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ST. JOHN: eco chic

BY K.C. SUMMERS | THE WASHINGTON POST

November 13, 2005

Here's the thing about St. John. When your ferry docks in the capital of Cruz Bay - there's no airport - the town seems deliciously quiet and slow-paced, a refuge. But spend some time in the interior and you'll discover the real meaning of slow: feral burros and goats wandering the roads, sugar-shack bars, eco camps with rainwater showers. Turns out that Cruz Bay, with its hip boutiques and upscale resorts, is actually quite the hot spot.

Arriving without a plan, my companion and I surveyed the scene. Which St. John was it to be? Peaceful, environmentally correct campsite, or luxury villa by the sea? Both, of course.

Eco Tents

The Concordia Eco Tents compound, about an hour from Cruz Bay on St. John's remote southeast coast, is legendary among the backpack set. In the mid-1970s, New York developer Stanley Selengut started his eco-empire with 11 self-sustaining units at Maho Bay. Concordia soon followed, using solar and wind power for electricity, roofing materials that reflect heat and a design that minimizes the developments' impact on the land. They're still popular, and not just because they're politically correct: At $75 to $95 a night, they're a fraction of the cost of chi-chi resorts.

Our "tent" was actually a wood-framed, canvas-sided structure with windows, a screen door and a balcony, tucked away on the mountainside and reachable via a series of wooden decks and 104 steps. We couldn't see our neighbors, although we did hear guitar licks wafting from one of the other cabins.

The cottages are ingeniously designed, with wide deck flooring, space-agey white roofs, large screened windows and balconies with killer views overlooking Salt Pond Bay. The kitchen area comes complete with running water (cold only) and a battery-powered eco-fridge that never got the Cokes above tepid.

Not surprisingly, there are no TVs, phones or air conditioners in the rooms, but each bed sports a solar-powered mini-fan and reading light.

In the bathroom, a solar-heated, glass-topped shower drew rainwater from a plastic barrel on the roof. "Pump yourself a warm, refreshing, no-cost shower!" exhorted a nearby sign. I ventured in and started pumping. Yow! It dawned on me that if it's been dark for the previous 12 hours, the water isn't going to be hot. Note to self: Take shower at night.

Visitors to Caribbean islands invariably get tangled up in synonyms for blue when trying to describe the water. In St. John, that honor goes to green. The foliage-draped mountains, in varying shades of emerald, moss, lichen, kelly, loden and chartreuse, command your attention before you even notice the clear blue sea. Fully two-thirds of the island is national parkland, crisscrossed by more than 20 miles of trails.

Getting around

Driving is the best way to take the measure of this lush and mountainous island, the smallest of the U.S. Virgins at nine miles long and five miles wide, and with a year-round population of 4,000.

Jeep rentals are widely available, distances are short if circuitous, and many of the more than three dozen beaches and coves are reachable only by car. But if you take to the roads, keep a few things in mind:

Figuring the amount of time to get from Point A to Point B is like remodeling your house - triple the estimate.

St. Johnians drive on the left - the Virgins are the only U.S. possession where this is done.

Watch out for those out-of-nowhere, roller-coaster-like hollows that can send you airborne. At particularly risky spots, the government has posted bright yellow DIP signs. And some islander has gone around and named them all, in press-on letters: Skinny DIP, DIP Stick, Big DIPper and so on. By the time you've negotiated Clam DIP, you feel like you're getting the hang of things.

Barreling around in a Jeep is fun, but St. John is really about one thing: snorkeling. Choosing a beach, however, can be stressful; there are 39, after all, each with something special to recommend it - crowded, not crowded, sandy, rocky. Ask around for recommendations and the name that keeps popping up is Waterlemon Cay. But my first choice was the lesser-known Salt Pond Bay on the east end, billed as spacious, secluded and teeming with critters. (Correct on all counts.) Trunk Bay, on the north coast, was a little trickier. Widely considered the island's most beautiful beach, it features a cool, self-guided underwater snorkeling trail, plus snack bars, snorkel rentals, showers, changing areas, gift shops and other amenities. All of which draw the cruise crowds - not exactly a plus.

The secret: Arrive early. At 8:30 a.m., a grand total of five people were on the palm-lined, sugary stretch of sand, and I was first in the water. It isn't exactly the Great Barrier Reef out there, but it was fun to check off the fish against the underwater plaques, and the coral looked surprisingly healthy for such a well-loved place. An hour later, I looked up to find the bay bristling with hundreds of snorkels - the Invasion of the Cruise People, right on schedule.

Back in Cruz Bay, we abandoned all thoughts of composting toilets and checked into the 60-room Gallows Point Resort, a lushly landscaped property overlooking the harbor. Sipping my complimentary rum and Ting (it's an island thing) on the tiled balcony, here's what I saw: green mountains dotted with red-roofed houses, blooming bougainvillea, wheeling seagulls, a marina bobbing with colorful sailboats and yachts.

Cruz Bay - aka "Love City," a nod to the feel-good, live-and-let-live vibe that permeates the place - has the requisite pastel storefronts, open-air eateries and palm-lined streets of most Caribbean capitals, with a sophisticated twist: more gourmet restaurants than you can shake a toque at.

Our last night, we walked through the town, past lively bars and thumping discos, before turning onto our quiet little street - and the dump trucks and other construction equipment that dwarfed our hotel.