As soon as you pass through the gates at Hunte’s Garden you are in a magical place where every pathway leads to a surprise—a terrace with seating for two, a spectacular planting of blooms, a laughing Buddha.
Up the hill from the surf beach aptly named Soup Bowl in Barbados, we almost missed the entrance into Hunte’s Garden on our adventure to meet Anthony and experience the delights of his garden, which he describes as his hobby. Making a sharp right, we braked suddenly at the garden entrance, backed out and parked on the road. We were soon greeted by our host who instructed us to follow the stone pathways down into the sink hole, a huge cave dug in the limestone that once had a roof, but after thousands of years of thinning, finally fell to the ground
The result is a deep crevasse in the landscape that with Anthony’s touch is transformed into one of the main garden attractions in the West Indies.
As we followed fanciful footpaths down the green walls meandering through palms, orchids and urns, piano sonatas floated out of hidden speakers created an intoxicating and sensual mix sights and sounds.
After the botanical delights of the garden we had cocktails with our host who served rum punch and sat with all his guests on a charming balcony covered in plants, pottery and paintings amid the lively chatter of like-minded, international strangers enchanted by Anthony, his stories, garden, hospitality and gentle genus for conversation.
By the time The Virgin Island’s Daily News carried the front-page story from the New York Times listing Coral Bay in St. John no. 4 on its 52 places to go in 2016, we had already discovered the magic of the place. We were here to get far, far away, and very close to the sounds, smells and feel of a small Caribbean island. So we booked into a cliff-side eco-resort with screened tents, low lights, solar showers and unimpaired ocean vistas.
After a flight from New York and a journey across 2 islands, we arrived at Concordia at dinnertime with grumbling stomachs and big appetites. Hot sun and sea breezes hit us on the deck of the ferry from St. Thomas to St. John. From Cruz Bay the open-air, Soca-blasting taxi hugged steep cliffs along the coast road—at times the wide truck body occupying both lanes of the narrow mountain switchbacks. When our rolling adventure descended back down to sea level, views of the perfect Coral Bay crescent shimmered in the sunlight. Back up the hill we continued on to the eastern reaches of the island.
After checking in at Concordia and leaving bags in our eco-tent—all the while marveling at the stunning seascapes from seemingly every point on the property—we headed straight for food.
Open Mic Night
By some cosmic good fortune it was Monday night at Cafe Concordia; open mic night—misnamed because the local musician who host the night, John “Johnny B” Bullock and Lauren Magnee, are anything but amateurs. They play here with lots of friends once a week and are so accomplished they effortlessly jam with musical guests visiting the island.
We settled in at one of the high 2-tops that looked straight into the kitchen and perused menu offerings of appetizers and specialty cocktails, keeping an eye on the chef as happy hour segued into dinner against the rhythms of rock and soul. The chef’s name was Treva, and he moved in the kitchen with unruffled confidence, managing sauté pans on open flames, pulling roasted fare out of the oven, and ladling generous portions of rice from a huge pot. The low sun cast long rays of light across Salt Pond Bay, through the dining room, and straight into the kitchen. Treva hit the bell for each dish in sunglasses. Without them the old-fashioned paper tickets would have been back lit and unreadable.
So good was the food and varied the offerings, I was eager to find out more about the café and the people who created this extraordinary delight in a remote corner of the Caribbean. I got a sense of it when Joe Feraco the manager, ended the evening by thanking each of the staff by name. They worked together as a team, that much was clear. And Joe was not a stand-around kind of guy; he bused tables and worked the floor every night we were there, taking a seat only after most of the guests had walked off into the star-filled night.
Everything about this place was as surprising and extraordinary as the musicians and the food.
When I got a few minutes to chat with Treva, he told me he was cooking for roughnecks on an oil platform in the Gulf of Mexico when he got a call from his friend Kim, who organizes Concordia’s daytime food and beverage. She told him Joe was looking for a new chef.
Treva’s first job in a restaurant was washing dishes. Then he moved on to waiting tables and ended up at Arnauds in NOLA setting Bananas Foster aflame. My guess is he would have stayed in the Crescent City, even with the steep competition for all positions food related, but as he said, “Katrina happened.” Migrating north like so many, he eventually ended up in the kitchen of the Chicago Marriott, where he learned from a talented team how to deliver massive amounts of specialty meals at break-neck speed. There he added sashimi to his growing culinary repertoire.
