I now have dreadlocks.

Ha. No, not really. But, you could imagine what it’d be like, eh, eh, eh?! But something that does hold some truth is that if you’re planning on coming to the Caribbean, don’t forget your insect repellent. Wait, there’s a TV show in that. Where’s Tim Ferguson when you need him? Ouch, did I just say "need" and "Tim Ferguson" in the same sentence?


Grenada National Stadium.


At the Grenada National Stadium for Aus v Sri Lanka. Sorry if you couldn't care less about cricket.


The residents on the hill in the background have the best view of anyone.

In an earlier post, I said that the scent of ganja permeated the entire island of Jamaica. Well, here in Grenada, it’s the scent of cinnamon that saturates the air. Grenada is the self-proclaimed “isle of spice”. If they manufactured donuts here, you’d have no reason to leave (except perhaps to watch Hotdogs and Millsy get beaten to respective pulps back in Oz).

It’s been several days since we’ve been offered mary jane or charlie. However, this all changed after one day in Grenada. We’d just left the Australia v Sri Lanka game and made tracks for the closest rum shop. After about half an hour of tolerating several hundred decibels of incessant Aussie twang in the shop, a local dude wearing a t-shirt so big that it could’ve come straight from Amanda Vanstone’s wardrobe, strutted into the bar. He clicked his fingers Ali G/Jake McCue style, pointed at a bunch of us leaning against the wall and exclaimed, “Charliiiiiiiieeeee????”. We politely declined, but not without an inevitable awkward handshake ordeal. In fact, this was also the scene of the first biff we’ve witnessed so far on tour. It was between two kids squabbling over a plastic bag (black) tied to a string, forming a pseudo-kite. It was a solid hit too, by the older of the two. Weaklings such as Emperor Xumsai or Twig would’ve been comatosed by this blow for shiznit.


Dunny watches on as tension boils between the two kids over the plastic bag kite.


Now, I know Wallaby Bar is known for its underage hiring policy, but this is perhaps a tad too far.


With NZ's Hamish Marshall at Banana's Nightclub in Grenada. Clearly, I didn't make the cut.

Grenada is by far the most picturesque of the islands we’ve visited so far. The fact that the inmates at the Grenada national jail have the best view of any of the residents, sitting on top of the hill overlooking one of its many harbours, speaks for itself. Martin Bryant would be in heaven (bad taste?). The population of Grenada is around 90,000. That’s an entire nation amounting to no more than three Bathursts combined; except, without the daily domestic-violence calls. But, in stark contrast to Bathurst, Grenada has recently adopted a “Community Policing” programme, whereby citizens are encouraged to apprehend or at least reprimand those that appear to be wrongdoing. Apparently it works quite well. But, can you imagine approaching some rum-fuelled redneck at the Eddy on a Satdi noight in Bathurst or some coked-up islander at Empire (Aisea) and gently suggesting, “Hey, I think it’s time you called it a night, buddy”. Now that I think of it, it’s the kind of place that would welcome Greg Richard with open arms.


This is where around a hundred black slaves leapt to their deaths in the 18th century for fear of having to bow, once again, to the rule of the French. One more reason to hate them I guess.


The harbour at Grand Anse, Grenada.


One of the less scenic Grenadian landmarks.

I’m actually starting to believe some of the aforementioned rednecks are beginning to truly blossom over here. Some classic quotes that I’ve overheard between Aussies and locals in bars around town include, “Hey, do you know where the shithouse is mate?” and, “Oi, there’s so much fuckin’ poon here aye?!”. Stand up Australia!

Among the cinnamon and nutmeg haze, we managed to embark on a white water rafting adventure in the centre of the island, which was not only awesome fun, but served as a damn good hangover cure. Conversely, climbing a 1,900-foot volcanic mountain didn’t have the same purifying effect. But being able to plunge into the clear, untainted waters of the Concord Falls made the quasi-anguish undeniably worthwhile. But it wouldn’t be long until we were back on the trail to further anguish, thanks to a visit to the Rivers rum distillery. Following a tour of the facility, we were “treated” to a sample of the Rivers overproof rum. This rum is so fucking strong, that the even fumes would send the seasoned drinker of Australia’s top end into convulsions. It smells somewhere between an Artline marker (now available in xylene free!) and turpentine. As I raised the glass to my mouth, I could feel my nose hairs quaking in their boots and my tastebuds fleeing faster than patrons at a Tamara Jaber concert. I somehow survived the ordeal, albeit scarred. Rivers Rum is roughly 75% alcohol and 138% proof and makes Bundy Rum seem like fairy floss.


