Three settlements

So far our interactions with Bahamians have left us with the impression that they are a polite, extremely friendly, helpful and warm bunch of people. There has been an abundance of smiles and laughter everywhere we have stopped, even though they were in the middle of an election.

Little Farmers Cay

After the spiritual and physical re-encounter with my feathers and hat (refer to the previous post if you are lost), Juan and I went looking for veggies in the tiny town of Little Farmers. Not an easy task even with that lovely name.

Veggies used to be our main staple back in the continent. These days, however, chewing a lettuce has become a holy experience. Finding veggies is like going into a treasure hunt, unless you go to the market soon after the mail boat arrives. For our quest in Little Farmers we acquired a very friendly entourage. The leader, a nine-year-old girl with bright eyes, a beautiful smile and engaging personality approached us and politely said, “Hello. May I introduce myself?”

“Yes, of course,” we said happily.

“My name is Tanelia Hansen, I am nine years old. My mom is over there. She makes crafts,” she said pointing to a group of
women. “Are you in a boat?” She added.

The conversation went from our boat to her school to our elusive salad ingredients. Juan and I were in awe at the politeness and cheerful friendliness of the kids. She and three of her friends took us up the street and left us in front of a house with assurances that tomatoes could be found within. Indeed, the woman that opened the door sold us not only tomatoes and lettuce but also introduced us to noni after we asked about a weird fruit hanging on her tree.

“It tastes awful,” she said, “but it’s good for you.”

I grabbed the alien egg look-alike and took a whiff that ended up being too deep. It smelled like a sweaty sock soaked in milk and left in a car trunk for the entire summer. I looked at her dubiously. Her husband cheerfully contributed, “You know, candies taste good but they are bad for you. It has to taste bad to be good, yes?” After such irrefutable logic I gingerly took a tiny bite. The flavor reminded me of a very rotten cheese, the kind that’s so pungent that makes you tear up. Juan wisely and politely refused to try it. We went back to the boat with our precious cargo of greens and the gifted but not-so-precious noni (I later juiced it and courageously drank it—after googling “noni and its side effects”).

Black Point

Two days later we were anchored out in Black Point, Great Guana Cay. The village of Black Point with its 230 inhabitants is the second most populated settlement in the Exumas after George Town.

As it has become  routine we went ashore not only to stretch our legs and meet the locals, but also to hunt for more veggies. We had just arrived to the municipal dock when a wiry, energetic young boy appeared at the top of the dock’s ladder. “Can I help you with that bag?” he asked referring to our dry bag full of paraphernalia.

“No thanks,” I said with one hand on the ladder and the other on the dinghy line.

“I can take the bag,” he insisted.

“No thanks, we are good,” Juan said from the dinghy while I climbed a step.

The boy continued, “Why does your engine look so weird? How do you turn it on? Show me!” Juan complied. “You just press that button? Can I drive it?”

“No!” Juan and I said, mystified.

“I know how to drive,” said the boy. At this point the bag and I were on top of the dock. Juan was taking longer thinking if he needed to lock things up a bit. After all there was a very curious and young dinghy driver who had just learnt how to use an electric outboard. “Can I have that watch?” the boy said looking at the watch we keep attached to the dry bag.

“No, sorry,” I said.

“Why not? You’re not using it,” he said.

“Well, we use it to check the time,” was my not-very-bright answer. Seeing that he was getting ready to continue, I used the oldest trick in the bag—pun intended. I started shooting questions of my own. “How old are you?”

“Seven.”

“Do you go to school?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“What grade are you in?”

“In second grade.”

“Why are you not in school now?”

“Because it’s a holiday.” Mmmmmh, just our luck, I thought grumblingly and moved on.

After moderate success with our veggies, we moved to the next item: coconut bread. We have become very attached to this traditional Bahamian treat. “No, I don’t have any today. I might on Saturday. I am waiting for my husband because he’s the one who grates the coconut,” the lady in the shop told us. Our hopes of getting any bread dwindled. The next day—not yet Saturday—we decided to ask again anyway since we were around.

“Hello. Do you have coconut bread?” I asked the man behind the counter.

“Yes, this one.”

“Are you sure that one is coconut? The lady told us yesterday that all those were plain.”

“Yes, I am sure. I saw her putting the coconut inside.”

“Oh! She said that she was waiting for her husband to arrive from Nassau.”

“I am her husband!” he said.

“So you got here to grate the coconut, huh?”

