Letting go, again

Yes, this does look like a pile of junk. But it actually is a Vietnam era US army jeep, complete. Just in pieces. Disassembled a mere 20 years ago to be restored. It has languished, wheels and suspension stored under the house, body on its side in the garage, engine and gearbox under bags of decaying nutmeg shells. 20 years. Now it's time to give up this one too. It once rode proudly in pink through the streets of St. George's to and from work; it crossed the length of Telescope beach, surf spraying from under the wheels; got stuck crossing the Levera Pond and had to be driven 15 miles back to town with a vicegrip on the brake line. And it gave a comfortable ride, even without shock absorbers.

All in all a characterful vehicle. Produced at great cost for the US Army (isn't everything), it was allegedly given to flipping over when cornered hard, but it soldiered on reliably (pun intended). It gave me four years of trouble-free service. Sometime around 1989, with the salt damage from Telescope beach and other far-flung military adventures beginning to show, I decided to restore it. I spent a memorable few days taking it apart under the skeptical eye of various family members but didn't get very far in the restoration effort when I found a job in Barbados and left Grenada.

How it came into my hands is mildly interesting. In the mid-eighties I struck up an acquantaince with this old guy called Baje (because he was a Bajan) who lived on the beach at Fontenoy, doing small engine repairs. After a few visits to his yard, I asked about the old vehicle under the tarp. (you have to read this in Bajan) "Maaarrnn, tha's is a complete army jeep" he said, "dem gi me dis for showing dem how to get tru de reef. I gine fix it up. I ent selling it fuh nuttin".

Brought into Grenada by the US Army during the invasion in 1983, they had partially disassembled the jeep and handed it over to Baje, with a good supply of spare parts. A peek under the tarp confirmed the strange and intriguing story, and drew me back to Baje several times over the next year.

The prospect of owning a genuine army jeep kept me awake at night. That model hadn't yet been released as surplus, so it was possibly the only one in private hands. My transport at that time was a 185cc trail bike. I never actually asked Baje if I could buy it, nor did I ever ask to see it again. But we were kindred spirits, interested in all thing mechanical.

A year later it was still there under the tarpaulin. One day we were sitting down contemplating an old lawn mower he was working on. "You wan tek the jeep and see wha you could do wid it?" "Yeah, ah wuddun mind" was my deliberate reply. He offered it to me for a price we both agreed was fair. A few months later it was reassembled and roadworthy. There followed tortuous negotiations with the licensing authority who wanted to know how they could be expected to license a vehicle which had no import papers (having entered the country via landing craft). Eventually I was allowed to pay a purchase tax to legalise it and then it could be registered. The best part of all was seeing it change from camouflage green to pink and grey zebra stripes, drawn by an artistic friend and hand painted with Berger 404 roof paint by me.

Yes, that is me, in orange polka dot shorts and grey top, looking very cool, circa 1987. I know, I fell off my chair laughing too.

But one does need to be sensible about which dreams to pursue, and with persons unnamed threatening to carry it off to the dump at Perseverance, a new home has been found for it. All bits collected together, it will soon be taken to a kinder home, hopefully to feel the road again, hopefully not in 20 years....

Arrestable Offences

I came across the Royal Grenada Police Force Prosecution Department on a recent trip to the Market Square in St. George's. It was a Saturday, and as the signage attests, it was closed. This is the building overlooking the Market Square that used to be occupied by the Minor Spices Cooperative Society, which presumably no longer exists. Why the RGPF would locate their prosecution dept right above the market beats me, but it probably is because of damage to the original location by hurricane Ivan which was never repaired, forcing them to relocate to this less than ideal location.

Anyway, what caught my eye was the sternness of the warnings posted on the wall. Loitering as an arrestable offence is pretty strong stuff. In many countries loitering with intent to commit a crime is certainly an arrestable offence, but just plain loitering? In front of the Prosecution dept? Who would want to loiter there anyway? As to the parking, the whole street is designated No Parking, so why park at all, and in front of this particular office! Grenadians must be brave people. Or bold.

