Homecoming: An Anguillian Adventure

27th December 2019

20 years passed since my fiancé Simone stepped foot on the 35 mile squared island where she was born, so much time that it had become a hazy dream.

Over the past 7 years, I’ve heard stories at knee height, of barefoot runs down dusty tracks, picking mangoes from trees and launching from white sandy beaches into clear blue waters. 

As time passed, her origins became evermore distant. Her heritage wearing down a little more with each year into a misty mystery. 

Since she’d last been on the island, her life had become a greyscale frame of modern Britain. Perhaps the complete opposite of the paradise from which she’d came, Simone resided in the backdrop of smoke rising from factories in an industrial town outside London.

Recently, Simone’s Grandmother sadly passed. It was an unusual situation because despite the solemn circumstance, there was a constant silver lining because Simone’s family were magnetised together. A theme which would continue as we were heading to Anguilla for the funeral.

Three flights were booked, a hefty two day journey planned, and off we went. With few expectations (except slight concerns about being a gay couple in a religious and old fashioned country) our approach was to take each moment as it comes. This was about retracing Simone’s timeline back to the source. 

The day before flying we discovered there were strikes planned in Paris – our first connecting destination. Flying from London, we had to get from an airport at the top of the city to one at the bottom, with 5 hours to do so. Easy. We’d even planned to catch up with some friends in Paris for a coffee because we thought we had so much time…

In reality, we were grounded aboard the plane in London for three hours. Every 30 minutes there was an announcement, pushing take off further back as we watched the clock run away from us. Missing our next flight would mean missing two more, and ultimately, missing the funeral.

Almost four hours late, we landed in Paris, leaving 90 minutes before our flight took off from the airport across the city. A tech malfunction meant we weren’t able to check-in online: we had to do it in person.

Jumping on a shuttle bus, we worked out we had 30 mins to check in. With a 30 minute journey.

Life without close shaves would be boring, right?

The bus got to the second airport – two minutes to go. I left Simone with the bags and the sprint began. OU EY LE CHECK IN SIH VOU PLAY. My fists clenched, I was off. With determination in my eyes, people in the airport parted like the red sea as my pumping chest and burning legs carried me through terminal 1, 2, 3 and finally to the check in desk. It was 14:40. The check in closed at 14:35.

Out of breath I pleaded,  ‘please let us through. The strikes delayed us by 4 hours.’

‘Non’.

‘Please, we’ve got another two flights to get afterwards. The plane is still here, we can still make it, please make an exception’.

‘Non, non, non’.

Their crossed arms became gates to paradise. We were stuck in icy Paris with a 24 hour wait until the next flight. 

We rebooked two flights and hotels, picked up some bottles of wine and found humour in our situation (being stuck in a French hotel room again, where exactly 12 months ago we were stranded for three weeks over Christmas when our van dramatically broke down during our road trip).

Palaver over, we caught our flight to Guadeloupe, arriving 9 hours later. Then, our island hopping leg of the journey began. We jumped on a little plane which took us across the beautiful islands of the West Indies and into St Martin. Despite it’s tropical beauty, my initial island experiences felt uneasy. On both islands I wondered why despite being 6,000 miles away, both countries felt like a piece of Europe had broken off and drifted across the ocean. Advertisements featuring mostly white people, getting messages on my phone saying ‘Welcome to France’. I started to worry that Anguilla would feel under the thumb in the same vein. 

We touched down in St Martin and taxied to the boat port. Across the water, there was Anguilla. A tiny, flat strip of land where Simone came into the world. 

There was still a chance we could catch the funeral, so we changed into our dresses and made the crossing. Another taxi to the church ended our lengthy journey. The chapel’s arched doors opened to an empty room. But across the road, a gathering. Seconds later we were passed between arms of Aunties, Uncles and cousins. Simone was home. We’d missed the funeral, but Simone was the family’s bright side to look at. 