Watching Treva serve up Shrimp Creole, Po’boys, red beans, rice and Andouille sausage, I wondered how such southern classics came to share the menu with Tamarind Chicken Wings, Tempura Coconut Shrimp and Beef Tenderloin Tower with Potato Galette. Treva told me he came from the deep south, a Louisiana parish called Terrebonne – he spelled it for me. Googling it I saw what he meant. It’s a little outpost sitting on the edge of the gulf coast. His time in New Orleans
had been a later stop on his culinary journey—the tastes and smells of southern cuisine had left an early craving on his pallet.
There is much more to be said about the character and attitude of this island hideaway. And the rest of Concordia Eco-Resort is as creative, innovative and satisfying as the Café. I’ll tell you about all of it in future posts.
We sit in the shady breezeway of the lodge, perched on the iron shore of West Bay as the sun glistens on the sea. The Dutch-born owner with the piercing blue eyes pats the large three-ringed binder on the table. “This is my green book,” he says. The over-stuffed binder is filled with receipts, documentation, calculations, and all his notes about what he’s done to, what we might call—go green. After all, he’s been on the cutting-edge of earth-friendly initiatives on the island for years. He started recycling, using non-disposables, cutting energy use, and saving water long before others ever uttered the words, sustainable travel.
Cobalt Coast Diver Lodge, Green Globe Certified
We just get chatting and he jumps up to bid a guest a safe trip home and help load luggage into a van. Arie’s really an old fashion hotelier who seems to have a calling for hospitality. But for years he’s also been figuring how to overcome any number of hurdles to make this place green. He’s had to become an expert in what might seem to be mundane trivia like how to combine the best non-phosphate laundry detergent with fabric softner, because he says, “You know conditioners and whiteners don’t mix.” He’s not one to give up easily. He’s found a powered detergent that seems to do the trick. Who would have guessed such little things would make a big impact.
After another break for Arie to greet new guests, he explains the complicated procedures of saving water by recycling and reusing every little drop, even drip water, and using it multiple times. He talks about changing incandescent bulbs at the inn with LEDs. This is not a cheap process; some cost as much as $13 a piece. Nor is he content to stick with the cold-feeling blue-light bulbs, now known to be missing the warm yellows of the light spectrum. The good ones are a bit more expensive, but he found them. On the bright side he says, the new bulbs last longer and he doesn’t have to walk around with the ladder as much as he used to. The light at the Cobalt Inn is warm and saturated, just like the sea and the overall feel of the place.
Changing light bulbs seems like a small step, but together, his small steps constitute a considerable lowering of energy use. Of course he is well aware that the shallow reefs of the Cayman Islands are particularly susceptible to the bleaching that comes with warmer water temperatures cause by climate change.
At times he does get discouraged about the problem of endless waste, but he usually finds a way to deal with it. Take for example paper recycling—there is none on the island, yet. He knows how much ink is in a phonebook and how toxic it can be, so he’s found a repurposing for old books and other paper by taking them to the local animal shelter where they are used again.
Recently the government of Grand Cayman recognized his efforts with a Governor’s Conservation Award. He and the staff of the inn sponsored an aluminum can recycling drive at the local Primary School. He describes working with the children and how motivated they get about the work. His example has inspired local gradeschoolers, as the award states, “to become lifelong stewards of the environment.”
I complain that the website doesn’t have any information about the award, and maybe it needs an update. But he’s a graceful European not given to boasting. He’s concerned with other things. Every detail of this cozy, ecoldge has been carefully planned, from the architectural design of the intimate 2-story structure with huge windows, to the imported Finish textiles that decorate the rooms.
Accommodations such as these with the upscale resort feel attract a wide range of clients and about a third of the guests are non-divers. As a Green Globe certified lodge, it is also a favorite of international travelers of the green persuasion. I grill him on his many names given for the Cobalt Coast—an inn, a hotel an ecolodge, a resort, and tell him in my overconfident way, that he’s diluting his brand. I ask if he’s thought of settling on one description, but he gives me his knowing grin and shrugs. He cares little for such marketing nonsense. He knows what it takes to make it all come together in unconventional ways. After all, if he stuck to conventional ways he never would have tried, or succeeded, in passing the stringent certification standards required by Green Globe, something other have tried and failed to do. Arie wrote the book on green, or at least he put it together in a large green binder.
Standing in the street in front of a line of cabs in old Havana, I tell my Cuban travel minder, “It’s not my fault I missed the bus, it never came to my hotel this morning,” “You have to take a cab now and pay the driver the 20 dollar fare to the airport,” she insists.
