8.07.2007
THE CARIBBEAN DETECTIVES AND THE OIL DOWN
I returned a few weeks ago from Grenada, the southeastern Caribbean island 90 miles off Venezuela. The rains of mid-summer began our final day on the tiny isle, known for its lush forests and bounty of spices. My second-to-last day I took a cab from my enclave getaway ten minutes into Town, the hilly collection of plaster-walled buildings laid out like uneven layers on a cake. Boats bobbed noiselessly in St. Georges bay.
It was eerie quiet wandering past closed shops and boarded-up office buildings. Between the firehouse and English phone booths to the high point, colonial Fort that overlooks the city across the lagoon, I passed three people. It was a holiday of sorts, officially Corpus Christi Day, but locally dubbed Planter’s Holiday. Two men I met by a rusted gate outside a crumbling building on the southern hill told me so.
“People are planting before the rains,” they said.
Looking over their shoulders, I saw about a dozen men huddled under an open-air portacache. A couple small fires glowed under two primitive-looking pots. Huge breadfruit trees stretched into the opening and a sweet smell caught my attention. They smiled and stared, and, honestly, something like nervousness started coiling in my stomach. The Southernboy in me spoke up.
“What you cooking over there?” I said.
The men lit up. “Ah, Ohl Duum,” they said. Oil drum, I asked. “No, Oil Down. The island stew. Would you like some?”
These men were on holiday as well, choosing to cookout minus their wives and families. The twelve of them befriended me with Jack Iron, an over-proofed local rum, and a bowl of Oil Down, Grenada’s national dish. Cooked over exposed flame in two blackened iron cauldrons, which looked to be made from halved oil barrels, Oil Down’s main ingredients simmered. According to the detectives, rich coconut milk, chunks of the potato-like breadfruit, pig’s feet, or trotters, and callalou leaves were ready. I told them it reminded me of something from Alabama, a dirt road, Mobile Bay soup with collards and catfish I once had at a crossroads cafe.
These men, dressed in oversized tee shirts, khaki shorts, and flimsy Caribbean flip-flops, told me all about the dish. The one who spoke most held a stature over the others, and they called him Detective Gill. As he sliced open a breadfruit from the nearest branch, I asked him why.
“We are police officers,” he kindly said.
A younger officer poured me another Jack Iron. One wafted the sugary steam towards my leaned-in face. Another pulled up a few large leaves of callalou to show me.
The deserted building that covered our meal was the old police station. It took major blows in 2004 when Hurricane Ivan pummeled Grenada, the smallest independent nation in the western hemisphere. As hiking guide and amateur naturalist Denis Henry lamented to me the previous day, the storm destroyed the upper canopy of giant gommier, penny piece, and chataignier trees. More than 50% of the island lost homes. And downtown St. Georges, even three years later, remained battered still.
Though still gorgeous, ribboned by white sands and jewel water, the island sobered me up with its slow rebuilding stories outside the bungalow retreats. And my afternoon with the policemen instilled a new sense of what it is to endure.
What did not get taken by the worst storm to hit Grenada in 50 years, what I saw with my own eyes, and tasted in two helpings, was the simple blessing of fraternity among men. Food cooking over an open fire on a rainy holiday by the sea.
I returned a few weeks ago from Grenada, the southeastern Caribbean island 90 miles off Venezuela. The rains of mid-summer began our final day on the tiny isle, known for its lush forests and bounty of spices. My second-to-last day I took a cab from my enclave getaway ten minutes into Town, the hilly collection of plaster-walled buildings laid out like uneven layers on a cake. Boats bobbed noiselessly in St. Georges bay.
It was eerie quiet wandering past closed shops and boarded-up office buildings. Between the firehouse and English phone booths to the high point, colonial Fort that overlooks the city across the lagoon, I passed three people. It was a holiday of sorts, officially Corpus Christi Day, but locally dubbed Planter’s Holiday. Two men I met by a rusted gate outside a crumbling building on the southern hill told me so.
“People are planting before the rains,” they said.
Looking over their shoulders, I saw about a dozen men huddled under an open-air portacache. A couple small fires glowed under two primitive-looking pots. Huge breadfruit trees stretched into the opening and a sweet smell caught my attention. They smiled and stared, and, honestly, something like nervousness started coiling in my stomach. The Southernboy in me spoke up.
“What you cooking over there?” I said.
The men lit up. “Ah, Ohl Duum,” they said. Oil drum, I asked. “No, Oil Down. The island stew. Would you like some?”
These men were on holiday as well, choosing to cookout minus their wives and families. The twelve of them befriended me with Jack Iron, an over-proofed local rum, and a bowl of Oil Down, Grenada’s national dish. Cooked over exposed flame in two blackened iron cauldrons, which looked to be made from halved oil barrels, Oil Down’s main ingredients simmered. According to the detectives, rich coconut milk, chunks of the potato-like breadfruit, pig’s feet, or trotters, and callalou leaves were ready. I told them it reminded me of something from Alabama, a dirt road, Mobile Bay soup with collards and catfish I once had at a crossroads cafe.
These men, dressed in oversized tee shirts, khaki shorts, and flimsy Caribbean flip-flops, told me all about the dish. The one who spoke most held a stature over the others, and they called him Detective Gill. As he sliced open a breadfruit from the nearest branch, I asked him why.
“We are police officers,” he kindly said.
A younger officer poured me another Jack Iron. One wafted the sugary steam towards my leaned-in face. Another pulled up a few large leaves of callalou to show me.
The deserted building that covered our meal was the old police station. It took major blows in 2004 when Hurricane Ivan pummeled Grenada, the smallest independent nation in the western hemisphere. As hiking guide and amateur naturalist Denis Henry lamented to me the previous day, the storm destroyed the upper canopy of giant gommier, penny piece, and chataignier trees. More than 50% of the island lost homes. And downtown St. Georges, even three years later, remained battered still.
Though still gorgeous, ribboned by white sands and jewel water, the island sobered me up with its slow rebuilding stories outside the bungalow retreats. And my afternoon with the policemen instilled a new sense of what it is to endure.
What did not get taken by the worst storm to hit Grenada in 50 years, what I saw with my own eyes, and tasted in two helpings, was the simple blessing of fraternity among men. Food cooking over an open fire on a rainy holiday by the sea.
posted by TB at 14:13
