Happily Ever Esther

by Steve Jenkins

  Exuma was our chance for him to enjoy just such a tropical paradise, and bonus: it also happened to have pigs we could swim with. The offer was for a five-day, four-night trip in the Bahamas. The organizers would cover our accommodations, get us to the pigs, and show us around—all we had to provide was our own transportation to the island. It seemed easy enough, and I let the excitement of the idea get to me before Derek brought up the fact that we now had a farm that needed to be minded if we wanted to go anywhere.

  Huh. Good point. Dammit.

  Where was I going to find someone who could care for our house and our 650-pound daughter and manage the sanctuary?

  It was no small ask, but one person immediately came to mind.

  Her name was Kim, and we had met her, like so many others, via Esther’s Facebook page. She actually responded to one of my tweets asking for a referral to a creative bakery that would craft a fun cake for Esther’s second birthday. Kim didn’t know a bakery, but she sent pictures of a carved watermelon pig and offered to make it for us. We’d been in touch ever since, and Kim had more recently been coming to the farm frequently.

  We knew Kim was familiar with how things went in the barn, Esther was good with her, and Kim had been telling us to take a few days off for months. She offered her help all the time, but we weren’t yet comfortable enough to leave. However, this Exuma trip was not only intriguing because it was in the Caribbean, but it also was only four nights… a trial trip, really. It wasn’t one of the marathon three-week vacations we had taken before. We’d really only be gone for little more than a long weekend. Kim happily agreed to step in for us while we traveled, and I excitedly confirmed our plans with the folks in Exuma.

  I recalled the skeptical notes about the island we’d gotten from some of our fans, but in today’s world, it’s normal to have virtually everything—no matter how objectively wonderful—attract some critics. We hadn’t seen anything online that caused great concern, and I greatly hoped the same would be true when we got there.

  We were scheduled to visit the island in mid-January. I hadn’t used travel points in ages for anything, and since we’d moved, I’d spent a small fortune on my credit card. So I splurged and used my points to book us business-class seats. We had everything organized and were confident we had covered all our bases. But you know how it goes: you don’t realize you forgot something until it’s too late.

  We had forgotten to consider one crucial detail: Shark Week. And I’m not talking about the Discovery Channel’s annual weeklong event.

  Two days before we were scheduled to leave, the telltale signs of Esther’s monthly “lady days” became apparent. She gets restless, goes outside at all hours of the night to patrol our fences, and challenges anyone who gets in her way. Forgetting this was a major oversight, and it nearly derailed our entire trip. We were super excited to get away, but we both also had a nagging sense of anxiety over the countless things that could go wrong. We generally had never left Esther for more than a day or two since she was a piglet, and one time when we did leave her for three days, we came home to a virtual swimming pool–volume of urine in our basement. Now we were facing the same situation again, but this time our one-time piglet was 650 pounds!

  We explained the situation to Kim, but she had seen Esther during Shark Week before and kept telling us not to worry.

  “I’ve got it,” she’d say. “No problem. You’re going away, so stop it!”

  One consideration that made this different from the old days in Georgetown: if shit hit the fan, the barn was always available. Of course, Esther had never spent a single night in the barn, but at least we knew it was an option Kim could employ should our daughter become unmanageable. It wasn’t an ideal scenario, but if push came to shove, it would work. Derek and I both realized we really needed the break, and who knew how long it would be before an opportunity like this one would present itself again. So we stuck to our plans: we were going to the beach come hell or high water.

  When departure day arrived, we bounced out of bed for our 6 a.m. flight, quickly reviewed the procedures with Kim for the fifth (okay—let’s be honest—tenth) time, and then kissed everyone goodbye and headed to the airport. The flight was terrific (gotta love business class), and as we made our approach, the scenery was incredible. I had never been to the Caribbean before; the water around the Bahamas was just extraordinary. We were both so excited to get to the hotel and kick back with a cocktail.

