From Rainwater to High-Rises
I’m sitting in Los Angeles, waiting for my flight back to Phoenix, still reflecting on the whirlwind of a trip I just took. I spent the last several days on a small island in the Indian Ocean—a man-made island where my family and I lived from 2006 to 2011.
Back then, the island was in its infancy. About 1,500 people had moved there from remote outer islands, drawn by the hope of better schools, better hospitals, and job opportunities closer to the capital. The island had some modern conveniences—paved roads, electricity, and running water—but it was far from polished. A few small shops served the community. Rainwater collection was still a way of life for some. It felt like the beginning of something.
Fifteen years later, that “beginning” has turned into something completely different.
The island has expanded—not just in population, but in size. Phase 2 and Phase 3 have been added to the original land, with Phase 2 boasting over 20 buildings, each 25 stories high. It’s like a miniature Manhattan now, towering where three-story homes were the big ones.
What surprised me most wasn’t just the skyline—it was the lifestyle. Fancy coffee shops now line the streets. Restaurants I would expect to find in Phoenix are now serving meals on this little island. It’s still the same place in many ways, but it’s grown up—fast.
While there, I reconnected with two families who had been living abroad and recently moved back. And in an unexpected twist, I bumped into one of my closest friends—on the road. Neither of us knew the other was on the island. The next night, I had dinner at his house. We cast old photos onto his TV and laughed our way through memories that felt like yesterday. The stories flowed easily. So did our dreams for the future. The bond is still strong, and our hope to work together again is very real.
One of the most personal moments was where I stayed. The guesthouse I booked turned out to be my old house—remodeled and converted into a hotel. Walking through the door was like stepping into a time capsule. Different furniture, same bones. Same view from the window. Same floor where my kids used to play.
So much has changed. But being there reminded me that people matter more than progress, and friendships can outlast even the tallest buildings.
We left seeds behind—seeds of relationship, of faith, of service. It was humbling to see how some of those have taken root in ways we never expected.
Until next time, island.
—Bobby
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