Dear West Indies,
Thank you for the last two weeks.
We asked for warm weather and water: you provided. We asked for wind and surf: you outdid yourself. We asked for something a little personal, and you unveiled a secret island full of natural beauty, not the manmade implants you flash to tourists.
Had we known you were so attentive to our requests, we would have been more careful when asking for an adventure–you nearly killed us.
We know your future is in danger: gluttonous tourists trash your shores, rising seas drown your land, and massive hurricanes rip your people apart.
On those grim and trying days, do not lose hope. You will always have a friend in us.
Below, you will find a scrapbook of our favorite five days with you. I hope the fond memories of yesterday get you through the trials of tomorrow.
Enjoy!
On Tuesday, December 11th, we stepped off a ferry onto a small, remote island on the outskirts of the West Indies. Carrying two large backpacking bags, three kites, and a massive board bag, we thought we were prepared.
We also lugged twelve cans of beans–Chris made sure we had the cache.
After hitching a ride in an old truck to a distant sandy point, several miles away from the island’s one tiny town, we were ecstatic! There was nothing in sight but seventeen miles of white sand, blue water, and green palms. We were truly alone in paradise!
As we staggered to the beach, weighed down by our grand pile of equipment, we quickly learned our first lesson: the island is full of insects. Within minutes, swarms of sandflies and mosquitos had gnawed away our pale hairy legs and replaced them with ugly, searing, polka-dotted pseudo-apendages .
When the ocean was in sight, we dropped all gear and headed towards freedom: cool water to ease our stinging legs. We barely knew our own location and paraded a lifetime of bug bites, but none of that mattered! We had the Caribbean Sea!
After pitching our makeshift sun shelter and burying ourselves in sand to keep the sandflies off, we reluctantly returned to the road junction to receive our rental car, which was promised to be delivered at noon.
Taking turns on car-watch at the junction, our favorite pastimes included staring at donkeys, smashing open coconuts, and sifting through piles of debris created by Hurricane Irma in 2017.
Between the road junction and the beach was the skeleton of a 5-star resort that, years ago, went bankrupt and was eaten away by a series of hurricanes. The abandoned hotel created an interesting collection of debris.
We found (and used) an old ladder, archaic matchsticks that somehow still worked, and a shady “ex-guardhouse” with a surprisingly comfortable window sill.
I was so exhausted from the morning’s voyage over that I fell into a comatose sleep perched on the ex-guardhouse’s windowsill.
We waited…played frisbee…waited some more…drank coconuts…lost the frisbee in a bush…waited…retrieved the frisbee with a droopy stick…and stared at donkeys.
Once we drank most of the reachable coconuts, we began to worry that our rental car was not going to show up. We had two liters of water and plenty of dried food, but the impending insect-rave that would take place at dusk terrified us. Chris went in search of help while I napped and eyed more donkeys.
Half an hour later, Chris came back with good news: the mangled hotel wasn’t entirely abandoned! Living inside the building were five workers diligently laboring to repair it. Chris communicated our situation to one–a blonde, sun-baked Zambian man named Brad–who kindly offered to help.
Brad was soon to be picked up by a Syrian man named George, who would transport Brad to the docks to receive a marijuana shipment. Brad offered to let us tag along.
Chris and I re-worked our plan: hitch a ride with George to town, find somewhere insect-free to sleep, and rethink everything tomorrow.
Once we schlepped our massive stash of equipment to the hotel and waited for our ride, we met the other four workers–South American, Guatemalan, and Caribbean natives. Each worker lived in a water-proof tent inside the hotel roof.
Why the water proofing? Nylon sheets are the only material fine enough to keep the sandflies out. Every worker goes to bed before dusk and dreads getting out of the tents at night due to the avalanche of mosquitos and sandflies ready to feast.
“Don’t sleep outside,” all the workers admonished.
