"Life's a Beach" in Barbuda

Approaching Barbuda was like looking 20 million years into Saba's future. A volcanic island reduced to no more than 125 ft. at its highest point, it's bordered by miles of shallow reefs and the aftermath of erosion - miles of fine and powdery white sand that feels like crushed velvet under your feet.

Barbuda is as unambitious as it is undeveloped. In 2010, its 2,000 or less inhabitants are starting to get caught up with the rest of the civilized world, conflicted by their desire for more jobs and opportunity despite fears of becoming mainstream.

The Codringtons, a family of English settlers, leased the island in 1685 to set up plantations in the highlands. As every other European settlement goes, they needed slaves for the plantations, about 800. The climate is so dry that they ended up raising mostly livestock instead.

Back then, Barbuda was part of English Antigua (pronounced An-tee-ga) and was annexed after Emancipation. Land has been held communally since, so technically it can't be sold to outside developers. Long after the days of Emancipation, Barbuda rejoined Antigua, which has led to much conflict between Barbudans and their elected officials, known to give Antigua a green light for hotel projects without consulting Barbudans first. Antigua started work on a hotel atop Spanish Point (above) against locals' protests to keep it a national park. When they didn't listen, Barbudans marched down to the peninsula and shoved their mobile offices right off the cliff. Antigua got the message and hasn't pushed for development since.

After much observation and some informal interviewing, the bottom line is this: Antigua wants Barbuda for its sand mining operation and waterfront real estate. Barbuda lacks the resources to be fully independent, and joined Antigua with the expectation that they would establish a secondary school, help them create jobs, etc. Every Barbudan says the same thing, "We want controlled development."

Until Antigua is able to create a 21st century Barbuda, however, it isn't going to help them with their schools, roads and hospitals. Until then, they give Barbudans 90,000 EC weekly (2.6 EC to 1 US$) in exchange for access to sand. Locals say that this all goes toward the salaries of their elected officials, but some gets distributed to Barbudans in the form of a weekly check. As we headed out of Codrington after clearing customs, we saw a crowd of people by the lagoon. I said to Stephen, "Oh, this must be the "Friday Fish Fry." There wasn't a fish fry, but a line that wrapped around a building where a man in uniform would emerge every few minutes to allow another group through the door. They'd exit stage left with single white envelope in hand.

Clearing customs was probably the most adventurous thing we've done since we've arrived. You can only get to Codrington via the lagoon, and a water taxi is $40 US one way. So we kayaked down the coast, to where the strip of beach is narrowest. On that particular day, the surf was up where we wanted to land. As we paddled in, everything was calm. We began to coast the waves into shore until we heard a thunderous sound in the distance. We looked left, right into the curl of a wave headed down the beach. "Here we go again," I thought as I heard the familiar "Hold on" from Stephen. Except, I probably would have been better off abandoning ship this time around. The wave crashed over us, flipping us upside down in our kayak. Thank god for the discovery of the waterproof bag in St. Martin that held our passports and other important documents. As Stephen checked to make sure this bag was still attached, I was trapped under the kayak, re-living trauma. Waves rushed over me, as I fought my way to the surface, trying to hold on to our paddles the whole time.

"Holy Shit Mon!" I exclaimed, an unsightly drenched and sandy mess. With a trek across the lagoon still ahead of us, we quickly assessed the damage. Everything had made it, except the sunglasses missing from our faces. "Oh well," two new pairs of shades still doesn't amount to the cost of a taxi ride. For $80, I'll risk another pummeling. We drug the kayak over the strip of beach and launched her in the lagoon.

As we pulled up to the dock, we were greeted by a self-appointed tour guide, insisting on

showing us the way to Customs and Immigration. But we had already done our research, and didn't need the special treatment. As he chatted us up, the Port Authority officer was getting away on a fishing boat. "We need to get to the Port Authority first," said Stephen. "Oh, there she goes," he informed us. My heart sank to my stomach as I realized I was probably just retraumatized for nothing.

We forged on, in pursuit of Customs and Immigration. Our guide wasn't quick to get the message, and was less than helpful as the Customs officer didn't accept his explanation that the Port Authority Officer cut out of work early "to go fishing with a boy." Out of earshot, we pondered the intentions of our unwanted guide. "Does he expect money?" I asked. "I don't know, but I don't need a chaperone," said Stephen.

