Buchanan Project

To me, Tahiti has always represented the most intricate and beautiful amalgamation of everything I have ever wanted in a place. Its lush, green mountains rise sharply out of a vibrant ocean, creating a heavenly sanctuary in the middle of the Pacific. Passing clouds are captured in the remnants of an old volcano, and their rain gives life to the abundant flora and fauna that inhabit the land. The island is protected by barrier reefs that mold incoming swell into perfectly-shaped waves, while leaving the interior lagoons perfectly still and crystal clear. 

This was the vision of Tahiti I had created in my head over the countless years I had dreamt of going. Between social media and my own research, I had seen all of the best sides of the island on full display. Tahiti began to represent a reoccurring, idealized dream of a paradise that lay waiting in the South Pacific.

When I finally had the chance to go, I was honestly a bit hesitant. It’s a weird feeling when something you have truly, deeply wanted for so long is within reach. By stepping foot on that island, all the hopes, dreams, and promise Tahiti had come to represent would suddenly vanish, leaving behind Tahiti’s true nature. What if it wasn’t everything I had expected? What if it was? Then what do I look forward to? 

I’ve found that it is so essential for me to have a Tahiti in my life. I need something to work towards and dream of, something to motivate me to keep exploring through the vast opportunities this world presents. Without a final destination, or end goal, it is easy to get complacent and get stuck in redundancy and ultimately boredom. Often times, the end goal, Tahiti, isn’t even the most meaningful part. It’s the path we take to get there that opens new doors and shapes us into the people we become.

I can’t tell you where my path to Tahiti started, but I can say it prepared me quite well for when I finally got there. When I look back on it, it’s quite astonishing how well everything came together this past week. I know I said in a previous post there is no inherent reason our chapters need to conclude with a happy, scripted ending, and I still stand by that statement. Sometimes though, they do end in a poetic fashion, and it makes for great blogging.

At 1 am, I landed in Tahiti after my flight being delayed an extra 3 hours. I hear my name being called over the intercom with instructions to see the baggage services desk. Once I made it through customs, I set foot in the baggage services office only to learn my surfboards were left in New Zealand. Great.

To her credit, the woman working the counter was very nice and promised to have my bags delivered to the small village I was staying in once they arrived. Neither the woman nor I knew exactly where I was staying, but she wrote down my host’s phone number and sent me off with a bag full of toiletries for the night. Suspicious but exhausted, I put my faith in the woman and went to find a taxi at this hour.

Since it was the middle of the night, and I was staying an hour-and-a-half away from the airport, the taxi drivers wanted to charge me an exorbitant rate. I attempted to negotiate with the manager, despite his extremely limited English and my non-existent French, and eventually he found me someone who would drive me for a slightly better price. I left with this woman, who didn’t speak English, and she started going in the wrong direction. We continued going to the wrong side of the island—deeper and deeper into not the most welcoming neighborhood. Eventually, she pulled into a driveway, and left the car. 

When she reemerged from the shadows, she, and three other people, were helping this incredibly large man hobble towards the car. I was so confused and honestly a little worried. When the team finally managed to get him in the passenger seat, I learned he was the driver’s father, and she wanted to take him with. I was so relieved I started chuckling. It’s like Tahiti knew I needed a little adventure to keep things interesting.

After that, things worked out so well. We managed to find the house I was staying in, even without knowing the address, and my host family was waiting up at 3 am for me. I thanked them graciously for waiting and headed to bed for some much-needed sleep.

When I woke up the next morning, I didn’t even care that my boards weren’t here. I was in Tahiti! Determined to make the most of the day, I asked my host if there was anywhere I could go hiking. She told me her uncle owned land in a nearby valley that I could explore, so I grabbed my flip flops and a camera and wandered off into the jungle.

At every turn, the land offered a new surprise. First, I found a star fruit tree that I promptly raided. Next, I found guavas. After that I stumbled on a herd of white horses. Then finally, I found a waterfall, and you can bet I swam under it. Day one was a success.