“But I don’t have the money,” I exclaim.
Through a bit of bad planning and a bunch of plastic cards that are worthless in Cuba, I have only one twenty-dollar bill left in my bag for the airport tax. But it seems I need $40. I can’t quite imagine her letting me miss my plane. Is she really willing to be responsible for a hapless American getting stuck in Cuba? I’m figuring she’s going to relent and get me to the airport somehow. But this friendly negotiation is taking time. She insists that she’s got no available drivers and there is no other way to get there in time.
In the backseat of the cab I see beautiful old Havana speeding past. Leaving Cuba is hard anyway. I’ve explored only a small part of it. Taking a bus on my own down to Trinidad, one the most well preserved colonial towns in the Caribbean, I felt like I time-jumped into the 1930s. The cobblestone streets are faced with huge old wooden doors that open onto secret interior courtyards where families chat in gardens, and in my case greet their guests. After getting off the bus finding which door to knock on was an adventure in itself. I asked a food vendor, the one giving grilled meat to a cowboy who just got off his horse. The grizzled meat vendor directed me up the next street, to the house on the corner of the square. Evenings there emitted an atmosphere of people, stone walkways, smoke, outdoor music, and dancing of course. The steps were classic salsa, but the pace twice as fast as I’d ever tried. Life seemed to have a different pace and purpose here; to take it in through every sense, intensely, relentlessly and doused in a good deal of sweat.
But I didn’t think it would be literally difficult to get off the island. “You can get another foreigner at the airport to give you the twenty dollars for the exit tax,” the driver tells me, expecting me to give him my last $20.
I can’t imagine begging for money at the airport, or anyone actually giving it to me. “I can get the money to you right away,” I promise. “I know people coming down next month on a delegation.” He resists that idea with a skeptical shake of his head. We’re half way to the airport – it’s getting dire.
I study him, wracking my brain. It’s hard to read the face I see in the rear-view mirror with the dark glasses. He’s a think, dark, handsome man. I see he’s wearing a gold neck chain and get an idea. I reach into the back of the car and struggle with my suitcase, turning it so I can reach the zipper. Once open, I dig through it.
“Do you have a girlfriend,” I ask. “No, I have a lot of lady friends,” he says. “Not a favorite one?” I suggest. “Maybe,” he says. “Do you give her presents?” I query tentatively. “No, I don’t need to,” he says. “Well, maybe that’s why you don’t have a girlfriend,” I say boldly. I lean forward and reach my outstretched arm between the seats so he can see my open hand. I ask, “Why don’t you give her a pair of these.”
About 5 pairs of earrings are tangled on my palm. “Choose a pair you think she’ll like,” I say encouragingly. He looks but hesitates. Undaunted, I continue, “Look, here’s a lovely pair of silver ones I got in New Mexico. They’re made by Native Americans.” His head shacks again, more slowly this time.
All at once I realize my mistake, but it’s too late.
At the airport I get out of the cab and he comes around to say goodbye. I thank him, and we smile slowly at each other. Five pairs of earrings makes this an expensive ride, but worth it because I can still pay the airport tax and get back to New York. And he won’t have to choose just one girlfriend now for a while.
It’s not surprising to meet an unusual cast of characters at a diving lodge, especially an ecofriendly one, but as we chat that evening, occasionally looking up from computer screens, the three divers tell me they are spearing lionfish and emptying out the contents of their stomachs. The culling part makes sense, many divers are gleefully bringing up lionfish on the end of their spears, selling them to local restaurants, or filleting them on their own. They are beautiful but invasive fish, with no natural predators, feasting on indigenous reef fish and doing an untold amount of damage in the Caribbean. But tearing out their guts to take a look? I hadn’t heard that one before. When I ask why they tell me, “We need to know what they’re eating.” So, they’re curious about their food—and I wonder why.
I discover that the team is from the California Academy of Sciences, and their research will reveal if the culling efforts by divers to clear the invaders from the reef is working. The team wants to know if the lions are feeding in shallow waters, or deeper down the reef walls. If the fish can easily change depth, they can avoid the culling efforts done in shallow waters. They want to know if the larger fish they see in deeper waters move up to shallow areas, or stay at lower depths and breed there.
