By December, WPT and I were cold, exhausted, and burning out. We anticipated being colder, more exhausted, and possibly incinerated by February, so we asked ourselves some basic questions –
1) How many frequent flyer points do we have?
2) Where does Southwest fly?
3) Where is it warm?
4) Where can we fishwatch (like birdwatching, but underwater)?
We decided on Grand Cayman. Our trip was threatened by an ice/snow/rain storm, but after fleeing Baltimore 12 hours ahead of schedule, we landed at Owen Roberts International Airport the following day.
After a smooth exit from the airport, we walked outside into the bright midday sun and the first thing I saw was a poinciana tree (my favorite tree) and a chicken (my favorite bird). We were already off to a good start. We walked across the street to the car rental agency where more chickens greeted us. Ten minutes into the trip and already I loved it there.
When we arrived at Eldemire’s Tropical Island Inn, we were given a thorough introduction to the guest house and area by Bob, the resident dive instructor. He never mentioned the earplugs on the nightside table. I suspected I knew the answer. About 3am, my suspicions were confirmed. Roosters. A lot of them. I lay there, fan blades stirring the otherwise still night air, listening to the chorus that faded into the distance before resuming right outside our window. I loved it.
I met John after sunrise. I don’t know his real name, he just looked like a John to me. John was a majestic rooster with a big, bold comb and glossy iridescent tail feathers. I shared my breakfast with him. It was only later that I noticed he was missing most of the toes on one of his feet. I ignored WPT when he began calling him Hoppin’ John.
We went to the grocery store early that morning and I bought John and his friends grapes and sunflower seeds. He also enjoyed some leftover spaghetti and other assorted foods we shared with him.
We found chickens just about everywhere we went on the island. Smith’s Cove was a public beach a short walk from the guest house. There, the chickens were camouflaged amid the sea grapes and other shoreline trees. There were small families within larger clans. I’m guessing I saw at least 30-40 birds at that beach.
We went to Smith’s Cove each day and each day we bought them treats. I noticed one particular hen with three small chicks. I watched as the mother hen would take grapes and pass them out to the chicks, only taking one for herself once they each had one to eat. She did this repeatedly. She protected them if any of the other birds got too close and she eyed us suspiciously. She was a very good mother. I also noticed one rooster was allowed near her and the chicks. I enjoy watching how animals behave and the rules of their societies. By the last day of the trip, she knew who we were and that we came bearing treats.
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On the way to the hotel, we passed a road sign that pointed to “The Caves.” There was a small, unassuming parking lot and a stone chair, but not much else. We passed the spot at least 5-6 times before we finally pulled over to explore. This unassuming spot is a naturalist’s delight.
There are multiple openings to what was once a sea cave, allowing visitors to approach from above or below and once inside the mouth of the cave you can adjust to the relative darkness. It isn’t safe or suggested that you go far into the cave, but from the visible openings, you can see hundreds (thousands) of indigenous buffy flower bats. There were so delightful we went back a second time.
Used to human interlopers, they ignored us as they slept, squeaked, had sex, ate mosquitoes, and flew around the cave.
We arrive at the Straw Market around 9:00 a.m., just as its vendors begin throwing back the blue plastic tarps that shield their wares from the passing tropical showers that douse Nassau, like most else in these latitudes, every few hours.
Opening time, and the most industrious sellers of this bustling city block-size flea market are already hawking their goods to the handful of intrepid tourists that presage the imminent cruise ship invasion. One woman, still unwrapping her stall, draws us in by appealing to Garnet with a wooden folding knife, which she offers to engrave on the spot for a grand total of $10. It’s a cool piece, and a rare opportunity for a kid whose name will never appear on those little bicycle license plates for sale in every seaside five-and-ten from Cape Cod to Key West. Sold.
We walk on, and other vendors begin to swoop in like seagulls circling a bucket of boardwalk fries. They’re hawking tie-dyes and wood carvings, ball caps and bongs, African masks, Bob Marley beach towels and, of course, straw goods. From stall to stall, much of it is redundant, and the same “Bahamian” mementos that 500 miles to the south are stamped “Kingston”. Still, a closer look will reveal some fine locally-hewn crafts.
