descent into the capital.
A political rally. Thanks to Miss ’Dessa, who had given me a crash course in Grenadian politics just days after my arrival, I understood the significance
of the convoy. I had learned that politics on the island were synonymous with one man, the long-standing chief minister, Eric Matthew Gairy, a man disdained, even hated, by the white planters and the small black and Creole bourgeoisie in town, while adored by the masses of poor black country folk. They were the majority who returned him to office each time he ran. Whenever there was the least threat to his power, he was known to dispatch a fleet of the rattletrap lorries to the countryside to round up his supporters from the canefields and spice plantations and bring them, en masse, into the capital, there to be treated to one of the spectacular rallies he held at various sites in town.
I didn’t hesitate. Once the convoy ended, I informed the household that I, too, would be attending the rally. I had the cook prepare a sandwich for me to take, and with a kiss for my son I set off down the main road on foot, not bothering to wait for the public bus.
It eventually caught up with me halfway into St. George’s.
I n addition to the beach at Grand Anse, Grenada’s other showpiece is its pretty little colonial capital. Built on a series of low-lying hills, St. George’s is a picture-perfect collection of Old World French and English townhouses complete with the classic red-tiled roofs. Above the terraced houses stands Parliament, with the queen’s standard aloft, while higher up, on a pair of separate hills, rise the capital’s two cathedrals, Anglican and Catholic. To complete the perfection, St. George’s also boasts a horseshoe-shaped deepwater harbor that is known to be among the finest in the Caribbean.
It’s a favorite with the members of the yachting set who sail the West Indies during the winter.
According to what the bus driver had heard, the rally today was to be special and would therefore be held on the carenage, the local name for the long curving wharf that faithfully repeated the horseshoe outline of the harbor.
By the time I reached town, it was well past noon and the entire carenage was packed to overflowing with the chief minister’s supporters. The only standing room to be found was on a narrow
roadway above the harbor, where a small group of onlookers from town had already gathered. I joined them. Behind us the picturesque little capital seemed eerily quiet, deserted even, the gentry having retreated, perhaps behind their closed jalousies.
What followed was an endless wait in the crucifying mid-afternoon heat. Until, finally, what sounded like an awestruck hosanna welled up from those among the country people on the wharf who stood closest to the water. Alerted, the throngs behind them immediately joined in.
The object of the soaring paean was the distant figure of the chief minister, who could faintly be seen standing on the deck of a stately, white, flushed-deck sailboat that had just rounded the horseshoe curve of the harbor and was slowly approaching the carenage . Sails furled, powered solely by its motor, the sailboat majestically made its way toward the waiting crowd. Curiously, the chief minister was the only person on deck. Dressed in an impeccably tailored white suit that bespoke Savile Row and an equally bespoke pair of white dress shoes, he was standing on top of the cabin, his back flush against the main mast. In
fact, he appeared to be somehow bound to the mast, his arms extended straight out from his side, and his face—the only thing black about him amid all the white—his face raised to the sky as if importuning Heaven.
All that was missing were the crown of thorns and the stigmata on his open palms.
The chief minister held the Christ-like pose all during the boat’s slow passage toward the carenage . Only when it finally docked, with its bow directly facing his audience, did Eric Gairy slowly
A political rally. Thanks to Miss ’Dessa, who had given me a crash course in Grenadian politics just days after my arrival, I understood the significance
of the convoy. I had learned that politics on the island were synonymous with one man, the long-standing chief minister, Eric Matthew Gairy, a man disdained, even hated, by the white planters and the small black and Creole bourgeoisie in town, while adored by the masses of poor black country folk. They were the majority who returned him to office each time he ran. Whenever there was the least threat to his power, he was known to dispatch a fleet of the rattletrap lorries to the countryside to round up his supporters from the canefields and spice plantations and bring them, en masse, into the capital, there to be treated to one of the spectacular rallies he held at various sites in town.
I didn’t hesitate. Once the convoy ended, I informed the household that I, too, would be attending the rally. I had the cook prepare a sandwich for me to take, and with a kiss for my son I set off down the main road on foot, not bothering to wait for the public bus.
It eventually caught up with me halfway into St. George’s.
I n addition to the beach at Grand Anse, Grenada’s other showpiece is its pretty little colonial capital. Built on a series of low-lying hills, St. George’s is a picture-perfect collection of Old World French and English townhouses complete with the classic red-tiled roofs. Above the terraced houses stands Parliament, with the queen’s standard aloft, while higher up, on a pair of separate hills, rise the capital’s two cathedrals, Anglican and Catholic. To complete the perfection, St. George’s also boasts a horseshoe-shaped deepwater harbor that is known to be among the finest in the Caribbean.
It’s a favorite with the members of the yachting set who sail the West Indies during the winter.
According to what the bus driver had heard, the rally today was to be special and would therefore be held on the carenage, the local name for the long curving wharf that faithfully repeated the horseshoe outline of the harbor.
By the time I reached town, it was well past noon and the entire carenage was packed to overflowing with the chief minister’s supporters. The only standing room to be found was on a narrow
roadway above the harbor, where a small group of onlookers from town had already gathered. I joined them. Behind us the picturesque little capital seemed eerily quiet, deserted even, the gentry having retreated, perhaps behind their closed jalousies.
What followed was an endless wait in the crucifying mid-afternoon heat. Until, finally, what sounded like an awestruck hosanna welled up from those among the country people on the wharf who stood closest to the water. Alerted, the throngs behind them immediately joined in.
The object of the soaring paean was the distant figure of the chief minister, who could faintly be seen standing on the deck of a stately, white, flushed-deck sailboat that had just rounded the horseshoe curve of the harbor and was slowly approaching the carenage . Sails furled, powered solely by its motor, the sailboat majestically made its way toward the waiting crowd. Curiously, the chief minister was the only person on deck. Dressed in an impeccably tailored white suit that bespoke Savile Row and an equally bespoke pair of white dress shoes, he was standing on top of the cabin, his back flush against the main mast. In
fact, he appeared to be somehow bound to the mast, his arms extended straight out from his side, and his face—the only thing black about him amid all the white—his face raised to the sky as if importuning Heaven.
All that was missing were the crown of thorns and the stigmata on his open palms.
The chief minister held the Christ-like pose all during the boat’s slow passage toward the carenage . Only when it finally docked, with its bow directly facing his audience, did Eric Gairy slowly
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