—Continued from previous page

Codrington Village (where most of the 1,500 residents live) was poor, too. A wild-
looking old man in shorts and rubber boots strolled by twirling a machete. Somebody
was cooking barbecue in an oil drum. The driver pulled over suddenly and we looked
around in alarm. Had we lost our tailpipe? Run out of transmission fluid?

“I think we’re looking at Acme Rentals,” Pops whispered.

Before us lay humble dilapidation. A barbed-wire fence enclosing a small property
shipwrecked in weeds. House of paneled plywood, roof of tin. Rags fluttering in the
open windows, small faces peeking out. Three punished-looking automobiles in front
representing the rental car fleet of Barbuda.

It was becoming increasingly clear why an eyebrow would raise at paperwork say-
ing “no tour”.

Acme herself looked at us from the stoop. Caught unawares, she hadn’t found time
to clean the car. It smelled peculiar and could have doubled as a preschool sandbox.
Also, she said, it was running on fumes and we'd better hurry to the petrol station
because it closed at noon.

TIME OUT, I thought as we raced for gas. REFOCUS. Clearly we weren't going to get
what we thought we paid for in Barbuda, and unmet expectations can lead to regret.
Better come up with new expectations, for adaptation is crucial to happy travel.

 

Above: Guided by a saint, Yllithia captures a sunbeam in Indian Cave

Below: ‘We passed nothing but donkeys and shrubs and puddles for miles...’

 

We filled up and were some way down the road when Pops jerked to the shoulder
bellowing “Flat tire!” The tires were more or less inflated, however. We tried to push
on but it sounded like a World War II battle was being reenacted in our left axle. I
got out and watched the tire going jabberwocky — three lugs hanging by a thread
and one missing.

“No biggie!” I reported. “Our tire almost just fell off, that’s all.”

Ha, ha, ha!

Fortunately, this was a quick fix. We proceeded to crunch over long dirt roads until
everyone was convinced we were lost and without hope of survival. Then a sign said
Two Foot Bay, which I recognized from a pamphlet as being a good place to be. Pops
pulled over at a thick stone ruin and somebody in a truck pulled up alongside to inquire
how we were getting along. He never introduced himself; we will call him Saint.

Saint guided our hike to Indian Cave. Indians favored the cave, he explained,
because of a ghoulish face in the rock. Apparently the horror of it inspired them.
Only two petroglyphs remain, and although they were right under our noses we
never would've found them without Saint pointing.

It was a huge cave full of sunspots and dazzling color. Pink. Green. Blue. White.
This is where I'd come to survive a hurricane or throw a good party, I thought.

Before parting ways I asked Saint for directions to famous Darby Cave, and he
drew me a mental map to the geocentric middle of nowhere and advised me not to
try it without a guide or only the buzzards would find us.

So we got lost looking for the pink sand beaches instead. There are 17 miles of
pink sand beach on Barbuda and no access. Not that we could find, anyway. We
fishtailed upon dozens of soft sandy trails only to hit their cul-de-sac ends. We
passed nothing but donkeys and shrubs and puddles for miles. In the end it took
me climbing a sand dune to get something like a compass bearing for us to find the
true End of the Road.

And there it was. Blazing white sand with pink sprinkles as far as one could see.

Nothing “ha, ha, ha” about this beach. This was by far the most exquisite beach
any of us had ever seen. I took off running with my girlfriend, Yllithia. Swam with
Mom and went shell collecting with Pops. Wrote “Happy Birthday” to myself in the
soft pink sand. Laid back and looked up.

TIME OUT, I thought. SAVOR. This feeling now, this is why you travel the
Caribbean. This feeling can be translated into the only wisdom I've gleaned from 30
years, the only advice I can share with complete confidence: seek out the places that
fill you with the profound satisfaction of being alive... and linger.

 

 

iy ere Mit ee
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bain a mi
ea ae

Cm el

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Tel: 473-459-1983

Fax: 473-439-2037 —

Piaieateoo nis SauANt ase

 

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