Just outside the Market’s west wing we meet Winston, a beaming older local who sits with his hatchet, carving rough wooden figures which he sells alongside the mass-produced pieces. We buy one of his masks, and he offers to pose for a picture.
Inside, we navigate the tight aisles which, in some cases, are all that distinguish one stall from the next. Garnet buys me a starfish shot glass for my birthday, before moving on in search of a stuffy. He and Davida advance to the next booth while I run to the rest room, which is remarkably bright, clean, and well-kept.
I catch up with them at a booth where Garnet is considering a blue plush bear with Bahamas embroidered on it while Davida contemplates one bamboo-adorned photo album over another. She steps away to help Garnet with his selection, and somehow, I wind up with both albums in hand, making me a clear mark for the vendor, a fast-talking Bahamian woman who has already moved in.
“Fifteen dollars,” she says. Then, sensing my indecision, shrewdly adds, “Two for twenty-five.”
Why not? Tangible flotsam adrift in a digital sea.
“Deal.” I open my wallet. Nothing but twenties. Goddamn ATMs. I pull out $40, and the woman eyes the two bills like an informant who’s about to put the Jackson twins away for the next five to seven years.
“Tell you what,” she says, grabbing a third photo album and adding it to the pair in my hands, “take this one, too. Ten dollars.”
I laugh to myself, but roll with it. Our philosophy generally runs like this: if we can afford to be here, for nothing more than a few days of fun, we can afford to spend a few dollars – it is part of the budget. Unlike nearby Paradise Island, with its international chains and faux-tropicalia, these dollars will go straight into the local economy.
I nod and hand her the money.
“So – let’s see. I owe you…five dollars.” She pulls a few bills from her pocket and begins counting out singles into my hand. “One…two…three…four…” Hamilton stares back from his ten-spot.
“Let’s see,” she says, scanning the booth. From a nearby shelf, she seizes a small shot glass adorned with cartoon fish which she promptly adds to my stack. “Here – take this.” It’s a done deal. And with that she moves on to the cruise ship invaders now storming the Market. They don’t stand a chance.
As we move on, I reflect on my lesson in Straw Market economics. Know that everyone needs to make a buck and understand you are that buck, nothing personal. Be prepared for toe-to-toe trade in a spirited setting. Enjoy the experience of mingling with locals whose livelihoods, in their own unique way, depend upon the daily tourist invasion.
I suspect deep down I enjoy being disapproved of. It may explain my adoration of a former bartender at the Russian Samovar. It may also explain my new favorite fish, the polka dot batfish (or maybe it is the shortnose batfish). I have experienced fish being wary, hungry, curious, and ambivalent, but never before have I felt disapproved of by a fish…until now.
We were snorkeling at Jaws Beach when Patrick and Garnet came to tell me about a weird fish they saw. I found one a few minutes later. We were excitedly telling each other about the weird face, the stubbly legs (pelvic fins), and the awkward pectoral fins that looked like wings. We had never seen such a thing and frogfish and sea robins leaped to mind, but neither seemed right.
Research turned up batfish and several species were cited as living in the shallows in the Bahamas. I’m going with polka-dot batfish* for this article because the coloration was the most similar. According to Guide to Marine Life: Caribbean, Bahamas, Florida, “Polka-dot batfish have distinct spots on the fins, head and body, while shortnose batfish are generally more mottled. The polka-dot batfish is not found in the true Caribbean, but it has been documented in the associated waters of Florida and in the Bahamas.” They are usually between 6-12 inches long, which matches the ones I saw.
Batfish are in the anglerfish family and many live deep along the ocean bottom, but a few, like the polka-dot species live in shallow waters. They generally sit around on the bottom of the sea and wait for prey to come to them. They are masters of camouflage, blending in with the sand and sea vegetation. They use that bulbous forehead to lure in their prey, which consists of crustaceans, mollusks, and worms.
