From caves to coral reefs, this is how you can discover the wild side of Turks & Caicos 

"Grace Bay sand is predominantly made of parrotfish 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 fish 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 offers 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 parrotfish ‘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 efforts 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, flat 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 jellyfish 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 affliction that’s affected more than 60% of Turks & Caicos’s reefs in recent years. First identified 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 offer 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 find myself reflecting on the quiet determination of those working to protect the reefs. I order the chargrilled piri-piri cauliflower 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 Bellefield 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, reflecting 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 file to steps carved into the cliffside, 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 drama. I pause, breathing in air laced with salt, grateful for these hidden corners that you only find when you seek them out.

Turning away from the ocean, we press inland. Our next stop is the Conch Bar Caves, the largest above-ground cave system in the Lucayan Archipelago (which comprises the Bahamas and Turks & Caicos), and a 15-mile labyrinth of twisting tunnels and echoing chambers. The air is thick with heat, but inside, the caves offer cool relief. Stalactites reach down like icicles, meeting their counterparts rising from the ground, and in one chamber — known as the ‘nine brothers’ — the formations are so symmetrical they look man-made, resembling the ruins of a forgotten city.

“This limestone cavern was once submerged under the sea. These holes in the ceiling are where the water eroded the rock over time,” explains our guide, Eddie Smith, his enthusiasm evident as he shares the story of the caves.“The Lucayans were the island’s original inhabitants,” he continues, “and if you follow these passages far enough, you can still see evidence of religious ceremonies they held here more than 500 years ago. More recently, families would shelter in here during hurricanes, but today the whole area is protected by the National Trust.”

A scurry of cockroaches flees the beam of Eddie’s torch as we head further into the gloom. Then, high above us, I notice a cluster of small black shapes hanging by their feet. “That would be the bats,” he grins at me. “Four species live here and there are more than 3,000 in this cave. You should see it when they all leave to feed. The sky turns black, like a living storm cloud. It’s an incredible sight.”

Bats are crucial not only to the cave’s environment, but in maintaining nature’s delicate balance across the entire island. They play a key role in pollination, while their dung feeds the multitude of insects that call this otherworldly place home. This particular poo, I discover, doesn’t end up on the island’s beaches, although what’s now a bug banquet was an important source of income for locals in the 19th century, before tourism reached Turks & Caicos’s shores. Islanders harvested and exported it as far as Europe to be used as fertiliser, a trade that collapsed when chemicals took its place.

I’m still contemplating the intricate interlacing of all these ecosystems; how everything — and everyone — has a part to play, when we leave the subterranean chamber, blinking in the harsh afternoon sunlight. Our final stop is Bambarra Beach on the north coast of Middle Caicos and recently named one of the best beaches in the Caribbean. True to the accolade, it’s a fine stretch of alabaster sand with no crowds and crystalline waters.

I notice a collection of coastal treasures — coral fragments, sea fans and shells — arranged on a weathered bench, like an altar to the ocean. Each piece, I realise, is a small remnant of a once-living reef, a quiet reminder of both the beauty and fragility of life. They speak to what’s at stake if these habitats aren’t protected. I capture them in a photograph and leave them undisturbed, allowing them to return to the sea from which they came. Perhaps, over time, they’ll erode into fine sand, contributing to the beaches we walk upon — along with that parrotfish poop, of course.

Three more nature hotspots

1. Flamingo Pond Overlook, North Caicos
Situated just off King’s Road near Whitby on the north coast of North Caicos, this National Trust site allows travellers to witness a flamboyance of West Indian flamingos wading through glistening wetlands. Admission is free, binoculars cost $2 (£1.45) to rent and the spectacle unfolds daily from 11am to 3.30pm.

2. Little Water Cay, aka Iguana Island
Home to the rare Turks & Caicos rock iguana, Little Water Cay is a conservation success story. Boardwalks wind through scrubland and mangroves, where guides explain how reintroduction efforts and feral-cat eradication have helped the iguanas rebound. Entry fees are $10 (£7.50) and support preservation work.

3. Bird Rock Point Trail, Providenciales
On the eastern tip of Providenciales, this mile-long trail winds through one of the island’s last remaining tracts of coastal coppice woodland. Along the way, it skirts rocky headlands, mangroves and secluded sandy coves — natural habitats that offer refuge for native birds and juvenile fish.