More on Grenada...

at the vegetable market in St. George

lunch on Morne Rouge beach

making friends at Lance Aux Epines cottages

It was less than thirty minutes into our idyllic visit to Morne Rouge (pronounced by the locals, “Mawn Rue”) beach.  The sand was silky, the water turquoise.  From my shady spot beneath a pair of Sea Grape trees, I could hear the music in the distance before seeing the oversized catamaran headed straight for our section of the beach.  As they drew closer, I watched one man at the back of the deck who had moussed hair, a turned up shirt color, and wraparound shades adjust the bulge in his lyrca swim trunks vigorously.  They landed fifteen feet from us and tied up to a tree with a rope as thick as my arm, disgorging about four-dozen German tourists onto the beach.  Apparently, the Germans found my section of the beach as lovely as I had, because they stayed within thirty feet of their vessel for the duration of their hourlong visit, many of them settling in right next to me so I could enjoy their smoke, secondhand.  A couple of hours after the first vessel departed another one arrived.  This one, named Rhum Runner, was bright orange and parked a short distance down the beach.  Soon after their arrival, a group of Grenadians dressed formally in white shirts/blouses and black trousers/skirts arrived and marched down the beach toward the water.  Three men waded, fully-clothed, waist-deep into the water.  Two middle-aged men, one of whom was likely the congregation’s minister, held an older man by each arm and guided his head back into the water while the others looked on.  In the background floated the Rhum Runner and its bevy of pink-skinned passengers.  Perhaps the greatest inconvenience of being a tourist is being reminded of the fact that you’re not the only one.