And they walk. Seriously. When they move, unless they are doing a slow flee, they walk on stubby little pelvic fins. They swim with short pectoral fins that jut out on the side. I was completely fascinated by them. We snorkeled Jaws Beach 3-4 times during our trip and I encountered several batfish. I pestered the hell out of them with my camera and diving down to take a close look at them. I broke my rule of trying not to interfere with animals in the wild. I was so curious. I couldn’t stop myself. I had to touch the batfish. Thus, I received a look from the fish that conveyed I had deeply offended him and should stop these antics immediately. He awkwardly swam 2-3 feet away. The disapproving look was so effective that felt ashamed and I left him alone. In that moment I had a new favorite fish.
* If you are reading this and I got the species of batfish wrong please let me know. I almost hope it is wrong so they can disapprove of me further.
I’m not going to lie. The only reason Jaws Beach made our short list of places to visit on the trip is due to its place in pop culture infamy. The beach was used as the setting for Mike and Carla Brody’s home and the dock for his sailboat in Jaws: The Revenge. The movie is bad, yet fun to watch in that growling-shark, drunk-Michael Caine, exploding-shark kinda way. Michael Caine once said of the film, “I have never seen it, but by all accounts it is terrible. However, I have seen the house that it built, and it is terrific!” We’ve gone on quests to see dumber places, so off we went.
We drove out along the coast road toward the western end of New Providence Island. Traffic thins out considerably on that end of the island. Jaws Beach is a bit of a cove, tucked inside Clifton Bay, just north of Clifton Heritage Park. The first time we went was at the height of the day with temps well over 90F. We pulled into an empty parking lot and followed a trail back to the beach. Along the way we saw a snake, blue-tailed lizards, butterflies, and a small pond that would likely attract nesting and migratory birds other times of the year. We got down to the beach and were shocked by how beautiful it was. It was stunning. A postcard come to life. And almost entirely empty.
The water was completely calm and looked rather shallow. There is a broken dock, which to a snorkeler is mighty appealing. Garnet jumped into the water fully clothed and just sat there. We vowed to return the next day, our initial mockery replaced by awe at the beauty of the place. We also realized there was an access road and we could park under trees mere feet from the beach.
We went back the next day, and twice more after that. We learned it is a locals’ beach, drawing few tourists. The busiest day there we saw maybe 30 people, other times we had the beach almost to ourselves. It was a small, quiet place. We noticed pizzas being delivered. I watched as a girl swam, holding her pizza aloft out of the water, surfacing to take a bite. She’s my new hero.
The first time we snorkeled, we all spotted batfish, which were so amazing that they deserve their own post. Under the docks were thousands of small silverfish, as well as schools of snappers, young reef fish, and even stingrays. The water was so warm, clear, and still that it was some of the best snorkeling I’ve ever experienced. I could easily dive down and watch fairy basslets protecting their homes, pink-tipped anemones swaying in the current, and watch young squirrelfish peering at me suspiciously. What started as a joke is now one of my favorite beaches in the world.
Patrick leaves lodging up to me. I’ve got a decent track record for finding interesting places to stay – everything from friends of friends to boats to a hostel devoted to Gram Parsons. My criteria are this: I like to stay local (no chains if I can help it), I need coffee in the morning, so a kitchenette or at least coffee maker, and location. Once I get there, copious hot water, a view, the proprietors, and the ability to open the windows or a door pretty much seal the deal. (I hate hermetically sealed rooms.) The Orange Hill Beach Inn offered all of that and a wild octopus.
When we started to plan the trip, I looked at airfares (frequent flier points largely cover those), car rental (ouch), and hotels with kitchenettes. Most places were outside of our price range, but one caught my eye: Orange Hill Beach Inn. The website touted a pool, an honor bar, and there were cottages across the road from the ocean. I called and spoke to someone there about rates and availability. I also checked Trip Advisor and Google reviews. The positive reviews mentioned the beach, staff, and rooms, and the negative reviews served to reinforce our decision to book. The negative reviews mentioned bugs, stray hairs, cats, and, in my opinion, unrealistic expectations. In other words, it sounded perfect for us and like the negative reviews would deter entitled assholes.