On the left door is a sign posted displaying the Carnival Rules. One rule which occupied the attention of the RGPF this year was apparently the arrestable offence of men (or women) dressing as the opposite sex. Men dressing as women has been a staple of the Jouvert for as long as I know it and probably much longer. It is usually employed as part of an Old Mas presentation, but it can just be for so. Well apparently this year the RGPF took it more seriously than usual and among the many admonitions to the Grenadian public, was the reminder that anyone caught dressed as the opposite sex would be committing an offence (presumably an arrestable one).

This is my cousin Craig posing with Lili on the Sunday before Carnival. Dressing as a woman during carnival is standard practice for him. Asked why, he replies "ay ay, is carnival.." He wasn't in full kit yet - "saving dat for tomorrow...I cyan go in town doh, de police go arrest me".

Monday Night Mas - Grenada Carnival

Monday night mas used to consist of watching the bands come out of Queens Park where the Pageant was held. The bands would parade across the stand at Queens Park and then come into town on their way back to their band HQ. As time went by the concept of T-shirt bands for a Monday afternoon jump-up became popular and now it is The Big Thing. Pageant might still exist, but the so-called pretty mas save themselves for Tuesday, and Monday is now fully given over to the T-shirt bands. Sponsored by local entities, the bands charge a minimum price for which you get a shirt and some battery powered paraphernalia, headgear and (with the Carib band) a beer guzzler. Advised that it begins at 7pm, we arrive at 6.30, to take in the atmosphere and see the sun set over the Lagoon. At 7.30pm and no trace of the band or any of its members we retire to the Horny Baboon at Lazy Lagoon for some refreshment. It's at least 9pm before things get going.

Varia poses, showing off her battery powered baubles to full effect...

Neil and Lesleydiv>

We're limited to a point & shoot, so the quality is not great

A shakey shot of the crowd. There are several bands, and a keen competition for the top prize, so the DJ on the music truck is constantly barking out instructions as we approach the judging point. We're called on to wave our lights, but when we don't display enough enthusiasm, we do it over, and over, and over again, and each time it involves the whole crowd literally reversing 10 or 15 feet, until we get it right, and the band goes past the judging point. We don't win anyway, because Digicel, right behind us, actually have Star Wars type swords which are far more impressive...

Well, I just like this picture...don't you?

Free? at Last

A couple years ago, on the 24th anniversary of the October 19th, 1983, I wrote the note appended below. These last few days, reading of the release of the remaining members of the PRG who had been found guilty of the execution of Maurice Bishop, several Cabinet members and others, I remembered it and dug it out .

It’s not hard to understand why so many are still violently opposed to the release of these remaining detainees - the so-called Grenada 17. They are invariably persons who lost family and friends in the most brutal way imaginable, at the hands of a firing squad. Or whose relative might have died or been maimed jumping off the 30 - 40 foot walls of the Fort George to avoid being caught in the crossfire. There was never really any doubt about who pulled the actual triggers. The army officers who apparently did the deed were “only carrying out orders”. What has always been less clear is who, if anyone, gave the order.

Evidence given by one man, a former security officer for Bishop was apparently able to provide this specific information, and on that basis, the shooters and the order-givers were sent down. Different theories persist about the events of that day and the preceding two weeks and questions remain to this day. Over the past few years, several (most) of the group have been released. With all the questions about the legality of the trial, and the soundness of the verdict, it was increasingly clear that no government was keen to keep these people imprisoned. It is said that some persons who might have been involved in the “decision to execute” were never detained and were able to re-integrate into society, leading relatively normal lives. Another irony - several of the persons advocating for their release actually suffered under their hands. The editor of a local newspaper, and the current PM were both detained under the PRG (for detained read imprisoned). At any rate the resentencing of most of the Group in 2007 paved the way for their release on 5th September 2009.

There is also the work of the Group while in prison. In any estimation, the incarceration of this generally highly educated group of people has had a very positive effect on the other prisoners. Some of the Group obtained university degrees while in prison and the educational classes they organised benefitted the prison population in no small way. They were eventually given senior and trusted roles in the prison, undertaking projects and overseeing for instance the construction of a new women’s prison. Their absence will therefore be sorely missed.

Not to imply that their position in the prison system was a comfortable one. The early days of incarceration were in maximum security conditions, in a prison several hundred years old and described by most as not fit for human habitation. Hurricane Ivan in 2004 wreaked havoc on the prison, and many inmates escaped. The Group decided to stay behind and by some accounts were instrumental in restoring some semblance of order.