We left the impression that we were giving up on clearing in and parted ways. "Okay, well you know where to find me on Monday," he said. With him out of the picture, Stephen persisted with customs and immigration who agreed to clear us in with a phone call to Port Authority, somewhere in the middle of the lagoon. It seemed we were received more positively without our friend around. Sadly, we saw him later, waiting in line for his check.

A walking tour through Codrington, revealed that there was no reason to come back. In general, the younger generation of Barbudans behave indifferently to tourists. A lot of young people hung out in the main village all afternoon, seemingly bored with nothing to do but blast music from their car stereos.

In a small village that doesn't get many tourists, we stood out. Although I'm sure thumbing through the guide in the middle of what I didn't recognize as the town square, didn't help. I was approached by "King Goldilocks," an older man running his own taxi-tour guide business. "Excuse me Miss, you seem lost," he said as he introduced himself and asked me to "turn to page 31." As he pointed to an ad he stated proudly, "See, that's me, King Goldilocks for all your transportation needs." I appreciated his friendly, yet straightforward marketing style.

We met more of the older generation along the coasts, not waiting for Antigua to do something, but making every effort to generate business through tourism. They own small restaurants, fish, operate water & land taxis and raise livestock. When Stephen and I were biking back to the boat one evening, we witnessed a grey-bearded man herding his cows on horseback. With the horse and a few small dogs, they chased the escaped cow home.

We met Uncle Roddy, who ran an outdoor bar & restaurant on the front porch of his home. Like every other restaurant we tried in Barbuda, he wasn't able to offer us a meal. I know, it sounds crazy, right? But you have to call ahead so that they can go into town or hook up with a fisherman to get you what you want: steak, lobster, chicken... Without much business, it doesn't make sense for them to stay open, and without a way to call them, we were always out of luck. We tried to spend our money in Barbuda, and it was hard! They didn't even collect our customs fees, since the Port Authority officer decided to leave early to go fishing. In two weeks, all they could get from us was $25, spent on groceries and BBQ chicken from the only food stand you could rely on - open Fridays after 4.

Uncle Roddy described the primitive Barbuda he grew up in, where less than 50 years ago, there wasn't any electricity. Today, Uncle Roddy runs his business off of solar and wind. Cel phones are abundant, but internet is still lagging, and mainly found at the guest houses in town or 1 of the 2 resorts. "We're still growing up," he said, as he asked us and a Canadian couple for suggestions on how to accomodate more visitors. This couple chose Barbuda for the same reason we did, "We wanted a place where there was nothing going on."

Since almost everyone lives in Codrington, there is plenty of empty land all along the shores and interior roads. If a Barbudan wants to build a house, they pick a plot and do it. Sadly, we saw many start-ups with fantastic views that seemed abandoned half-way through. Of the houses that did get completed, most sit deserted while former residents are overseas in search of other opportunities. Outside of Codrington, most of the island is a ghost town with boarded up resorts that have closed within the last six years. Tourism was never thriving, but a security guard who has worked at Cocoa Point Resort for 21 seasons, says "this is the worst it has ever been.

It's sort of hard to believe that with very little civilization and no place to deposit the trash that has been accumulating on our dinghy/trash barge, that we have spent two weeks here. You might look at the beach and think that it is much of the same, and that such emptiness might get old quick. Once you get ashore, though, you realize how different each mile of beach is from the other. It took us days to explore the West coast alone, discovering the pinkest sand we have ever seen, resulting from eroding red coral.

Abadoned conch shells line the shore, left behind by fishermen that extracted the conch for stew. The shell life here is abundant...so many colors and varieties in pristine condition. Unbroken geomeric patterns and perfect spirals reminded me of the mathemataical "pi." There were piles of the tiniest shells you have ever seen...microscopic versions of conchs, cockles, mussels and snail-like shells.

Another stretch of beach was lined with miniature trees and drift wood, perfect for fire building. We had our own "burger night," bringing new meaning to "flamebroiled." Fuddruckers' got nothin' on Stephen's burgers and homeade rolls. One night, We had our own private bonfire on the beach, and thankfully managed not to set the coastline ablaze. Beers & burgers by the fire, about 100 yards from the boat was awesome, despite the perpetual battle with the "noseums" (sand fleas). They covered every exposed piece of my flesh with scars to remind me of my perfect evening for the following week.