On day two, I woke up to people talking outside my window. I looked out and there were my surfboards, just like the baggage lady promised. Eager to get in the water, I unwrapped them and paddled out for my first session at Teahupoo. The waves were friendly, despite Teahupoo’s reputation as a dangerous surf spot, and I made friends with two other surfers. After our session, we spent the rest of the afternoon on the beach watching the sunset and sharing stories.

Over the next few days, the waves got bigger, and Teahupoo felt a need to demonstrate why it is a wave so many surfers fear. I foolishly caught a bad wave, fell, and resurfaced to my favorite board being cracked down the middle. Then, the wave behind it blasted me into a coral ledge that was sticking out of the water. Since I was wearing a wetsuit top for protection, I slid on my stomach across the coral and somehow fell into the lagoon behind without too many cuts. When I paddled back out on my backup board, I got bounced over the coral a few more times but sustained no major damage.

Eventually though, I started finding a rhythm in the ocean and had some magical sessions at a wave I had always dreamt of surfing. After each session, I would come in and eat star fruit off of a tree that was planted along the shore.

What surprised me the most is how welcoming the local surfers were. They made a point of introducing themselves in the water and regularly smiling and cheering everyone on. I have never been somewhere where the locals behave this way. Their behavior is a reflection of the town’s perspective and attitude toward tourists.

Despite Teahupoo’s international fame throughout the surf community, the town has done a superb job of limiting tourism in a sustainable and healthy way. With no hotels, one restaurant, and one small market, residents have effectively capped the number of visitors at any given time. The local surfers and community members then welcome the few foreigners who arrive because the visitors benefit the Tahitians without disrupting their village and way of life. For the many tropical surf destinations around the world, Teahupoo should be used as a model for productive, sustainable tourism.

I think it’s fair to say that my experience in Tahiti lived up, and honestly out-did, the incredibly high expectations I had set for the island. The natural beauty was unparalleled. On land, the abundant flowers and plants were so vibrant and lively that they looked like the cartoonish, overly-colorful, tropical decor often associated with Hawaiian shirts. In the ocean, there were times where the water was so smooth and clear, it was hard to tell where the waves were going to break because all I could see was a healthy coral reef beneath the surface. 

The local community surprised me with its hospitality and ability to resist so many of the pitfalls associated with tourism and globalization. And lastly, the wave humbled me and gave me another goal to work towards and dream of. Although I was able to get some great rides, I was there during a relatively small swell. I hope to one day return, prepared to tackle the larger, more challenging, surf that the reef is capable of producing.

I’m in no rush to go back and face those waves. Like I said earlier, the path to achieve our dreams is much more formative than the end result. I just hope when I do step foot on that island again, the local Tahitians have continued to preserve their paradise, so generations to come can enjoy its unique beauty.

-Chris Buchanan

For the past three weeks, I have been living in Brisbane, Australia. If you don’t know where Brisbane is, it is located on Australia’s East coast about halfway between Sydney and the Great Barrier Reef. Before moving here, I honestly had no idea what to expect. I knew the weather was warm, the surf was good, and the people spoke English. Beyond that, the rest was a total mystery. But, adventure was calling, so I packed up my life into a few suitcases and flew to the bottom of the world. The following is a list of things I have learned in my short time abroad. Some you may already know. Others may surprise you, but above all, I hope you find them entertaining.

