San Andrés y Providencia

The Colombian islands of San Andrés and Providencia are part of a small archipelago quite a swim north of the mainland continent of South America.  They are actually about three hundred miles closer to Nicaragua, which claims the islands, than the nearest cost of Colombia.   Almost anyone who has flown from the Eastern United States to the more common tropical tourist destination of Costa Rica has skimmed right past.  Historically, the islands in the area have been claimed by England, Spain, Argentina, Nicaragua, Jamaica, Pirates, and of course the United States.  For the time being, they are part of a duty free zone in Colombia, and the UNESCO Seaflower Biosphere Reserve.  The island of San Andrés sadly may only be familiar to some because of the recent fatal Aires Colombia 737 crash that welcomes visitors to the island.

Our stay in San Andrés was short.  It acted only as a port of entry into Providencia, which is reachable by somewhat frequent turboprop flights and the occasional catamaran.  San Andrés is easily accessible from all major cities in mainland Colombia, a few places in Central America like Panama City, and Canada on occasion.   This ease of entrance has facilitated the hotel, resort, and beach house explosion that has risen up out of the shores on San Andrés.  Even though we did not stay, it is a place worth mentioning because of the simple open-air restaurant under a blue tarp we found on a walk from the airport.

Our table at Fisherman’s Place was just under the airport’s one runway, and nestled into a sandy beach crowded with small fishing boats.  It gave the impression of bustling and a little bit frantic.  Boats were coming and going, fishermen were weighing their catch, paint was peeling from the kitchen’s external walls, and horizontal stress cracks were opening up on the building’s corners.  The food was simple but memorable, and the crab rice with plantains currently sits in my top ten favourite dishes.  Fresh lime squeezed across the plate cut through the hot and humid post rain air in which we had landed, and was a welcome cool bright retreat.  Initial assumptions of chaos were unwarranted,  and it was a rather slow relaxing place to sit between flights.

After boarding the Czech built Let-410 on the tarmac back at the airport, the woman who had been working the check in desk and later gate area, boarded the aircraft with a big smile and gave the safety demonstration.  I know zero Spanish, and hardly a word of any related romance language, so I interpret to have gone something like this.  “Welcome aboard.  Stay out of the cockpit please; it is not big enough for you.  There is a lot of water between here and there so if you need a life jacket, they are over there.  Have a wonderful time.”  If nothing else, the length is accurate.  I mention stay out of the cockpit, as there was only a small panel in the aisle that acted as a pseudo partition between it and us.  She then exited the aircraft, closed the door, put on her metaphorical ramp worker hat, and waved us on our way with obligatory orange sticks.  We taxied back past the crashed Aries and took off over Fisherman’s Place.

Fifty-five miles later, we climbed into the back of a pick up truck that took us to an empty hotel on the west side of Providencia Island.  My intension was to stay at the Hotel El Pirata Morgan, which this place was according to our truck taxi driver.  I wrote off my skepticism over whether or not we were at the intended hotel to simple outdated resources.  Pools get filled in, buildings remodeled, it would hardly be the first time that a description did not match the product.

At sunset, we wandered up the street for dinner and some time to regroup on the edge of the tropical forests.  On our leisurely stroll back to the hotel, we stopped at Morgan’s Market.  Morgan’s Market on the ground floor of Hotel El Pirata Morgan.  But this was not the hotel where we had checked into a few hours ago.  The beauty of your typical hotel and taxi scam is the “Oh that place is closed, there was a fire, (flood, bomb, tsunami, flesh eating bacteria, etc…) I’ll take you to hotel X, it is much nicer anyway” line.  Our friend the taxi driver didn’t even bother, he just took us to hotel X and that was the end of the story.

While I cannot speak for the amenities at Pirata Morgan, our Hotel X, El Recreo, was plenty sufficient for the desired seclusion. The rooms were simple cabins, only a few steps off the ocean-facing porch to an empty beach.  Each of the buildings was a bright orange with yellow fronts and green corrugated roofs. A basic breakfast of fresh bread, hot chocolate, scrambled eggs with onions and yellow tomatoes was arranged most mornings at the on grounds restaurant.  It was an easy place to forget about time and the world beyond the waters.

We spent our days on the island snorkeling just off the coast, reading on the beach or our porch, driving a golf cart the circumference of the island, and doing anything to just relax.  The island does offer more structured activities for those so inclined.  Scuba diving trips, horseback riding, and hiking the small island peaks are all within reach.  With all the best intensions of taking advantage of this, the days melted away with no such participation from our party.  I would say that I regret not having gone diving or hiking, but there is no way it could have made the stay any more amazing.  After being on the constant go, walking dozens of miles every day in Bogotá, an empty of everything but fireflies at night and simple relaxation was superb.

The presence of pirates I mentioned only in passing through their being on the island in history, and as a hotel.  Henry Morgan actually did quite a lot to Providencia, especially considering it is less than a household geographic name.  The nearby island of Santa Catalina is separated from Providencia by a man made canal dug by his fellow pirates in the 1600s.  The colourful and floating Lover’s Bridge now connects Santa Catalina back to the main island.  Morgan used these islands as a defensive unit and base from which to attack the local branch of the Spanish empire.  Milta Point on Santa Catalina still holds a cannon facing the open sea, and sign reminding visitors it sits where pirates where hung, and Protestants burned.  Now that is a “sure sign of a good time.”  Wrong alcohol, but close enough.  I know, no good pirate story is complete without some treasure.  Rumor does have it that some of Morgan’s loot may still reside somewhere on Providencia or Santa Catalina Island.  Despite my best attempts at happening upon some of Captain Morgan’s lost treasure in the hotel room, on the porch, or on the beach, my expedition was a failure.

On our last night on the island, a rainstorm started to form on the horizon off the coast.  Slowly it crept closer, darkening the sky but brining out the vibrant colours in the water.  The rain began; followed by roaring wind, lightning, and thunder.  Pools started to form in the yard and on the beach.  A small stream that flowed into the sea from the inland forests grew and grew, carrying coconuts and debris out into the water.  The murky torrent mushroomed out, turning the nice clear water into a chocolaty mess.  First near the shore, then spreading to the horizon.  By the time the rain ended, our clear blue paradise was a brown swampy mess.  Though my description of the aftermath is less than relaxing, it cooled the hot air and was rather welcome.

27 August 2010