A Pocket of Peace

"What's the occasion?" I asked the waitress at the beachfront café where I was eating lunch.

"It's Thanksgiving," she said.

It was October-the 25th to be precise. Exactly what kind of Thanksgiving were we talking about here? I tried to imagine some lost tribe of Pilgrims, blown off course to the southern Windward Islands, befriended by Arawaks and chowing down on mahi-mahi with coconut-breadfruit stuffing.

"Thanksgiving for what?" I asked.

"Why, for the invasion," she said.

Only then did I put it together: The invasion-that October morning in 1983 when U.S. troops descended upon this sweet and verdant island after Grenada's president, Maurice Bishop, was assassinated in a military coup. The official reason for the invasion-to evacuate U.S. students attending medical school in Grenada. The real reason-President Ronald Reagan was fed up with Cuban premier Fidel Castro, who saw Grenada as a launch pad for spreading Communism throughout the southern Caribbean and who had sent hundreds of Cuban soldiers to the island. A week later, the fighting was over, a new government in place, the Cubans gone. But only after more than 100 people were killed, including 19 Americans.

Back then, my reaction to those events was like that of most people I knew: We invaded who? And I figured Grenadians might still harbor some animosity over the U.S. intervention.

"So let me get this straight," I said. "In Grenada, you actually celebrate the 1983 invasion?"

"Yes, that's right," the waitress said. "It is an official holiday, the day we stop to say thank-you to America."

I thought: Thanksgiving Grenada-style. A thank-you to America. My, what a refreshing tradition ...

If you could visit just one Caribbean island in a lifetime-and what a cruel circumstance that would be-then Grenada would be a worthy choice. It is quintessentially Caribbean, a taster's platter of the tropics. Want towering volcanic peaks? Got 'em. Vast rain forests? Got them, too. White sandy beaches? Thriving coral reefs? Creature comforts (good hotels, great food, a wee bit of nightlife)? Check, check, check ...

That the acclaimed "Spice Island," a 21-mile-long southern anchor for the Windwards, remains off-the-charts for many North American visitors is due largely to the events of 20 years ago. Since then, Grenada's government has remained comparatively stable in a region where prickly politics are the norm, but that hasn't allayed the fears of many tourists, who have stayed away in droves. And while the island is a favorite port-of-call for cruise ships-the harbor at St. George's is one of the dreamiest in all the Caribbean-they don't arrive in nearly the numbers found on St. Thomas or St. Maarten.

The agreeable result makes Grenada something of an oddity in the modern Caribbean-small-scale, sustainable tourism on a big, friendly island. By law, for instance, none of the hotels along glistening Grand Anse, the two-mile strand that attracts windsurfers, snorkelers and just-plain-idle beachgoers, can exceed the height of its palm trees.

I stayed at La Source, an all-inclusive resort on Pink Gin Beach, a name that applies to the rosy hue of the sand. My suite had a big balcony overlooking the beach and a mahogany four-poster bed with a gauzy mosquito net, for romantic effect, not out of buggy necessity. As part of the tariff, guests at La Source receive one treatment a day at the resort's spa, and after indulging in every variety of massage-aromatherapy, Chandra, Swedish-I was a lot more limber than when I arrived.

Before staying at La Source I had avoided all-inclusives, considering them to be little better than cruise ships on land, with hordes of tacky, sunburned tourists swarming the buffet line to squeeze every cent of value out of their vacation buck even if it meant eating cardboard lasagna and vegetables cooked beyond forensic recognition. Not so at La Source. OK, there were sunburned tourists. And there was a buffet line. But there was nothing tacky about anyone or anything at La Source, and the reason people were swarming the buffet line was because the food was wonderful-all kinds of fresh fish, pyramids of fruit, trays of imported cheeses and chocolates. It was even better during the evenings at the resort's casually elegant Great House Restaurant, which does a Caribbean-Mediterranean fusion thing that works.

One does not have to eat and drink one's way across Grenada, but not to do so would be to deprive oneself of sampling the island's soul. With such a bounty of spices growing here-Grenada produces about 40 percent of the world's nutmeg-the island's chefs have proven wonderfully inventive in finding ways to showcase them all. If you aren't eating well, then you'd better check the stamp on your passport-you aren't in Grenada.

The best starting point on a culinary/cultural tour is St. George's Market Square, a cackling warren of wooden stalls and open-air stands hemmed in by a colonial cityscape that hasn't changed all that much since the market began at this spot in 1791. It's country-come-to-town here, with farmers hauling in cartfuls of plantains and okra, corn and bananas, along with small mountains of "ground provisions"-breadfruit, yams, cassava, pumpkins.

There are occasional grisly encounters near the market, such as the one I came upon when, drawn by whoops and hollers, I joined a small crowd clustered around a fish vendor's stall. A fisherman had just delivered his prize catch-a squirming hawksbill turtle, at least 250 pounds, its shell a mosaic variation on a theme of gold and green. It was a beautiful creature, but it was quickly dispatched, a swift swipe of the vendor's machete severing the turtle's head, while the crowd yelled out bids on various portions of its meat. It was not the time or place to lodge protests; all I could do was walk away.

Beyond St. George's, the coastal highway heads north, skirting the rain forest, the road climbing up, sliding down, and twisting back around just to admire itself. It levels out for a breather in Gouyave, a raucous little town (by Grenadan standards, anyway) that claims fame on three fronts. It's home base for the island's fishing fleet, the red and blue hulls of handcrafted wooden boats dotting the harbor and fishermen mending nets under cool green canopies of sea grapes. It's also the headquarters for the island's largest nutmeg processing station, a cavernous wooden building along the waterfront that can be found by aroma alone. And on the last Friday night in each month, Gouyave, the self-proclaimed "Town That Never Sleeps," throws its famous "jump-up," a street party that lasts until the early morning hours.

A far mellower scene awaits up the road at Morne Vendu's "Plantation House." Dr. Jean Thompson, a retired government health officer who grew up in these hilly parts, presides over a turn-of-the-century estate that serves a gracious luncheon in its dining room, where 20-foot ceilings and thick walls (cast from stone and lime, and bound together by molasses) keep visitors cool even on the hottest of days. Thompson and her family bought the five-acre estate a little more than three years ago, aiming to preserve the island's genteel traditions. To sit in a rocking chair on the porch, sipping soursop punch and gazing out on a tableau framed by bougainvillea and poinsettia, is to be transported to far less kinetic times.

"No matter what's going on in the rest of the world, I can come rest awhile on this porch and be at ease," says Thompson. "I can look out on the mountains, take in the breeze from the sea and know that on Grenada, at least, there is one small pocket of peace."