We were driven to the wake by Leonardo, Simone’s similarly aged cousin (who together were once an inseparable, mischievous duo). It was hosted at their Grandad’s house, the walls where Simone grew up.

Nothing could have been a better welcome to the family and culture. We’d been in Anguilla for 20 minutes and already we were meeting many, many family members, sipping rum, listening to reggae music, and eating rice and peas under the 30 degree sunshine. 

I stepped into a mental movie. There was the porch, where Simone had described her grandparents sat in the evenings, peeling peas. Her Grandad’s pick-up truck next to lush trees bearing colourful fruit. Kegs of beers, coolers packed with drinks and buffets of food. Dogs and kids and life everywhere. I’ve never experienced a wake with such life.

It was hard to comprehend the party was a single family, let alone Simone’s. It became clear this was going to be an important cultural experience for me. My family, countable on my hands, who avoid most social situations were a world away (for example, I’m writing this on Christmas day in a hotel as my family wanted to escape the forced festivities). It was also clear immediately that we were accepted, with open arms. This was our family, we just hadn’t met them yet.

After many sweaty beers as our December bodies adjusted to the tropics, Leonardo took us on a tour, retracing the steps him and Simone once took. First, we headed to Simone’s Aunties house where we were staying – which to Simone’s shock, just so happened to be the most lavish mansion we’d ever stepped foot in. Through the electric gates, we pulled our jaws along the floor as we toured the house and to our bedroom, the size of the bottom floor of our house and the bed the size of our entire van, and then some. We realised from this moment on, we were in for a special ride. 

The villa overlooked an abandoned house Simone had told me about – her childhood stomping ground – neighboring a beach where I’d heard tales of a huge rock she’d jump off and into the clear water. She retold the story as we moved through the greenery towards the beach, tiny lizards scattering in our path. As we emerged, there was the rock. About three meters long and a meter wide. 

‘WHAT?!’ 

Miniature Simone had seen it oh so differently. 

The island tour continued, past her old school where she remembers getting ‘licks’ (a discipline technique used by teachers involving a wooden stick used to hold windows open, and kids’ palms. According to a teacher we met, this method is now discontinued…) Past the little restaurant her Grandmother once owned under the tamarind tree. To the remains of the tiny ‘hospital’ she was born in, which has since been thrashed by a hurricane. Simone began to piece her memories back together. ‘Here’s the shop we used to get root beer!’ – with confirmations from Leonardo. From the back seat, I bathed in the beautiful energy between the cousins as they reconnected, fully grown. 

Simone’s birthplace

I too began to piece Simone together. As time rewound in a place mostly unchanged, I saw Simone in the Anguillian children. Simone, who came to England twenty years ago with a thick dialect accent which no one could understand. This was who she is. As the puzzle came together, my connection with her deepened, the love thickened. With time, I’m realising love has no limits. It’s depths and heights just keep going. I haven’t hit the edges yet.

The next day, following our first perfect Anguillian sunrise, Simone’s cousins took us out. Chauffeured by Raheem in his zippy boyish car with his mate in the front seat, Kool Aid in hand, dancehall shaking the car doors, we were getting the insider Anguillan experience. Accompanied by Simone’s Aunt Val, we were going out with the boys. En route, Raheem stopped by a car rental shop. ‘The silver one is yours’.

We jumped into our freedom-mobile. ‘Follow me’, shouted Raheem from his car window.

Cool. Haven’t driven in a while, I thought, but let’s do this. Raheem pulled off to the junction. ‘Oh no, it’s automatic. I’ve never done this before.’

I pressed ‘start’ (a world away from the clunky rusty van I’d been used to driving), I rocked the car in a whiplash dance as my muscle memory feet couldn’t compute having no clutch pedal. 

Raheem got out of the car with a concerned demeanour. ‘You good?’ (an endearing and optimistic greeting the Anguillians use that I’ve since adopted – even though that really meant ‘are you sure you can drive at all?!’)

‘yyyep, just need few minutes to adjust. Let’s take it slow’.

