Aqua Magazine, September 1998

A Taste of Turks & Caicos

"No fritters today," says Peanuts as she stands in front of her small shed on Grand Turk's Front Street. The storefront is painted a perfect azure to match the color of sky and sea that meet at her doorstep. "I have no electricity. The storm," the diminutive woman explains.

She's referring to the previous week's deluge of rain and wind that left this arid island looking even more parched than usual and the electric cables corroded with layers of salt. "But you drive me to airport and I make fritters for you there. Okay?" I'm not one who makes a habit of going to airports to find sustenance, but this is an offer I can't refuse. Peanuts is known as the finest purveyor of conch fritters in the Turks & Caicos, having cooked this specialtie de la mer for more than five decades. Once I plant myself down on one of the three airport stools and taste the sweet, lightly battered chunks of meat, I realize she lives up to her billing.

Conch, or more specifically the Queen Conch, Strombus gigas, is more than just the Turks & Caicos main staple. Lacking any indigenous form of music or art (notwithstanding the one artist I found in Providenciales who used metal from car wrecks and old oil pumps to create wall hangings), the people of the Turks & Caicos have truly made conch queen, placing her high atop their cultural pedestal. During the two weeks I was in the Turks & Caicos visiting three islands, I would try every type of conch dish imaginable--fritters, conch curry, cracked conch, conch chowder, even carpaccio of conch served with a dash of wasabi.

Although I left these islands smitten with my new shellfish friend, I did not necessarily come to the Turks & Caicos to delve into their culture. I came here to dive into its sea. The Turks & Caicos are an archipelago of eight islands and forty relatively flat limestone and coral cays, some of which are little more than dusty specks in the aquamarine waters. The relative anonymity of these islands stem from their location. They are south of the Bahamas, yet not part of the Bahamas; north of the Caribbean, yet not technically part of the Caribbean. Indeed, the Turks & Caicos are a British Crown Colony whose 15,000 inhabitants or Belongers, as locals like to call themselves, slip through the pages of most guidebooks.

All of the islands are ringed by an extensive barrier reef, nearly two-hundred miles long, without which they would be pounded into oblivion. The healthy coral and long laundry list of neon fish that call the reef home are but a mere prelude to the main attraction. Separating the Turks from the Caicos Islands is what the locals here simply call The Wall, where without warning the reef plummets to a mind-boggling 7,000 feet to mark the edge of the Turks Island Passage. On the rim of this great blue abyss, it's not uncommon to see humpback whales migrating in winter; hawksbill and loggerhead turtles swimming gracefully and unafraid; and herds of spotted eagle rays, with wing spans upward of eight feet, their thick black tails churning behind.

Stuffed with conch, I drop my favorite new chef off at her house and walk down quiet Front and Duke Streets, where three-story Victorian homes overlook the great expanse of ocean. Nestled amongst the homes are a handful of inconspicuous hotels, restaurants, dive shops, and government offices that seem to add to the British charm. Grand Turk is the capital of these islands and thus home to most government officials, including a Governor still appointed by the Queen of England.

At the end of the street sits Sea Eye Divers. Owner and Grand Turk native Cecil Ingham has been escorting divers to The Wall for more than 14 years. It's a relatively easy task. The best dive sites on Grand Turk are all less than a five-minute boat ride away on the leeward side of the island. Here, the reef is protected by strong winds and current, allowing divers of all abilities to access one of the most pristine locales in the Atlantic.

Ingham takes me down to the southern end of the island to a site called The Tunnels. We hit the reef at a depth of 65 feet, go through a tight chute and end up at 90 feet where I get my first glimpse of the wall's dramatic plunge. We eventually make our way back to 40 feet where a striking variety of soft and hard coral survive in the serene waters, protected from the tumultuous seas. Large brain coral and elephant sponges are remarkably intact, home to a vast array of psychedelic fish and grinning eels.

