Tag Archives: caribbean

Azul y Tranquilidad, Part III: Under the sea.

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I’m winding the calendar back a couple of weeks to where I’m killing time before my flight home, walking the back streets of the little neighborhood where I stayed. Little blue and green lizards are scurrying about. And chickens. And the roosters who have no sense of time. Two sandy but friendly pups come out to say hi with their little wiggle-butts, grateful for the pats on the exceptionally warm morning.

two dogs sitting on a sidewalk

I take a dirt road which appears to go somewhere but really ends up in someone’s yard. In broken Spanglish I tell the lady sitting on her porch that I’m wandering and possibly lost but not really lost-lost. It’s a small place and there aren’t really that many roads. Everyone greets you with a smile.

I wander down to a part of the sidewalk that overlooks a corner of the beach, so I sit and let images of the undersea world dance through my brain as I look out to the sea of 7 colours.

I came down here to dive… and dive I did. I went in without expectations. Reefs across the warming planet are deteriorating and I really had no idea what to expect. Photos I’d seen of Providencia diving looked decent, but as last year’s I can’t even in Costa Rica proved, I didn’t get my hopes up.

Under the sea

I first started diving in this part of the Caribbean in the late 90s. The reefs were healthier, the massive building boom hadn’t gone into full swing yet, and the fishing industry hadn’t entirely decimated fish populations. Fast-forward a couple of decades, and while I still love to dive, it’s more and more a simultaneous feeling of gratitude and loss. The act of blowing bubbles as you explore an alien world is a privilege and an honor. Pretentious, maybe, to barge into this other world and expect a show. The corals are grayer than they used to be; the fish, fewer. But that said, it’s all thriving despite what’s being thrown at it.

There were curious reef sharks, and eels of all shapes and sizes (even a sharptail). Sandy bottoms held stingrays and garden eels, and blennies and those shy little jawfish, remodeling their holes with tiny rocks. The reefs were alive with schools of snappers and chromis. And deeper down, there were lobsters and crabs hiding in the wall, big groupers, and even some Atlantic spadefish looking regal and eerie at the same time. The usual Caribbean suspects: filefish and parrotfish and triggerfish… and some welcome sightings of cowfish (one of my favorites), trumpetfish, and an assortment of butterflyfish and hamlets, even a sighting of the masked hamlet, a species endemic to Providencia.

On a night dive, I watched a giant snapper use the light of our torches to hunt a blue tang (and amazingly eat the thing in 3 bites!). And I saw my first hammerhead, albeit a young one in fairly shallow waters.

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Part of diving is the shared feeling of exploration with your boatmates, and the awe and wonder after each dive. Every dive is magic. Every dive is a gift. You make instant connections in the dive shop, and quite often new friends that remain even after the adrenaline fades.

At the surface

I took a boat to see the land from the sea. It turned out to be a “snorkeling tour”, bouncing from bay to bay to snorkel and sight-see. We visited Fort Bay and Morgan’s Head, then rounded the top of the island, where McBean Lagoon National Park comprises the northeast part of Providencia. The mangroves by the airport, Cayo Cangrejo, and the Tres Hermanos islands are all protected by the park, and that’s what I was really keen on seeing.

Crab Caye is a tiny island ringed by a reef, so it is a snorkeler’s dream (since you aren’t allowed to dive there). There were Portuguese man-o-war sightings that day, so I opted to walk to the lookout tower at the top (said tower was blown off during the hurricane, so it was a walk to the base of the tower), then watch the snorkelers bob in the shallows as I sipped a highly-recommended fresh coconut water. From here we continued on to Tres Hermanos, which is home to a nesting colony of frigatebirds. Later in the trip, I’d ask a different boat captain to take me back there with my big girl camera to capture some shots. We snorkeled in the bay between Tres Hermanos and the mangroves (look, squid!), and looped south and finally back to South West Bay.

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Even though the snorkeling was decidedly “meh” on my tour, the boat ride was super-nice. And so, on the recommendation of one of our divemasters (everyone knows everyone here), I found a guy with a boat who could take me back to Tres Hermanos to do some frigateography.

We ventured as far as we could into the mangrove lagoon before it got too shallow and we had to pole it out of there. Much of the mangroves were destroyed in the hurricane, but they’ve made a huge effort to protect and tag the fledgling mangrove trees. They’ll be back! After the mangrove adventure, we spent quite a bit of time slowly circling one of los hermanos, the island that the frigatebirds call home.

The magnificent frigatebird, as I stated in an earlier post, looks (and acts) like a cross between a seagull and a vulture. First of all, they are enormous, with a wingspan of up to 2-1/2 metres (nearly 8’!). Second, they nest communally, and very close to the water, so their nests look like a frenzy of black and white and red feathers. The sky looks like a swirl of small aircraft. The males have this wattle that they expand as a mating ritual, and the females (smaller and way less showy) have a white head and throat. I could have stayed out there for hours just watching the frenzy but feared the captain would get bored out of his mind! While they will fish for their own food, frigatebirds prefer to steal what they can from fishermen and other waterbirds, and they are considered “kleptoparasites” in the scientific world: they pester other birds until they give up their prey.