“No, no, I didn’t grate any coconut.”

“Oh. So, are you really sure this is coconut? It looks like plain wheat to me.”

“Yes, yes, it is coconut,” he replied, laughing a bit.

“If it’s not coconut, can I return it?” I said half-serious.

“Yes, you can return it and I’ll even give you a juice for free!”

“Deal!” I said. We shook hands and I paid him. We left the little store and had walked no more than half a block when the man came out yelling “Wait, wait! It’s not coconut!” He had asked his wife who clearly knew better. I returned the bread and received my money back (no juice though).

Staniel Cay

A couple of days later a westerly blow was forecast to arrive in two days to disrupt the prevailing easterlies. We didn’t expect it to be very strong but Black Point is totally open to the west. We decided to look for a better hide-out. The obvious place was Staniel Cay, where we also could get the much-needed propane. We had our eye in a particular anchorage that seemed to be protected on all sides, close to town, and scenic. The only problem was that, according to our reading of the chart, it could fit three or four boats looking for refuge.

The next morning we started sailing at a leisurely pace. After all we had less than ten miles to cover. Soon though, we saw a flotilla of boats heading in the same direction. Six or seven sailboats, one of them a big catamaran at full engine speed that left us behind swallowing her wake. We panicked. “They are all going to our anchorage!” Juan said half-joking. We looked at each other and almost without words deployed more sail power. We adjusted everything to maximum efficiency and soon enough we were zipping through our competitors with a bit of an evil smile on our faces. As we got closer to our destination we noticed that, one by one, the boats started to drop out of a race they didn’t know they were running. “Where did they go?” Juan asked. It turns out that all of them joined tens of other boats already anchored on the west side of Big Major Cay, the island that houses the famous (and original) swimming pigs. We found ourselves alone on the other side and, to be honest, a bit creeped out. We could never figure out why all the boats chose the west-facing anchorage.

The next night the wind came and brought a show of pyrotechnics as I had never seen before. There was lightning all around us, so frequent that we wouldn’t have needed a flashlight to go on a hike. We scrambled trying to remember all the steps to protect the humans, the cat and the other cat from a strike. Computers and cell phones in the oven. Check. Nothing baking in the oven. Check. Unplug the chartplotter. Check. Is the lightning thinghy hanging from the mast into the water? Check. Rain catcher installed (nothing to do with lightning, but usually water falls from the sky with that condition). Check. The three creatures in the boat well secured in one hull and above else not touching anything metal. Mostly check. Enjoy the show. Double check. In the morning everything was back in order in nature, except us. We were exhausted, but at least we didn’t get the 100+ knots microbursts of wind that wreaked havoc in Cape Eleuthera.

Our anchorage was at a swimming distance from the Thunderball Grotto. Fans of James Bond will recognize the grotto as the place where Thunderball was filmed. You can only safely visit this half-submerged cave at low tide, when the entrance is exposed and the current is slack. When we were there the conditions were perfect, with sun rays passing through holes in the dome and illuminating the fish that follow you around. For a while, though, there seemed to be more human feet clad in fins than fish, because tour operators take their cargo to the grotto always at low tide. However, regular tourists are constricted by time, so they disappeared suddenly. We found ourselves in this magical place alone for a little while. We have no worthy photos though because our waterproof camera is evolving into a sponge. It keeps the water in. To get a visual idea you can always check Sean Connery in swim trunks in the Bond movie.

Staniel Cay is a quaint little settlement, with narrow streets and colorful houses. In the cruiser community it is known for hosting a well established Yacht Club open to all. We decided to splurge on dinner there and followed the required procedure: we made reservations for the 6pm shift and chose our entrée. We should have taken that as a first sign that dinner in the club was serious business. The second sign was that they made us wait outside the dining hall until a bell was rung. The third sign was the elegantly decorated room. Juan’s dirty shorts and more-holes-than-cloth t-shirt provided a lively contrast to the ambiance. The final sign was that instead of receiving the grouper that we ordered, delicious plates kept coming to us. It felt like Thanksgiving. Our unexpected four-course meal ended up being a bargain. We went back to the boat as two happy stuffed turkeys.

Much of life in these islands revolves around the mostly reliable schedule of the mail boat. It carries not only mail, but also people, provisions and most important of all, propane! Our quest for the cooking fuel kept us in Staniel for five days, but we did use our extra time petting nurse sharks, getting acquainted with swimming pigs, and doing unending boat chores. You know, a normal life.