Between dives, we zip back to shore and rest on the beach. I usually dread the time between two-tank dives. More often than not, I'm bobbing up and down on the crest of eight-foot swells sucking down Dramamine like they were Lifesavers and pretending I'm having a good time. On Grand Turk, there's no acting involved. I sift my toes through the white sand, discussing the names of fish with other divers. Forty-five minutes later, we're off on a one-minute jaunt to our next dive. This one's called Coral Gardens, an apt name for rolling pasture of coral that comes to life at 30-40 feet. I see the first of many hawksbills cruise by without a worry in the world. After viewing three sea fans softly undulating side-by-side, I can relate to the turtle.

That afternoon, Cecil takes us on a snorkeling trip to Gibbs Cay, a small island off the southwestern side of Grand Turk. Most of the people on the trip are divers taking necessary time away from their regulators. Indeed, Grand Turk is one of the few remaining islands in the world--Taveuni in Fiji, Rangiroa in French Polynesia, and Little Cayman come to mind--that divers can call their own. Except for a small museum on Front Street, there are no sites to speak of. The island's interior is an uninspiring mix of mangrove swamps, slash pines, cacti and dry scrub. And the beaches, while spectacular strips of white sand, are relatively small. If you do meet someone who is not a diver, you wonder if they're a felon on the lam or a budding novelist fleeing the distractions of urbanity.

Our welcoming party at Gibbs Cay was a family of stingrays parked in a foot of water. Cecil hopped off the boat and started feeding his friends chicken skin as their cool wet bodies rubbed against our legs. Afterwards, we hid under the shade of a tent and ate barbecued burgers and dogs, washed down with cool Coronas and rum punch.

On the whole, most islanders are laid-back, as quiet as the deserted streets on Grand Turk. Two topics, however, get the people animated--the Bible and politics. While walking down Front Street on an early Saturday morning, a packed church was belting out the Gospel as loud or louder than any congregation in the South. Today, Cecil and his employees discuss island politics with equal zeal. He tells me about the irresponsible Governors appointed by Britain. The last one, an avid golfer, built a million-dollar course on Providenciales or Provo instead of fixing the roads on these islands which are in desperate need of repair. Cecil also worries about his people who are discouraged by the bleak job outlook. Outside of tourism, government positions, or limited opportunities in conch and spiny lobster fishing, there is little work.

Once upon a time, in the late seventeenth century, Bermudan salt rakers established a thriving industry on these islands, producing salt of such high quality that, it is said, George Washington requested Turks & Caicos salt for his ragtime army. The colonists built a system of low-lying dikes and ponds to capture the ocean's salt. Under a relentless sun, the seawater evaporated, leaving behind bumpy stretches of raw salt known locally as salinas. Flattened by heavy rollers, the salt was raked, bagged, and shipped to America and to Canada's maritime provinces, where it was used to preserve the cod catch. Ultimately, refrigeration reduced the role of salt from preserving to seasoning and the salt flats were abandoned. The remnants of which are best seen on South Caicos, the former commercial hub of the islands.

I fly from Grand Turk to South Caicos on a nine-seater whose interior is a scribbled web of graffiti. One life-affirming comment reads, "Dean Johnson Survived, 1997." I arrive at the airport and hitch a ride on the back of a telephone truck to the one hotel on the island, Club Carib. Along the way, I see scores of cement houses that were never completed or their dilapidated remains. Rusted refrigerators and other litter is strewn on the sides of the road near broken-down Ford LTDs whose bucket seats are now weed gardens. Unemployed men are huddled under the shade of palmettos, while wild herds of scraggly donkeys and horses roam the island, often trailed by stray dogs. The demise of the salt industry and fishing, and the lack of tourism have given this impoverished island a Third World feeling.

At Club Carib, I'm met by the general manager, Norman Saunders, who tells me I'm the only one staying here for the time being. Not surprisingly, the vacancy rate is high at Club Carib. "If I can only get forty visitors here a month, I can stay in business," Saunders states. "So far, I've had twelve, including a group of eight divers from California that left yesterday." I'm shown to my spartan but clean room which includes a television set. I turn it on--no channels work. I look down at the pool. There's no water in it. Then I peer down to the docks where I see three perfectly tanned women, straight out of a Coppertone commercial, strolling with their scuba diving gear. Is this a mirage?

