Making Waves: Turks and Caicos

“Much of what is experienced, is a little like going back in time – unvarnished, serene, uncomplicated. What South Caicos has in spades is delicious quiet. Silence that brings equilibrium to a mind full of noise.”

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The counterpoint to the silence of South Caicos is the liveliness of Providenciales. Locally known as Provo, it has the largest population amongst the islands. It’s election time at the moment. Almost every Belonger—those born-and-raised on the islands—describes the atmosphere as contentious and divisive. Actually, it is reassuringly just like everywhere else in the world nowadays. Here, nature converges with development – there are shopping districts, traffic and condo towers, but also lagoons, wetlands and bird watching. And, in most places, you’ll still be the only one on the beach.

Ask anyone what they know of these islands and the answer will doubtless be the water. It’s by air, ironically, that the transformation is most dramatic. In minutes glimmering cayos and salinas of the lightest shade of pink give way to striations of sandbars and deep, dark patches of lapis lazuli. Seen from land too, like at Taylor Bay, coral etches into waters that ripple and reflect. Morphing from one vista to another, from one time of day to another, from one part of the islands to the other, if you stay here long enough you begin to intuit its moods.

At Blue Haven marina, home to Big Blue Collective, the water can only be described as turquoise. Palm trees sway in the ever-present wind, while yachts gleam at anchor. A group of Americans gathers, and two-to-a-kayak, we paddle to iguana island. “They mistake nail polish for berries and will sometimes come up and try to nibble your toes,” warns our guide about the cunning green reptiles that scamper in the underbrush, making an outsized commotion. Sunny and breezy, the water clear and shimmering, conditions are perfect for a dip. Paddling again, this time in the relatively shallow and waveless mangrove swamp which act as both stalwart barrier against hurricanes and nursery, we spot baby lemon sharks, green turtles and fish.

Perhaps the most fascinating island waters are called The Banks, a shallow marine passage that separate the Caicos islands. There, locals catch lobster and queen conch. In season, these seafood delicacies are some of the best you’ll ever eat (and reason alone to visit).

A long narrow highway along the northwestern coast, dotted with residential houses eventually leads to a mosaic marked “Blue Hills,” the name of one of three original settlements on the island. Another small road guides me to a giant pink Adirondack chair, the entrance to Da Conch Shack. It’s early evening, and as the sun tucks behind an ombre coral sky, diners sitting at beachfront tables gleefully chat, sipping colourful cocktails and digging their toes into the sand, watching waves slowly crawl ashore.

I run into owner, John Macdonald, a Canadian and former corporate lawyer turned island transplant, who describes his vision for Da Conch Shack as an authentic yet casual restaurant where locals and tourists can come. And, while the menu includes delicious items like chicken wings glazed with local hot sauce, steak and fish tacos, I hone in on its specialty, queen conch.

The marine mollusc is such an icon of these islands that it even appears on the national flag. “Visitors can have the best Italian food or go to the best steakhouse in New York, but nowhere else can they have conch that was in that ocean an hour ago, prepared in a salad,” he affirms noting that fresh deliveries arrive several times a week, if not daily and are kept in ocean pens until required.

I enjoy a bowl of conch salad and fritters, showcasing the seafood’s mild sweetness with a texture reminiscent of young coconut. “It’s a delicacy, and should be appreciated. There’s an art to cutting conch. For instance, if you were to cut a flank steak with the grain, it would be really tough. Conch is the same way, you really need to cut it correctly, but the key is that you have to prepare it in sea water. The local techniques are still the best. They were developed for a reason, and they still do well today,” adds Macdonald. There’s an ease to this gem of a place – guests lose themselves in music, bumping elbows with strangers, dancing with the Junkanoo band. As nightfall descends, a cool ocean breeze gently weaves through the palms, waiting for tomorrow’s catch to arrive.

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“The oldest local junkanoo band, clad in neon green regalia and playing traditional ripsaw music, enters Stubbs Diamond Plaza beating drums, blowing whistles and ringing cowbells as fellow revelers cavort”

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While Turks and Caicos is squarely in the Caribbean region because of its history and culture, it’s actually, geographically speaking, in the Atlantic. This strange quirk of geography, as well as its surrounding barrier reef, make the beaches mind-bogglingly gorgeous.

