TRAVEL A Stranger in Paradise

I KEEP HAVING THIS WONDER- ful dream.

In it, there’s this gentle, misted, mountainous, islandy place ringed with scores of white beaches and gentle surf and blessed by soft breezes. I’m in the lush interior, walking down a trail through high, sea-breezed cathedrals of rain forest, laced with clear streams and waterfalls.

Every footstep churns up soothing scents of unfamiliar flowers and well-known spices-of clove, cinnamon, nutmeg, and mace; so fertile and blessed is this dream-place that I have only to hold out my hand and fruit will fall into it. At the base of a thundering waterfall I dive through the mist into a rock pool; the water is so refreshingly cool that it’s a shock… and then I wake up and I say, “God bless Ronald Reagan.”

That’s not something that would ordinarily ever pass my lips, but this is no ordinary dream-it’s a memory.

The place is real. It’s the island of Grenada, 12 degrees off the equator at the southernmost end of (he Caribbean archipelago and as close to heaven on earth as I’ve come-you can keep your Hawaiis and your other touristocracies, Here, there are no hassles. No crowds. No “native culture” for the benefit of the tourists: the culture on Grenada is real.

And it’s likely to stay that way, thanks to the Ronster.

Cowboy Dutch sent in the troops to put an end to what was a pretty horrible regime back in 1983. It wasn’t much of a fight; within a few days of landing, and despite some huge boo-boos, the American troops were lolling on the beach sucking down native rums-some of them strong enough to take the paint right off your bazooka.

But, even a little war can do wonders for screwing up your PR and thinning out the crowds. And the Gipper went ’em one better: Before he sent the boys in. he had already put Grenada right down there in the popular consciousness with Haiti. Beirut. Kuwait City, and Pine Bluff. Arkansas. “Don’t go to Grenada,” he said, giving the Gienadian tourist industry at least seven years’ bad luck.

Eight years later it’s still the biggest single obstacle to getting Americans to make the (rip- Before I left to go there, I told folks. “I’m a-going to Grenada,” and they said, “To a-cover The War? Hey. be careful!” Not to worry. Here’s what remains of Mr. War:

●Two shot-up airplanes, a Cubana and an Aeroflot. rusting and intatters on the island’s backup airstrip, old worn-out Pearls Airport.

●The whitewashed shell of the old fort the Americans blew up, sitting on a hill above St. George’s, looking benign as a Greek ruin.

●The foundation and some remaining rubble from the psychiatrichospital that accidentally got bombed (’magine that).

●Fourteen or so fairly mean revolutionaries in a Grenadian prisonbuilt just for them, and all of them undy ingly curious as to whetherthey’ll be hanged or allowed to spend life behind bars.

●A persistent perception, amplified by G. B. Trudeau’sDoonesbury comic strip, that the St. George’s University School of Medicine, smack dab on Grand Anse Beach, is a place for young underachievers who play at being doctors and drink pina coladas the rest of the time.

Well, the last one”s about right.

While I’m not qualified to assess the merits or rigors of the actual curriculum, after having spent an evening or two there in the beachside cafeteria/bar stuffing myself with huge quantities of West Indian food and Carib beer, well, yeah, for the first time in my life, I’m pretty sure I wants to be a doctor because I wants to serve mankind.



FOR A FURTHER LOOK INTO THE SOCIAL LIFE AND the people of Grenada, St. George’s, the capital city, provides a smorgasbord of gentle sights, sounds, and smells.

At the center of activity is the Carenage. the island’s principal port and thus a great place to see the colorful Grenadian schooners and fishing boats. The best time to take it in is Tuesday afternoon, during the loading of crates of fruits and vegetables bound for Trinidad. The best time to go further into town to sample Grenadian street life is on Saturday, market day.

St. George’s Market is, in a sense, caught in a time warp; you get the feeling it hasn’t changed in hundreds of years. And it pro-vides outsiders with a look at how produc-tive the soils of this volcanic isle really are.

Bandannaed Grenadian women gossip, beneath their glorious umbrellas and hawk their wares from tables overburdened with mangoes, guavas, carambolas. coconuts sapodillas, granadillas, papayas, tamarinds breadfruits, plantains, and dasheens.

You name it and it probably grows some-where on the island, along with a lot of things you can’t name and have never heart of-such as the unfortunately, but aptly named “bluggo,” a bland and unsweet mem-ber of the banana family which, if uncooked, tastes rather like it sounds: One bite and you’ll say, “Bluggo!”