"No," says Carib dive instructor, Jim Brager. Right next door to Club Carib, separated by an old salt warehouse, is a Boston University-accredited undergraduate program run by The School for Field Studies. For $11,770 a semester, 32 fortunate students from across the States get the chance to study marine biology, oceanography, coral reef ecology, the lobster and conch fishing industries, and the growing role of tourism on these islands. In essence, the kids get to snorkel and scuba dive every day for credit.

Brager, who left his home in Montana to work at Club Carib for four months, is not in the least bit fazed by this surreal picture. He's far more excited about the humpback whale he saw last week, a mere thirty feet away from him. "You dive here to see the big boys," Brager says in a slow drawl. "Humpbacks, dolphins, hammerheads, black-tips, nurse sharks, loggerheads, hawksbills, eagle rays, and mantas."

My response is simply to rip off my T-shirt and shorts and run down to his boat with my tank and gear. Within moments, we're gliding atop six-foot swells to the far side of Long Cay, a narrow weather-beaten island that lies across from Club Carib like an exclamation point. After mooring, we dump ourselves into the rough seas and drop to 50 feet where the wreck of a nine-seater litters the ocean floor. Large snappers now call the fuselage home. I look inside to see if Dean Johnson survived. We swim over to a huge chunk of coral where squid, spiny lobsters, and the immense claw of a coral crab peer out. Brager seems disinterested and motions me over to the edge of the wall. Suddenly, I'm immersed in the creamiest peacock-blue water I've ever seen. The visibility is extraordinary as I follow a big turtle along the wall, which is far more vibrant at 100 feet than it is at 50. Mesmerized, I drift down into the great oblivion--110 feet, 120, 130, 140--unaware of my depth, until Brager sucks me out of this heavenly dreamscape.

After lunch--Club Carib's cook, Mama, serves consistently good fare that includes lobster, chicken, fresh wahoo, and homemade bread--Brager and I are back at it again. We return to Long Cay, but this time we stop at the edge of the island at a site he simply calls The Point. Again we drop down 110 feet to the wall. Seven spotted eagle rays cruise by in V-formation. Later, two reef sharks swim overhead. They are all Big. Very Big.

Andrew Gude, Director of The School for Field Studies in South Caicos, sums up the diving here best. "From what I've seen in my four years, this place just kicks ass! Pelagics come up to you, unaccustomed to seeing humans. And there's a resident loggerhead out by Long Cay, whose been in these waters at least 50 years before me." Gude emphasizes that the island "is probably one of the more undiscovered places in the world to dive." However, Gude, one of the preeminent experts on the waters of the Turks & Caicos, worries about the impact of tourism. "The government has proposed two cruise ship ports; on Grand Turk and the uninhabited island of East Caicos. It's going to be a huge project that will completely change the nature of this country." He doesn't want these two islands to turn into another Provo, where he says certain reefs are heavily overused. "Shallow reefs are much more impacted since snorkelers are far less astute than divers are about the frailty of coral."

In the twilight hours, I ramble past modest two-room houses, former salt pans and dikes, and several abandoned stone windmills. I make my way to East Bay, a desolate beach where I meet a conch diver named Frederick. He's just completed his day's work--collecting conch on a long metal wire that he will sell to locals for $25 a dozen. He readily admits that he's fishing in illegal national park waters but he has no other way to make a living.

That evening I stare at the stars with three new arrivals from Michigan. (Saunders monthly total is now up to 15, but unfortunately, it's late in the month). The visibility in the sky is just as clear as the sea and we easily make out Orion, The Seven Sisters, and the Big Dipper. After watching a shooting star, which no one else saw and thus, refuse to believe, I retire to my room to write in my journal, pretending to be a budding novelist fleeing the distractions of urbanity.

