At risk of plunging into the crowded waters of clichedom: A new year, a new start… a new continent. While my adventures in Grenada have come to a successful close in 2012, this year brings new ones, of a South American brand. Together, with fellow tree planters Julia Stevens, and Samuel Wilson, our intrepid trio will wander this mysterious continent, from the northern beaches of Peru, to the southern highlands of Patagonia. Stay tuned, as our stories unfold, one internet cafe at a time! 

Q

Young Q was the smallest boy of hunting age in his Carib tribe. Unable to compete with his peers in feats of strength and hunting skills (his limbs too weak to carry him swiftly to the canopies of elder nutmeg trees, his spear accuracy too poor to strike a darting Iguana), he lived a life of ridicule and fear; In supreme fits of disrespect toward the struggling warrior, young Q was often excluded from spiritual ceremonies – an essential part of any Carib boy’s journey to manhood  – and his hammock filthied with the rotting entrails of an Agouti. For years he endured this painful reality, absorbing, coping, internalizing; his skin growing thick, his heart turning numb. However, perhaps destined on a divine path of poetic irony, it would be these years of torment and humiliation that would drive young Q to where he now stood – perched on the edge of a crater lake in the interior highlands, gazing up toward the cloud-covered peak to which he wished to climb; a peak so revered among the Carib tribe, that any person who would conquer its steep face would stand not only on a precipice of volcanic origin, but also of divinity.

The thick air howled as young Q studied his reflection on the lake’s surface, his slender frame and long black hair quivering in the ripples. He knelt before the waters edge, boughed his head, and stared into this reflection’s eyes. His dark cavernous pupils, burned with painful memories of perpetrations past, flickered intermittently with glimmering rays of sunlight periodically breaking through the dense cloud-cover above. Clothed only by a loin cloth of palm leaves, armed only with a shoulder-high staff of bamboo, young Q splashed his reflection in a fit of defiance, watching as the pieces of his specular self drifted apart.

Fighting mightily through the untamed wilderness toward his limit, the young warrior became one with his environment – from the tips of his fingers, to the edges of his toes. The mossy vines he clung to for stability, the soft mud he sank his feet deep inside, had become extensions of himself. This feeling of unity with the forest, also brought with it a feeling of completion young Q had never felt before in his short, tormented life. He was independent and in control of his fate, strong and determined; humbled by the difficult terrain he tred, yet empowered by his ability to manage it. For metres he ascended. Dense jungle turned to low-lying brush. Brush turned to sky. He had climbed to the narrow ridge of the peak, snaking its way to the summit 50 metres away. Despite his isolation in this rugged place, young Q was not alone. Laden deep within the howling gales that rushed over the ridge, were the deafening hallowed cries of his Carib ancestors, urging him onward. Young Q’s heart thumped faster, his blood surging through his veins. With the strength of generations behind him, he continued.

On top of the summit, Q gazed down at the kingdom below. For miles, the great ocean stretched in every direction. He was on a tiny island in a vast ocean of unknown, but his timeless accomplishment overpowered any feeling of insignificance. He had earned the right to shed his juvenile prefix, and name the illusive peak he had now conquered – Mt. Qua Qua.

—

Now that you know the back story…

Retracing the path of young Q:

The edge of the crater lake where young Q began his journey, with Mt. Qua Qua in the background.

A dense jungle path towards the ridge.

 

Crater lake below – ascending to the peak.

 

 

Death and life.

 

 

Toward the summit ridge.

 

 

 

 

Young Q blazed his own trail.

 

 

 

Nothing but soil, bare soles, and bare souls.

 

The summit.

 

 

His kingdom.

 

In a recent flurry of reader e-mails, SmartAss so eloquently wrote:

“So, it says here in the title of your blog that you’re a ‘Surf Bum’. To me, that would infer that you have few responsibilities of the average person, and have plenty of time to dedicate to the mysterious craft of surfing. In that case, why haven’t you written anything about it?”

Well, SmartAss, you are right that I have few responsibilities of the average person, and that surfing is a mysterious craft. But… here’s the real reason I haven’t been writing about surfing:

This is my curse. As you can see, the wonderful island of Grenada (highlighted by the lime green ellipse) sits in the very south of the Lesser Antilles Caribbean islands, in a location perfectly sheltered from the typical wave-producing swell directions (red arrows) that this region of the world gets. There’s a 10-12 foot, long-period macking swell being pushed from the north from hurricane Sandy you say? Well, there’s no need to get excited if you’re living in Grenada – Puerto Rico, The Virgin Islands, Anguilla, St. Martin, St. Barts, Antigua and Barbuda, Guadeloupe and Dominica have got you covered! Oh, there’s another nice looking storm system moving in from the northeast? Don’t worry, it’ll be flat and calm in Grenada – St. Vincent and Barbados will protect you!

