THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Saturday, August 5, 1995 TAG: 9508040056
SECTION: DAILY BREAK PAGE: E1 EDITION: FINAL
TYPE: Column
SOURCE: Larry Maddry
LENGTH: Long : 115 lines
THE ISLAND COUNTRY of Anguilla in the British West Indies resembles a sand-covered church key tossed into the blue-green Caribbean Sea.
Although its beaches are world famous for their beauty, Anguilla, with an average annual temperature of 81 degrees, seemed an odd vacation destination when Hampton Roads was in the middle of a heat wave.
But that's where we headed a few days back, betting a lot of vacation dollars on the blissful trade winds that sweep over the West Indies.
We were not disappointed.
At night, wind blows through the open and unscreened bedroom windows on the island at night like the rush of air from a silent but speeding locomotive. By day, it evaporates moisture - sweat on the brow or a sea-soaked bathing suit - in minutes. It flickers the white candles on the pink tablecloths at seaside restaurants. It fills the ghostly sails of four-masted schooners in the distance as they glide by.
The other constant on Anguilla is a phrase uttered by the locals - nearly all of African descent - who have learned how to deal with the tourists. The phrase, uttered in upper class English, usually with fingertips pressed together, is: ``Please do not be concerned; everything will be OK.''
After flying into St. Martin on a Saturday, we took a taxi to the ferry terminal. We looped around the noisy marketplace where brightly colored women's dresses, swept by the wind, rose and fell on lines strung outside sales tents cluttered with handicrafts. A minute later, the cab braked at the ferry terminal.
A man in a booth explained that the ferry did not carry cars, only people. He pointed to a cocoon-like launch about 60 feet long, sitting low in the water. Our hearts sank.
``Please do not be concerned,'' the man in the booth said, smiling. ``Everything will be OK.''
We boarded with several dozen natives who carried packages, carpet bags, chickens in cages and children in their laps. We discovered the water bus was the only place in the region untouched by trade winds. And the windows - for some reason - had not been opened.
Not a breath of air was stirring. I would have suffocated if it hadn't been for a sweat-soaked woman who held a chicken in a cage on her lap.
Whenever she turned her head to the window, I would jab the chicken with my ball point pen. The chicken would flap its wings with each pen poke. I found that by holding my head near the cage, I could refresh myself for a few seconds in the rush of air created by its wing feathers.
All of us were drenched with sweat. Many gasping for air. I rose from my seat to complain and the skipper's helper, a large man wearing white pants and a blue polo shirt, waved me down with his hands.
``Please do not be concerned!'' he shouted. ``Everything will be OK.''
When the launch docked at Blowing Point in Anguilla, we were met by a porter who piled our luggage into a wheelbarrow. Four of us were traveling together. The luggage was stacked so high the porter's head was hidden from view.
``Are you sure we can't carry something?'' my friend, Princes Liberal Right-Thinker, asked.
You can guess what he replied.
Anguillans are invariably polite and friendly. People leave their doors and windows unlocked at night because crime has not touched the small island - 13 miles long and about 2 miles wide. The homes range from stucco villas with breathtaking views of the harbors to small shanties. The modest dwellings are painted in bright colors - pink with blue or yellow shutters. The paint jobs give the most humble home, or shop, a carefree, jaunty appearance.
Unlike nearby St. Martin, Anguilla has no mountains and few people. It is said that the goats on the island outnumber the residents. And it must be so.
Goats wander around the houses, browse outside rural stores and are moved about on long leashes. Goat meat dishes are a specialty of the natives, either in stews or barbecued.
Goats also cross the highway unexpectedly, and, since nearly every vacationer has to rent a car to move about on the island, caution is required.
There are so many goats that people tend to measure distances by them. Windward Point, on the northern tip of the island is said to be ``five goat collisions from Mead's Bay.''
Killing a goat can lead to legal expenses and a much longer stay on the island to settle the matter in court. So most vacationers hitting a goat simply offer to pay the owner what the goat is worth. And goats can be pricey. I have been told that many goat owners enroll their goats in schools where they are taught to broad jump into the path of oncoming rental cars, but the rumor is unconfirmed. A friend who rented a car while on the island complained that a goat ate the back seat out of his vehicle when the driver left the carand walked a 100 yards from it to admire the view.
Most of our time was spent loafing on the powdery, white beaches bordered by swaying palm trees where the sea lolls onto the beach with a hiss rather than a splat. The water is so clear near shore that you can see your feet until the cool, undulating water reaches neck level. My favorite snorkeling memory was an encounter with a school of sun fish that appeared to have been dipped in baby blue paint. Looking down through the goggles, I extended my arm toward them. They were an inch from my hand and didn't move until I wiggled my fingers, darting away in a three-tiered formation.
We brought back a lot of memories. The wee black bird that pecked at the crumbs from our breakfast toast on the balcony each morning. The lizards climbing the vine strewn with red bougainvillea blossoms. And the pleasant evening scene around the rural store near our condominium where locals gathered at sunset to chat. At the top of the store steps, we often found one of the island women weaving cornrows into the hair of another. All the Anguillans we got to know were invested with broad smiles and quiet dignity.
By the last day I had gone native. Princess Liberal Right-Thinker, seated to my left under our umbrella, was worried about our departure plans. The excessive luggage, the tight time schedule, the fact that we had more traveler's checks than cash with no bank nearby.
I moved the umbrella to shade my torso from the sun by pushing its staff toward the sea with a tanned foot.
``Please do not be concerned,'' I yawned. ``Everything will be OK.''
And it was. ILLUSTRATION: Anguilla, with an average annual temperature of 81 degrees, is
ideal for a tropical vacation.
by CNB