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Sure, on paper the magnificent frigatebird is kind of a disgusting jerk; but I was mesmerized watching them interact on their island home nonetheless.

As I sat there on the sidewalk that looked out over the beach, frigatebirds and sharks and little magic moments swirled in my mind. A little while later, a lady on a motorbike drove by and stopped to sell home-made ice pops from the cooler on the back. A little while after that, after saying goodbye to the guys at the dive shop and my new diver friends, I stopped by the little blue bakery to get some banana bread for the trip home.

I’m finishing this post after a fresh foot of snow has fallen back at home, and I’m wondering whether I should have just chucked it all and stayed. But I also think that the stories and the feeling of a place remain with you. And it’s these that will warm me in the cold winter months ahead.

I’m already at work on the next adventure, as any girl with a wandering spirit must be. So here’s to sunny days, wide-winged birds, and a large dose of natural wonder and undersea magic!

🤿🐡🪸🐟 Many thanks to the island of Providencia for having me and to the amazing team at Sirius Dive Shop for making every dive an experience to remember. 🐠🫧🪸🦈🏴‍☠

Exit: Saba; Enter: new year’s intentions

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Your last night in an endearing place is always a bit bittersweet. A frog jumped out of the tap when I turned it on to brush my teeth this evening, perfectly punctuating my last evening here on this surprising little island.

I spent my last night with new friends, and in the morning (which comes all too quickly) it’s time to leave and begin that multi-airport hopscotch.

As if on cue, the skies open up in a tropical downpour as I navigate my 17 kilo bag down the (what seemed like) 200 stairs from the heights of my cottage on Booby Hill. Soaking wet and laughing, I cross fingers that the stash of Saba Spice, a local liqueur made from aged rum and local spices (cinnamon, fennel, and others), survives the journey back to the States. I’m certain that the Elfin Forest imps are having fun at my expense…

On a solo trip it’s always a crapshoot, but usually an adventure, in how you spend your evenings. This trip, I fell asleep early a few nights, ventured down to a local restaurant where I took meals with dive boat friends and locals, and the last night, spent with divemasters from different pinpoints on the map talking fish and Western politics and equanimity, yoga, Buddhism and life, was perhaps the most enjoyable (Aside: it is usually at this juncture where I ask myself if I could chuck it all to work on an island somewhere and live the divemaster life). You share a lot with those you meet on a dive boat. Perhaps the fact that nobody looks good in a wetsuit gets people to let defenses down and open up a little more.

The people I met in Saba hailed mostly from Europe, some from the US. Divers, all, as this place is a hidden gem; more than earning her name as the Caribbean’s Unspoiled Queen. Languages on the boat ranged from English to Dutch to German to French to Spanish, making me more intent on improving a foreign tongue in the coming year, as I realise my creaky French now outshines my rusty Spanish. I can read a menu and perhaps have a scrappy conversation with a 7-year-old in 3 languages, yet only one with la bonne confiance, as they say.

benoit
peter & amy
stefen & heidi
luis

And so, after leaving somewhere that has made an impression, I reflect on not only the experiences had, but the things that got me there in the first place. The absurd airfares required for a Big Trip this Christmas; the yearning to get away from the routine back home; the random blip on the radar of this little island, nonexistent to me only 2 months ago yet something made me look into it… So it’s perhaps also appropriate at this juncture to think about what comes next.

I don’t make resolutions. As this wobbly world does its best to leave us wondering what crazy thing is coming next, and as things change along the way (as they are wont to do), I find that resolutions tend to leave one feeling more frustrated and unfulfilled than resolute come March or so. That’s not to say there aren’t things to be learnt and new adventures to be had and unfinished somethings that need finishing; because there are! And so I set intentions at this time of year, focused on feeling well and greeting the days with gratitude and welcoming new experiences into my universe; learning much along the way, finishing what’s been started and ultimately moving forward each day on strong legs and with a bright heart. There’s something about setting an intention that makes the path to achieving it more evident and perhaps the future result more tangible.

I write now, flying over the Atlantic Ocean on my northbound trajectory: a little bit browner than when I left and a little more grateful for the wonders of the natural world, having seen some quite amazing undersea stuff as well as rainforest flora and fauna. I met a few wonderful people and also encountered some characters; hiked in the rainforest, dodged raindrops and lived amongst what I’ve nicknamed the woodland creatures: Coquee frogs, snakes, lizards (the little Saba anole lizards and also giant iguanas), hummingbirds, crickets, grasshoppers, roosters and goats, all moving about on their own schedules, setting a rhythm to each day.

  

But when you return home, to a place where water isn’t a luxury, it makes you think about the scarcity of our natural resources. And it makes you grateful for the little things: the plentitude of bananas when you want them; hot water on demand; hair that doesn’t react so insanely to the humidity; dry stuff (in the rainforest, things only get “somewhat dry”). I ran into a woman on the trail up Mt. Scenery with unless tattooed on her shoulder. Unless, indeed.