One of my great joys in life is watching Patrick’s reaction once we reach our destination. We walked in the front door and he said, “How do you find these places?!” The room was octagonal, with French doors leading to a small balcony overlooking the ocean across the street. The kitchenette was perfect for our needs and we cooked most of our meals at the room. The water pressure and temperature were damned near perfect. It was a relief to have only a few TV channels, and the wifi was stronger than expected.
We opened and closed the balcony doors with the rhythm of the day. In the morning, it was nice to have them open and listen to the bird song. Mid-day, when the sun was blazing and we needed a break, the AC came on. In the evening, after mosquito hour passed, we opened them again and could hear insects and frogs signing. Tree frogs, anoles, a young green heron, and cicadas surrounded us, as did smooth-billed anis. I noticed ants outside, but few inside; once I spotted the house geckos I knew why. I also spotted a brown racer on the property. If you are a traveler afraid of the natural world these things might freak you out. I have no doubt that the hotels on Paradise Island go through copious amounts of bug spray and noxious cleaning agents. However, I would point out that chemical pesticides are far more dangerous than wee lizards and a few bugs. I was on a tropical island; I expected (hoped) native wildlife to be part of the experience.
We largely kept to ourselves the first few days, keen to adventure around the island. Our next-to-last night, we ventured over to the pool, where a family from Texas, a family from the UK, and two of the hotel staff were engaged in a trivia game. Before we knew what happened, we too were shouting out answers. “Are You Being Served?” is always a good answer.
The next night, our last night, was Patrick’s birthday. We had planned to head back to the pool, but it was a stormy afternoon and we ended up hanging out with one of the hotel employees, Dave, as well as the owner’s son (who is Garnet’s age), and another kid who was visiting him. We enjoyed Watling’s rum while they built a water balloon cannon out of PVC pipe and a bicycle pump.
At some point, Dave asked if I had seen the octopus yet. My response was almost cartoonish. Seeing an octopus in the wild has been a perpetual goal for well over a decade.
Dave directed me to the third rock from the left, just offshore in front of the hotel. Look for the large red sea urchin, and then look up to spot the octopus’s hole. He also said to look for crab detritus, that they are messy housekeepers. While these directions seemed vague and distinctly Bahamian, by that point in our trip, I knew exactly where he meant. We had spent hours swimming and snorkeling across the street at Orange Hill Beach. I remembered seeing the small patch reef area of three rocks.
Orange Hill Beach was even better than the pictures on the hotel website. The sunsets were lovely and most of the time the beach was empty. It also offered decent beachcombing. The water was warm and the visibility was great. Most of what I saw snorkeling were young fish, starfish, lobsters, corals, and sea urchins. I could see a reef line farther out from shore, but I didn’t want to risk being so far out and getting run over by a jet ski.
On our final morning, we walked over and I went straight for the three rocks. I was so hoping that I would finally get to see an octopus in the wild, but also realistic enough to know that I had been looking for one for well over a decade. I found the third rock. I found the sea urchin. And then I found the octopus. I was so excited I started making honking noises with my snorkel. I spent about 15-20 minutes circling the octopus rock. He watched me and I watched him. I could see why I didn’t notice him before. He camouflaged himself perfectly and added some rocks near his entrance that looked just like him. I was giddy.
I would have given Orange Hill Beach Inn a five-star rating based on my own quirky criteria, but with the octopus factored in, they now rank in my top 10 of lodgings.
The Bahamas are a cultural and economic crossroads and have been for centuries. It is one of many places Christopher Columbus is given credit for “discovering,” ignoring millennia of native history and culture. The indigenous Lucayans were largely wiped out by European invaders. The islands were claimed for Spain but were later ceded to Britain in 1783 in exchange for East Florida. On July 10, 1973, the Bahamas gained independence from the United Kingdom.
