Going to Grenada- Installment 5 ; Me, Danny, "Vermud" and Seven Sisters

No denying that the beach at the Rex Grenadian was captivating enough that I could've tripped down at sunrise and stayed for the whole three days with periodic trips for food and a swim. I say this with a bit of wonder, as my usual modus operandi on vacation involves very little sitting still. This time, I was tempted.
But, my sense of adventure outweighed the temptation for hebetude.
Enter: Danny Alexander.
Danny is a guide for the island. He is my age, has 4 sons ages 13 -20 (I got to meet a few in our wanderings) and is full of ideas. I learned a bit about him in our travels, including that his wife suffered serious injury in Hurricane Ivan and was buried for 16 hours under trees and rubble, but is doing much better now, and that his sons all have large ambitions. Danny shares my interest in native medicinal plants. He learned the lore from his Grandmother and willingly shared the knowledge with me on our hike into the rainforest. If you are hanging out in the rainforest of Grenada, and you get a headache, or your blood pressure is high, or your prostate enlarges, it would be good to run into Danny Alexander.
Danny collected me from the lobby of the hotel. I was surrounded by the Veterinary School representatives waiting for their own transport. He seemed to know which one was going into the rainforest right away. I guess the ball cap, water shoes and bathing suit peeking out from the collar of my shirt gave me away.
Danny was tasked with showing me the way to the Seven Sisters waterfalls in the Grenadian hills. We were actually only going to Sisters 6 and 7, as the death toll of tourists is negative publicity for tourism, and no longer were people permitted to hike up to 1-5. It was just as well, as the last two Sisters were plenty of challenge and beauty. I was evidently the only one at the Rex resort that opted in on the hike, which makes you wonder what you've gotten yourself into, but I was in for the pound at that point, pennies be damned.
After we set out from the hotel, Danny said they had recruited one more pair for the hike and we would collect them in St. George's. We found the young couple, Rhonda and Greg, near the "cruise ship mall" downtown, as they had docked on a Canadian cruise that morning. I felt much better when they got on the bus, as Greg looked like he wasn't a practiced hiker. But that was my "American thinking". In America, we believe strongly in saving people from themselves. We put up fences so you can't fall off a cliff. We post "Warning! Steep incline ahead! Ask your Doctor if this is right for you!" on everything from stretching videos to the ski slope. My natural thought was that if we weren't lithe enough/strong enough/properly attired, someone would prevent us from departing. But that is too American. Outside of the U.S., folks don't feel like they need to parent the population. If you fall off the cliff, well, duh, you shouldn't have gotten too close. If you aren't fit enough for the hike, don't go. I guess that's why the death toll from the Sisters 1-5 had to become noticeable before preventive measures were taken.

The climb from St. George's up the Grand Etang road into the Grand Etang National Forest is a twisted series of switchbacks. The road is often two lanes, but not always, and the curves are blind. Grenadians are very serious about using their horns. They communicate with them. Short beep= "Hey there!" Two short beeps="My Friend!" Staccato of short blasts= "I'm excited to see you it's been a while!" Longer blasts are alerts to other vehicles that you are passing, or you are randomly backing up instead of proceeding forward, or you are about to come around a single lane blind curve. You take preventive measures when you hear a beep come back. It is a constant chatter.

Danny would periodically stop the taxi in the road and jump out, returning to the bus with some plant or another for me to crush and smell and determine what it was. On one of these impromptu stops I shot a photo of this Rainbow Bark Eucalyptus tree.

This next is a little bush or tree that grows in similar habit to a lilac. Danny plucked off a small twig and presented it to me for a quiz.

 It is cinnamon. The bark is peeled away from the tree and allowed to dry in the sun. It curls a bit and the outer bark separates from the cinnamon bark. The darker the cinnamon the longer it will last in your spice cabinet. you can see at the bottom of this tree where some of the bark has been harvested previously.

Danny also brought me sweet leaves of the clove, native cilantro (doesn't look anything like ours, but they use it to flavor goat dishes) and nutmeg.

This is a fruit from the nutmeg tree. the outer fleshy bit is used to make nutmeg jams, jelly and nutmeg syrup. The inner pit is covered in red stringy things that look like plastic. This is mace. Mace is one of those spices you use in the speculaas cookies, or spice cakes. The oil of the mace is in the spray you blast at criminals. Different levels of this will stop your diarrhea, cause miscarriage and relieve aching joints or toothaches.  Under the mace is the nutmeg nut. The shell is commonly used for mulch in Grenada, or in grilling meats to give them a nutmeg flavor. And the nutmeg itself is ground and used ubiquitously in Grenadian cooking and rum punch (yum punch). There is fat in the nut, and if slowly stewed will release as a butter. This is used on the skin.