So now, as we close the books on 2015, there are places to go and people to see and more potential adventures than there are days on the calendar. I wonder if it’s possible to do one new thing each day or maybe each week? There’s only one way to find out: try.

Happy New Year.

Saba, Day 1: in which I meet locals, critters (and local critters) and get a little lost

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After a day of flights, weather delays and an ultimate departure on the last flight of the day on the small plane that would ferry me to the volcano-island that was to be my final destination, we turned around a mere kilometer from the runway because of low visibility and impossible landing conditions on this, the shortest commercial runway in the world.

Welcome to Saba, a Dutch territory in the former Netherlands Antilles. Comprised of a 5000-year dormant volcano, 4 towns (the capital being The Bottom; Windward Side, where I’m staying, being closest to the top; St. Johns and Zion’s Hill) and inhabited by the ancestors of Pirates, Slaves, Dutch, French, Carib Amerindians, fishermen and rumrunners. Throw in a smattering of ex-pats for good measure and you have a grand-total population of not quite 2000. One could describe it as a European-feeling mountain village situated in a rainforest. Verdant, I think, is the operating word. As well, Saba claims the highest elevation in The Netherlands.

So after the weather-induced layover in Sint Maarten (perhaps the opposite of Saba in character and atmosphere, in this traveller’s mind), dinner at a (surprisingly very decent) Lebanese restaurant with the other stranded passengers (interestingly enough, Sabans now living in the States, going home for the holidays with their spouses) the morning flight both departed on time and landed on target. The timing forestalled a day of diving, but enabled me to get the lay of the land and meet some locals (human, reptilian and feathered).

The place I’m staying, El Momo Cottages (I have yet to learn who El Momo is, but will do before the week is out!) is a set of cabana-esque buildings, set into the hillside. It’s a super-rustic eco-lodge (read: there is no room service and you are close to nature, which sometimes forgets the difference between indoors and out) but perfect, really, with the rainforest wending its way wherever it can. Steps take you up and up (and then more up) to the office/pool and then the restaurant (which reminds me somewhat of a summer camp dining room, but I am charmed by its rustic simplicity). Each room is on its own level, affording spectacular views – the higher the room, the better the view! And mine, with its outdoor shower and view of the foothills of Mt. Scenery and the Caribbean beyond does not disappoint.

In the first hour here, I encountered a curious giant iguana, numerous lizards, a monster cricket and a couple of snakes sunning themselves – that or one snake who just couldn’t find the right spot. This is the jungle, kids, and things which crawl and slither are in abundance… Truth be told, the cricket was a little creepy. Once settled, though, I set out for a walkabout. Did I mention that this island is a volcano? And even though it is smaller than 15 square kilometers in size, it makes up for that in verticality. I set off and headed for the dive shop, laden with gear. And in my zeal for getting to know this place, I overshot my intended target by a literal mile (stellar navigational skills at work yet again). Local hospitality tends to make itself known, so when I stopped to ask directions, I was piled into a pickup (driven by a colourful, and perhaps a couple sheets to the wind, local) for a ride back to town…I had clearly walked too far and this fermented, yet kind, soul confirmed that hitchhiking is practically expected here!

Now unburdened, I wandered the narrow streets of Windward Side in search of lunch. That came in the shape of a mediocre chicken burrito and, later, a slice of Christmas stollen, a German (or Dutch?) bread with raisins and almond paste. It’s strange, this multi-cultural mélange that combines Caribbean Creole speakers with Dutch/Pirate/Amerindian (etc.) descendants with transplants from around the globe. Today, I met native Sabans (with and without that sing-song Caribbean accent), a Swedish woman who “married a diver” and ended up here, a woman from St. Thomas who “just likes Saba better” and a couple from the Czech Republic who run the dive shop. In just a few hours today I heard accents from all over the world, which made me feel like this is probably a good place to be.

Called the Unspoiled Queen because Sabans long ago realised the importance of both conservation and community. And because it’s a volcanic island, there are no beaches to attract the hordes of sun-mongering speculators. The reefs have been long-protected and the natural resources much-treasured, so (depending on the kind of traveller one is) Saba offers the perfect combination of pristine diving and rainforest hiking, without the Caribbean tourists (yay!).

Morning view from the little restaurant at El Momo Cottages

I have come here to dive. Hammerheads and manta rays are on request, though we shall see what mother nature decides to deliver in the way of critters when I get into the water tomorrow morning. My mermaid tendencies may prevail, but I’ve also come here to hike.

But now, as I type, I am being watched by a hummingbird. He is so close, I can hear his little “pip, pip” chirps and the furious beating of his wings (three species of hummingbird lives on Saba and I’m hoping to find them all while I’m here).

Meanwhile, the sun begins to set and the peeper frogs are competing for first fiddle or other such standing in their reptilian orchestra. They vie for airtime with the crickets (thankfully, I believe mine has left the building) and nighttime birds. And it is this symphony that will sing me to sleep this Christmas Eve Eve.