Local Perspective – Harbour Island, Bahamas
Reason #1 to go to Summer Camp!
Ever heard of Harbour Island? Well, you should have if you’re a true Afegirls fan. (**eye roll) But, I hadn’t either — at least not until a year ago. I was on a teen-tour type trip with two kids from Colorado, one from Florida, two from New York, one from Connecticut, one from Texas, and, one from Harbour Island, Bahamas. Surveying this group of teens, I did what any intelligent person would have done: I became friends with the girl from the Bahamas. (To protect the innocent, let’s call her Mango — because, why not?)
After the trip ended, I did everything in my power to keep this friendship alive. I facetimed her, snapchatted her, commented on her instagram posts, etc. At the same time, to my parents, I dropped numerous hints and comments — using words like “pristine beauty” and “authentic experience”. And, perhaps the deal-sealer: “short flight”. All my hard work paid off, because come April break, that’s where we were heading.
Soon after arrival, an agreement was reached: I was free to roam around with Mango, if I balanced it with a lot of family time. Night was the best time to hang out because my family is a bunch of weenies who retreat to sleep very early. Every night. I too am a weenie, but I mustered the strength to stay out until midnight! Midnight! Don’t worry (because I know you are concerned) I caught up on my sleep through daily naps, during the “family time” portion of the trip. I don’t think they noticed though because they were napping too – like I said, weenies. Anyway, from about 9 to 12 every night we wandered the island, doing what there was to do and seeing what there was to see. Bottom line: I’m in the know. I’m almost an official islander. My badge is in the making. Although, at this point, I’m thinking it got lost in the mail.
So, we get there, and Mango immediately texts me wanting to see me (**hair flip). We make plans to go hang out at her house. Then, she texts me the directions. FYI: there are lots of streets on the island, but very few of them have actual names. Also, there are no addresses; every house has its own name. Ours was “The Convent,” and I believe one was “Fig Tree.” Trust me, I wish I was kidding. Here are the directions as I received them:
Ok, so other than needing to teach Mango to proofread her texts, the first part was fine. My dad and I started to drive north on Bay Street, which is one of the few that has a name. But, after that, we had no idea what the heck “Gusty’s Hill” was. Luckily, as we were driving along Bay Street, we went up a big hill with a club called Gusty’s on it. Aha!
After figuring that out, we felt pretty confident. We relaxed, thinking this was gonna be easy. I’m telling you, Nicholas Cage, in that moment, you had some competition for that national treasure — -then we went to the next set of directions. We had no idea what “the narrows” were. It was not as self- explanatory as Gusty’s Hill. And the name of her house was not helpful either. Our only hope was to find that four-way intersection. We get to the end of Bay Street and see a three-way intersection, but no fourth road, only a small dirt path. Finally, we had to ask Mango to just meet us at Gusty’s Hill, where we learned that the small dirt path was a part of the intersection. That’s island life for ya.
My favorite night with Mang was when we went to Vic Hum. It’s a club with a ping pong table, a basketball hoop, graffiti, and, the world’s largest coconut. I know; you’re in shock. I was too when I learned of the glory that this island harbored. I knew I could not leave without seeing it. Especially since it was suppose to be 40 cm. Pretty crazy I know. And let me tell you, it was amazing, truly. I don’t even know how to describe it. I walked into that bar, and the wind was knocked out of me, because, right on the bar counter was this gem. It looked like a beautiful, majestic, bloated acorn. And it had no hair on it, which was a little disappointing because you’d think, they’ve had this coconut for 40 years — by now it should’ve grown a nice Gandalf-sized beard. But, who knows, maybe they shave it; clean cut is much more professional. I mean, it really isn’t my place to question this superior being.
Also, let me tell you, I’m not superstitious, but I’m a little stitious (**cough cough Michael Scott), but after seeing that the coconut had survived 40 years without rotting, it had to be magical. Wanna know what’s also pretty magical? IT HAD NO MILK INSIDE OF IT. That was the freaky part. It had never been opened! I picked it up and shook it, and stumbled because I was so taken aback. I stared down at this fruit, for it was (un)naturally shiny and smooth. Obviously, I did what any other person would’ve done: I knocked on the coconut for good luck. The sound it made was like an angelic drum. To put it in terms that you’d understand, it was like if you tapped on a piece of wood. So, to sum it up, It was a completely, smooth, feather light, hollow, wood ball. Except it was a coconut — I swear. Go see for yourself if you don’t believe me.
After I stood mesmerized by the coconut for a good 10 minutes, I walked to the next room which had all of the graffiti. The entire room was covered with names. So, naturally, I added mine in about a hundred different locations. And I couldn’t leave without writing Afegirls as well.
On Thursday, I had some Mango-away-time, and went to the island’s landmark with my mom. (We couldn’t leave without doing an Afegirls excursion.) The island landmark is a dead tree in the middle of a sandbar, which is replaced every decade or so when it rots. A live tree is too big of a hassle. This dead tree is actually a popular place for fashion photo shoots, because live trees are soooo last year. But, since my mom brought her camera, I posed for her. The pictures are going viral, and I have quite a few very unimportant people asking to hire me (**cough cough Vogue cough* Marie Claire cough**cough Miranda Priestley).
Mango and her parents told me I was welcome any time…Don’t worry I am NEVER gonna lose touch with her…Once again, reason #1 to got to summer camp.
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