The reality is, Grenada just isn’t in the ideal geographic location to pick up long-travelling swell from multiple directions in the Atlantic Ocean. So, while other places in the Caribbean are doing this:

A blissful March afternoon at Mt. Irvine Bay, Tobago.

And this:

Yours truly, about to get worked on the west coast of Barbados.

Grenada is likely doing this:

Prickly Bay. Flat and flawless to some, flat and forgetful for surfers.

HOWEVER, on rare occasions, the goddess of the sea will smile upon the island of spice, sending small pulses that find their way to shore. And when my “home” break on the south of the island doesn’t look like this (which is more likely than not):

Pint-sized Prickly perfection, Grenada.

…then it’s time to go hunting!

While the swell direction window for Grenada is small, the mid-section of the east coast of the island can offer some hidden gems. With hundreds of hidden bays, points and long stretches of beach with poor to no road access, when the direction is right, you’ll be able to find a fun, steep isolated peak all to yourself. But should the stretch of coast you’re exploring not show the love and warmth you were expecting, you can be sure to find solace in the adventure that took you to that spot.

Boards strapped to the roof of the vehicle. Windows down, the moist ocean air flowing through my hair. We crest the peak of a steep incline to gaze out at the open ocean far below. White water cracks against sharp rocks in the distance. Excitement. Anticipation. Hope. Passing through villages, locals point and wave, smile and stare. We are an anomaly on this island.  Grenada is a familiar place to me, but the sense of adventure that comes with the exploration of new coastline in search of waves, whisks me off the island. It takes me to the lush coastal jungles of Tahiti or Indonesia, where pumping overhead barrels await past every turn. The paved road we travel down turns to dirt. Dirt turns to grass. Grass turns to knee high brush. Thick vines engulf the vehicle as we struggle to navigate this long overgrown path. A clearing lays ahead, with white sand glimmering in the sun. The ocean greets us. Shoulder high A-frame sets grind down the coastline in front of us. Jump out. Wax Board. Paddle out.

“There’s something to ride!” – A welcome greeting as we pull up. East coast, Grenada.

Thanks for writing, SmartAss.

November 1st – When was the last time you had a party in a cemetery? Soca music fills the night air. Crowds of Grenadians loiter around pick-up trucks fitted with barbecues in their beds, swilling rum and waiting for chicken. Behind the trucks, a sea of stone caskets dot the slightly upward-sloping landscape toward the curving main road, 20 metres away. Atop the tombstones sit several candles, gently flickering in the soft breeze. Family and friends of the deceased gather ’round the stones, sitting, leaning. Children run and play through the unlikely maze.

For many Grenadians, All Saints is not only a time to remember and respect the dead, but also a celebration of life. There are no tears or somber faces; only a jovial mood that lifts our spirits, within and around us. For me, a Canadian whose cemetery experiences don’t extend beyond solemn, often solitary visits, this night is refreshing and comforting. A cemetery is transformed from a lonely space on the fringe of the public realm, to one of vibrancy – A beautiful meeting place.

Ah yes, the Halloween Hash – and no, I’m not referring to a certain street illicit that one might enjoy on a night of mischief and mayhem such as this. In Grenada (and many other nations around the world), a “Hash” is an organized non-competitive run/walk through set routes (rural, wild, jungle treks prove to be the best), all with the prospect of a cold alcoholic beverage at the end to propel you. Originating in Malaysia in 1938, a group of British colonial officers and expats formed the “Hash House Harriers”, a non-serious running group that met once weekly to keep in shape. As of 1950, the objectives on the club’s registration card read: To promote physical fitness among our members; To get rid of weekend hangovers; To acquire a good thirst and to satisfy it in beer; To persuade the older members that they are not as old as they feel (Thanks Wikipedia!). Not much has changed!

The full moon illuminates the sparkling sea, marking a shimmering trail that leads where the ocean and sky meet on the horizon. The tiny streetlights of St. George’s dot the coastline in an orange haze far below us. My focus shifts from this epic vista on my right. Right foot. Left foot. A narrow staircase of crumbling concrete leads up the steep face of a hillside, overgrown with tropical vines. A thin layer of moss covers the surface of the steps, making each step critically slick from the moist Caribbean air. A larger woman slows to a stop perilously close to the edge of a tapered step, panting and huffing in the night heat. Laura and I push past, continuing up, up, up to reach the decrepit jail at the top of the hill.