1. The beaches are stunning: I knew the surf would be good, but what I did not realize was how much my surfing experience would be enhanced by crystal-clear water and white sand beaches. Byron Bay, the Gold Coast, and Noosa were all so inviting that I often forgot about the fact that there are shark nets strung along the coast to keep this deceptively-benign place accessible to humans.
2. Byron Bay is my favorite: While I have been wandering about Brisbane, my girlfriend, Frances, has been attending classes at the University of Queensland. Her university has a club for foreign exchange students that puts together trips to explore and experience Australia. The club was doing a 3-day trip to Byron Bay, and both of us really wanted to go. I still don’t know the details, but somehow Frances got me a ticket to join the group, on the condition I pretend to be a university student. I quickly got very good at my improvisational skills because on the 3-hour bus ride to Byron, we did a sort of speed dating to make new friends. I repeatedly had the same small talk conversations about where I was from and “what I was studying”. Each time I carefully skirted the details of my academic course load. Once we arrived in Byron, the small talk turned into more meaningful conversations as we all enjoyed our days at the beach and nights in town. I could easily live in Byron Bay. It has all the natural beauty one could ever want, but also a truly special social scene. The town is comprised of a significant international population that has recognized the beauty in this community. Whether its the crowds that gather to support local musicians performing on the streets, or the kayaking and snorkeling tour leaders who preach environmentally responsible practices, it is clear Byron has the right values. Sure, life may move a bit slower than in the big city, but I think there is a lot to be learned from that special town.
3. Being on the East Coast in the Southern Hemisphere is perpetually disorienting: At home in Los Angeles, I pride myself on always having a great sense of direction. It’s engrained in my mind that the ocean is to the west, where the sun sets, and my midday shadow always points North. Plus, there are plenty of hills and mountains to use as reference points when I really get lost. Brisbane barely has hills, the ocean is not visible from where I live, and the sun does all of the opposite things from back home. My internal navigation has been so off that I’ve started climbing on top of tall objects to find my bearings.
4. The wildlife is very different than I expected: I have not seen a single kangaroo or koala. It’s not like I expected kangaroos to be hopping around in the parking lot outside the airport to greet me, but after three weeks here, I thought I’d see one bounce by. I even took a train an hour-and-a-half outside the city to hike one of the “mountains” in the area. Watching rain fall from the top, and taking in the surprisingly beautiful views made the trip worthwhile, but I was sad I couldn’t spot a koala in the trees or a kangaroo hopping through the forest. There is an astonishing variety of birds and reptiles that are quite easy to see and hear. The birds conveniently make their loudest, and most bizarre, noises between 6am and 7am. I don’t know what they feed the reptiles here (maybe kangaroos?), but I have seen a few that are 5ft long and heard stories of larger ones. The spiders are also quite well-fed. They are easily the size of my palm and definitely poisonous. They love making webs right outside my window.
5. Not only can the spiders kill you, but the clouds can too: If you read our earlier post about the West Indies, you may recall Andrew mentioning the unpredictable Caribbean weather. Brisbane is worse. A few days ago, it was so hot and sunny that I was dripping in sweat from walking to catch a bus. There was barely a cloud in sight. By the time I rode the bus to the store and completed my shopping, a cloud had moved directly overhead and began shooting lighting on all sides of me in 20-30 second intervals. Yes, I have seen lightning before, but I had never been directly under such an active thunderhead. It was a very stressful half-mile walk back to the bus stop.
6. Australia has its own Donald Trump: Probably most terrifying of all, there is a very wealthy man named Clive Palmer leading his political party with the slogan “Make Australia Great”. Giant yellow billboards with his face and slogan are plastered along many freeways throughout Brisbane. I don’t claim to be an expert in Australian politics, but I would like to hope Australians could learn from America’s mistakes, instead of attempting to one-up them.

-Chris Buchanan

Special thanks to Frances for her help with the photos

(For more photos from Patagonia, see our gallery!) 

If I could share one thing–anything-from my month of mountaineering in Patagonia, and people would actually pay attention, it would be this: chose to live, not survive.

I spent one month learning about leadership and mountaineering in an extra-remote region of an already-remote mountain range with NOLS Patagonia. Our group of fourteen faced challenges ranging from ice falls and crevasses to social dynamics and hygiene.

Spending most of our time in the “alpine” (above the treeline), the only other living things nearby were the occasional condor and logic-defying ice worms. Re-supplies were flown in by helicopter, and we navigated treacherous terrain using special gear (ropes, nuts, hexes CAMs, ice screws, ice axes, pickets, runners, webbing, carabiners, pulleys, crampons, cordelette, harnesses, ATCs, and probes, to name a few).

I entered the course thinking that I would grow into master of survival.