Elliott Jessup the Diving Safety member of the team is the one who documents their underwater adventures, and has the wonderful title of “explorer.” His experience with deep water diving began when he trained in Egypt’s Red Sea. Now managing the highly specialized diving equipment—the closed circuit re-breathing units—he explains how they can plunge much lower than average recreational divers. They are collecting lionfish at depths ranging from 200 to 400 feet.
I ask the ichthyologist on the team Luiz Rocha, why he wants to know what the lions are eating. “We need to know the species of fish,” he tells me. The prey fish the invaders are going after will need some protection. Know what fish they are eating will also give them information about where they are feeding.
These science divers are also taking DNA samples of the fish back to the lab in California. Lionfish most likely arrived in the Caribbean after being released by private aquarium owners. DNA testing will show where the fish actually come from.
I’ve seen lionfish on the menus of Cayman’s finest eaters, and some chefs are joining in
the culling efforts, providing a market for what is said to be a fine light, white fish. But I’ve never tried it.
“We’re giving the fish to the lodge and they’re going to serve it tonight,” Elliott tells me. Indeed, lionfish turns out to be the catch of the day at dinner at the Cobalt Coast. I’ve never tried it before, but I’m willing to take a chance.
I order lionfish ceviche and it is spectacular; the perfect balance of texture and flavor.
In case you find some fresh lionfish on your travels, here is a cookbook created especially to turn lionfish into a culinary delicacy. Creating a demand for it may encourage more large-scale extraction of the fish, the strategy most likely to be effective at removing the unwelcome invader from the waters of the Caribbean. So eat up!
We headed out for a sunset cruise of the North Sound, our consolation for missing the popular Stingray City. It was too windy that afternoon and the choppy waters prevented us from communing with the impressively, large winged rays. But our more intimate sail with the crew and only a few guests of Red Sail was much more than only compensation. After all, my husband Guy took the helm and sailed our sleek, nearly empty catamaran.
I forget how it all started; probably the last hints of Guy’s British accent. I don’t hear it anymore, he’s been in the states for so long. But Ben, our captain, heard it. He was born in France and raised in England so he caught a whiff, and they were off. I heard some of the chat carried on the wind, old stories of school, and the many previous lives of people who couldn’t stay in one place.
Ben had worked for the British postal service, but couldn’t look out a window all day. Guy, once a motorcycle messenger in London, now a field biologist, needs to dig around in the dirt and uncover the bones of large extinct mammals.
I was having my own fun talking to Jeff, who seemed to know everything about this island, and was very good at mixing the rum punch even in rough seas! Ben and Jeff are characters straight out of central casting; outgoing adventurers with big spirits, who of course have not escaped the attention of other writers.
We angled back into the dock loaded with more than just big fish stories as the moon moved our our sails.
I’d heard from Jeff that he DJs at one of clubs on 7 Mile Beach, and I can’t wait to hear him spin some Beach House!
I didn’t know turtles could be so much fun before we visited the Cayman Island Turtle Farm. They are large, enchanting creatures that live up to 150 years and can grow up to 600 pounds. They put all that weight on with a diet of sea grasses. At the Turtle Farm they eat three times a day; they crowd together and spout water through their noses when they do. You’re allowed to handle yearlings at the Touch Tanks. That was the real treat.
Benny, our guide, showed us how to hold a young turtle by the shell with both hands and rub under its neck with your fingers at the same time. My once wriggling little ball of flapping fins was transformed into a docile, contented little tyke. I felt like a turtle whisperer.
It’s also fascinating to see them in the many “ponds,” where young turtles in different stages of development hang out together.
When sighting Little Cayman and Cayman Brac in 1503, Columbus was struck by the abundance of green sea turtles in the surrounding waters, and so the Cayman Islands were first called Las Tortugas (The Turtles). In 2004 the green sea turtle was listed as an endangered species, and the turtle farm is a major conservation effort and the only one of its kind in the Caribbean.
We also met Sparky, the grande dame of the farm; a 65-year old female who laid 25,684 eggs during her long reproductive years, and now hangs out in a tank with the little ones in her retirement. (I wonder what she’s telling them?!)
Over 31,000 turtle have been successfully released into the wild from here. The educational center explains the history and development of the farm’s hatchery and release programs. Another mascot is the famous Sir Thomas Turtleton, who was released (with a tracking devise) after 30 years at the farm and made it all the way down to Honduras.