  We arrived early Sunday and weren’t going to see the pigs until Tuesday, so we would have almost two days to just do nothing. (Heaven!) We were met at the airport by Paula, a representative from the foundation, and she took us to the island. She was from Montreal but spent a lot of time in Exuma, so she was exceptionally familiar with what was happening there. She showed us around on our way to the resort—about a thirty-minute drive from the airport—and pulled into a gas station about twenty minutes into the drive.

  “I figured you guys would want to grab a few things right away,” Paula said. “It’s a holiday tomorrow, so everything will be closed.”

  I didn’t think anything of this and really didn’t fully grasp what she’d said. Honestly, I assumed it was a souvenir store, or something to that effect, because she knew we wouldn’t have a ton of time to explore the island otherwise.

  “We’re good,” I said. “All I need is my wristband and a piña colada.”

  She laughed with me, but under her breath, she added: “I wish.”

  “Are you not staying at the same resort as us?” I asked. She was there so much, I thought maybe she stayed at an off-site condo or something.

  “Oh yeah,” she said. “Of course I’m staying there… but there are no wristbands involved. You’ve gotta buy your own cocktails.”

  My heart sank immediately.

  I had told Derek we were heading to the “Villas at Sandals Emerald Bay,” an all-inclusive resort. But there had clearly been a miscommunication. Paula explained that we were staying at the “Villas at Emerald Bay,” a self-catering villa complex right by Sandals, but not in any way associated with that resort.

  The friggin’ bay is literally called Emerald Bay, with two distinct resorts: the Villas and the Sandals. Ugh.

  I went from cloud nine to being ready to cry in a fraction of a second. As Paula explained the misunderstanding, I could see Derek getting upset in the backseat. Eventually he just got out of the car and walked into the store without saying anything. I excused myself and followed him in.

  He whirled on me as soon as I walked in. “How did this happen?”

  “I have no idea,” I said. It was all I could say, knowing full well my excitement about the potential holiday was totally to blame. I didn’t bother to ask the right questions. I made assumptions, and every single one of them was biting us in the ass.

  When I initially Googled “Emerald Bay Exuma,” all that came up was the Sandals resort, with a link on its page for the beachfront villas on the property. (They looked spectacular, by the way.) I didn’t go any further. The organizers had told me we’d be at the Villas at Emerald Bay, and I just assumed that was part of the Sandals resort.

  Derek and I had traveled almost two thousand miles to a Caribbean island under the impression that everything was taken care of for us. We hadn’t budgeted $1.50 for a single apple from the grocery store, much less $15 for a piña colada from the hotel bar.

  So it’s safe to say our visit had gotten off to a rough start. But the situation improved quickly. When we arrived at the villa complex, we discovered it was absolutely stunning. It was built by some big hoity-toity hotel brand and then sold as private units. Gorgeous!

  Our villa was basically a house: two stories, with marble floors and rich mahogany trim on the doors and the ceiling. It had a master bedroom and a guest bedroom on the main floor. The master had a giant en suite bathroom with granite counters and a huge glass “party shower.” Both bedrooms had exit doors that opened onto covered patios overlooking the garden. Upstairs wa
s another bathroom and a full living room, dining room, and kitchen—all finished in a Bahamian style. The ceilings were vaulted, and they anchored large ceiling fans shaped like palm leaves. The balcony opened off the dining room, letting us look out on multimillion-dollar yachts in the marina across from a golf cart path that wound its way through the complex and its golf course.

  Around the corner, literally a one-minute walk away, were the pool and the restaurant/bar. Thatched roofs covered a tiled bar and seating area, while little waterfalls splashed into the infinity pool with the ocean beyond. It was the kind of place that looked like it belonged in a magazine.

  Derek and I were totally out of our element. Everyone loves nice things, but nice usually means very expensive. We sat down for dinner and saw one item on the menu we could eat, a chickpea curry dish served over rice. It was delicious. Derek even convinced me to order my first island piña colada in God knows how many years. We sat out by the pool for most of the evening, taking in the view, slowly drinking our ridiculously expensive drinks until close to midnight. It was all quite lovely, but the bill for both of us was close to $100, and that was just for one meal. We knew we’d need to rein it in for the next few days, because spending $100 three times a day for four days was not an option for us.