Through the long days, freezing blizzards, bizarre bathroom experiences, discussions, laughing and fighting, sweat and blood, salt rash and foot mold, I learned about survival’s deceptively-tricky compliment: living.

Survival is almost always chaotic. It never feels sustainable, and it is not fun for prolonged periods of time. Living is controlled, demonstrates a deeper understanding of yourself, and it requires more skill.

One litmus test of “living” is food. Taking the time to cook a meal, or have a friend cook the meal, makes a massive difference.

On days in “survival” mode, we ate nuts, dried fruit, sugary orange-flavored drink mix, and candy bars.

On days of “living,” we cooked!  I learned how to use assorted powders, oats, cheese, grains, lentils, butter, dried fruit, nuts, textured soy protein, and spices to cook all sorts of meals. My personal favorites were lentil-stuffed samosas, hearty pancakes, cheesy fried pasta, homemade granola bars, pizzas, cinnamon rolls, and apple pie.

Cooking takes time and effort, and that’s not always an option. That’s when I learned the beauty of leftovers: make extra breakfast or pre-cook lunch to have an afternoon meal on the go. Maybe even isolate ingredients for the next meal to expedite things.

Albeit simple, this realization massively enhanced my life post-Patagonia. On my flight home, I packed a salad in a tupperware. On the long bus ride to the airport, I stored fruit and produce so I wasn’t limited to the chips and candy sold by street vendors.  

Another sign of living, not surviving, is good hygiene.

Spending a month in the mountains without a proper shower seems daunting and filthy. In reality, it just requires commitment to the three pillars of hygiene: hands, butt, and feet. Any extra effort is welcome and goes a long way.

May this vignette from a very miserable moment vaguely explain my point:

A long day of glacier travel finally ended, and now it was dark. The wind was gusting upwards of 50 knots, blowing the falling snow sideways, and I was crouched like a bewildered gremlin behind a rock, heating water. I was barefooted, cursing my searing toes and red ankles that needed a warm bath. I had salt rash. My shoes were soaked and molding from two days of travel in foul weather. Everyone else was nestled in the tent, but I was torturing myself playing “catch-up.” The last two days I didn’t take the time to clean my feet, and now they were rebelling.

After attacking them with warm water and soap, I put socks on the searing knobs and went to bed. The next day, they were mildly better. After repeating this process, my feet actually healed. Now, during the day, I could enjoy the hiking and walking without feeling pain in every step.

Hopefully nobody gets salt rash in the front-country. Ever. But it’s quite easy to come home after a long day and feel too exhausted to shower or wash hands before a meal. Being appropriately clean is a hallmark of doing things well, even in desperate times.

Finally, when it comes to living instead of surviving, happiness must be a priority.

One massive hack I found for happiness is to appreciate little things. In Patagonia, these little things ranged from essential oils and hot drinks to ukulele and grip-strength trainers.

Yes, we climbed mountains and glaciers. Yet, my day-to-day happiness had little to do with those overarching goals; it was very easy to get lost in the big goals.

The herbal tea yerba maté epitomizes the importance of little things for me. Taking the time to boil water and save it in the thermos for yerba maté later was the difference between a decent day and a great day for me.

Maté was such a morale booster that I recently carried a kilogram of the herb on my trek through the Himalayas.

Pausing for the drink in the afternoon meant we could relax and look at the mountains. Ceremoniously having one person prepare the drink and pass it around meant it was an honor to serve one-another. It showed respect. The physical act of drinking from the same metal straw, “bombilla” in Spanish, brought friends closer and tore down any notion that others are too dirty to share with.

For others in the group, putting on essential oils at night, painting, or singing to ukulele had a similar happiness-facilitating effects.  

Going forward in life, I will take the time to enjoy a hot drink or two throughout the day. More broadly, I will work to identify and pause for simple pleasures.

And for all of my future endeavors, I know that my trusty nalgene bowl, a bottle of soap, and bag of maté are all I really need to live.

…Plus everything required for survival.