We walked, biked and hiked for miles, exploring desloate beaches and dirt roads that we almost always had all to ourselves. Imagine being able to bike down the middle of a two lane road for miles, where the only other pedestrians are horses, donkeys and goats. We would hike the arid highlands, where small trees had twisted trunks that stretched sideways, in the direction of the prevailing winds. Amidst patches of brush, volcanic rock and sand, you would come upon whole skeletons of wild animals who came here to die. It felt like walking through a Salvador Dali painting.

In the Northern Highlands, we explored caves around Two Foot Bay - named for a slave who escaped by wearing his shoes backwards, sending his trackers in the wrong direction. The guide listed several caves, but Barbuda doesn't mark them so you will be more inclined to hire a tour guide. I don't blame them, but since we're on a budget and like to explore things on our own time, we scoured the area until we found them.

The prettiest was "Gunshop," a cave that has an opening, where you can climb through onto the cliff overlooking Two Foot Bay. As we searched for it, we encountered a couple looking for the same. The male counterpart must have been trying to impress his lady, since he claimed he had found it before and wasn't interested in joining efforts. So who do you think found it first? From the cliff, we could see them still wandering below. I was going to call out to them, but Stephen pulled me back before they could see us. "Shhh, don't help them, let 'em find it on their own."

On the bike, we scanned several dirt roads until we found one substantial enough to lead to the old Codrington Estate. There were no street signs, only obscure markers like empty plastic bottles hung from tree branches. From shore, we discovered an "unoffical" road leading into town that Stephen dubbed "Donkey Shit Trail." Mimicking the voice of a GPS, he gave directions, "Follow the red marker. Bear right at the piles of shit ahead. Turn left in .3 miles at the blue string hanging from the tree."

From the estate, we hiked a trail to "Darby Sinkhole," 350 ft. in diameter and about 100 feet deep. At the bottom lives the only rainforest on the whole island. There is one tree down there, unlike any others we saw in Barbuda with a trunk and roots so big it looks like a freak of nature sitting amidst all the skinny palmetto palms.

There was a place where we could scramble down to the bottom, discovering a dark little underworld with cave like features. Palmetto palms reach to the top of the crater and their leaves intertwine, allowing very little light to shine into the hole. As we scanned the perimeter, we saw hundreds of hermit crabs crawling all around us. These aren't like the ones they give away at the carnivals. While they are more afraid of us, they have one huge claw that reaches around the front. Stephen would pick them up and then freak out when he saw the claw. We'd both jump and I'd shriek as he dropped the poor little things to the ground.

As for the rest of our time here, we moved anchorages twice to check out the Southern coast's palm-tree beaches. Palms are pretty sparse on the island, and these palms were grown specifically for the resorts. Cruisers aren't welcomed on the property belonging to the exclusive "Cocoa Point Resort," so we set up shop at the deserted "K-Club." You can tell we're American by the number of things we bring to shore: beach chairs, beach blanket, stereo/ipod, and cooler. Just like the west coast, We had the resort all to ourselves. For the first time, I felt courageous enough to hang out topless. Most anchorages didn't fill up and we were far enough away from other boats to go skinny dipping on a regular basis.

Stephen did a lot of snorkeling and saw a huge stingray one morning. he claims it's wing span was the width of our cockpit. He saw the one above hanging out under the keel of our boat. For some reason, fish like to hang out under our hull. We had a regular baracuda in st. Bart's.

With little height to the land, there isn't much to block the wind. So when it blows, the water becomes choppy and cloudy and the snorkeling isn't the best. Still, we spotted lots of coral and schools of little fish. At anchor, we saw sea turtles bobbing their heads at the surface for air.

When it rained, Stephen practiced his culinary and bread making skills. He's venturing outside the box with his english muffins,"coconut raisin bread," and homemade meatballs. A shortage of options ashore has also fostered inventive cooking with food stores. We're still finding new uses for tuna and nutella.

With nothing to block our view, we saw this full rainbow arch across the island. It appeared just as we were going ashore for our bonfire, and was too big for me to fit in the whole frame. We took our time in Barbuda, unsure of when we will experience this kind of beauty or have another beach to ourselves for days on end. We've kept pretty busy by reading, journaling, making videos, listening to music, listening to news and comedy on Satellite radio, finishing crossword puzzles and doing nothing at all but watching the scenery unfold.

Next stop is Antigua, 30 miles due south. First port is St. John's, where it's back to civilization and more provisioning in their marketplace. Once we're stocked again, we'll head east to Antigua's quieter islands before making our way around the southern tip. We plan on being in Guadaloupe for "Carnival" 2/15 - 16.