Concord Falls, Grenada. Mmmm...just like a spa water jet. Not quite the right angle though.


Concord Falls, overloaded with Poms. Just like Bondi.


Who said white men can’t jump? This caption was purely for comic purposes, and should by no means be interpreted as an admission that I’m white. ‘Cause I’m not. Concord Falls, Grenada.


With Sir Dunny esquire at Concord Falls. Not quite Niagra, but it'll do the trick.

So, with the very lining of my stomach being vehemently stripped by this sadistic fluid, I made some observations about driving in Grenada. Firstly, you must drive with survival in mind at all times. A trademark McGruther microsleep simply isn’t an option here. Also, whereas in Sydney, if someone honks you, it generally asserts, “I’m important and impatient, so get a fuckin’ move on buddy”, however here, it can imply anything from, “One love” to “I’m about to overtake you, man” to “’Sup brother?” to “I’m warning you that I’m intoxicated” to “Ev’ting cool” to “get de fuck outta de way”. Trying to decipher which of these, or other, interpretations is intended, can be a difficult task and I wish I had a formula to help determine the honks. There are also very few street names or road and direction signs in Grenada. While initially this is somewhat inconvenient, it actually encourages social contact with Grenadians, and unlike New Yorkers, these locals actually enjoy offering assistance to lost tourists. One of the directions we received the other day went something like, “Go straight li’l bit till de mango tree, then turn left and ask Ras-man at de second rum shop. He know for sure. If he don’t, ask Mule face at de plantation house and we will know. Probably.”

But despite the relative chaos on Grenadian roads, you probably couldn’t ask for more friendly people. There’s no stigma attached to hitch-hiking in the middle of the night, regular banter between passing drivers and even an disagreement between two drivers at an intersection, arguing over who should turn first – in the way that groups of parents awkwardly fight over who should pay the bill at the end of meals. Except more genuine than those encounters. Actually, you never really know who you’re hailing down when trying to get a ride somewhere. We’re never quite sure whether we’ve been picked up by a bus, a cab or the village rapist. And yes, every island has a village rapist…Dunny.

Most afternoons here seem to involve the inevitable game of beach cricket. The day we arrived, we started a game between the three of us, and within ten minutes we had half the hotel, including the security guard, playing. ‘Twas all laughs and smiles until a couple over-competitive Sri Lankans decided to join in. They were steaming in at 100km/hr to poor, uncoordinated girls (oh wait, all girls are uncoordinated, so excuse the redundant expression) as well as charging and smashing balls over to the next beach. The score was settled once I was introduced into the attack, but not before a few lost balls and cracked bats. Nevertheless, we’ll have revenge on the ‘Lankans in the final in a couple of days. Touch wood.

Mmmmm…. wood.


Trademark McGruther leg-glance. One of the many beach/park afternoon cricket sessions in Grenada.


One of the over-competitive Sri Lankans is currently at the crease.

Now, I may not exactly be a seasoned advertising exec, but I think it’s fair to say that the TV ads in Grenada are shitehouse. I swear I saw an ad on TV last night that was made in PowerPoint – complete with template-based transitions and animations. Even Gerry Boland and Bruce Fell would be appalled. Bill Blakie would probably give them the thumbs up, but that’s probably due to the valium. Some of the ads make some of the COM108 Video Prod work look like Oscar winners. One of the better TV ads here is for safe sex. The slogan is, “It’s your wicket. Protect it”. But even the newspaper and magazine layouts here leave a lot to be desired. Ms Aitken – despite your recent admission that design ain’t your strength, I can assure you that you’d coast into a job here, and still look like the di Vinci of layout.

Ok, the fact that Thirsty Merc is now playing on my iTunes means it’s my cue to wrap this up quickly. Damn quickly. But before I head across the road to watch the local primary school swimming carnival through a peep hole I created in the wall earlier today, here’s the recipe for a sweet-arse drink: Get a can of Guinness, put it into a blender with a small can of sweetened condensed milk, 1-2 eggs, a drop of vanilla and some ice and blend away until frothy. It’s genius.

Next stop Barbados for another coupla days (this time on the south coast), then over to St Lucia.

Love youse eh.

P.S. Who’s going to Splendour? Top line-up, but a tad exi perhaps. Waddya reckon?

Much love.