Grenada is a country whose traditions lie outside the haunting festivities of Halloween, yet I find myself spending this year in the spookiest setting to date. The untouched ruins of the 18^th century Fort Matthew surround the hashers as they sip local rum and Carib beer. A crowd encircles a girl dancing with fire. Inebriated runners relieve themselves in holding cells now affixed with toilets. I break away from the crowd to find my own serenity among the underground tunnels and confinement cells for the mentally insane. No one is around. I stare over a wall facing the Ocean far off in the distance below. Raging Soca music blares in the background. 

I have never felt I work well with children. Feelings of anxiousness overwhelm me. What do I say? How do I act? What if they don’t like me? What if I make them cry?

I find myself nervously grinning with my arms awkwardly crossed along my chest as the resident children at  the Queen Elizabeth youth shelter flow down the hall into the common area in which I stand. They laugh and shout as they run towards familiar faces. The volunteers I arrived with go straight to work. Their interactions seem flawless and natural. Embraces. Holding hands. I fade into the background as this flurry of wonderful human interaction unfolds around me. I become an observer. A wallflower, stuck on the fringe.

From across the hall I notice a young boy in an orange t-shirt, laughing and smiling in my direction as he jumps in and out of view from an adjacent room. Is he looking at me? I slowly shift to the right, out of view, then suddenly pop my head around the corner in the boy’s direction. He jumps and laughs. Again and again I pop my head around the corner, watching as the boy nears closer, laughing all the way. He reaches towards me, wrapping his arms around my left arm, smiling up at me. His happiness is unadulterated and genuine. I place an awkward hand on his back. “What’s your name?”. “Kelvin”. “Nice to meet you Kelvin!”. A shelter worker comes up to us and suggests that I take Kelvin to pick out a book in the reading room.

I feel my nervous energy melt away as Kelvin begins reading the first few pages of “Danny and the Dinosaur”. His enthusiasm and happiness is infectious, and I begin to relax, to live in the moment. After reading we make our way outside. The falling sun sits low on the horizon, highlighting the jagged contours of the luscious green peaks in the middle distance. A group of children surround me, using me as a shield as they play tag. Kelvin comes running up to me. “Give me a Jackie!”. “What’s a Jackie?”. “When I go on your back!”. “Oh, you mean a Piggy Back”. There I go, hopping and twirling with Kelvin on my back, both of us laughing and smiling. I let him down and quickly scoop up another boy on my back to run again. I feel myself shift from a passive observer to an active contributor. A group of children surround me again. “Want to see something really cool?”. “Yeah!”. I take off my backpack to show the children its built-in rain cover that unfolds from a lower pocket. I ask if the children would like to try my backpack on. There was never a straight face as they wobbled unsteadily under the weight of the disproportionate backpack draped ’round their shoulders.

It’s time to leave. My interactions with the children seem flawless and natural. Embraces. Pats on the back. “See you next week Mr. Landy!”, one of the boys shouts. I wave goodbye. I can’t wait to return.

Kelvin and I admiring the rain shower – Photo by James Forester

Rake leaves in fall, shovel snow in winter, sweep flowers in Grenada. The afternoon sea breeze sweeps north from the bay, bringing light gusts of whirling turbulence toward the ocean-view patio on which I sit. A large, twisted Bougainvillea plant drapes its vine-like tendrils along the perimeter of the patio, casting shimmering spots of shade with its tiny spade-shaped leaves. A strong gust of wind blows through. The tendrils dance and shake, while tiny pink and white flowers take flight, spinning and floating towards the patio floor to rest at my feet. By dusk, hundreds of flowers carpet the floor. A beautiful mess. 

Departure

I awake at 6:30 am. Brush teeth. I throw on some stale clothes from the long day before and make my way down to the hotel lobby and wait for the airport shuttle. I’m off to the land of sun and sand, surf and serenity; A place where fond memories were born, and new ones soon to be created. A sense of adventure and a job brought me here before. A sense of adventure, a girl and a dog bring me back…

I step through the gates. My board in one hand, guitar on my back. Luggage drops. An amber-white Pot-hound puppy splays himself on his back, crying with joy at my feet. A long-awaited close embrace. I’m back on the island – A Canadian surf bum in Grenada with nothing but time on his hands. Here. We. Go…