Once George arrived, we piled all of our gear into his Japanese minivan and rolled to town, swerving around potholes and jamming to unusual reggae remixes.
George spoke English in the common Caribbean dialect, but with a heavy Syrian accent. As we rolled through town, he’d wave down passing cars and ask, “Got two guys need house. Have space? Got two guys need car. Rent jeep?”
After we navigated through the entire 500-person town, one-by-one eliminating housing and car options, George kindly offered for us to stay in the room adjacent to his. He apologized that there was no running water and spotty electricity, but we didn’t care: it was insect-free!
As I sifted through our wallet, asking George how much we owed him for the ride, he told us, “It’s good man!” I offered again, but George repeated himself.
On the other islands we visited, drivers barked for handsome payments and tried to up-sell us constantly. They were kind, but only to make a profit. On this small island, where we were the only tourists, George could be authentic.
Without the poison of tourism, true Rastafarian kindness prevailed.
George parked and handed us a key to his house. He introduced us to his puppies and step son, and he showed us the damage a hurricane in 2017 did to his property.
After unloading our gear and trotting through town to find the only restaurant open on Tuesdays–a quaint pizza and shawarma shack–we dodged wild pigs and donkeys on the walk home and fell asleep.
Shortly after falling asleep, we learned another lesson: with all of the windows shut due to insects, the house slowly became a sweat lodge. We awoke around midnight.
With wild hair and baggy eyes, we could do nothing but laugh. The sweat drops tickled our bug bites, and soon our skin was on fire. Laughing hysterically at our situation and asking “How the hell did we get here?“ our spirits stayed high.
George heard the commotion next door and walked over to investigate. After checking in, he lended us his extra fan and wished us a good night’s sleep. With one fan, we had to sleep in close quarters: Chris arranged the couch cushions directly below my bed.
Sweet dreams!
In the morning, grateful for the fan but still sweating, we ate a soggy breakfast of instant oats in cold water and then drove to the point.
While our night in the village was memorable–and George’s kindness really impressed us–we couldn’t wait to get back to the beach.
As we jumped into the water for some body surfing, we learned a third lesson: the island sports a special mixture of heaven and hell. A hot, dehydrating, insect-ridden night? Hell. The infinite, white sand beach and warm water? Heaven.
Many other Caribbean islands claim a different type of “heavenly” beauty: one where buildings cover 95% of the island, so the entire population crowds the 5% that isn’t concrete.
In my opinion, nothing is more ugly than hotels and cruise ship ports smothering nature.
Our beach extended for seventeen miles without any people or ships in sight. Sure we had to brave the rain and bugs, but nothing on earth was more gorgeous.
Since the turquoise sea and unthreatening white sand was the once place that hadn’t punished us (yet), we agreed to spend the rest of our days at the beach.
After hours in the salt water dried our insect bites and the stunning landscape reset our minds, we felt rejuvenated.
And hungry.
Riding the youthful wave of frivolity and ineptitude, we decided to cook a meal! Without a stove or fuel, we plowed a hole into the sand and tossed in a smattering of sticks ignited by toilet paper. To hold our pot in place, we poached a sad piece of bendy metal that once belonged to a house.
With our blazing fire in a steep sand pit, lined with metal, we added our sealed pot filled with pasta and water. In case this cooking experiment failed and our pasta was scorched to a crisp, we had cliff bars.
Half an hour later, once the pot rested on a pile of smoldering embers, we opened it.
Speed the Wombats! Stiffen the crows! It worked!
Boggled by our prodigious little pot of pasta, we mixed in our finest can of beans and dried pesto seasoning. It was delicious!
Somehow, everything on the beach worked perfectly. The wind kept the flies at bay, our bug bites dried out, and the pasta was delicious. With a new spring in our step, we walked back to the road and piled into our ride back to town.
Once back at the house, we unloaded our gear and discovered a fourth truth: hours in the ocean without a freshwater shower builds a distinct, salty crunch in the hair. Soon we began sweating again.
