Life Below 20°: December 2013

Harbor View

Providencia, or as the locals prefer, Old Providence Island, lies in the Caribbean about 120 miles off the coast of Nicaragua, next to the larger and less mountainous San Andres Island. No one was able to tell me the precise story of how, but these islands became a part of Colombia in the 1920s. There’s a direct flight from Cartagena to San Andres, and a short hop from there to Providence, my destination for a chunk of the Novembrinas break. This is a week off to celebrate Cartagena’s independence and the all-important Miss Colombia Pageant. The noise, parades, and general craziness did not appeal so I took a solo jaunt for the busiest part of the week. I traded the crowds of people for hordes of rainy-season mosquitoes, the only down-side to my little trip. Well, and the jellyfish.

The airport on Provodencia was the tiniest I’ve ever been in. Outside, the unofficial taxi squad (which was any local with a car), waited to take us few tourists to our lodgings. In the past, I would have eschewed the ride and walked the 2 km to my hotel. But in my various travels here I have learned that locals strongly rely on tourist money, and no matter that I am not “rich,” as an American, I am relatively well off financially and able to contribute to local economies. I arrived at Hotel Deep Blue, took my driver Dundy’s business card (a sticky note with his phone number scribbled on it) with the promise to call him for my ride back to the airport a few days later. He drove a nice Pathfinder, though scooters, mules, and four-wheeled gators were in much greater abundance as transport. Locals, who speak an English-based Creole, assumed I was a Colombiana until I opened my mouth, as the first sentence when someone speaks rapid-fire Spanish to me is “Tengo poquito español.” They were pleasantly surprised to find I was from the United States. Few Americans visit these specks in the Caribbean, save the occasional sailor.

Gorgeous view from the pool deck

I stayed on the windward side of the island, no beaches but instead a beautiful barrier reef almost a mile offshore, protected as a national park. It was just waiting for exploration by kayak, the use of which was included in my hotel’s bullet-biting price, and a large part of the appeal of this treat to myself. I happily paddled around the calm waters of the national park area lagoon and Crab Cay, the miniscule island visible from the hotel and the subject of many of my photos. It was just so darn pretty.

I paddled over to the islands of Tres Hermanos where I encountered frigatebird males showing off their red chin pouches for their lady friends, as well as Audubon’s Shearwaters.

I tried to paddle out to the edge of the barrier reef but weirdly, a boat with a couple of scientists and a park ranger chased me down (more than once) to tell me I couldn’t be there. As there were no regulations posted and hotel staff had said to go wherever I wanted, I was bemused. The boat’s local driver explained where I could paddle and promised to keep the ranger off my back for the rest of my visit. I got the impression Mr. Ranger was on a bit of a power trip; my impact was certainly minimal and I was literally the only person out there on the lovely calm days.

Old Providence, originally a colony for Puritans, was periodically fought over by England and Spain. Next to it, tiny Santa Catalina (which is only accessed by a boardwalk or the sea) eventually became the home base for the infamous pirate captain Henry Morgan. Much of his mayhem was done under the tacit approval of the British as a privateer.

A fort and cannons, as well as rumored treasure caves, are still visible on Santa Catalina. And the captain is the real-life figure for whom the rum is named after. I spent the better part of a day traipsing around this tiny isle: walking the boardwalks through the little community, hearing the water suck in and out of the submerged caves where Morgan hid some of his loot, coming upon tiny hidden stretches of sand, tripping over tree roots hiking through the jungle, climbing the volcanic rock of the old fort… loads of my kind of fun. It occurred to me that this was the kind of experience that is better shared… moments of poignancy.

The locals of Old Providence are extremely protective of their island and have fought against large-scale tourist development and oil-interests alike. There were numerous political statements painted on walls with fish claiming “Old Providence, Not Oil Providence.”

The spa development at South West Bay, where I relaxed one day at the beach, took over ten years to get approval. I spent a pleasant several hours there getting lunch in a small café run by a Canadian woman married to a local. She was happy to talk about the challenges the islanders face as part of Colombia, who gives them some autonomy but tends to be very pro-development, as evidenced by the growing number of high-rise resorts on the beaches of neighboring San Andres. The islanders worry because their municipal representatives do not have full votes in the legislative councils. The claiming of their waters by Nicaragua has also been hard on the small fishing industry. I got the strong impression that the people are happy with their remoteness and want to keep the island as unchanged as possible.

While I found very little to peruse or purchase in the way of local arts and crafts, I was impressed by the hand-painted tile work which decorated many of the local homes and signage. But I was really blown away by the sculpted concrete bus stops. I did not take many pictures of them as I was usually in a moving vehicle at the time I saw them but they are in the shapes of local sea creatures and I have never seen the like.

There were also whimsical critter benches and charmingly painted homes and fences. The people of Old Providence love their little island just the way it is and take pride in their man-made surroundings as much as in their lovely natural world.

One other happening of note: I received my first full-fledged jellyfish sting on this trip! I was happily swimming at the long strand of South West Bay, (sans jet skis which are outlawed there), when I found myself entangled in what I thought was sea grass. My skin soon let me know that it was the long tentacles of a jellyfish, not the little strings of grass I had previously encountered. I immediately headed to shore since I had no idea if I would pass out or be poisoned. Luckily neither, just stung. There was nobody around to pee on me (is that an old wife’s tale?) but the pain only lasted a couple of hours. However, the redness and itching became worse and persisted for nearly a week! Considering the amount of time I’ve spent in the ocean throughout my life, I’m surprised this hasn’t happened before.