In the land of volcanic formations and thick rain forests that is the Caribbean, Anguilla’s topography—flat, arid, narrow—is a glaring anomaly. Not unique—Anegada, ninety miles to the west, and Barbuda, the same distance southward, are just two of a number of siblings in the area—but still sufficiently rare to catch the eye. The land, rugged and craggy, the soil, sparse and meager, the vegetation, scrubby and prickly, all conspire to turn Anguilla into goat heaven.
So much was evident already in the 17th century to the Governor of the Leeward Islands, Sir William Stapleton, who in 1683 described the colony as “fit for little or nothing but goats.” A clear case of hyperbole from the Right Honorable Sir Billy, but an understandable one at that, at least for a boy such as myself, who from the age of 2 to 20, visiting Anguilla on family holidays, was both envious of and awed by the goats’ ability to reach the remotest, the most impossible places, locations that I—the self-declared expert excursionist of the island—could only dream of reaching.
It would only be in my youth, years later, as I grew bolder yet more frustrated in my efforts to out-scramble the goats, that I would come to understand what every local knew tacitly from times immemorial: that these hoofed gobblers rule de facto over a little-known spec of limestone, white sand and turquoise sea in the northeast corner of Paradise.
Unlike George Orwell’s pigs, however, goats are magnanimous leaders. They—like children—run free in Anguilla in small groups rather than great herds, dotting the landscape by the thousands, grazing in the meadows, running through the bush, foraging the gardens with insatiable voracity—for no tree, flower or bush is spared by Your Ravenous Majesty, the Goat.
Goats in Anguilla know no boundaries—no surface is too sharp, no fence too tall—though they’re not particularly fond of the beach, simply because, apart from the odd seagrape tree, little nourishment is to be found there. Baby goats—kids—call out tirelessly with the exuberance of youth and nanny goats scamper behind them, saving them from their own imprudence. Together they forage the gardens and wander in search of food—always in search of food—hugging the coastline with ease whether it be the sharp (if modest) cliffs that dominate the eastern end of the island or the gentle slopes that in the west curl time and again into the sea in a sequence of breathtaking bays.
Not even the sky is out of bounds for Anguillian goats, for somehow they have made it to the neighboring cays and beyond: to Dog Island, to Scrub, to the French-owned Tintamarre, where there once was a dairy—and besides, the sky isn’t really the limit for goats. The only limit they know is the thorny core of cuji trees, the spiky nature of some indigenous shrubs, the highly poisonous resin of the oleander—the only flower allowed to decorate the landscape of Anguilla undisturbed.
Most goats in Anguilla, though, are wild and nomadic—and this is where the analogy with children runs its course, for no matter how liberal an upbringing they favor, most Anguillian families summon their offspring at the end of the day to nestle cozily at home.
Sometimes goats allow humans to shepherd them, fence and take care of them, always staying near the alpha male, who is often hitched to a tree. Years ago I spent some time in the fishing village of Island Harbour, conducting research for my first novel. The house I rented was next to a scraggy flamboyant tree that was used as a tethering post by my neighbors across the yard. The sight of the mighty buck opposite my doorway—a large animal, horned, bearded and moody, his eyes the color of saffron cut by the horizontal slit formed by his pupils—was beautiful and intimidating, imposing and heartwarming, all at the same time.
That’s exactly what goats are like in Anguilla; both a blessing and a curse, ubiquitous and persevering, charismatic, unshakable, unavoidable. And yet, they are charmers to residents and visitors alike, having carved a place—inexorably—on the landscape.
Anguillians have fully embraced goats as a sign of identity. For many generations owning goats was considered a symbol of status—the old-time equivalent to having a flashy car or wearing an expensive watch. Goats have been celebrated in iconic Anguillian stamps—and note that stamp printing has played a pivotal role in the modern history of Anguilla—they’re reproduced in signposts around the island, they’re a recurrent theme in the work of local artists, and have even been turned to heroes in at least one children’s book, Paddy the Goat that Saved Anguilla.
However, even if they’ve managed to charm locals and visitors alike in Anguilla, there’s a major difference in their appreciation by these two groups: while tourists are often captivated by the adorable look of cute little kids prancing about, Anguillians see in a young goat pretty much what any goat sees in a healthy fig tree: a delectable meal. After all, masters of the land as they are, goats even preside in the kitchen, where the delicious curry goat stands out as the local delicacy par excellence.
An abridged version of this piece was published by the New York Times on Sunday 11 October 2015.