Over the years this unique park has added meandering garden trails and multiple exhibits about Cayman heritage, wildlife and island ecosystems. You can swim in Breaker’s Lagoon and hide under its cascading falls; snorkel in the salt-water Boatswain’s Lagoon, which meanders though the property and contains a rich sampling of coastal sea life. Get a thrill in front of the viewing panels that reveal Predator Reef where you’ll see barracudas, tarpons, and grey sharks that glide ominously on the prowl.
In the aviary there are birds from all over the Caribbean. The Cayman Islands’ National Bird is the Green Parrot and they like to squawk. The small busy colorful Honey Creepers might fly over your head, and the striking Scarlet Ibis; the National Bird of Trinidad certainly made its presence known.
Cayman cultural and social life is also part of this “farm.” In fact, the wooden rafters of the high ceiling in the reception building are reminiscent of the ribs of an upside-down catboat, a traditional boat used by local fisherman. Cayman Street, a street with replicas of Caymanian wooden houses, complete with the “caboose,” an outdoor kitchen.
Some people call this place a marine park, others a living museum, and still others a zoo. Caymaninas call it the Turtle Farm, and you can see why they love their turtles and are devoted to their conservation and their island ecosystem.
My left hand found a hole in the wet limestone wall and the rushing water came closer as I clamped my fingers into it and moved up a little. My right leg was still searching for an outcropping, a small indentation, anything my foot could settle into to take some weight off the left quad that was now burning above the pool of white water below. I nestled my toes into a dimple in the wall hoping to find a bit of horizontal rock so I could use my foot and shift some weight. No way, my toes hit the wall before the ball of my foot found any purchase. At least I was attached with 3 limbs but I couldn’t move. The holes within my reach on the face of this waterfall were too high. I couldn’t position my legs to do the work and push me up. My muscular thighs have always been the strongest part of my body, probably from riding my horse bareback all through my teens. My upper body strength is a different story. My arms would never pull me straight up. I reached my right leg long, almost straight out, and tried anyway, wobbled a little and was still stuck midway up the side of the waterfall.
I looked down over my shoulder to assess the situation. The water in the pool created by the falls wasn’t angry or threatening. In fact it was looking more and more inviting. I had been on this wall for what seemed like an hour, but was probably was less then 10 minutes. I could easily push hard away from the limestone and hit the calmer part of the pool feet first. It was plenty deep. There would be no headline in the travel section reporting, Frommer’s guidebook writer fatally injured in a climbing accident in Trinidad. As it turned out I didn’t have to jump.
This Trinidadian adventure has come back to me while I am sitting in an airy, whimsical restaurant waiting to interview the owner Alvin Clayton, who is from Trinidad. The walls are covered with Matisse inspired paintings. I’ve heard he did them all. It’s quite an oeuvre. He named his restaurant Alvin & Friends because, after all, isn’t it nicer to share a meal with friends than eat alone? I’m not the first writer to come through these glass doors that open invitingly onto the small plaza in front. A New York City anchorwomen Sade Baderinwa, came all the way up to the suburbs to get a taste of Alvin’s Po Boy sandwich. I’m intrigued by what I’ve read and the local buzz that surrounds this place. I might be missing Trinidad a little too.
The manager looks embarrassed and tells me Alvin’s been delayed. He offers a rum punch and I’m happy. Almost every review includes the detail that Alvin got into the business when he partnered with Denzel Washington and others, to open a restaurant in Los Angeles called Georgia. On the south side of Melrose, It became a celebrity hangout and lasted for seven years. That was his first experience with the fusion cuisine that merges Trinidadian cooking with the favorite recipes of the American south.
When Alvin walks in I recognize him from pictures and his reputation as a former model. The man couldn’t take a bad picture. While we chat he adjusts the sound system with his cell phone, altering the volume and music, and changing the mood of the restaurant. He tells me, “If the music is wrong it’s just any ordinary place to eat.” The demi-walls of paneled glass that evoke the feeling of openness and seclusion at the same time are also his design.
In Trinidad, where steelpan drums originated, I began to loose track of how many different people and cultures passed through, stayed, or somehow left their mark on the island. Exploring the Caribbean gave me a real taste for the mashup of people and history that is so much a part of the islands. The early history that created these fusions wasn’t so happy, especially after the arrival of Columbus, who encountered Trinidad in 1498. Beginning in the 1530s the Spanish were bent on conquering the Arawakan and Cariban speak peoples, and like most of the inhabitants of the Caribbean after colonial contact, they were very nearly wiped out. For the next 4 centuries, as Europeans vied for arable land, wealth and resources, different waves of peoples and cultures tossed up on Trinidad’s shores. By 1595 Sir Walter Raleigh (who introduced tobacco to England) showed up to attack the Spanish in his quest for El Dorado – the famed “City of Gold.” After the French revolution the arrival of plantation owners and their slaves from Martinique led to an agriculture-based economy of cocoa and sugar. But Trinidad remained a Spanish colony until 1797 when the British fleet sent 18 warships to take the island away from the Spanish.
