Rum For Your Life
Our second Caribbean stop was Grenada, the southernmost of the Windward Islands. Known as the “Island of Spice,” it plays a major role in the global nutmeg trade, producing 40% of the world’s supply—a fact proudly displayed on its colourful flag. Although, while its spice exports are significant, tourism has taken over as the backbone of the economy. Like much of the Caribbean, Grenada was a colonial prize, passed between the French and British. It changed hands three times—practically stable compared to Tobago’s chaotic thirty-three transfers. The British held on the longest, shaping the island’s language, legal system, and government. Today, English remains the official language, and King Charles III is still head of state, though his popularity seems more a matter of formality than enthusiasm.
We docked in St. George’s, Grenada’s small but picturesque capital, tucked around a natural harbour and backed by steep, forested hills. Lusher and greener than Tobago, it was over these hills that our day’s excursion would take us, with the first stop at Laura’s Herb & Spice Garden. Nestled in the middle of Epping Forest, no less, she wasted no time leading us through her impressive collection of plants and a selection of local wildlife. It was advertised as a “full sensory experience”, which apparently meant having freshly picked spices thrust under our noses with great zeal. Under normal circumstances, this might have been pleasurable. After unrestricted access to the ship’s free bar the previous evening, however, it felt like a challenge too far and there were times when withdrawing to rest alongside a Grenadian gecko was necessary.
Next on the agenda was Annandale Waterfall & Forest Park, a thirty-foot cascade tumbling into a clear, inviting pool, framed by dense, tropical greenery. The sight alone was impressive, but it came with added entertainment—members of the local diving club, eagerly soliciting payment in exchange for hurling themselves off the top. While we weren’t particularly keen on funding a potential life-threatening stunt, plenty of others were. And so, with a theatrical flourish, one diver took the plunge, plummeting towards the water, missing the jagged rocks by what looked like mere inches. Barely had he resurfaced before he was back at it, wringing out his shorts and drumming up business for the next leap.
A short drive into the island’s interior brought us to Grand Étang National Park, a remarkably dense rainforest that felt far removed from the Caribbean’s typical sun-soaked shores. For such a small island, the sheer scale of the wilderness was astonishing—we could have easily imagined ourselves deep in the Amazon or Congo. From a viewpoint within the park, all we could see was an unbroken stretch of green, a striking contrast to the beachside resorts we had expected. At the park’s entrance, local vendors offered the perfect introduction to Caribbean hospitality: our first taste of rum punch. Made with Grenadian rum, freshly squeezed oranges, and a generous dusting of local nutmeg, it was delicious—even with a lingering hangover (or perhaps because of it).
Trying to join in the party—and our drinks—were the resident mona monkeys, swinging from the rafters and swooping down whenever an unattended refreshment or an ice lolly appeared. The local schoolchildren, gripping their snacks with growing concern, had little success in keeping them at bay, while the monkeys patiently waited for their next opportunity. On the drive back to the capital, we chatted with our bus driver about Grenada’s most famous athlete, Kirani James—embarrassingly, the only Grenadian I could name. His achievements clearly meant a great deal to the island, especially the fifty or so relatives we bumped into, and the conversation made me wish I’d done a bit more homework on his exploits.
With a few hours left in St. George’s, we set off for a final wander, determined to absorb a bit more of the capital—if only to retain something useful for a future pub quiz. The streets were alive with the usual mix of market traders, excitable taxi drivers, and bar patrons who had clearly started their day’s drinking at breakfast. The market was a lively affair, with vendors enthusiastically trying to offload fresh fish, spices, and anything else they had to hand. A few streets over, more enterprising individuals attempted to sell us random narcotics with equal persistence. Both offers were politely declined—the first due to a lack of refrigeration, the second due to a lack of local currency. As we sailed away, St. George’s glowed in the fading light, and we raised a final rum to Grenada—a staggeringly green island far removed from the Caribbean typecast. We sail north.
J