Off we went. Soon we found ourselves in a fleet of cars –  following the cousins as they stopped every few minutes to greet everyone they knew. We were riding on Carribean time. That means, slow it down, everyone deserves a moment. What’s the need to ever rush? 

We arrived at a harbour and took a little boat which took us to a tiny sandy island lined with walls made from huge shells. Crabs walked sideways along the paths as we were lured into the central bar by the sounds of a live reggae band playing Bob Marley, where rum punches were being lined up for us. You can’t make it up. 

Simone’s cousin on the boat

The tour continued, with Simone meeting some form of relative at each bar we went to as we gained our bearings of the island. By the third day we no longer needed a map – instead finding our way by ‘taking a left by the pink house with it’s roof blown off’ and ‘going past the dog always sat in the road’. We’d returned to a simpler life, before technology. With no phone service, we cherished this approach. Rather than a text or phone call, we’d drive to the family’s house every morning to touch base. Simone’s Grandad’s house became a hub, where we’d always find someone (and an extremely cute puppy waiting to be loved). 

This was the way of life in Anguilla – a real community. Where bonds are built through eye contact, not pixels. As the days passed, and we got under the skin of the culture, my society of separation felt like a colander in comparison. I didn’t think communities like this existed anymore. Where kids can flow freely between houses and expect to be fed at each one. Where it’s impossible to walk down the street without being embraced multiple times. Has the pervasiveness of technology separated us more than it’s connected us? 

The next day, we went exploring. After our daily check in to Grandad’s hub, Simone becoming a usual jungle gym for multiple small cousins on each limb, and puppy cuddles, it was time to beach. We headed to the crystal clear waters of Shoal Bay. The shape of Simone’s face got us free parking (going something like this: ‘you look familiar. Who you related to… Ah the Carty’s, I went to school with your Mum. You don’t pay, empress’). We walked through soft champagne bubbles on the sea shore, a celebration for the water droplets completing their voyage. The warm wind reminding me where I begin. Since the moment we stepped foot on the island, we’d wondered ‘have we died and this is heaven?’ It was so perfect it didn’t feel real.

We decided, as a key route into Simone’s nostalgia, we were going to break our vegetarianism in Anguilla and ordered Lobster and Red Snapper for lunch. Meat consumption felt different here. Fished from the sea 20 meters ahead of us, cooked with boundless love. Simone remembers her family raising and butchering chickens and goats in front of her – who to this day spend their lives quite literally crossing roads. No ignorance here. It was probably the best meal we’d ever had. Melt in the mouth, native love-food.

You can taste it – love. Cooking is an artform like painting or music. Energy is transferred from the ingredients to the mouth with every slice, season and slurp. The beautiful thing is, this energy fuels us. It’s why cooking for someone special feels good. It’s the closest you can get to someone, putting food in their belly. Getting right inside them to their core. Little pieces of love energising through their bloodstream. It’s why cooking good food for yourself is the greatest act of self-love: you’re quite literally giving yourself energy to live. Food is momentary: it can’t be hung on a wall or replayed. But in it’s fleeting sense it requires presence. It’s only ever here and now, it’s chewed, it’s gone, it’s in us.

(FYI – On the meat eating front, we quickly concluded that to satisfy us for a third of a day – it’s absolutely not worth taking a life, and returned to vegetarian food).

Then, we decided to drive all the way to the tip of the island, as far as our little rental car could take us. 29 minutes was the time to cross the entire country. The tarmac became road, became dirt, became dust, became mud. We parked up and did the last 100m on foot heading west for the sunset. It reminded me of the simple life we lived during our van travels. The daily ritual of watching the sun rise and set over the horizon – the only clock we were keeping to. 

The next day was pina coladas on the beach followed by a beach-side lunch on a long banquet table filled with Simone’s family. In the evening we headed to ‘Cartyville’ – an area of Anguilla with houses owned exclusively by Simone’s family – to a feast put on by a family member. With no address, we followed the sounds of laughter and music as well as the sight of BBQ smoke rising. 