Nassau, on New Providence Island, was established as a commercial port in 1670. The island is approximately 80 square miles, 21 miles long at its widest point. For centuries it was a hub for pirates, slave traders, and British and other European colonists. With the southern blockade during the American Civil War, British merchants used the Bahamas as a trading post for cotton. The Bahamas also benefited from the US’s prohibition on alcohol.
About 85% of the Bahamian population is descended from slaves, mostly African, brought or escaping to the islands. Many were freed when Britain abolished the slave trade in 1807, some were brought to the islands by British loyalists who left America after the American Revolution, and others escaped the US to gain freedom. About 70% of the population of the Bahamas lives on New Providence Island (approx. 250K people). Of the 6.2 million people who visit the Bahamas annually, well more than half visit the nation’s capital, Nassau.
The Bahamas is among the wealthiest nations in the Caribbean. Due of the lack of abundant natural resources, the Bahamas has long depended on location and outsiders to fuel the economy, essentially importing tourists along with many other commodities. While the Bahamian dollar is tied to the US dollar for exchange rates, most food and other goods are imported resulting in increased retail costs. (On average, I’d say we spent about 35% more on the grocery items we purchased, especially pre-packaged foods.) Currently, tourism accounts for about 45% of the gross domestic product (GDP) and employs about half of the working population. Banking is the other major industry. The GDP per capita in the Bahamas in 2010 was $24,312. In 2016, it was down to $20,568, which is a sizable decline, showing the ongoing effects of the world economic downturn that started in 2007.
The Hotel and Steam Ship Service Act of 1898 launched the Bahamas tourism industry. After Cuba was closed to American tourists, there was an additional increase of tourism. In 1959, work began to transform Hog Island, once owned by Axel Lennart Wenner-Gren, a wealthy a Swedish entrepreneur, into Paradise Island. The bulk of tourists either see Nassau from the cruise ship dock or from one of the many hotels and resorts on Paradise Island. Approximately 3.6 million people visited New Providence in 2016, with over 70% arriving via cruise ship. The remaining one million arrive by air and most stay at the Paradise Island resorts.
We spent the week exploring as much of the island as possible. There are sections so manicured and veneered to impress tourists that you’d expect to see Mr. Roarke standing outside waiting to greet them in his white suit. We drove through other sections where a hand-to-mouth existence was evident. We passed gates where the 1% of the 1% vacation, and others where the only thing left of the house was a gate hanging askew on the hinges. We saw past hurricane damage and areas obviously hit by the recession. We visited Adelaide Village, where 157 freed African slaves settled the area in 1831. We drove past refineries belching a chemical stink on the east end of the island. These places are all part of New Providence Island. At times it felt like guidebooks, and even locals, wanted to pretend that areas outside of Nassau didn’t exist to outsiders. There was a sharp contrast in the quality of the roads that lead away from the airport and those on the fringes.
In 2012, tourists brought approximately $2.3 billion into the Bahamian economy. The bulk of visitors report wanting to go to the beach, relax, snorkel, dive, and tour the islands. It is also worth noting that some of the primary environmental concerns include coral reef decay, waste disposal, and water pollution, all of which are negatively impacted by tourism. On the other hand, some of the tourist activities teach visitors about endemic endangered animals and respect for the reefs and oceans, so nothing is black and white.
It is also worth noting the climate’s influence on culture. It is hot, it rains regularly, temperatures only fluctuate about 10 degrees each day, and for half of the year, there is the threat of hurricanes. It is easy to mistake the stereotypical laid-back island persona as a result of living in paradise. It may instead be a result of accepting life as it comes, including the predictably unpredictable weather and knowing it is too fucking hot to get worked up over nothing. Understanding that problems occur. Pragmatic fatalism? All I know is that it is an attitude I can get behind and it forces me to realize I often get stressed over meaningless bullshit. That laid-back persona is also a way for locals to test attitudes. Underestimating other people is a fool’s game, but I saw it happen, so I get why people are guarded.