Of the final seven freed recently, one was in my class in school and another, two forms ahead of me, a third was my youth group leader.

This is my recollection of that fateful day:

Today, the 19th of October 2007 is (unbelievably) 24 years since the collapse of the so-called Grenada revolution. On this day in 1983, Maurice Bishop, still charismatic and loved despite his excesses under cover of the Revolutionary government in place since 1979, was freed from house arrest at his home overlooking St George’s.

I was at home that Wednesday morning and heard the news on the grapevine. Maurice was free and he was going to town to speak to the people. My mother and I (my father thought we were crazy), joined by my cousin Beverly, went to town to catch the scene. The scene of an entrenched revolutionary government, unravelling before our eyes. An impossible thought just hours before.

In the market square. People milled, Maurice was on his way, speakers were being set up, it was almost a carnival atmosphere. I was recently returned from Uni in the UK, eager to contribute, but just a bit leery of the darker side of the ‘revo’ I had begun to experience.

Then the word came – he had gone to Fort Rupert instead. We climbed the hill to the base of the Fort, My mother, Beverly and I, amidst the throng of persons heading the same way. Again, the slightly, off-centre, carnival type of feeling, the release from the cautious living everyone had become accustomed to, careful of being branded a ‘counter’.

‘Pumphead’ – Keith Hayling – a comrade of Maurice, passed, we hailed him and chatted briefly, he worked with my mother in the same insurance company. He was in the group executed.

We stopped at the junction at the base of the last incline leading up to the Fort. A narrow, almost one-way thoroughfare, steep, passing the Presbyterian Church, and the main police HQ, up to the Fort, one of the major bases of the People’s Revolutionary Army.

We stood on the stoop of the Cooperative Bank, closed, as were all the other businesses in town, arguing about whether to proceed up the hill to the Fort. My mother, naturally curious and always eager to be in the action, as was my cousin, wanting to proceed up the hill. I counselled caution, conscious of the narrow road, the crowds, and the likelihood of some sort of uncontrollable situation…

As we talked, around the bend swung three BTRs, Russian made armoured personnel carriers, 8 wheelers, each with two engines in the rear, and amphibious. On the tops of the BTRs, young soldiers, sporting AK47s at the ready, the machine guns in the centre of the BTRs also manned.

They were heading in the direction of the hill. In their way was a small Toyota, waiting to be called by the Traffic policemen at the junction. They had to slow and actually stop. “Mash dat to f--k outa de way” shouted the soldier on the front BTR (perhaps Connie Mayers, the first to die in action), as the lead BTR picked up speed and rammed the unfortunate vehicle and it occupants to one side, crumpling it like a paper bag.

They continued up the hill, the three BTRs, and over the roofs came the sound pop- pop –poppopoppop –pop. In my naivety, I thought, they’re shooting blanks, it’s Ok. We stood there, outside the bank, mesmerised, trying to figure out what exactly was happening, when the first person came running down the hill, and past us. That first guy was clutching his head, which was bleeding profusely.

The truth hit me, real stuff was happening, these were real bullets. I said “let’s go” and we ran back up the street, to the car, the sounds pop –pop –pop- poppoppop echoing around the town, in a surreal way. Got to the car. The streets were empty still, with everyone caught up at the Fort, in god knows whatever was happening there.

We went straight to the Friday’s house, a 10 minute drive at most. They lived on a ridge next to the prison. From there you had a complete view of the town. And the Fort. By the time we got there everything was quiet again, there were no sounds.

At about 30 minutes (?) after the main shooting, an outburst of rapid fire tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-atatatatatatatatat for what seemed like a minute. Then silence again. A flare rose from the Fort, a signal? Grenada later found out that this was the signal from the force at the Fort, that the threat had been eliminated. Maurice Bishop and seven others, shot, execution style, in the drill yard of the fort. Among them, Keith Hayling, my mother’s co-worker, and Unison Whiteman, my history teacher from secondary school.

We eventually went home, ignorant of what had actually happened on the day, until the early evening, when General Austin, head of the army, came on air to announce the untimely death of Bishop and others, and the onset of a dusk to dawn curfew, violators to ‘be shot on sight’.