Yet again, we were being fed for free, alongside 40 other members of the family. Shellfish and crayfish caught fresh by Uncles were laid on the grill, large bowls of salad and piles potatoes were laid out. Drinks were passed around, music booming, Simone on the guitar. People coming and going freely. Kids roaming around. It seemed like a party, but this was a normal evening. Seemingly a lot for one household  – it works because it’s reciprocal. Tonight it was Deborah’s house, next time it’s Darleen’s.

The next day we were taken for an excursion with Simone’s Auntie Carlyn and some others to the neighbouring island of St Martin, on which Anguillians rely for many imports. Despite being the same square mileage as Anguilla, the country is torn in two, with one side belonging to the French, the other to the Dutch. Two languages, two currencies. Only a 20 minute boat ride, but a world away from Anguilla. St Martin is the big city to Anguilla’s rural village. Traffic and rubbish piled high. Cruise ships off-loading tourists into shopping malls of brand named stores. Palm trees aside, we could have been anywhere. 

Anguilla implemented laws to ban casinos, cruise ships, and a whole lot of consumerism from the island. The result: ‘tranquility wrapped in blue’. Perfect beaches, peace, and a real feeling of independence. We returned delightedly, despite our white knuckle rollercoaster boat ride. Hurtling from left to right on stormy waters, even locals were clinging to each other. The whites of Simone’s eyes were as big as the full moon reflecting on the waves which crashed over the roof of the boat.

As the storm blew over, I took a shower in the warm tropical rain which fell horizontally and passed quickly. Yet in the midst of its angst, the threats of hurricanes felt real. Two years ago Anguilla was crushed by hurricane Irma, which despite lasting only hours, left long-term scars on the island. A price to pay for otherwise consistent paradise weather year-round? According to the family, hurricanes are getting worse. As we pondered our retirement plan (after discovering land can only be owned by Anguillians, an exclusive birthright of Simone, and got very tempted…) we wondered if flat Anguilla, with its highest peak at 73m, would still be here in 50 years’ time?

Once the storm passed, a clear full moon showed its face, with confetti stars hanging behind. 

It felt important. The final one of the year, aligned with both of our periods (signifying Simone returning home as a woman). I had a pure moment of connection. 

There’s a very particular and unexplainable smell that I’ve only ever caught under a starry sky in the village I grew up in. Over time, I’ve come to equate it with home. Somehow, under the full moon in Anguilla, I smelled it. Feeling the presence of Simone’s Grandmother hugging us, I realised I too had found a home here. And it’s true. It took some time to click, but through Simone, Anguilla has become my home too. This very British white girl found a piece of home 6,000 miles away from my birthplace on an island paradise in the Caribbean. 

A few days in, we’d realised a beautiful takeaway from the trip:  Simone was able to understand previously unexplainable parts of her quirky personality. From her bouncy dance moves, to the jolly perspective she has on the world. It’s the Anguillian in her. For example, for many years I’ve teased Simone for how she names sun lotion.

‘Becky, pass the sunscreen lotion’.

‘Simone, you’ve got to choose one. It’s either sunscreen, or sun lotion’. 

Lo and behold, on the packaging of the bottle we bought: ‘sunscreen lotion’.

‘It’s ingrained in me!!!’

The more Anguillian air we breathed, the more connected to the family and country we grew. Things became familiar, we got into the groove. Simone performed at Anguillian legend Bankie Banx’s venue and performed in front of an adoring crowd at another venue.

Simone + Bankie Banx

We became personified bottles of brandy and rum on a Friday night, taken out by the cousins to ‘the strip’ (a collection of shacks on the main highstreet). DJs toasted over dancehall vibes as people packed the shack from front to back. We were quite literally under the cousin’s wings as we found ourselves locked shoulder-to-shoulder in familiar wobbly dance floor circles. Except we were surrounded by an unlikely mix of people. An old man danced with his walking stick in the air the whole night. Have you ever seen an old man with a walking stick at a club? 

