was to be short-lived. He was ousted in a coup d’état that preceded the U.S. invasion of the island in 1983. Gairy, a minor figure in the unfortunately long and disheartening list of postcolonial leaders who misused, disappointed and failed their own.
I n addition to Miss ’Dessa, another close friend I made while in Grenada was an English-woman named Heather Chambers, who taught literature in the secondary school in St. George’s. A “maiden lady” like Miss ’Dessa, she, too, had chosen Grenada as home. In appearance, my teacher friend resembled the classic schoolmarm: tall, almost severe looking, her hair drawn back in a bun, and never a touch of makeup. Plain though she was, Heather Chambers nonetheless had the passion of a devotee when it came to the Big Drum/Nation Dance ceremony held every year on Grenada’s tiny satellite island of Carriacou that was a mere two hours away on the local schooner.
Each year my schoolmarm friend joined those Carriacou people living in Grenada who faithfully returned home for the event.
My friend invited me to accompany her. The Big Drum/Nation Dance was not to be missed, she insisted, especially for a history buff like myself. Besides, we would only be gone overnight. We’d leave Grenada in the afternoon and be back the following morning. When I hesitated, reluctant to leave the work even though I was still making little or no progress, she enlisted Miss ’Dessa’s help. My “take charge” Bajan friend was even more insistent that I go. The change would do me good. The sea breeze would do me good. The Big Drum/Nation Dance would do me even better. Also, she would sleep over at my place as extra supervision over the household and my son while I was gone.
“Go!”
Miss ’Dessa giving orders.
I went.
From the crowded deck of the schooner the following day, tiny Carriacou was scarcely visible, a mere peak on the huge subterranean mountain
range that also included Grenada. Unlike Grenada, though, with its Garden of Eden beauty, Carriacou was bereft of the usual lush tropical vegetation. It seems that from the time it was colonized the island had been plagued by various crop diseases and blight. Entire fields of the prized tobacco, cotton and sugarcane repeatedly decimated. Eventually the planters—Dutch, French, British—had given up on Carriacou and, one after another, sailed away to try their luck elsewhere in the Caribbean.
Left stranded had been the chattel labor they had owned—the forebears of present-day Carriacou people.
The Big Drum/Nation Dance was held at various sites across the island. The one my friend attended each year took place in a small inland village my father would have immediately described as “a place forgotten behind God’s back,” what with its little tin-roofed chattel houses, its depleted-looking fields and the bare dusty gathering place at the center of the village where the yearly event was held.
From the many hugs my friend received from the villagers one would think she was a blood relative
dutifully returning home for the annual ceremony. They welcomed me with equal enthusiasm. “America!? You’s from Big America!? The States!?” they asked, and hugged me even more warmly.
Shortly after dusk the ceremony got underway. At first, there didn’t seem to be all that much to the Big Drum/Nation Dance. The drums were nothing more than a few hollowed-out logs with a drumhead of goatskin. The drummers themselves were elderly men who couldn’t possibly, it seemed, open their stiff, work-swollen hands to beat a drum. I couldn’t have been more wrong! Over the course of the long night, their drums held securely between their legs, and sustained by the jars of white rum beside their chairs, the old fellows proved capable of playing until dawn.
The men drummed and the women danced. Only women performed the Nation Dance, and mostly old women at that, the elders. It was not a single dance, but rather a number of separate and
I n addition to Miss ’Dessa, another close friend I made while in Grenada was an English-woman named Heather Chambers, who taught literature in the secondary school in St. George’s. A “maiden lady” like Miss ’Dessa, she, too, had chosen Grenada as home. In appearance, my teacher friend resembled the classic schoolmarm: tall, almost severe looking, her hair drawn back in a bun, and never a touch of makeup. Plain though she was, Heather Chambers nonetheless had the passion of a devotee when it came to the Big Drum/Nation Dance ceremony held every year on Grenada’s tiny satellite island of Carriacou that was a mere two hours away on the local schooner.
Each year my schoolmarm friend joined those Carriacou people living in Grenada who faithfully returned home for the event.
My friend invited me to accompany her. The Big Drum/Nation Dance was not to be missed, she insisted, especially for a history buff like myself. Besides, we would only be gone overnight. We’d leave Grenada in the afternoon and be back the following morning. When I hesitated, reluctant to leave the work even though I was still making little or no progress, she enlisted Miss ’Dessa’s help. My “take charge” Bajan friend was even more insistent that I go. The change would do me good. The sea breeze would do me good. The Big Drum/Nation Dance would do me even better. Also, she would sleep over at my place as extra supervision over the household and my son while I was gone.
“Go!”
Miss ’Dessa giving orders.
I went.
From the crowded deck of the schooner the following day, tiny Carriacou was scarcely visible, a mere peak on the huge subterranean mountain
range that also included Grenada. Unlike Grenada, though, with its Garden of Eden beauty, Carriacou was bereft of the usual lush tropical vegetation. It seems that from the time it was colonized the island had been plagued by various crop diseases and blight. Entire fields of the prized tobacco, cotton and sugarcane repeatedly decimated. Eventually the planters—Dutch, French, British—had given up on Carriacou and, one after another, sailed away to try their luck elsewhere in the Caribbean.
Left stranded had been the chattel labor they had owned—the forebears of present-day Carriacou people.
The Big Drum/Nation Dance was held at various sites across the island. The one my friend attended each year took place in a small inland village my father would have immediately described as “a place forgotten behind God’s back,” what with its little tin-roofed chattel houses, its depleted-looking fields and the bare dusty gathering place at the center of the village where the yearly event was held.
From the many hugs my friend received from the villagers one would think she was a blood relative
dutifully returning home for the annual ceremony. They welcomed me with equal enthusiasm. “America!? You’s from Big America!? The States!?” they asked, and hugged me even more warmly.
Shortly after dusk the ceremony got underway. At first, there didn’t seem to be all that much to the Big Drum/Nation Dance. The drums were nothing more than a few hollowed-out logs with a drumhead of goatskin. The drummers themselves were elderly men who couldn’t possibly, it seemed, open their stiff, work-swollen hands to beat a drum. I couldn’t have been more wrong! Over the course of the long night, their drums held securely between their legs, and sustained by the jars of white rum beside their chairs, the old fellows proved capable of playing until dawn.
The men drummed and the women danced. Only women performed the Nation Dance, and mostly old women at that, the elders. It was not a single dance, but rather a number of separate and
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