With our hair stiff as chips and sweat irritating the bug bites, we fantasized over a shower. Without running water, we embraced a new approach: take turns dripping water from a jug onto each other’s heads. This pathetic shower was refreshing but somehow added to the “crunch” factor.
Slightly less overheated, we returned to our beds and slept. At some point in the night, I rolled off of the bed landing directly on Chris’s head giving both of us quite the fright.
In the morning, low and behold, we were overheated again! We couldn’t wait to escape the sweat lodge and get to the beach.
Once back on the beach, we built a shelter to protect us from the sun and our gear from the rain. The weather on the island was as unpredictable as grown men: it constantly threatened several minutes of aggressive piddling with no notice.
During a particularly windy downpour, the tarp’s grommet ripped, and I immediately fashioned a makeshift hold: a clump of dried donkey poop strangled by a slipknot. It worked!
With all of our equipment protected and a semi-decent shelter established, we prayed for enough wind to kitesurf.
The island delivered, and we enjoyed hours of kiting over impossibly-clear, turquoise water. Neither of us could believe this was real.
When our backs ached from a full day of kitesurfing, we assembled our surfboards to hunt for some of the mild trade-swell.
Day three on this remote island felt unreal. How had we been so fortunate to stumble upon this place? Sure there are fewer than 1,500 inhabitants, little running water, meager food options, and simple accommodations, but we wouldn’t have traded it for anything.
The people are incredibly kind, showed genuine Rastafarian culture, and never tried to up-sell us. Our friends in the abandoned hotel watched our gear all day, offered water and food, and asked for nothing in return.
“This island is special,” said Brad. “All of the other islands will try to screw you some way or another. They’re ruined by tourism. Here, everyone watches out for each other.”
Chris and I recognized something deeply special about this place: we might never get to experience a completely wild, empty, and stunning beach like this again. While existing on the beach was unbelievably difficult–there was no escape from the molesting bugs, relentless sun, and dehydrating salt, and not to mention sand made its way everywhere–we made a decision to camp on the shore.
We returned to town to gather our remaining gear, thanked George for all of his generosity, and said goodbye to the sweat lodge. With six gallons of water, several days of food, and every water toy we brought, we set up camp on the beach.
By pure coincidence, a pair of Belgian sailors found their way ashore when their boat’s engine failed. We shared dinner under the stars, drank Guadeloupean rum, and exchanged stories. These were the first people we’d seen on the beach.
Once our new friends returned to their boat, the sky piddled again. Chris and I wrapped our sleeping bags under a tarp like a burrito. With each piddle, we held raincoats over the sleeping bag’s opening to shelter our faces.
After listening to music, dodging rain, and talking for hours, we shared a pretty surreal realization: on no other island in the world could we be camped on a beach this wild, beautiful, remote, and alone.
We felt grateful for each other’s company, brotherhood, and the adventure we were sharing.
Sleep was challenging as our bags soaked through and filled with sand, but eventually we clocked-out.
“What the hell?” I woke to Chris saying. I slowly found my way to the sleeping bag’s opening and peered out. Chris’s hair, looking like an explosion, jutted out on all sides. As he dug sand out from his nose and eyelids, he added, “I’m so hot. How did we sleep in 20 degree sleeping bags all night?”
He wobbled to the ocean and flopped in–better than a shower. On his return, we ate our usual breakfast of instant oats soaked in cold water. This time, it was seasoned with sand.
What was the grand plan for today? Walk up the beach.
We packed a kite setup, four Clif bars, three liters of water, the camera, and set off to explore the distant parts of the beach. As we walked up the beach, the sand became soft, and soon we sank up to our shins as if we were walking in snow.
We wore our rain gear to hide from the sun, and soon we were once again dripping in sweat. As we trudged through deep sand, the beach grew narrow and sand turned pink. Somehow, the scenery was even more majestic.
