. That is the plan!

As I look around me, I see people of every description who embrace the beautiful, rewarding side of sailing. They are calm and confident and they face technical glitches with reason and logic and steady hands. It doesn't matter what size or age of the boat, if you have confidence, it is a beautiful thing.

Some Grenada boys heading out to sea

Sailors since birth - calm and at home on the ocean.

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!

Pass the rum and the spanner...

 

Not every day can be all sandy beaches and pina coladas. At least not with a fair share of boat troubles and technical glitches.

When we decided to pursue the ‘boat life’, I remember JW stating that what it’s all about is ‘fixing your boat in paradise’.

This morning began as many others, the sun peeking over the edge of the hatch above us, kissing us with a warm ‘good morning’. Friendly voices on the cruisers net, letting us know about the weather, the waves and the social events of the week.

Eventually we got out of bed, fired up the kettle and decided that today we’d head for Prickly Bay, as we’ve been invited to Peking Duck Grenada style over that way this evening.

No problem, after a makeshift breaky of whatever’s left in our galley (thawed bacon and Raisin Bran, UHT milk and a couple slices of stale bread) – we completed the moving checklist of hatch closing, dishes away etc. and revved up the engines.

The trip was peaceful – a cornucopia of blues spilling from above and below from the sky to the reefs on either side of us. The sun on our backs, we came round Prickly Point into the busy bay.

All no problem so far. Should have known.

We headed toward a mooring ball that we’d anchored near before. There it was bobbing all pink and chubby in the choppy little waves. We headed for it, swung around and once we had it on our port side (that’s the left J), JW called up for me to drop the anchor. I pressed the right button – the ‘down’ on the windlass remote control. And down it went, fast. But when I removed my finger, the chain kept flying down into the murky water below.

“I’m not doing that!” I shouted and JW spun round with a big “Sh*t!”.

When this happens, the first rule is to stay away from it completely or risk losing a limb. The chain weighs tons and when the momentum begins, it can’t be stopped by a fleshy little human hand or foot!

So luckily it didn’t break the rope at it’s end and fly off the boat completely (which would have left us without an anchor altogether).

But as we were now focused on the chain, pooled somewhere on the ocean floor underneath, we had drifted toward the mooring ball and our neighboring boat was waving his arms to let us know that we should get away from it ASAP!

We eventually got most of the chain back up, and hooked on the bridle (to keep us steady and pointing correctly – and not swinging into the nearby boats), and then it dawned on us that the chain might just be tangled around the base of the mooring ball. Which would not be good. At all.

Our neighbor seeing us just standing on the front of our boat, looking concerned, came by and asked if all was ok. He had a look at the windlass with JW to see if there was something wrong or loose on the clutch. We’re still not 100% sure it won’t happen again, the next time we anchor. Which incidentally will be tomorrow! That is, if we’re not stuck to a mooring….

JW donned his big new blue flippers and neon goggles and tipped into the water like an eager dolphin, to see if he could eyeball the chain. He couldn’t. Too murky. But he looked adorable in a slightly comical way. Unfortunately that won’t help tomorrow when we try to head out again.

So, at this stage I needed a beer, and we decided to head over to the beach we could see in the distance, just to walk along, unwind and have that beer!

But as we neared the beach and JW tried to tip up the dinghy motor, it became apparent it was going nowhere and we would most likely end up with the propeller deep in the sand and stuck in the mossy seagrass. He fiddled and we bobbed and the poor holiday makers trying to read their Kindles in peace and sip their rum punches with an unfettered view of the beach and bay beyond, were instead treated to our bouncing dinghy and frustrated fumbling. Two local guys, fixing a boat motor nearby noticed us and came wading in to help. As the one guy tinkered and banged and time lolled along like molasses, I realised there we were, standing on a pristine beach, palm trees swaying above us, sun glistening on the water. In paradise, fixing our boat.

Roti at Nimrod's Rum Shop

As promised - the roti post. I've been anxious to try an authentic Grenadian roti since we arrived here and it took us far too long. But thanks to the cruiser's net in the mornings, we found out that a local rum shop, (famous for capturing many cruisers on their way to town, who stop here innocently waiting for the bus, only to be lured in by the first rum and never reaching town), has roti specials on Tuesdays and Thursdays. And by name alone, I was enchanted. A guy named Nimrod's got to make a good roti.

We tied up our dinghy and ventured up the road and there was Nimrod's with a welcome sign. Despite an unexpected and not completely friendly blond who greeted us, we were led around to the kitchen and ordered two rotis - one beef, one chicken.

Margaret served us and she was a doll. Her house was next door and though she was elderly and has lived in Canada and the UK, she was born only a few doors away and has returned to the peacefulness of Grenada.

And then the roti came. And though I am biased as I have LOVED and been loyal to Bacchus roti shop back in Toronto for over 20 years, I had to admit, this was excellent. JW agreed - luckily they gave me my hot sauce on the side!

I'm on a mission now - an easy one for me - to find the best roti in the Caribbean. Stay tuned...

Checklist for the practical cruiser

“Have you got the headlamp?”

“Yes, have you got the VHF radio?”

“Yep. You got the camera?”

“Affirmative. Have you got our waterproof phone?”

“Let me check. Yep. Is the mast light on?”

“Just doing that. Let’s turn the freezer off while we’re gone.”

Ok, and did you close all the windows? Hatches? Bring in the outdoor cushions and our shoes?

“Ok, done. Did you bring a towel in case we get soaked?”

“Got it. Pull up the dinghy, let’s go.”

This is the routine each evening as we head out for one social event or another. I barely remember the days when we would be heading out in a car, not worried about rain or seaspray. Days where you didn’t need a radio in case your dinghy motor doesn’t start and you drift off somewhere… Days where you didn’t need to find a way to save some energy to give the batteries a break…

But those days didn’t allow for massive rainbows and black ominous storms so beautiful you can barely pry yourself away to get the camera out.

Those days didn’t include new adventures, to Nimrod’s roti shop for some local grub and a walk in the hills. But today includes that and I can’t wait. I think I’m salivating. We’re on our way now. Roti post to follow.