Surprisingly, the leader of the revolution was listed in the phone book. Not that I'd gone to Anguilla, the most northerly of the Caribbean's Leeward Islands, to track down retired revolutionaries. Like most visitors, I'd gone to what is possibly the Caribbean's most upscale isle to nap on a white-sand beach, to swim in water the color of a bright blue cocktail, and to eat well.
I'd also gone to see a boat race. Race days bring a raucous energy to this otherwise tranquil island. Brightly painted wooden hulls with names like UFO, Miss Anguilla, and Satellite are finally put in the water after being fussed over for months in villages around the island. The raising of the mast is often a community event. Those Anguillans who can't get out of work to watch the races stay close to their radios. The tradition goes back to the fishermen who used to chase each other back to harbor at the end of the day, according to Calvert Carty, chairman of the local racing authority. I'd called Carty to get details about the Anguilla Day race, a circumnavigation of the 16-mile-long island. If I went to Sandy Ground early in the morning, he told me, I'd see the start. Then a caravan of local cars would track the race from shore. It was a fun way to see the race-each stop was like a little party-but I should be careful. The driving could get crazy.
After I hung up, I flipped through the phone book. The same names-Carty, Connor, Gumbs, Hodge, and Richardson-kept popping up. When I got to the W's, there he was. James Ronald Webster. I recognized the name because songs about him had been playing on the radio all week long in honor of the revolution's 35th anniversary.
As revolutions go, Anguilla's was a small one. (When the British later invaded, asserting the crown's authority, Time magazine dubbed it the "Bay of Piglets.") But it was epochal to Anguillans. The descendants of slaves, they had been left to scrape together a living from farming and fishing after British planters gave up on growing sugar here. Making matters worse was the island's underdog status in the colonial system. Since 1825 it had been trapped in a sibling relationship with St. Kitts and Nevis, one in which St. Kitts held the power. Twice, in 1872 and again in 1958, Anguilla petitioned for change, but in 1967 Britain reinforced the island's subservience by establishing a joint statehood with St. Kitts. Anguillans were incensed. This time the tiny island rebelled.
I called Webster's number. His wife answered and went to look for him. When she came back, she said he'd be happy to chat-in a few days. She gave me driving directions to Sea Feathers Bay, so called because purple sea fans used to wash up there. The island has many locations with literal names-Snake Point, Goat Cave, Grey Pond, Stoney Ground. Each of them describes Anguilla well.
In the days before I met Webster, I roamed the island, moving from one beach to the next, swimming in the calm water and eating at oceanfront restaurants. Gorgeous, white-sand beaches are Anguilla's chief natural asset. But inland, the dry, flat ground is dotted with tousled scrub oaks. Salt ponds are rimmed with foam, and the metal skeletons of Christmas angels are left standing year round. To create the aura of an oasis, gardeners at the resorts jackhammer holes in the rock and fill them with trucked-in dirt so palm trees can survive. There are a lot of goats.
Because of the flatness, a hot wind sweeps over the island with nothing to stop it. What few clouds exist zoom by and are gone. The sun is a constant presence, pressing on your head and baking the sand beneath your feet.
Not much grows in Anguilla's dry, rocky soil that you would want to eat. But enough lobster, crayfish, tuna, snapper, and mahimahi are pulled from the waters each day to assure a nightly feast. Rarely have I eaten so much seafood that tasted so cleanly and clearly of the ocean. Some restaurants dress it up with tender produce and imported delicacies flown in at great effort and expense. But the memorable meals are the simple ones.
At George's, the tented beachside restaurant at the Cap Juluca resort, a modest piece of tuna was grilled longer than most people would cook it at home, topped with a few slivers of grilled onion, and served in a buttered hamburger bun that was lightly touched to the flame. It was as perfect a sandwich as you could hope to have on any beach. At Tasty's, a turquoise, cement-walled little roadside restaurant, a nugget of stewed pot fish was set on my table as a gift from the chef. Pot fish are the small ones caught in local traps. They are rarely served to tourists but are eaten by Anguillans every day. This one had been sautéed in oil with basil, steamed in fish stock and tomato, and peppered with a touch of Scotch bonnet chile sauce. It was the humblest amuse-bouche I'd ever had, and one of the best.
The Valley, the island's central town, isn't much to speak of-a few banks, some spottily stocked grocery stores, and, on Saturdays, a handful of Anguillan women who sell homemade soups and stews at the side of the road. There are also vendors selling good ribs, across from the People's Market. The heavily salted, flame-crisped baby backs come off the fire with their fat still bubbling, and then they're smeared with dark, peppery sweet sauce from a big, simmering pot.
On the morning of Anguilla Day, everyone in The Valley streamed toward James Ronald Webster Park. By nine, the sun was high, and spectators huddled in the shaded viewing stands or under scraggly trees at the park's perimeter. Most wore T-shirts that said, "Ah We Free/You and Me/35 Years Anguilla Day." Policemen in full regalia marched in the scorching heat while a band played "Edelweiss." Anguilla's chief minister said, "After so much trouble has passed we have our freedom at last." Then he announced good things to come: a $90 million resort project with a golf course, hotel, "fractional residences," and "luxury estate villas." Again the band played "Edelweiss."
Pinterest