Without any large landmarks for reference, it was impossible to judge distance. Without a watch, time was a blur. We lost our minds. The seventeen mile beach seemed a mirage, and once again we realized the coexistence of heaven and hell on the island.
Eventually, we found a suitable spot: turbulent offshore wind with impeccably flat water to kitesurf. This was the most beautiful place we had ever kitesurfed, and the board carved through the flat water like a knife through butter.
Chris went first and found his happy place.
I went second and prayed I didn’t get blown out to sea in the offshore wind.
Unreal: the spot was too photogenic to not have a little photoshoot.
At this point, the island invited us to heaven. We thanked her, but were careful not to overstay our invite. Moments after I landed the kite, the wind picked up and switched straight offshore. Had I stayed slightly longer, I would have been blown off the island, literally.
On the walk back, the extreme heat and dehydration got to us. Chris and I are not unhealthy: we just raced an Ironman triathlon. However, I collapsed in the sand, shaking from hunger and heat. Chris laughed and jumped into the water. I inhaled my and Chris’s portion of the bars (thanks Chris), desperate to stop the shaking.
Chris dubbed this moment, “When Andrew died.”
Rejuvenated by the bars, we started the walk back. Very quickly, Chris hit the same wall I did. We laughed at our misery, dripping sweat under the rain gear but too terrified of sunburns to take it off.
Once we got back to camp, we sought shelter under the hotel. Too starved to make a fire and wait to eat, we ate 7,000 calories of trail mix. After the nuts, we enjoyed Chris’s specialty: two cans of beans dusted with garlic salt.
Hysterical with exhaustion and good spirits, we spent the rest of the day with Brad. He told us stories of growing up in Zambia and traveling through Africa.
For dinner, we dug another fire pit. On our makeshift stove, we charred a pot full of instant rice and quinoa. I washed zucchini and carrots with seawater, skewered them with old sticks, and burned them over a smoky fire. It was truly disgusting, but we were too starving to not eat.
At night, we settled into our sleeping bags and enjoyed the dazzling display of a meteor shower–heaven.
Several minutes into the show, a powerful wind picked up and blasted us with sand–hell.
Chris tied a shirt over his face to stop from inhaling the sand, and I choked on sand all night. When we woke up, I had sand caked on my face, in my nose, and in my stomach. Sand buried the shelter we made the day before, and we had to dig to find our clothes and water.
We loved our time on the island, but it was taking a toll on us. Nothing we owned was not full of sand, our skin was tan and leathery, worked by sun, and our hair was shades lighter. It was crunchy enough that, we feared, should we hit it with a hammer, it would shatter into little shards.
We had almost exhausted our food and water supply, and if the winds stopped blowing, we would be murdered by bugs. While we hoped to spend a full week on the island, we feared overstaying our visit.
In an attempt to maximize our last day, we knocked a few items off the bucket list: I kitesurfed naked (sorry, no photo), Chris sent massive jumps on waves, and we drank every last cocounut we could find.
When the time came to catch our ferry, we said a teary goodbye. The tears were of fear, gratitude, and shock.
I feared for the island’s future, for several hotels were in the process of being built. I feared for the locals, as tourism threatens centuries of community and culture. I feared for future hurricanes that would destroy the lives of those on the island.
I was grateful for the five days of adventure, beauty, joy, misery, humor, and bonding with my brother. I was grateful that we survived and escaped with our health and equipment.
And, above all, I was in shock that we had the experience we did. In the coming days, as we surfed on other islands around the Caribbean, I processed our time on this little island.
And so, West Indies, I hope you enjoy this scrapbook. The other 9 days of travel were fun, but these five days were powerful.
I am still reflecting on our time together.
Tourism may rot your land and culture, and climate change may tear you open, but you possess something greater than the world’s ills.
Thank you for giving us a glimpse.
Yours always,
Andrew and Chris Buchanan