“G
Left: Grace Bay, located on the island of Providenciales, has a barrier reef nearly a mile offshore. It shelters calm waters and vibrant coral gardens teeming with marine life
race Bay sand is predominantly made of parrotfi sh poop,” states Alizée Zimmerman, executive director of the Turks & Caicos Reef Fund (TCRF), without so much as a smirk. I blink, momentarily taken aback. I’d always assumed sandy beaches were created by the erosion of coral and shells, but here in Turks
& Caicos, much of that soft, sugar-white sand has apparently passed through the digestive tract of a fi sh before settling on the shore. It’s an unexpected introduction to this British overseas
territory — a scattering of 40 low-lying coral islands and cays south east of the Bahamas. Best known for its white-sand beaches, kaleidoscopic reefs and luxury resorts, Turks & Caicos off ers the sort of barefoot glamour that draws honeymooners, divers and escapists alike. But beneath the surface lies a more complex reality — one of fragile ecosystems and quiet urgency — and at the TCRF’s coral restoration facility on Providenciales, I begin to see just how intricate and imperilled this underwater world really is. The parrotfi sh ‘poop’ is just one of many surprising truths
that I uncover during my guided tour of the lab, where tanks of thriving coral colonies line the walls like a living archive. Here, nursery specimens of coral types including staghorn, star and brain grow and feed, each contributing to research and repopulation eff orts across the islands’ damaged reefs. I watch each of them closely: one has green polyps that stretch out like tiny tentacles, grasping for food; another, fl at and round, lies still, waiting for chance morsels to drift its way. “Can you tell me — is a coral an animal, plant or mineral?” Alizée asks. My group comes up with various answers, before she reveals that it’s actually all three. The more I learn, the more I marvel. We’re taught that corals
are carnivorous, related to jellyfi sh and anemones, but they also host algae in their tissues, which photosynthesises to provide food. In just a single tank, the corals range in hue from terracotta to moss green, pale yellow to rich brown. Some plain, others vibrant, but all pulsing with life. Across from the tanks, however, sits a sobering contrast: a
coral graveyard. Here, skeletal remains of once-living colonies, including the antlers of a staghorn and the concentric ridges of a great star, lie stripped of colour and life, the brittle white aftermath of something that once thrived. Initially, I assume they’re victims of climate change, another
casualty of rising sea temperatures. But Alizée introduces another culprit: stony coral tissue loss disease, an aggressive affl iction that’s aff ected more than 60% of Turks & Caicos’s reefs in recent years. First identifi ed in the Atlantic in 2014, the disease’s origin remains uncertain, though it’s widely suspected to have stemmed from dredging off the coast of Miami. “We started seeing massive tissue loss, as if someone had
poured acid over the reef,” Alizée tell us bleakly. “No coral can come back from that.” In response, the TCRF has given large amounts of time, energy
and resources into treating sections of reef with antibiotics in a race to curb the disease’s spread. It’s painstaking, urgent work, a frontline defence against a crisis that many visitors to these islands never see. There are, however, ways in which visitors can get involved
in helping to preserve this delicate ecosystem. “As a small, non-governmental organisation, we currently don’t have the capacity to off er regular, scheduled volunteer programmes,” Alizée explains. “However, travellers can reach out via email or complete the form on our website to get involved. It can vary week to week, but travellers can assist us by preparing materials for moorings, or even by joining the dive team. A visit to our coral lab is a must, and on Wednesday afternoons, we feed all the corals.” Later that evening, back at Wymara Resort and Villas on Grace
Bay, I fi nd myself refl ecting on the quiet determination of those working to protect the reefs. I order the chargrilled piri-piri caulifl ower steak, which, I’m told, isn’t just a house favourite, but a dish with purpose. “As part of the hotel’s commitment to conservation, a
percentage of the restaurant’s proceeds from this dish support the TCRF,” my waitress tells me, a small smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. It feels good to know that simply by choosing to eat here, I’m also making a small contribution to the conservation of the reefs.
Island escapes The following morning, I board a ferry that slips across the glassy waters of the Bellefi eld Channel towards North and Middle Caicos — quieter isles that promise the ultimate luxury: escapism. As we draw closer to land, the waves begin to rise in a whisper, refl ecting diamonds of sunlight back to their source. I’ve signed up for a guided tour of the islands with the National
Trust, an organisation that plays a crucial role in conservation here, as well as preserving and promoting the area’s rich cultural heritage. Starting in North Caicos, our car winds through pockets of wild greenery before crossing the causeway that links to Middle Caicos, where we’re greeted by the white-sand bay of Mudjin Harbour. Curving along the northern coast, this beach marks the beginning of our hike. We climb the headland, aching legs and sweaty brows rewarded with sweeping views of the Atlantic, where white-crested waves rise and break in bursts on the sands below. From there, we walk in single fi le to steps carved into the
cliff side, following them through layers of sun-warmed rock until they open out onto a secluded cove. Sunlight streams in from one side, casting golden rays across the sand in angular streaks. It’s a moment of stillness, an encounter with nature’s quiet
NATIONAL GEOGRAPHIC TRAVELLER – CARIBBEAN COLLECTION 13
IMAGE: GETTY
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