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Postcard from a shared island

by Patrick McGrath, SGCI volunteer

Home zones.  Shared spaces.  Woonerven.  For cyclists, walkers, lovers of the urban fabric, and those who’ve been startled out of their reverie one too many times by the aggressive passage of a 19,000 lb truck, these words are an incantation evoking a reconceived city.  But most of my friends (that is, those friends who don’t get jazzed about permeable concrete or market-based parking management) are so accustomed to the constant roar of traffic that the idea of a street dominated by actual human bodies is as foreign as capsule hotels or the Saturnalia.

There are a few places in Seattle where one can see what functionally shared streets look like (Pike Place comes to mind) and thanks to the efforts of planners at the City of Seattle and local planning firms (many of whom are represented on the Seattle Great City Initiative Steering Committee), we will soon play host to more of them.  But like most West Coast cities that bloomed after World War II, Seattle’s shared spaces are vanishingly rare.  Travel is still the most reliable way to witness an urban form that was dominant for all but a fraction of civilization’s history.

I recently had the good fortune to go to one of these places, although it was not in the Netherlands, Sweden, or anywhere in Europe for that matter.  It was in Belize, where my wife Kristen and I recently traveled for our belated honeymoon.  Married last July, we had put off the trip until our patience with Seattle’s gloom had run out.  In mid-March we headed south.

Our first stop, and the subject of this blog post, was Caye Caulker, an island off the north coast.  It takes about 45 minutes by water taxi to reach “Caulker” from the mainland, and when we arrived we were struck by a remarkable feature: its total lack of cars.  And the hibiscus.  And the hammocks.  And the palm trees.  And the fresh pineapple juice mixed with local rum.  And the warm, moist tropical breeze that wafted over the island to caress the skin, smooth the brow, and planting a smile on your face and the faces of everyone around you…

But I digress.

Caye Caulker is all shared space.  Most travel takes place at a stately 6 – 8 miles per hour on weatherbeaten but well-loved cruiser bikes.  Many are in an almost comical state of disrepair, but even the sandiest, most salt-encrusted steeds work just fine on Caulker’s flat and unpaved streets – as long as you’re willing to “Go Slow” (the island’s self-appointed motto).

Electric go-carts carry people or goods that, for whatever reason, cannot go by bike. 

The occasional truck or maintenance vehicle trundles down the sandy street, hauling building supplies or wetting the road to keep the sand down.

Pedestrians rule the road, giving way as needed to speedier traffic.  There are a few STOP signs around but they are unneeded and unheeded; everyone is paying attention to everyone else.  One must, as the road is narrow and you never know if a pedestrian or a bike rider (“cyclist” doesn’t seem quite right in this context) is around the corner.  The uncertainty keeps you alert. 

Traffic moves at a human pace.  Because the few powered vehicles are moving well below the 20MPH limit at which the human body can escape a collision with minor injuries, the typical safety gear you see Stateside is unnecessary.  Cycling becomes a natural, unaffected way to get from place to place -- an extension of walking.

The main drag is narrow, and lined with shops, guest houses, and restaurants.  There is no formal parking for vehicles – only bike racks.

Without the need for acres of parking, all the commercial establishments are close together.  That makes the lack of cars a non-issue, since there are not acres of parking lots to traverse between errands.  Which made me wonder: what comes first, the parking or the driving?

The proximity of destinations to each other and the inherently open nature of walking and biking make shared spaces like Caye Caulker a great place to meet people and make friends.  You’re constantly spotting new nooks and crannies where someone’s set up a BBQ perhaps, or selling locally mixed CDs.  It is easy to catch someone’s eye, pull your bike over for a few minutes, and chat.  You don’t have to find parking; you can keep your bike with you as you introduce yourself, or lean it against a tree if you’re staying for a while.  Having a conversation is easy and natural when you’re not straining to be heard over traffic.

Caveats

Of course I recognize there are fundamental differences between a tiny Carribean island and a major metropolitan region like ours.  To get here one must “commute” by airplane or by boat – not environmentally-friendly modes of transport by any stretch of the imagination.  Caye Caulker is not a major international port like Seattle, nor does it host heavy industry.

But it is also more than simply a tourist haven or bedroom community.  Caye Caulker has its share of permanent residents, many of whom work independently from tourism in the construction and fishing trades.  The lack of cars and the physical arrangement of their island is not a gimmick – it is a way of life that Caye Caulker residents have chosen for themselves.  And it works, in this residential and commercial environment.

 Last thoughts

Our week in Caye Caulker did not inspire any profoundly original thoughts about urban planning, but it did remind me of the power of human scaled design, and how valuable it is for everyone to experience shared places first hand.  I believe that once we give each other the opportunity to experience living, working streets -- where one can socialize while conducting day-to-day business -- then we will realize great benefits.  To recast Mark Twain's observation about travel: dynamic spaces are fatal to alienation, disaffection, and spiritual emptiness.

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