Spicing up your vacation on the fragrant isle of Grenada
I STARTED searching for the scent as soon as I landed at the Maurice Bishop International Airport. For many people, the fragrance is redolent of grandma’s kitchen during holiday cookie season, or of potpourri. For me, the blend of nutmeg, cinnamon, mace and cocoa smells of Grenada. Sniff, sniff. I first visited this Caribbean island more than a decade ago on a family vacation that fell somewhere between the US invasion (1983) and Hurricane Ivan (2004).
My lasting memory of that trip was not of the talcum-soft beaches or the snorkeling reefs rife with tropical fish. Rather, I remember how the air was seemingly perfumed with spice cake. Since then, I’ve inhaled the aromas of many other islands. They smelled nice enough, though perhaps a bit heavy on the fish and rum. But my nose always drifts back to Grenada. Snifffffff. Nutty for nutmeg Before departing for the southerly Winward Island, I first checked my spice shelf (low), then contacted a tour guide (a former tourism department official) about a day-long outing. The country is a Gordian knot of squiggly streets, steep inclines, dense rain forest and utter confusion: Ivan swiped most of the road signs, and the government is on a slow track to replacing them. The most reliable guideposts are the Atlantic Ocean to the east and the Caribbean Sea to the west.
During our planning session, Edwin Frank and I assembled an itinerary that was heavily skewed toward spices, once the country’s main industry. We would visit a nutmeg processing center, a cocoa plantation and a chocolate factory.
If we moved like Kirani James, the Olympic sprinter who grew up in Grenada, we could possibly squeeze in a produce market and the Spice Basket, a cultural centre with the magic word in its name.
We had to make sacrifices, though. My beach time would be reduced to a blur of sand and water seen through the car window.
We scheduled our excursion for Friday; I arrived on Wednesday night. After such a long absence from Grenada, I couldn’t wait another day. I started the hunt for nutmeg early Thursday morning.
My lodging, the Flamboyant Hotel, was a short walk to Spiceland Mall (yes, I know). I hugged the side of the gnarled road, hopping between speeding cars and land crab holes.
Inside the IGA supermarket, I browsed through the aisles alongside shoppers dressed in scrubs, sweatshirts and backpacks, the medical students from nearby St. George’s University.
I found the things-you-spreadon-toast section and scooped up two jars of nutmeg jam. In the bakery aisle, I grabbed a crusty baguette — lest you forget, the French ruled Grenada in the 17th and 18th centuries — though the bread was superfluous. A spoon was all I needed.
I should partially thank the British for my jam.
The colonists brought nutmeg over from Indonesia in the mid1800s.
Before Ivan, Grenada was the world’s second-largest nutmeg producer, behind only that Southeast Asian country.
Edwin, ever the proud patriot, reminded me that Indonesia is made up of 17,000 isles, whereas Grenada has only three. (Carriacou and Petite Martinique, accessible by ferry, are less than 25 miles to the northeast.) It’s like comparing watermelon seeds to a peach pit.
When I met Edwin, I quickly admitted that I was questioning my olfactory memories. The island didn’t smell as nutmeggy as it had before. He assured me that my nose wasn’t delusional.
“The hurricane was devastating,” he said. “We lost 83 per cent of our nutmeg trees. But we have planted a more resistant variety and are en route to returning” to the No. 2 position.
Despite the setback, the farmers are sticking by the brown nut. At a nutmeg processing station in Grenville, the second-largest town in Grenada, an employee led six of us on a tour of the warehouse-sized facility. Burlap bags bulging with nuts rested on wooden pallets and filled shelves that climbed like beanstalks to the ceiling rafters. — WPBloomberg