Photos courtesy of www.thegrenadarevolutiononline.com copyright A.E. Wilder, photo of the BTR courtesy wikipedia

Grenada's Shortknee Mas

Shortknee mas are unique to Grenada. Other Caribbean carnivals may have mas with some similar aspects, but the Shortknee themselves aren't found anywhere else. They were apparently originally known as the Grenade Pierrot with Italian and French origins, synthesised with African traditions. They became known as Shortknee after their knee length trousers, as Grenada anglicised away from its French patois. The shortknee bands move at a trot, chanting as they go along the bells tied onto their ankles making music. They are known to use chants to speak about village or society wrongdoing, to 'out' persons who have broken a moral code - a sort of moral militia.

The Shortknee bands used to be entirely village based, and stories abound of clashes between rival villages. The costume is ideal for concealing the odd cutlass, bull pistle or other weapon. When they clashed it must have been a bloody event and there are even stories of persons being killed. At one time the use of masks was banned to remove the anonymity they provided. The bands travel great distances on foot, stopping to collect donations, both from houses on the way, or from passing cars.


This is part of a group which had come down from Balthazar in St. Andrews, it was Carnival Monday afternoon, and they were passing through St.Paul's (somewhat of a detour), intent on making their way into town without delay. This didn't stop them from asking me for cash, preferably US, according to one guy, since he had to travel to Barbados to get a visa and needed some travelling money.

They continued on down the road stopping anything on four wheels. The bands distinguish themselves by the colours of the costumes, particularly the tunics.

You can find them young as well. This child, presumably on his father's shoulders, has just travelled at least 5, perhaps 10 miles with the group.

This is Ham Bone, the captain of the Shortknee band from Grand Roy, a village halfway up the west coast of Grenada. Ham Bone is an odd job man, meaning he makes his living by doing odd jobs for people. He says he's taken in some Shortknee from the Coastguard area (another fishing village further up the coast) - their group went bust - and his band is going into town on Tuesday, the day when the 'pretty' bands parade. Even though he lives in Grand Roy, he actually spends most nights in Mt. Parnassus, a mile or so down the road. This is necessary if he is to be able to get to jobs easily (Grand Roy is quite a trek). Those night are spent in an ajoupa, which is probably too fancy a description for a lean-to with a roof of plastic sheeting.

As he lives close by, he comes up just before going into town to demonstrate his costume. During our conversation I find out that they change their costume every year - "you want dis one?" he asks, "people does send for dem from England for de carnival up dere." I willingly accept, and he offers to drop back in after playing mas, to offload the costume (we're leaving Grenada the next day).

Ham Bone demonstrates some moves, as the bells around his ankles jingle with each stomp. He's also wearing tights. Some bands allow all colour shoes, he says, "but with us it have to be white." Aside from the tunic, there are at least 5 other patterns on the sleeves and trousers. These days the powder is usually talcum, but in the old days it could have been any concoction.

A black cloth strip tied to the mask lays on his head, which is covered with, yes, a face towel. The face mask is made of wire mesh these days, bordered by a piece of tin can cut, bent and crimped around the edges of the mesh, and very neatly too!

Ham Bone undertakes to deliver the costume on his way home that evening at 9pm, after playing mas all afternoon. I'm highly skeptical about the likelihood of this materialising, but agree. Sure enough on the dot of 9 that night Ham Bone walks up the gap, and proceeds to disrobe "I cyan give you de shoes doh", but everything else comes off, bells, mask, trousers, tunic, and two pairs of tights he was holding as spares. He's left with a t-shirt, something looking like cycle shorts - and the shoes. The costume now resides in Barbados, part of the growing Mustardseed collection...

We discuss the day, which is actually Saturday. Tuesday was rained out and for the first time in recorded history, they postponed Tuesday Mas to Saturday. This is good , he says, it gave the traditional mas more breathing space. He plans to phone into one of the call-in programmes to suggest they keep the Saturday after carnival as an additional mas day for the traditional mas. I think its a great idea.

Lili gets a opportunity to pose with Ham Bone, Captain of the Grand Roy Shortknee.

A interesting article on the shortknee is at:
http://www.spicemasgrenada.com/press/2009/07/shortknee_article1.html