Potcakes | The Bahamas
Beautiful Waters of Nassau
The Bahamas is a fascinating place, more than just an island—it’s a country (rather, an archipelago) composed of around 700 islands and 2,400 cays (whatever that means). Billionaires come here to buy their own private islands (or cays), and if you’ve ever taken one of those cruises from Miami, chances are you’ve docked in Nassau. The British colonial influence is unmistakable, especially to someone like me who hails from a former British colony—the remnants of that past woven into the architecture, culture, and even the way people speak.
I didn’t know much about the Bahamas until I finally visited, and it wasn’t by way of a cruise. A Bahamian friend had been urging me to visit for years, and I finally made the trip. One morning, I found myself running on the Eastern Rd, near Palm Cay. Like every run in the Bahamas, it was humid. The main roads, though breathtakingly scenic, are narrow, busy, and lack sidewalks. Early mornings before traffic, they weren’t as busy.
Mural Art by Alan Pachino Wallace (art can be seen on Eastern Rd)
As I made my way down the road, something caught my attention. Elderly people were out walking—lots of them. Fit, active, and moving with purpose. But what stood out most was that each one carried a stick. At first, I thought nothing of it. Maybe they needed it for support? But after seeing a second and then a third person, all holding but not actually using their sticks for walking, I knew there was something more to it. Was this a local tradition? A morning ritual? A Bahamian custom?
Preserved cabins: Part of the slave village at Clifton Heritage National Park
I have a rule when traveling outside of the USA: what the locals do, i do as well. If they run on the left, I run on the left. If they walk on the main road, I walk (well run) on the main road. After spotting the third person gripping a stick, I stopped, went into the bushes, and picked up my own hefty, dried branch. Running with it felt awkward at first, but ten minutes later, I understood exactly why I needed it. Out of nowhere, a ferocious looking German Shepherd and a bulldog came charging straight at me. Instinct kicked in. I swung the stick out in front of me, startling the German Shepherd just enough to make it retreat. The bulldog hesitated, then turned and ran back toward the yard it had come from.
Suddenly, it all made sense—why everyone walking on the road carried a stick.
Tribute to Slave Women: Sacred Space Sculpture in Clifton Heritage National Park
Roaming dogs were everywhere. These were not the American-kind, indoor-sleeping, friendly kind of dogs. These were territorial, untamed dogs—the kind I had grown up with in Zimbabwe. The kind that scared the lights out of me. From that day on, I never ran without my stick in the Bahamas, and I never fully relaxed while on runs. As beautiful as the ocean was, I had to keep scanning around me, behind me—for the damn dogs.
Later, I asked a friend about the free-roaming dogs that seemed to be everywhere.
"Oh, those?" he said casually. "We call them 'potcakes”