Eventually we made it into the center of the island and a hut where Danny dropped us off to go park the taxibus. We were told to select a stick, that we would certainly require one. Greg told me that he had been on a 5 hour hike that they had gone miles- and this would surely be a piece of cake. I kept my mouth shut about famous last words, as in my experience, distance is one thing and terrain is completely another. The man in the hut kept muttering at us and shaking his head. I couldn't understand him, and my Canadian cohorts were equally mystified, but it included words like "vermud".

Danny joined us, approved our choice of walking sticks, and we set off.
After a short walk down a dirt path, wide enough for vehicles, we turned into the rainforest. It was beautiful and breezy as we were atop one of the hills, but we began our descent into the forest, and the breeze stopped. Still comfortable, we wended our way for a while until we found the first big drop. And discovered what "vermud" means. 

See, someone had the idea of making a zip line into the rainforest. But rainforest trees aren't up to the task of supporting a few miles of zip line. So, concrete pillars are to be built. In the rainforest. And, to dig the footings, you need a back hoe. In the rainforest. So, someone drove a backhoe in, removing trees and boulders and other things that usefully sat atop the ground, using the claw to repel down the hills. This leaves a slick scar of red clay as the way in and out. Since this provided a rather quick and haphazard course to the bottom, "stairs" have been hacked into the clay. Method of climbing down these hills involves anchoring your stick, stepping sideways with your bottom foot, clutch until you stop slipping and then follow with uphill foot. Thanks to Huz having given me a Fitbit for Christmas, I can tell you Fitbit determined this "one slippery step at a time" method is repeated for 90 stories.

 Here is Danny, checking back to give helpful instruction for the next descent. The trough for the concrete to make the pillars is visible on the left.

I paused at one particularly sound stair to shoot a photo.

You can see my walking stick, and also the booted prints of the folks who had gone down since the morning rains. These would be the construction workers. In the rainforest. Those of the backhoe running, concrete pillar building plan.
I found out what it takes for construction workers to think a middle aged woman is "gorgeez". Stick them 2 miles out in the rainforest. "Kepdonwhadon", followed by a fist to bump. Which Danny helpfully translated into "Keep doing what you are doing."  So, if you're missing the catcalls of your youth, prepare to get "vermud".

Sometime into our hike we started hearing the falls, and encountering lots of larger stones for getting out of the mud a bit. My childhood past as a stone-hopping creek walker was handy as I could accelerate along, not having to plan my route, but knowing it would just come naturally. Poor Danny was left trying to split the difference and not leave Greg and Rhonda far behind.

Then, there they were! Sister six appeared out of the forest.

 As I leapt closer, Sister 7 also appeared.

 I gave Danny my camera and put up some happy "Jazz hands!"

 Then, off with the outer garments and a dip into a Sister.

 The water was very cool, and I had not anticipated how lovely the mist coming off the falls would feel.

 After a bit of splashing about in the pool at the base of Sister 6, I wanted to see Sister 7 from the top. I found a nice sitting boulder to look down on the falls.

 As you can see, Greg and Rhonda have made it and are not atall deterred by the water temperature. Canadians are a hardy lot.

Eventually it was time to once again go back the muddy way we came. A group of adventurers from the British Cruise ship had also made it to the falls, I wish I was brave enough to start snapping their photos. There were older ladies in skirts and proper hats, and people of both sexes who had , judging by their mud covered hips, knees, backs, and one unfortunate face, not mastered the "stick, step, balance, step" descent. Many of them looked weakly at me in my dripping suit, their mouths opening and shutting like landed fish. No one said much.  I asked one lady if she was going to hop into the falls. She clucked at me, clutching her stick and said " I wouldn't dare go across those rocks, my balance is rubbish!" Others, with a sigh and a grunt said "Come this far, might as well." We left the Brits to it, Danny giving some encouragement and sympathy to their guide, and off across the rocks we went.

 Danny had said going back would be much easier, and it was, indeed. Yes, we had to climb back up all those stories, but somehow gravity and our climbing balanced one another.

Plus, periodically groups of construction workers were present, for fist bumps, and probably their morning's entertainment. I would guess it was like an episode of "Keeping Up Appearances : Hyacinth 'Boo-kay' hikes into the rainforest. "

When we came out of the dense-ness, there were people with buckets "Boo-kays?" that make their living washing the feet of hikers. I went up to a bent old fellow with a bucket and a rock. I was to place my foot on the rock, and with a sponge, he laboriously washed my clay covered legs and feet. It felt very odd to have someone washing your feet, and it made me understand further why Jesus chose to do so. I gave him a generous fee. Greg was recovering a bit, and not talking about cake. He had determined that he would make it back on his ship and maybe not move again until they docked in St. Kitts.
I felt fine until the next day, when my legs chided me for not being better prepared. No doubt, the chiding, and the "vermud" was worth it to be with some Sisters.