Best to leave bluggo preparation to the bluggo pros, and arguably, the best place to get the fullest, widest dose of Grenadian-style West Indian cuisine all in one sitting is Mamma’s. Mamma passed on a few years back, but her daughter Eileen has taken over. The quality will make you happy-if the sheer quantity doesn’t kill you. During our meal we counted 20 courses, and then lost track. Eileen kept bringing it out faster than anyone could hope to record it. hollering out the name of each dish as she slammed mut-down. “Callaloo with crab soup! Tannia frit-lers! Christophine in cheese! Curried mut-ton! Stewed sea turtle! Baked rock hind! Pork Cleopatra!”

One trip to Mamma’s and you’ll have a good idea of what to order everywhere else. and what to leave alone. Like fried sea egg fritters. Do not let anybody tell you that fried sea egg fritters are good. These are made from pregnant sea urchins, and taste as ob-noxious as that sounds; it’s Soul Food Sushi from Hell. And “manicou,” which, in plain old East Texas is plain old possum, and is just plain old awful no matter what you call it. Another bit of local color is the plantation boarding house near the northern end of the island. Proprietor Betty Mascoll presides over a big common table in her antique-crowded home-which, in a matter of minutes, one may come to feel is his own. Particularly after a couple of meals.

Mrs. Mascoll makes a mean barbecued oxtail and serves christophine like your mother would have made if she’d had aclue as to what it was. Mrs. Mascoll’s work with pork is particularly good, thanks partly to her pepper pot, said to be simmering on her stove unceasingly for five years (it would have been longer, but the intervention interrupted it). It’s a uniquely piquant though unidentifiable blend of sauce and spice.

Nearly everything on the island is on the same small and intimate scale as Mrs. Mas-coll’s place, something that you quickly become accustomed to-as you do to the slower pace.

Grenadian tourist officials in the government of Nicholas Brathwaite have also gotten used to the snail-like pace of Grenadian tourism and in fact have wisely come to appreciate the slower growth, seeing that it will, over the long haul, be good for the island and good for them. Thus hotel development has been more along the lines of smaller, boutique-type operations, rather than large-scale undertakings.

Probably two of the best bets for lodging are the Spice Island Inn and Secret Harbour. Spice Island Inn is smack in the middle of Grand Anse. Its bar and dining areas are both open to the beach breezes, and after you’ve taken some of the paint off your bazooka, Lordy, does the Saturday night steel band ever sound good. (By the way, here’s the full word on the local rums. Westerhall; good. Cockspur: okay. Jack Iron: With that name and (he fact the label’s printed on a mimeograph machine, scared to try it; it may be made from pure tire tool; write us if you survive. Clarkes Court: Put some on your charcoal to start it. Pick of the litter is Mount Gay Sugarcane Brandy, a Barbadian import; it’s pure pressed rose petals spilled from the glasses of the glazed-eyed gods.)

Secret Harbour is a good deal more tony, attracting the rich and famous and political: President Bush stayed there. Built on the side of a rocky mountain, the inn has breathtaking views of the Caribbean, though the steps that lead down to the water will wear you out on the way back up.

Regardless of where you stay, however, there are two caveats concerning Grenada: cars and dogs.

Don’t even think about renting an auto. Hum-V drivers should train on Grenada. First off, it’s all British-style, on entirely the wrong side of the mad. Before the intervention, most of the roads were little better than goat tracks; a massive U.S. aid program to extend asphalt to every corner of the island was a resounding success-and the natives are still celebrating. They’re like kids with a new toy and have no awareness of the laws of physics which, anywhere else on earth, would get them killed. Their awareness of brakes is equally deficient.

Adding to all the automotive fun: Grena-dian livestock labors under the impression that the best grazing land is along the margins; and, for humans, the streets and narrow two-lane highways are the main social and financial centers of the villages.

Obstacles-such as pedestrians-that would cause an American to leave skid marks 40 miles long elicit here only a grudging swerve.

In fact, a trip to the store ought to be the leading cause of fatalities among Grena-dians; the amazing thing is we saw only one fataltiy-a rooster with a look forever frozen on his face that seemed to say, “Aw shoulda hung a left.“

As to dogs:

Grenada is paradise to some of the ugliest old chomp-eared, inbred yaller mutts you ever saw. The original stock seems to have crawled out from under a porch in the Ozarks, and in 19 cases out of 20, ownership is as unclear as lineage.

A few of these animals have made it their practice to take their leisure along Grand Anse Beach; you will find them in little groups of two or three blissfully sleeping away the Grenadian afternoons right there among the tourists. Most are made quite amiable by life in the lap of Caribbean luxury and are almost goofily sociable with humans, perhaps believing them to be fellow vacationers who happen to have better access to food than they do.

But, as with humans, be sure you know the temperaments of any you might invite for a bite. On one quasi-legal foray onto private property to enjoy a spectacular overlook, a member of my traveling party was interrupted when a gnarly white canine erupted from beneath a house on the property and sunk his good fang in her ankle.

In the days before antibiotics, this could have turned out quite badly, but the dog survived, and my friend is okay too.