  Having disposable income was a thing of the past since leaving our careers and trying to establish the sanctuary. We couldn’t afford to spend that kind of money, so we spent most of the first two days in the villa, eating pasta and tomato sauce we had picked up at the corner store on our way in. Derek would go down to the beach to read or lie in the sun with a drink for a few hours. But in my mind, things weren’t going to plan, so I sulked in the room watching TV, wishing I were home. I tried to keep my mind on the light at the end of the tunnel: the swimming pigs. It had been on my bucket list since I learned of this magical tropical paradise known as Pig Beach.

  Paula arranged to meet us bright and early on Tuesday morning and would be escorting us for the day. Pig Beach was about a thirty-minute drive from the villa complex along mostly narrow, dirt roads. Exuma is a fairly flat island, and it must get hit pretty hard by tropical storms, because the vegetation seemed limited to mangroves and other small-to-medium shrubs once we left the immaculately manicured property surrounding the villa.

  We talked the entire drive about everything from the swimming pigs to our lives before Esther. We’d gotten to know Paula pretty well, having sat with her after dinner for a few hours the night we arrived. She grew up in Saudi Arabia and worked in the airline industry before meeting her husband. I love planes, and I want to get my pilot’s license one day, so as soon as she brought up the airline industry we had plenty to talk about.

  She also gave us the lowdown on why they’d wanted us to come down in the first place. They knew there were some concerns about the welfare of the pigs, and their growing popularity meant it was only a matter of time before somebody tried to shine a less-flattering light on what was going on there. She told us about the man who cared for the pigs, how he went out every day with water and food. She also explained that a few copycat locations close by had capitalized on the concept of swimming pigs, and now multiple tiny islands had herds of pigs on them. We asked again if the pigs were being eaten and got a resounding, “Oh God no, these pigs are safe.”

  Overall, the general tone was very positive, and we were going in there with lots of ideas for things they could do to make sure it was actually “Paradise for Pigs.” We saw a huge opportunity for them to educate people: a sanctuary in a tropical setting, where pigs are free to do whatever they want. It sounded almost too good to be true.

  When we arrived at the beach, we met the man who cared for what they called the Original Swimming Pigs. We boarded his boat with about ten other people who were just there for the tour. It was going to be about half a day, with stops at the highest point in Exuma, a beach full of wild ocean iguanas and, of course, the famous swimming pigs.

  Our very first stop was to see the pigs, about forty-five minutes into the tour. As the boat came around the corner, I could see Pig Beach straight ahead, recognizing the surroundings from photos on the social media page. “Oh my God, this is it!” I said to Derek, scrambling to get my phone ready so I could take a video of the pigs’ coming out to meet us.

  As soon as the pigs noticed the boat, they scurried out of the bushes and onto the sand, some even coming straight into the water, waiting for us to get within range. When we got about a hundred feet out, they started swimming. I nearly died. Little black-and-white pigs, each about 250 to 300 pounds, swimming directly toward us.

  It was magical. Everyone on board lit up with excitement. There’s not a whole lot going on in Exuma, so for many, this was why they’d come. While the rest of the passengers rushed to take their photos, a crewmate started gathering supplies to take ashore, including food and a few barrels of fresh water. He also had a cooler of snacks for us to hand-feed the pigs, and he started handing them out to everyone on board. I happily turned around to accept mine, and that’s when my excitement turned to horror.

  I had been given a hot dog to feed the pigs.

  Seriously?

  My heart was in my throat. Trying to keep it together, I turned to show Derek, who didn’t do quite as good a job of containing his revulsion. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” he said with a look of disgust.

  Then Derek turned to the crewmate: “Are these pork dogs? You better not be feeding pork to these pigs.” He said this very loudly, so everyone could hear.

