The number of times we’ve got on the bus in our six months in Grenada and been, well, a little scared. The guys who work the buses here are guys, who if you’d met them in the UK or America, you might a be a little scared. Look, I’m not saying it’s right. And not once, have anyone of these roughneck-looking guys ever been anything but completely honest and dignified. So more fool me. In fact two days ago, the girls and I were trying to cross a busy, sharp-corner section of road to get to the bus stop. Our intended bus pulled on the other side and we looked at it, dismayed. The road was too dangerous to cross. Then a second later, the bus conductor jumped into the road, statue-faced and stopped the traffic so we could get on his bus. We rushed across the road, smiling gratefully at him. His face didn’t change but he gave us a tiny nod as we passed, his sharp-cut baseball cap doing the once up and down. 

We met a local guy here, a friend of Ben and Phil’s who’s from the upper echelons of Grenadian society. Old-school. His family owns a lot of land though they lost some and suffered violent attacks during the Grenadian socialist coup in the late 70s/early 80s. Still, I think if you had to package this guy up, it would be as a large, cheeky smile. When I told him my same observation, he said, ‘There are no real ganstas here. Not yet. Everyone is still too scared of their mother. Most live with their mother. She feeds them, washes their clothes and if they brought home anything she didn’t like, like a fighting dog, they’d soon be put in their place. He stroked his finger around the neck of his beer while the mosquitos and night flies circled his head. 'For sure, it’s coming to Grenada. But not yet. Not when your mother has anything to do with it.’ 

Love from Quest and her crew xx