Venturing from South Caicos to Provo is like going from Appalachia to Fort Lauderdale. British colonialism has been replaced by American consumerism. For the most part, freshly built waterfront condominiums are squeezed between large resorts--Sandals, Club Med--and inland, small strip malls offer everything a bored American could crave, including the requisite sports bar and Mexican restaurant. Within moments of arriving, I find myself yearning for the authenticity of the South Caicos.

What Provo does boast is one of the most sublime arcs of coral sand in the Caribbean. 12-mile Grace Bay Beach is an uncrowded white crescent that you simply have to walk on when the sun sets...and then when the moon rises. The pearly sand and the ubiquitous turquoise waters seem even more stunning when compared to the inland scrub.

I find myself being pulled to the water almost instantaneously, so I opt to take a shallow afternoon dive with Dive Provo. Conveniently located at the Turquoise Reef Resort, Dive Provo only needs to motor a few minutes to reach the reef fringing Grace Bay. Visibility here can often be murky, but today it's impeccable. At 50 feet, I feel like I've just been tossed into the cylindrical tank of the New England Aquarium. Fishes of every size and species form a kaleidoscopic tunnel around me. If Grand Turk is home to pristine coral and South Caicos is where the "big boys" go, than Provo gets first prize for active sea life. The place is teeming with gills, scales, and fins.

The following day I dive with Art Pickering. The Godfather of scuba diving in the Turks & Caicos, Pickering came to Provo from Delray Beach, Florida, in 1970, and opened up the first dive shop on the islands, Provo Turtle Divers. He agrees with Andrew Gude that some of the reefs in Provo have changed, but he's quick to point out that those reefs are near the major resorts. "The novice resort-type diver and high density of snorkelers coming out of these clubs do severe damage." As for the experienced diver, Pickering claims "that we can put far more divers in the water than we are now. This is still relatively virgin territory, with walls that go on for miles and miles. At this point, we've barely scraped the surface."

Pickering takes me and about fifteen other divers out to one of his favorite sites, the Northwest Passage, off the northwest point of the island. We dive Two Step, where the wall slopes down gradually. I say good-bye to my last turtle and shark of the trip and spend most of my time floating around a wonderful example of pillar coral, which juts upwards of ten feet out of the ocean floor.

When not diving, I try my luck at windsurfing. With trade winds that blow at a steady twelve to fifteen knots and a C-shaped beach, Grace Bay is cherished by windsurfers just as much as divers. I'm a sailor, not a surfer, so most of my time is spent in the water, having been thrown off the board rather hastily. When I do manage to clamber atop and balance a body that refuses to be balanced, the thrill of holding on to the sail, gliding though the waves, motivates me to try, try again.

My final stop in Provo is on land, at the Caicos Conch Farm. This fourteen year-old facility is the first large-scale marine farm in the world devoted to conch. Much of its annual production goes to restaurants in the Turks & Caicos and Florida, or is exported to sushi bars in Japan and China. I take a 20-minute tour of the farm with my guide, Georgia. She points to the surrounding grow-out ponds where a staggering 3 million conch are in inventory. "Out in the wild, only one in a half-million conch survive," Georgia says. Her speech is methodical, as if she memorized the text and has spit it out umpteenth times, without the slightest hint of emotion. "The conch's main predators are shark, stingrays, turtles, octopus, hermit crabs, porcupine fish, lobster, and triggerfish. Everything want to eat 'em."

The highlight of the tour is a small pen where I'm introduced to the only trained conch in the world, Jerry and Sally. "C'mon, Jerry," Georgia says, coaxing the critter out as she rubs the pink lip of his shell. Suddenly two eyes atop antennae peer out at me, attached to a thin slug-like body. I begin to feel remorseful for devouring his friends and family all week. "Now Jerry has a penis," Georgia says as she touches him. "Can stretch up to a foot long. And if a predator bites it off, he forms a new one. So he's lucky.

Lucky Jerry."

Hmmm, I guess I don't feel that bad.