The abolition of slavery on Trinidad in 1838 presented a problem for the powerful plantation owners, who then devised a system of “indenture” for Indian workers. From 1845 to 1917, they brought almost 150,000 East Indians to work on the sugarcane plantations.
Today Indian food is a major ingredient of Trinidadian cuisine. The first thing I ate when I got off the plane was a Roti. I remember the smells and smoke from the vendor’s carts on an evening walk through Independence Square in the heart of Port of Spain where the classic “double” was in great demand. We waited in line to be served the hand-held treat made of coco bread and stuffed with curried chickpeas and a little hot sauce.
I am reminded of the smells and sounds of Trinidad having dinner at Alvin’s after my interview with him. What a great adventure it was all around. I finally did get off the waterfall, by the way. I grabbed the rope attached to the top of the rock wall, held onto it tight with both hands, and walked straight up the rest of the wet limestone, all the way to the top. The really fun part was coming down!
The tent village at Maho Bay is one of the best examples of green travel in the Caribbean. The wood-framed canvas tents surrounded by forest are breezy and light, and have no running water. Most refreshing is the lack of bottled water. We filled our big container with drinking water from a communal spigot everyday, and walked to the bathrooms and showers around the grounds. Recycling is always a problem, especially on an island and it was a relief not worry about where the constant stream of plastic water bottles (so prevalent at tourist destinations) would end up. But I hadn’t expected that glass recycling would be so much a part of what makes Maho Bay a prime example of sustainable travel. It was a main attraction most evenings, and certainly part of the entertainment.
As you know or can imagine, glass blowing is an art that requires many talents – from creativity to courage. Working with dangerous amounts of heat, fire and molten sand takes a certain kind of temperament. Blowing into a long metal tube at the exact moment when the glowing, undefined blob at the other end is the most pliable requires equals measures of faith and experience. As we sat in the reflected glow of the furnace watching the glass blowers, I learned that knowing how to dance is also part of the skill set.
The movements of the three glassblowers were confined to a small radius from the stove’s door with its sporadic roar of flames when opened, to the low table holding the shaping tools across the concrete floor. A slight amount of wiggle room was available on either side. A sink and cooling oven formed the boundary on the back wall, and we, the spectators sat in front and watched. A molten chunk hung to the end of an impossibly long rod each time it was pulled out of the furnace. Getting it to the other side involved a choreography of stepping back, balancing and reeling around so that the chunk ended up 180 degrees from where it started. The process demanded a smooth, fluid movement, one able to convince the unformed glass to stay attached to the other end of the pole. Of course the young, agile women could not open and close the oven door, and so she must also avoid hitting her teammate, the door opener, with the dangerous, unwieldy thing. For his part, the door opener would twist slightly and step back following her lead, the long wand serving as a conductor’s baton. They waltzed around the floor that way for the better part of an evening.
The third member of the team was actually a visiting artist sharing his expertise as a temporary Maho Bay resident. Most of the time he sat in an iron arm chair and rolled the pole along the arms, coaxing a design out of the chunk and instructing the young woman when to give it more air. A blowtorch also helped coax the molten sand into a desirable shape. For its part the piece of recycled art rose and fell, was fashioned and refashioned, expanded and contracted and transformed many times before it achieved its final form as a flower surrounded in its own vase. Video: Click here for a quick peek at the action.
By the way, the furnace is heated using recycled cooking oil.
After hearing for so long about Maho Bay, I’m finally visiting the eco-tent camp during what seems to be its last couple of months. Opened in 1976 by Stanley Selengut, it has served since the first nails were hammered into the wooden boardwalks, tents and gathering areas, as an eco-lodge innovation that it is now a classic icon of sustainable travel. We didn’t venture far from camp our first day, instead we decided to get acquainted with the place. The northeastern storm had followed us down from New York, and Jason at activities, advised us that the swell it brought with it would affect conditions at Little Maho Bay more than Big Maho. Continue reading Visiting the Eco-tents at Maho Bay→