–Andrew Buchanan

I had such a good idea for this blog post. It was going to be the perfect triumph narrative where the main character (me) achieves his lifelong dream and comes back a hero. Unfortunately, mother nature, or maybe a guardian angel, had different plans. Instead of getting to tell the story I hoped for, I get to tell a funnier one that highlights the reality of traveling rather than an idealization of it. 

To give a bit of context, I started surfing in the 5th grade with a goal of one day riding the giant waves at Peahi. Peahi, aka “Jaws” is located on the North Shore of Maui and is arguably the best big wave in the world. Jaws only breaks on the largest winter swells of the year, so it is rare for a trip to Maui to coincide with one of these swells. In all of my trips, I have never been when Jaws was breaking.

I was hoping my most recent trip would be different. I conjured up the perfect scenario: young kid has aspirations to one day surf massive waves, kid grows up into capable surfer, and on his only year off, he finally gets the opportunity to live out his dreams.

In an almost cruel fashion, the surf forecasts were initially calling for a giant swell. A week out from departure, I was mentally preparing because the stars looked to be aligning for a miracle. As luck would have it, the waves never arrived.

The great thing about Hawaii is it has so much more to offer than just gigantic surf. Frances, her father Tim, and I all enjoyed many days of great kitesurfing, multiple normal-sized surf sessions, and paddle boarding with humpback whales. Between all of our outdoor activities we made time to watch Netflix documentaries and celebrate Tim’s birthday at his favorite restaurant. 

The only thing the trip lacked was a bit of struggle to turn it from a vacation into a travel adventure. At one point, I said this out loud to Frances, and I think the Hawaiian gods must have heard me loud and clear.

On our final afternoon, I asked Frances to come with me to see Jaws, even though I knew it wouldn’t be breaking. After watching countless videos of the area, I wanted to at least set eyes on those fabled cliffs.

The road to Jaws is a 2-mile long muddy path through overgrown forest. Being a typical Californian, who has no experience driving in rain, I did not realize it was a bad idea to take a 2WD pickup truck on a slippery road riddled with giant potholes and puddles.

Our first clue that this may not be the best decision was there were over 10 crashed cars on the short stretch of road. In the moment, I assumed the cars had been dumped there on purpose because it was a cheap method of disposal. I now realize it is more likely the drivers slid out and crashed, and there was no way of getting the mangled vehicles back up the hill.

Regardless, we made it to Jaws quite easily. After half an hour of eating wild guavas and admiring the stunning scenery, we figured we should head back before the distant rain clouds decided to unleash on us. 

My biggest mistake in all of this was not recognizing why it was so easy to get to Jaws. The road was downhill going towards the coast, so the truck slid relatively effortlessly from pothole to pothole as it was gently guided by the hand of gravity. Now, I had to drive back uphill and somehow find traction in the mud.

The first part wasn’t too steep, so we made it through with only some minor skidding. Eventually though, I found myself partway up a hill, using full gas, but still sliding backwards in the mud flow. This was the point where Frances appropriately recognized she was better off exiting the vehicle and watching me flail from a distance.

Since I clearly wasn’t gaining any traction, I decided to reverse back down to the flats to get a running start. About 100 feet from the base of the hill, I began revving the engine. I threw it in to gear and took off full speed, but the same muddy, 4-foot-deep ruts eventually got to me, and I had to do the reverse of shame back down the hill. I tried the same thing a few more times and basically reached the same spot before sliding back down. It was pathetic. I needed a new plan of attack. 

Luckily, while I had been ramming the car aimlessly up an impossible slope, Frances had thought of some ideas. Somewhere in the bushes, she had discovered the rusted remains of a shovel. It looked like someone used it to bury a body and then snapped a piece of the wooden handle off to remove any fingerprints. Given the circumstances, I was very willing to risk having my DNA mixed up in a potential murder case to hopefully get our rental car back to safety, so I did some digging to help level out the road.

The second, and more important, part of her plan was to disable our anti-skid system in the car and put the engine in overdrive mode. I didn’t really understand what this was going to do, but overdrive sounded like more power, and more power seemed like a good idea. With a supercharged car and a few inches dug off the tops of the lumps in the road, I felt like this could be my chance.