“Did you know what Grace Bay is made of?” asks Gracie Perry-Garnette, Coral Aquarist at the the Turks and Caicos Reef Fund. She’s referring to the striking stretch of beach regularly named one of the world’s best, and Provo’s star attraction. As I look through the microscope, I see giant misshapen, white boulders in what is ordinarily nothing more than grains of sand. Gracie can’t help but blurt out the answer. “It’s parrot fish poop with some crushed coral, shells and limestone rounding it out.”

Beyond nature, Provo is also a place for culture and people watching. At the weekly Fish Fry and Junkanoo, vendors sell local food, drink, and trinkets while a band wearing Hawaiian shirts plays live music. The atmosphere is family-friendly and with a plate full of macaroni pie, fried plantain, grilled lobster and coconut shrimp from Mookie’s, I’m invited by strangers, to share a picnic bench.

Come the eight o’clock hour, We Funk, the oldest local junkanoo band, clad in neon green regalia and playing traditional ripsaw music, enters Stubbs Diamond Plaza beating drums, blowing whistles and ringing cowbells as fellow revelers cavort. Originating in the Bahamas as a Boxing Day masquerade, where slaves donned papier mâché masks and costumes, junkanoo is an old ritual with links to saturnalia, African spirituality and indigenous touchstones.

For all its energy, to stay in Provo alone is to miss out on each island’s distinct personality. A 25-minute ferry ride away, North Caicos is known as the bread basket of the nation – sapodilla (locally called “dilly”), noni, and mahogany trees thrive within a few kilometres of Bellefield Landing. This island is lush with friable brown soil, completely different from the dry scrub land and coral limestone of Provo.

Even with arriving day-trippers and locals, there are virtually no other cars on the road. “You could put a bed in the middle of the road and sleep,” says Charles Handfield, owner of a tour guide and car rental business as he introduces Timothy Palmer, my driver.

Mr. Palmer drops tidbits along the way (“there are 21 churches between North and Middle of different denominations,” “we still use bush medicine; the local plants and vines can heal,” “I worked on construction of the causeway years ago”). He describes a few new arrivals and old timers who make up some of the 1500 residents, points out where the post office once stood, the sisal museum and old church built by escaped slaves in 1826 from conch shells, limestone plaster and small pebbles. But so innate is the instinct to plant in North Caicos, that talk inevitably returns to gardening, specifically, his home where he grows corn, okra, sweet potatoes, coconuts and pumpkin.

It is raining on and off for most of the day and so the large flock of flamingoes have sought shelter and it’s a quick dash to Bambarra Beach, Mudjin Harbor and Bottle Creek so as not to get drenched. At Conch Bar Caves, dripping water creates a metronome of echoes. Soothed by the droplets, hundreds of fruit bats are fast asleep at the largest above ground, dry-caves in the islands.

Lunch at Mudjin Bar and Grill is the most wonderful fresh-caught lobster and queen conch burger. A decadent match, I use the last of the bread to mop up every last crumb. Thankfully the rain has coaxed me to stay for dessert. It’s an apple cheesecake made in-house by a young fellow from Chicago, and a true delight.

On a calm day it is star-eye clear,” says Ilo, referring to the Atlantic Ocean. He mentions that during the season, humpback whales breach on the horizon. But for now, the craggy shoreline of Long Cay near South Caicos is battered by waves. A few metres down on the other side, clusters of queen conch litter the edges of its white sand. “They’re piled here because if you throw an empty shell back in the water, you’ll never catch queen conch in that spot again,” says Ilo when I ask about the discarded shells. In places, they’ve become islands unto themselves.

Ilo and Dave, the two young crew members manning Sailrock Resort’s Boston Whaler, provide what is one of the most beautiful experiences of my time on Turks and Caicos. For miles in every direction, there is no one else in sight. At Starfish Gardens, I, preposterously, have the whole sandbar to myself. Every so often, I see a pop of colour – red cushion sea stars the size of a saucer, feast on sea biscuits (which look like inflated sand dollars) and form a vibrant constellation beneath the shallow waters. As we sail to another spot, an eagle ray flaps its wings beside the boat. Arriving at Admiral’s Aquarium, we snorkel amongst fish, coral, and turtles, though sadly the effects of climate change and coral bleaching are plain to see.

Most days are given to swimming, swaying in a hammock, listening to music – transcendent experiences where the rational mind takes a back seat. Slowly the little things come into sharper focus – two yellow butterflies intertwining in flight, periwinkle growing between rocky paths mimicking the deepest shades of sunrise, the slightest deviation in the wind.

Long may it last.

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