Saturday 15th July
Bastille day hash, I have to be there. We’re going back to Grand Etang in the middle of the island. Yet again, I bagged the best seat in the van, by Patrick known as Shademan, our driver. Bet he won’t let me seat near him next time, asking too many questions! The usual suspects are there, Steve, Karen & Will and a few other faces I have seen before. We get there a good hour and a half before the start of the hash but that’s good, I get to talk to the French contingent (apparently only a few dozen of them resident in Grenada) who is organising the hash today. Blue, white and red balloons are blown up, face paint is doled out on any part of your anatomy you wish, I am expecting frog legs on the BBQ, but only French fries are on the menu to accompany the grilled chicken. The usual shenanigan precedes the start of the walk, the virgins pep up talk, the new shoe filled with beer. The sky is threatening, grey and heavy with rain, we’ll be lucky not to get drenched. There is quite a following today, probably over 150 people.
And they’re off, the runners in front, we are at the back with the families. We are making a bit of a habit of this, but the ground is sodden and even with my stick I don’t really fancy being in the scramble at the front. We are a bit worried that we may take the same trail we had before; we’ve been to Grand Etang quite a few times now, so we are relieved to see that we’re following a completely new one. This goes around the lake, in deep mangrove to start with, then bulrushes and other aquatic vegetation. We’ve only seen the lake from high up, nice to see it from ground level, very different vegetation down here. The paths are still very muddy, loads of little streams to cross on wobbly bridges. We fall into pace with a group of young Grenadians and we have a very interesting chat about the state of affairs in their country. It sounds like everyone wants to get somewhere else, try it for a few years either studying or working and then realised that home is best. They have a fabulous humour so we laugh most of the way, so much sliding, shoes being sucked in the mud and staying there. I manage to stay upright all the way so I am chuffed, cleaning up will be easier. There is a long line waiting to clean up by the tap, another opportunity for blah, blah, blah and banter. I do love the hash, it is so convivial and really good fun.
Well, good fun until you get dragged to the bus to go back home before you have even started your chicken. The party only just started and they already make me go home, just when I was being told great story about Shadowfax. But hey, never mind, chicken is munched on Patrick’s lap near enough. We do have a drama on the way home. It is tradition that Patrick stops to a rum shop on the way home. We don’t stay long, but a couple of American take umbrage, don’t want a drink, just want to go home for a wash. Well, that ballooned into a full blown argument; guess the guy complaining was not part of the peace keeping corps! Patrick is extremely upset about it though, so much so that the incident is referred to on the cruiser net next morning,