When I hit the gas, the truck behaved like a bull that accidentally sat on a cattle prod. It took off fishtailing down the road, with mud flying in every direction. I legitimately thought I was going to crash our rental car in the bushes. My mind went blank as I bounced and skidded my way up this hill. When I got to the top, so much smoke was coming from the tires that I could see it coming in the car through the air conditioning vents. Frances and I both thought it was a good idea to give the car some time to cool down.

Once the smoke cleared, and the engine cooled, we continued up the rest of the muddy trail to where it finally met paved road. I have never been so happy to see asphalt. Our timing couldn’t have been any better because literally within a minute of making it back to the real road, those rain clouds unleashed their fury. Even after the downpour, I still spent over an hour the next day removing handfuls of mud from the underside of the truck in hopes of getting our rental deposit back.

So what’s the moral of this story? For one, don’t take 2WD pickups offroading. They don’t do well in mud. The bigger, and probably more important, takeaway was a reminder that life does not usually work out like it does in books and movies. There is no inherent reason our chapters must conclude with a happy, scripted ending, no matter how much we may want them to. True adventure is filled with random challenges that blindside us at every corner. To some, that may sound discouraging, but I promise the unpredicted struggles are ultimately the most meaningful.

-Chris Buchanan

In June 2018, I returned to Kandui Villas to work as the resort surf guide and medic. As I stepped off the boat and began greeting the guests, one teenage boy caught my eye. He had a single stitch between his eyebrows that loosely held together two flaps of skin, and on his left leg, he had makeshift bandages covering multiple wounds in various stages of the healing process. I could already tell this guest was going to challenge my medical abilities.

As I got to know the boy, Macdara, I quickly gained a lot of respect for his astronomically high pain tolerance and willingness to throw himself into the scariest waves around. Even if everybody else in the lineup knew it would be a closeout, Macdara would go. Over the course of the trip, I drained his infected toe multiple times and treated him for anaphylactic shock. Without fail, he would be back out surfing the next session. 

Although his mom, Sarah, was understandably concerned about getting him back to America in one piece, she remained remarkably calm through a very long 10 days. Amidst the chaos with her son, I talked to Sarah a lot about her home in Puerto Rico. I asked the usual ignorant questions like, “is it safe after the hurricane?” and “how is a US protectorate different than statehood?”

The more we talked, the deeper, and more complicated our discussions got, and the more I wanted to learn about this seemingly-forgotten part of our country. So, when Sarah generously invited me and my girlfriend, Frances, to visit, I had to take her up on the opportunity.

Fast forward seven months to January 2019. I’m sitting in the back of a golf cart, taking in the tropical beauty of Puerto Rico, as Macdara drives me, Frances, and his mom to their house. Families were out walking dogs along the beautifully-landscaped trails, and kitesurfers were gearing up for a session in the warm Caribbean waters just outside their oceanfront homes. I was in awe.

During the first few days, Macdara took me to surf some of his favorite spots. Although he claimed the surf quality was sub-par by local standards, I had a wonderful time surfing without a wetsuit, in clear, blue, water, over healthy coral reefs. Later in the trip, when the wind returned, we switched to kitesurfing off the sandy beach right by their house. As if that wasn’t enough, Sarah even arranged for me to use a JetSki to surf to ensure I maximized my wave count.

Life was also ideal outside of the water. We accompanied Sarah to outdoor yoga classes that overlooked the ocean and sampled a wide-variety of local flavors at the many surrounding restaurants. 

Everywhere we went, I felt an overwhelming sense of community. It reminded me of the adult version of walking around my college’s campus, where the consistent conversations between neighbors showed how much everyone cared about one another. I can’t say what it was like before Hurricane Maria, but from stories Sarah told me, those who didn’t flee to the mainland came together in 2017 to rebuild. Neighbors who previously fought over petty disagreements were suddenly boarding up windows together to ensure everyone could weather the storm.