Everyone was welcome, elders respected. This virtue was reflected everywhere in Anguilla. All ages are included. Women are honoured. Neither of us felt any male intrusion there (yet we did on the other Caribbean islands). I wondered if that would change as I found myself spiraling on a dancefloor with a random Anguillian man. We had 30 seconds of child-like fun, and that was that. There’s a constant theme of independence in Anguilla. You do you, take your space. Shot after shot were passed to us. We were sloshed. Bed.

Calypso Christmas songs on the radio were the constant reminder that despite my tanning body, we were in mid-December. Although the sandy beaches made the creep towards Christmas feel less festive, we did have a merry moment. 

For years, our favourite Christmas tune has been a Caribbean export Simone remembers her mum singing to her as a kid. The chorus goes: 

‘Ho, ho, ho, how did Santa get ‘ere. There is no reindeer, in my country, we had to borrow, my neighbour’s donkey…’

Instead of lighting up a pines,  Anguillians glowed the tamarind trees (one of them being the umbrella under which Simone’s grandmother had a restaurant for many years). One night, we turned a corner to a Caribbean wonderland. A magical march of dazzling light as tree after tree was alight with colour, maximising itself in the puddle reflections below. As we drove slowly, eyes wide, our favourite Christmas song came on the radio. It couldn’t have been a more perfect canvas.

Our penultimate day, we hired a kayak and paddled to the secret beach of Little Harbour, accessible only by water or abseiling down a cliff. The water, clear as ice, except a warm bath, led to a paradise cove layered with floury sand. As we snorkelled through the blue, helicoptering stingrays and schools of shimmering colour, we met another cousin in probably one of the strangest circumstances: in the ocean itself. We’d swam 100 meters out to sea where two guys were fishing with spear guns. Within a few questions as they both treaded water and had a sloppy ocean hug, he’d placed himself in relation to Simone. 

Our final day had come, and we spent it in the awe of Simone’s Aunt Darleen’s house with a cooking lesson: the Anguillian way. We toured her wonderland garden, ripe with fruit on every tree, chickens and puppies roaming the ankles, as she picked alien fruit for us to eat. Sugar apples, star fruits, guavas. The family eagerly watched for our reactions as each new taste hit our tongues. Simone’s Uncle cut at the sugar cane with a machete and we chewed the roots as sugar water surfed our palettes. Meanwhile, Simone’s cousin was teaching her the craft of Caribbean cuisine. As usual, a calvary of family arrived, right on time, to feast on the masterpiece. 

As evening drew closer, we headed for one final pina colada on the beach. We snorkeled over crabs and starfish (and I was followed by one particular school of fish who tailed my toes everywhere I went). Suddenly, a turtle emerged from the blurry blue. I flapped my hands under the silent water to get Simone’s attention, and we followed it’s lead. Queen of the bay, her giant body commanded attention, with her puzzle-piece coat. She moved gently and gracefully through the water. A few minutes later, to my bubbling surprise, there was another smaller turtle. I looked behind me, the school of fish were still following my every turn. I felt like an underwater snow white. The Pisces in me could die happy.

Our time in Anguilla was over, but we’d taken some souvenirs. Simone unknowingly had a family with open arms waiting for her. People we met – if they weren’t somehow related – remembered little Simone running barefoot through the dusty roads. She existed in their minds all this time, and in that sense, she’d never left. We departed Anguilla knowing part of us would still be there. Simone felt complete having threaded her roots back to its origins. We both understood her better. 

Simone outside her old school

Back to cold, December Britain we went, knowing the warmth of Anguilla’s beaches and people were in us in our minds eyes whenever we need to dip in. 13,000 people on a tiny paradise rock, with their own personality and independence. Simone is of these unique and beautiful beings and it’s a privilege to have experienced this from the inside out.