The majority of the people we interacted with were in some way dependent on tourism for their livelihood. It creates an odd socioeconomic dynamic. You see the same love-hate at shore towns in the states overrun by wealthy outsiders three months out of the year. We recognized the economy for what it is and did what we could to stay, eat, and shop locally, and tried not to be assholes. While the resorts most definitely provide jobs, the owners are foreign investors and some of that money leaves the islands. We also made additional efforts to tip, figuring that if we could afford to be there we could likewise afford to tip appropriately; that money goes straight into the local economy.
When we visited Grand Bahama Island in 2004 I knew little about the history and culture of the Bahamas. This time I paid more attention. I thought about the duality of how the Bahamas are perceived by outsiders and had just a glimpse of the other side thanks to locals who took the time to talk with us. Traveling with blinders may be appealing, but ultimately you don’t learn about place. Explore a little, meet locals, read – there will still be time for Bahama Mamas and snorkel charters.
Up next, we start exploring the island and introduce you to Orange Hill Beach and the Orange Hill Beach Inn.
So why Nassau? Arguably, Nassau caters to tourists, not travelers, with its omnipresent cruise ships and Paradise Island’s Disneyfied version of the Caribbean. As our regular readers know, we attempt to be more travelers than tourists, so why go to a tourist hot spot? In reality, we went to New Providence Island, with Nassau a playing small part of the trip.
In the spring we started planning a trip, our first real family vacation in two and a half years. We wanted to relax for a change. We wanted an actual vacation. We wanted to go somewhere that would make two exhausted adults and one rambunctious 11-year-old happy. We picked New Providence because the travel there was relatively quick and easy and more importantly, our frequent flyer points covered the airfares (but not the taxes and fees*). We found an affordable cottage with a kitchenette that was mere feet from the ocean.
In those respects, a trip to the Bahamas was cheaper than Utah and Seattle (they were other discussed possibilities). Those areas were in peak high season, while the Caribbean was a month into hurricane season. We decided to splurge on two things – a rental car, so we could see the whole island, and a boat trip to the Exumas.
We hope you enjoy the upcoming series of posts about New Providence Island and all of the wonderful things to discover beyond Paradise Island.
* The taxes, fees, etc., assessed by the Bahamas came to $287.97 for all three plane tickets.
I was in a windowless conference room yesterday when began perusing a map of the St. Petersburg area. I noticed a green spot about 10-15 minutes south of the hotel and decided I would check it out in the brief gap between the end of the conference and the TSA peep show. It turned out to be an excellent way to spend a solid hour and a half. (Note: I had to take a projector and laptop for the conference and couldn’t take my camera, so these are all phone photos.)
There is a small nature center, where you pay a nominal admission. Behind the nature center are aviaries where birds of prey who can’t be released into the wild are housed. There are hawks, owls, an eagle, a kestrel, and vultures. I walked the boardwalks on the swamp woodlands trails, listening to the cries of birds and watching anoles skittering across the planks. On the Lake Maggiore trail I saw herons, nesting fish, an alligator, turtles, ducks, and more. It was perfect. You can rent kayaks from the park as well.
I wanted to see a gopher tortoise and headed over to the Sand Scrub trail. The diversity of ecosystems in such a small park is impressive (it is 245 acres). I went quickly from wetlands to pine trees in sandy soil. Despite being April 1st, it was hot in the sun and the park is clever with its water coolers in shaded shelters. I did see a tortoise briefly as he headed into his burrow.
From that trail, I went to the Wax Myrtle Pond, which had two completely unexpected pieces of art flanking the top of the pond. There were turtles and birds and very few people, despite it being a gorgeous Saturday afternoon. I imagine the park is teeming with activity at dawn and dusk.
On my walk back to the nature center, I saw not one, but two gopher tortoises walking along the main trail. Both were gracious enough to let me stop and ogle them.
The park also hosts events, including summer camps for kids, and they have an upcoming Earth Day Zine Workshop. Wildlife and zines – two of my favorite things!