Even after the physical aftermath was repaired, many Puerto Ricans were struggling to find work. Frequent, random power outages, a large percentage of the population moving off the island, and a lack of tourism all dramatically limited many people’s abilities to earn the money the desperately needed.

This wasn’t the case for Sarah’s needle point artisans. Sarah started a company called Extreme Needle Point that employs local artists to hand make custom designs on key fobs, phone wallets, belts, and more. She saw tremendous potential in a workforce that was very unfairly stereotyped as “lazy” or “not wanting to work” and brought jobs and opportunities to those around her.

Even after the hurricane, when many people pulled out of Puerto Rico, Sarah leaned in further. Since many people’s homes were destroyed, or without power, she invited all of her employees to work in her own home, and pushed on to keep everyone moving forward.

So, where is forward? In an era where civil rights and social justice are discussed more than surfing is in this blog, Puerto Rico should not be forgotten. There are over 3 million Americans, who fall under the jurisdiction of laws and trade agreements they cannot vote on. Additionally, Puerto Rico can’t import goods that don’t first enter the mainland US, so it remains fully dependent on its colonizer. There. I said it. It may not be politically correct, but Puerto Rico seems like a colony to me. With American fast food chains plaguing every street corner, and a long history of the US government shutting down any major industry on the island, Puerto Ricans are a captive audience manipulated to our benefit.

I don’t claim to be an expert in the field, but I’d like to believe there is a way we can mend our relationship. Hopefully, leaders like Sarah can keep bringing out the best in their community, so those of us on the mainland will notice what we are missing.

It isn’t hard to see the beauty in Puerto Rico, if one gets the opportunity to look. With an eager workforce, major renewable energy potential, and abundant tourism opportunities, Puerto Rico is an untapped asset capable of great things. As with so many social justice triumphs recently, change comes from starting discussions. For me, that discussion started with a wonderful family I met on the other half of the world. I hope all of you can keep it going.

-Chris Buchanan

When our flight home from the West Indies finally touched down at LAX, Andrew and I got our first glimpse of the foggy skies and long shadows cast across a winter-stricken Southern California. The small amount of frigid, outside air that crept between the junction in the plane door and the jet bridge was enough to remind us we were indeed back in LA. As we walked into the terminal and passed the very seats in which we waited so eagerly for the trip to start, both of us chuckled about how much we missed the anticipation of the unknown.

However, as we entered the door to our house, the subtle, subconscious familiarities of home embraced us. I heard the jingle of our three cats’ bell as they ran up to greet us and smelled the onions caramelizing for the feast my mom was preparing. I felt conditioned, like Pavlov’s dogs. These subtle cues relaxed me, creating a sense of security and safety. 

As the days went on, it was nice falling back into old routines of waking up in the same bed, eating the same cereal, and surfing in the same spot. Life was easy, and easy was good.

Andrew and I had found all of the excitement, adventure, blue water, and white sand we could have ever hoped for in the Caribbean. The one thing we could not find was that special kind of familiarity and belonging we experienced at home. Even if we couldn’t articulate it at the time, we missed the cold Pacific waters. We missed the cat’s jingle and my mom’s irreplaceable home-cooked meals. Most of all, we missed the people in our lives that keep us connected to our roots.

In an unexpected-yet-cliche way, being gone from home made me appreciate it so much more. The thing that travel photos can’t convey is the lack of familiarity and belonging that comes with venturing to a new place. I’m not trying to label those as bad feelings. The excitement of breaking out of routine is often the main reason people want to explore. But, it is important to appreciate wherever you get to call home. There are plenty of places with whiter sand, higher mountains, and different cultures, but there is nowhere else that brings the same internal comfort as falling asleep in your own bed.

In an effort to make the most of our time at home, and time together, Andrew and I dragged our family to new corners of our little peninsula. The mountains may not be as extreme as those in Patagonia, and the water may not be as blue as the Caribbean, but to me, the photos will always be a reminder of what is truly irreplaceable: home.

I hope you enjoy our gallery.

-Chris Buchanan

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