I picked myself up off the ground, unhurt but with a lovely pattern of mud-blotches smeared all the way from my ankles to my rear. Knowing that it could have been a lot worse if I'd lost my footing and fallen downhill rather than uphill (it takes true talent to fall uphill), we continued on our merry way through the jungle, soon reaching the small farm we'd walked through once already.




Remembering the forbidding signs we'd read on our way through the farm the first time, I was a little nervous when we walked down the road to find ourselves face to face with a Grenadian man holding a large machete. Though machetes are fairly common on the island, it was a little disconcerting taken in conjunction with the "Back off! Head off!" signs posted nearby. We nodded politely at the man and continued past him, when he suddenly began shouting at us. We turned, and with his limited English and hand gestures, it was clear he'd noticed my muddy state.



We'd just crossed a little bridge over a small creek, and the man pointed toward a bucket on the edge of the bridge. Ah-hah!

We nodded and smiled and I leaned over, intending to splash some water from the bucket onto my legs. No! No! Machete still in one hand, the farmer strode up next to me and reached into the bucket, pulling out a dripping, brownish sponge.

Ah! A sponge. That would make things easier. I reached out my hand for the sponge.

No! Foot! He pointed, and I hesitantly placed my left foot onto the edge of the bridge. The man bent over and gently began washing my feet. At one point I thought he'd gotten most of it and began to move my foot, but he made it clear that he was not done. He thoroughly wiped every speck of mud from my foot and leg, then pointed again. Other one! He carefully cleaned my right foot as well, then pointed at Meg. She wasn't quite as dirty as I was, but the goopy trail had still left splatters on her skin.


Unlike every other Grenadian I met, this farmer did not seem to be fluent in English, but instead spoke the local French/African/island dialect, throwing in a few words we understood. He pointed out his crops to us: Nutmeg. Plantain. Callaloo.

He did not offer to wash Eric. When he was all done with Meg, he straightened up, dropped the sponge back into the bucket, and turned away.





Here in America, washing any part of another person's body for them is a startlingly personal gesture. I'm not sure about Grenada. Maybe this was simply normal for this guy--all in a day's work for a Grenadian farmer with a road to a popular waterfall running through your farm. Plant crops. Pick weeds. Slash at brush with your giant machete. Wash mud off white tourists. Maybe this man was particularly kind and friendly. Or maybe he'd just been alone in the hills for way too long and was glad for the chance to have contact with a couple of pretty young women.

Whatever it was, I was at least glad to get the mud off my legs. Although the rain might have taken care of that for me if we'd waited a few minutes. The steady rainfall turned into an absolute downpour as we neared the end the parking lot.

Narrow, twisty roads, jungle hikes, roaring waterfalls, strangers with machetes, and now being drenched to our skin in the 80-degree weather: just a few of the things that made our Grenada trip much more exciting than your standard seaside vacation.