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On the island of Barbuda in the West Indies, there are no iconic scenes, no Eiffel Tower, no colosseum, yet there is a picture to be taken at every turn. I came across hanging clothes, dried by the breezes and the rays of the searing sun, communal blackened oil cans shaded by overhanging gnarly trees along the beachfront converted into barbecues, and simple fishing boats used to harvest lobsters out of the lagoon. Located where the Caribbean meets the Atlantic Ocean the weather patterns make for dramatic skies. A dusty dirt road, leaving town, ends at Spanish Point. Here, the pink sands of the beach transition into a rugged rocky shoreline, pounded by breaking waves sending sprays of white water skyward.
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