AT LAST!

Evening Post, Volume CXXXIII, Issue 44, 21 February 1942, Page 6

AT LAST!

BUCCANEERS OF 1942

CURACAO THE SCENE

(By G. 0.)

Orders to call at Curacao seemed almost too good to be true. White heat imagination pictured waving palms, coral strands, sapphire seas with snow-white surf breaking on yellow beaches; languorous "natives" lolling about their lowly dwellings and serenading on moonlight nights that the higher latitudes never knew; islets set in emerald waters with riotousfoliage covering them; and, perhaps, the repositories of pirate hoards and spoils of buccaneers! True, the buccaneers are out again, but those of ancient days on the Spanish Main were as meek Bible-class students compared with their sadistic successors in 1942. Still, fancy is always free to work her will, to restore to the Caribbean seas towering three-deckers of the French and English navies; slavers, loaded to the coamings with black ivory, running into Curacao—as they did. All this seemed to be as dreams to come true.

Bitter reality. Out into the Caribbean, leaving behind the Panama Canal, that impressive memorial to Colonel Goethals and the efficiency of the American people, a turn was made eastwards, skirting the distant coasts of Colombia and Venezuela, across the Gulf of Maracaibo, picking up the first West Indian tropic isle, Aruba, some five miles to starboard. A miserablelooking, low-lying, arid, treeless isle with blotches of dingy scrub on it, also tall radio masts; that was all. No matter; Curacao will be different. Did it not give its name to that delectable accompaniment of black coffee, the apex to a good dinner? Shall not presently be seen its lovely groves of the Curacao orange trees, above them graceful, swaying coconut palms, with white houses arid red roofs against a background of veridian green? What of the old town of Willemstad, its streets thronged by gaily-dressed people in garbs and skins of many colours? What of strange, fruits and fishes in its market place, and of the to-and-fro and merry chatter, with the sweet northeast trade wind tempering the tropical heat?. At last!—as Charles Kingsley exclaimed.

So the ship draws neat to the island as the sun goes down—with a seeming bump. Lights twinkle on the mainland above low cliffs, one great beam reaching' well out over the sea, red and green lights and a flashing white, low down, suggesting the channel into the port of Santa Ana. There is nothing more to see until morning. Then shall the island disclose its voluptuous tropic beauties. But, no; Caracas Bay is the objective. Well, so much the better, for here one shall see the unsophisticated West Indies, not that Willemstad is ever overrun by tourists. Caracas Bay is discovered, small and enclosed by low, bare, brown hills. On one of the hills is a lonely Dutch house, on that opposite is an old Spanish fort. A thick scum of oil spreads over the water. Except for a patch of mangroves at the mouth of a small stream into the bay, there is nothing green growing anywhere. All is brown. Moored in the bay is an ex-meat cargo-carrier. Her vast holds that formerly held frozen mutton and lambs all nicely packed in clean wrappings, and great quarters of beef handled with care in the loading, are now filled with viscid oil, to be discharged into ships' bunkers or tanks. What a come-down for any respectable ship! The only sweet thing hereabout is the north-east trade wind blowing without ceasing.

Piet, the great coloured chauffeur to the chief engineer, stands by his Ford, at the jetty. A hospitable "Jump in" and -the car is off to Willemstad, Piet accelerating with quiet glee. What a test to tyres and springs! Goats and hens scatter out of the way. Donkeys are more leisurely but no less wary of Piet. There is no grass to be seen, no trees but a few spiky acacia-look-ing shrubs. Birds of lovely plumage fly across the road, but do not perch. Brown, low hills, with sparse and un-happy-looking houses on them, show up in the distance, huts of case-timber and old iron along the road where the coloured people dwell, End that is all there is to see. Then the main street of Willemstad opens out, a clean street with banks and offices on one side and the high walls of Fort Amsterdam on the other; beyond, a glimpse of the blue waters of the harbour entrance.

Left to himself a while, the guest of the chief engineer dawdled in the city, unconsciously wandering into a calaboose, where he met two Norwegian sailors. They said they were detained until the ship they had deserted returned. They were glad of the cigarettes and hoped their ship would soon return as they were sick of having nothing to do. "And," one said, "you'd better clear out or you may be put in chokey too, for talking to us." It was good counsel.

By the side of the narrow sleeve of the harbour of Santa Ana small coasters and fishing boats were moored. Up the harbour where it opened out into rocky shallow patches and deep holes were the great oil refineries. They were not beautiful, nor so entertaining as the crowd on the quayside. A Junoesque and handsome negress, one of many, stood and spoke, with vehemence, on the subject of the price of fish with the man selling it. She was black as ebony, but beautiful in her carriage. She wore a scarlet turban and a white cotton dress hanging from neck to her ankles. Her speech seemed to be well seasoned with the pepper of Cayenne. She bought no fish. It was a fine-lined fish, like large mackerel. Cargo was landing from a

lighter, and it included cases of Curacao—from Holland. Over the pontoon bridge lay the suburb Overzyde—if anything,, the gayer quarter of Willemstad. Here, the guest of the engineer was invited by a Dutch merchant to take tea at his home. The merchant had been long resident in the island and had married a lady of the land. She had a dark complexion, and was very beautiful. She moved about the house with queenly grace and dignity and had a soft and alluring voice. The room was almost bare of furniture and there were no carpets on the floor. Outside, on the almost empty street, the sun struck down; but within was a grateful shade and the jalousies were ajar. No flowers grew in the forecourt of the house or appeared in the room. The hostess moved about with seductive ease. She was nearer fifty than forty and wore a long, white silk something with no break in it from shoulders to feet. She spoke seldom. Her two sons were seated by her, looking up into her lovely face, for their reasons were overclouded. The merchant was a rich man, but riches are not all, it seemed. He spoke English well and had a wide knowledge of international affairs, especially of oil.

Then Piet called with his Ford. So, back to Caracas Bay and aboard went the" engineer's guest, gladly to hear again the speech of Englishmen, Scotsmen, and Welshmen; to hear "No bid. Hearts. Spades. No-trumps." He found it good, too, to be steaming away from those arid isles, through the Mona Channel towards Cape Hatteras; and, best of all, to turn in, with no fears then of being blasted out of a bunk into a flaming sea or rent into bloody fragments by the buccaneers of today, befoulers of the storied waters of the Caribbean Sea.