  “No, they’re chicken dogs,” the man replied.

  Paula saw the whole scene unfolding and jumped in quickly to prevent what was clearly just seconds from turning into a huge donnybrook.

  “These are the kinds of things we want to talk about with you guys,” she said. “Put the hot dogs down, and let’s just go to the beach and meet the pigs.”

  Derek was beside himself as he climbed down the ladder and walked ashore. He kept to himself for about twenty minutes, walking around to take in Pig Beach. I walked with Paula and spoke to her about what we were seeing.

  It wasn’t pretty.

  The beach was littered with trash and consisted mostly of jagged coral rocks, because the sand had been washed away by a recent storm. The highest point on the little island appeared to be only about fifteen feet high—nothing a solid wave couldn’t crash over—with little more than mangled thorny bushes to provide cover from the sun.

  We saw close to thirty pigs that day, some as big as Esther, with matching cropped tails to boot. Remember that legend about the pirates? It should be amended to note that the pirates were really just “some guy who shipped over a few pigs from Miami.” Now, I cannot say with absolute certainty that at some point pirates didn’t bring pigs to these islands, but the pigs there now sure as hell aren’t descendants of them.

  The island was tiny and rampant with piglets that far outnumbered the larger pigs. The claim that no one ate the pigs suddenly seemed questionable as well. The population was totally uncontrolled; if left unchecked, it would be out of hand in no time. Someone was making sure that the pig population didn’t get too big, and it wasn’t via selective sterilization of baby pigs to prevent breeding.

  There also were no permanent shelters anywhere; the closest approximation was a small wood-frame box the smallest piglets could climb into to escape the larger pigs. The only place the larger pigs could go to get out of the relentless sun was under the thornbushes, but even those offered only dappled shade at best.

  We saw a number of the larger pigs, some pink-skinned like Esther, covered in moles and black spots that looked like potential skin cancer. Pigs are prone to sunburn just like humans. Can you imagine spending years in the sun without sunscreen, how painful that would be? It was as if someone pulled up with a boat, tossed out a bunch of pigs, and left them alone to figure out life.

  The resorts make thousands of dollars from people coming to see the pigs, and apparently they do donate some food. B
ut the food we saw getting dropped off at the beach had Derek picking ham bones out of it. No big deal.

  It was clear to us that no one ever took the time to ensure the pigs were eating safe, proper food. We found that devastating, and it only got worse when we asked about their medical care. We were told they had never been visited by a vet. There isn’t even a permanent vet on Exuma—at least there wasn’t when we went—never mind a vet to take care of those poor pigs. Everything about Pig Beach was the opposite of what we had thought it would be. The pigs were still beautiful and full of personality, but they weren’t living in paradise by any stretch of the imagination.

  It became obvious that the man who cared for the pigs was now aware of who we were. I don’t think Paula had been totally up front with him about the fact that she was bringing in two vegan animal advocates to see his operation. He was clearly frustrated. I’m sure he assumed we were going to be troublemakers, but that’s the last thing we wanted to be. We knew if we kicked up a fuss, it would be the pigs that would suffer. Rather than pointing fingers and blasting the guy—much as we desperately wanted to do exactly that—we knew we had to take a diplomatic approach. (Yes, believe it or not, I’m capable of that on occasion.)

  Our mind-set: From all the brochures of this place, you’d expect to see pigs in paradise, and while that was partially true—the pigs did live on a beach in the Bahamas—it was so far from paradise. Their living conditions were atrocious. The inbreeding was rampant. They had fresh water only while people were visiting on the island; the rest of the time, they were fresh out of luck. The poor pigs were out there being burned to a crisp every day. The business owners said they had shelter and a controlled area for the piglets, but they didn’t. The shelter was prickly bushes that provided almost no shade, and the controlled area for the piglets was a few pieces of wood with gaps too small for the large pigs to get into. The small piglets could go in, which was okay, but nobody else could.