From the sky, at about two hours by plane from Cartagena de Indias, Providence waves on the blue Caribbean.
Small, emerald color, covered with mountains, abandonned...
No souls on the unique road which is cercling the island in seventeen kilometers.
Immaculated beaches and quiet houses are covered by almond trees and acacia flowers.
Well the locals are busy somewhere else...
Providence wakes up with the rythm of traditions.

In the north, in a village called Cas Baja, men, women and children got together around a fire, dipping big crabs in boiling water.
It is the harvest of the night or the day before.
Nippers and meat are sold to villagers and restaurants.
Far behind, farmers walk to their fields machete in belts.
A solitary fisher climbs a basalt rock to throw his fishing net.
At this hour the sea reflects blue and warm nuances.

On this unknown island, the biggest families are Archibold, Livingston, Taylor or Wilson...inherited from british colonists who used to live in the XVIIth century.
But a big part of their history is tied with the arrival of african slaves brought by spanish settlers since 1641.
Blacks and halfcastes developed orange plantations, sugar cane, coconut palms and cattles.
Continentals colombians and panameans developed then commerce and foreign trades.
Nowadays, they opened up a touristic way.

But Providence should stay Providence.
Proud of their natural and cultural patrimony, the five thousand inhabitants watch for limiting the tourism to a familial tourism, which is to lodge in the local's house or in small hotels.
From now on, they plan a cultural festival each year in june.
The airport is so small that it looks like a toy, and it is out of question to extend its capacity of reception.
Time passes by, quietly, without irretrievable disruption which could sentence for ever Providence and its inhabitants.
Warm and hospitable, they definitely deserve to live on this island.