We Are Definitely Here

We stepped down from the plane into the steamy heat on the tarmac of Maurice Bishop International Airport, then went inside, got our passports stamped, and grabbed our suitcases—all there—then rolled our suitcases back into the heat. Ray’s Taxi & Tours Service loaded us up and honked our way out of the airport. At the right turn onto Gray Stones Road, he stopped and put the little van into four-wheel drive to navigate the road’s steep pitch.

The Villa at Gray Stones Road is the second house on the right, a small cheerful yellow and blue house up on concrete blocks. A palm tree full of coconuts and anoles grows in the yard. We are nestled in a neighborhood of Grenadians. People walk by our open gate to catch a bus to work or get kids to school. Loose chickens patrol the yards.

Last evening, we walked back down to the curvy main road and followed it for five minutes to the nearest beach. To our rural sentiments, the traffic is bonkers. Chaos reigns the road, but people who are not us seem to understand the game, which involves a code of honks and shouts. The sidewalk is skinny and often tilted and sometimes there is a car parked on it and you need to wait for a break in traffic to dodge around it. Pressed against the sidewalk is a cement block wall part of the way, and some houses with tiny bars or shops or just porches adorned by laundry.

We walked single-file with Andrew leading and me in the rear with my cortisol surging. We turned down a paved road past a yard full of fruit trees—banana, breadfruit, mango—then emerged onto Mount Pandy beach. At least I think that’s what it’s called. Unlike the pure white sand of the famous Grand Anse beach, this one has some white sand and tiny dark pebbles. Just about ten feet from shore is some coral reef teeming with multi-colored fish, to our complete delight. Also unlike Grand Anse, this beach is littered with shells and occasional trash instead of sun-baked tourists. The only beach-goers besides us were a handful of Grenadians.

After swimming, we walked back to our Villa to change, then walked about half a mile to the FoodFair. We bought a few items, mostly jugs of water, since it’s not recommended to drink tap water here. Our day had started at three a.m., so the kids barely stayed awake long enough to eat mac & cheese before crashing. Andrew fell asleep fast, too, but I lay awake a long time listening to the dogs barking just outside our windows.  

On Day two, we walked the same road, opposite direction towards Grand Anse beach. We walked until a woman on a porch hollered and waved for us to turn right there to get to the beach, which was very obviously the destination of this white family. A pathway took us downhill onto the very nearest end of Grand Anse.

Stripping off shoes and socks, we followed the white sand as it curved towards the resorts and their umbrella chairs. We declined offers of chairs and drinks then spread our towels under a seagrape tree. We swam and sat. This beach is undeniably beautiful, but the kids were hungry. We walked off the beach past the Spiceland Mall to get some roti—a Grenadian classic that’s kind of a burrito with fillings of curried potatoes and meat.

To get home, we got the number one bus, which runs the main road between St. George’s and Grand Anse, right past our road. The bus is a white minivan. It has four rows of seats behind the driver. Four people per row, plus two passengers in front with the driver. Plus the guy I’m calling the Hustler, who handles the sliding door and jumps in and out to wrangle passengers. So that’s a full load of nineteen. When you get where you want, you tap a coin on the window, and the Hustler snaps his fingers at the driver who stops immediately. Then the passengers rearrange, getting out as needed to let people out, then squeezing back in. These buses go fast and honk a lot and lurch around corners, but other people’s shoulders hold you in place.

Crammed in and jostling along, I feel something beginning to shake loose in me. Maybe it’s the tight grip I keep on life’s details. The need for control. Maybe it’s the roti. These first days have been a full sensory overload. Each moment shouts at me: We are definitely here.