View of Quill Volcano through Palm trees

Sint Eustatius (Statia), The Golden Rock - Island Hopping 3

Author: Sue
Date: 2nd January 2024

St Eustatius - the Golden Rock

I'm coming from Saba, on my trip to visit islands in the Caribbean which I've missed on my previous travels. I stopped by Sint Eustatius on the outward journey to Saba and it didn't look exactly, how shall I put it, imposing. This island has more historical tales to tell than Saba though. Perhaps they'll pique the interest. Sint Eustatius is a bit of a mouthful and locally it's always known as Statia, so I'm sticking with that from now on.

Big Dipper to Statia

The ferry ride to Statia, is, if anything. even rougher than the journey out. The pitch dark of night doesn’t help, as we hang onto the railings, while the boat tosses up down and swings from side to side. I’m not keen on fairground rides anyway and this is like being on a continuous Big Dipper. I’ve never known time pass so slowly. Everyone sitting outside with me is vowing that they’re going to fly back.

Statia, Background

Statia, is a special municipality (officially "public body") of the Netherlands, along with Saba and Bonaire. Together, they are known as the BES Islands. The island's name, Sint Eustatius, is Dutch for Saint Eustace, but it was previously known as Nieuw Zeeland ('New Zeeland'), after the Zeelanders who settled there in the 1630s. (I’ve heard that name somewhere before.) The indigenous, Arawak name for the island is Aloi meaning ‘cashew island’. Sint Eustatius exported sugar and cotton, but most of its trade was in slaves. When it was first settled, Statia was the most prosperous island in the Dutch Caribbean (because it was a freeport, haven for pirates and contraband and because of its slave trade) and it was dubbed The Golden Rock accordingly.

Statia is very different to Saba. It doesn’t soar, but there’s still a formidably sheer cliff escarpment. Up-top is almost a plateau, sloping to the Atlantic coast. There are hills to the north, and to the south-east, the spiky outline of the Quill (Dutch for pit or hole) Volcano (about 600 metres). The island has an area of roughly eight square miles (six miles long and up to three miles wide). In cross section, it’s a saddle shape, depicted proudly on the nation’s flag. The flatter middle section is almost bisected by the runway of Franklin D Roosevelt Airport.

Quill Volcano

Quill is also known as Mount Mazinga. You can see it from almost everywhere on the island, dominating the skyline. It must have been an awesome explosion. Fortunately, it was about 1600 years ago. The Quill is a national park, with attendant (steep and often slippy) hiking trails.

Saba or Statia?

As I've already observed, Statia is nowhere near as pretty as Saba, even utilitarian at times, with government offices and rows of gas and oil tanks facing out to sea. There are still peaks and it’s picturesque in parts, with Prussian blue sea coves edged foaming white. But you can't shut out the cylindrical tanks, peeking at the corners. There’s no uniform plan for building houses here. No Toytown. Instead, there are an assortment of dwellings, mostly timber, some concrete, some stone, ranging from ramshackle to highly decorated. There are still elements of gingerbread, with jutting eaves. And some are decidedly historic; as I had hoped, the diversity and colour does makes Statia more engaging.

Quill Gardens - Almost the Lap of Luxury

My hotel is definitely an improvement, however. It nestles beneath the Quill Volcano. I have a room with a huge sleigh bed, an enormous bathroom and a view across to the Atlantic coast. There’s a gorgeous, tastefully decorated terrace, with deft touches like blue lanterns. And a breakfast that features about eight dishes. Ah luxury.

At least, until the weekend. I chose this place, even though it is out of town, as it looked like a good place to relax and it has a swimming pool. But no, building renovation is in full scale, every day, all weekend. Even Sunday. I’m the only guest, so the owner deals with it by hustling me out of the way. Go snorkelling. Go hiking. Have a nice day!

Oranjestad

I’ve walked in to the capital, coastal Oranjestad (Orange Town, after the Dutch royal family, the same as the capital of Aruba). This is where my ferry landed. It’s rural round the hotel and the road is bumpy and unmade, to start. There’s a historic large boulder, painted with the name Big Rock. Apparently, it was spewed from the volcanic crater, on my left.

Oranjestad sprawls gently onto the middle of the saddle. Most of the population live here, in the residential and commercial hub. I wander past banks, schools, various shops and supermarkets, wares piled higgledy piggledy and spilling onto the pavement. There’s Duggans, the largest supplier, with rows of well stocked refrigerated cabinets. But it’s so warm outside, that all the doors are covered in condensation and you can’t see what’s inside. It’s also hard to tell if the various restaurants and drinking establishments on the Fort Oranjestad Road are open - they’re dark and a little shabby.

At the cliff edge, things get interesting. Merchants' houses, restored Caribbean timber dwellings, churches (there's a ruined Dutch Reformed church built in 1755, with a tower that can still be climbed), government offices, museums, the ruins of one of the oldest synagogues in the Western Hemisphere, a Jewish cemetery and a fort.

Fort Oranje

I think twice about entering Fort Oranje. This is the third fort in two weeks and I’m forted out. I’m going to change that phrase – it’s open to misinterpretation. I’m suitably fortified already. This seventeenth-century fort is as well built and maintained, as Brimstone, in nearby St Kitts, if smaller and lower down. It has cannons, intact bastions and a courtyard. the impressively steep slopes beneath have been reinforced and there are sweeping views along the coast. And some interesting history. A plaque proudly proclaims this to be the first nation to recognize the independence of the USA, when they returned a salute from an American ship.

Statia was a well known supplier of armaments and ammunition and was instrumental in supporting the Americans during the war of independence, when other sources refused to supply them. The relationship was cemented when, on November 16, 1776, Captain Isaiah Robinson sailed the American ship Andrew Doria, into the waters' below Fort Oranje. Robinson proceeded to fire a thirteen gun salute, (one gun for each of the original thirteen American colonies). The governor replied with an eleven gun salute. (international protocol required two guns fewer in reply). This event is commemorated annually on Statia Day.

The British were very upset and eventually declared war, the fourth Anglo-Dutch War. in 1781, Admiral Rodney turned up with a massive feet and forced Statia to surrender. Ten months later, the French arrived and took control. Then the Dutch won it back.

Oranjestad, Lower, Coast Road

Instead, I drop down to the coast road. I follow the steep Old Slave Path down the cliff, (there are signs abjuring me not to let the goats through, no matter what they tell me), to find it is being renovated at the bottom; I have to scramble over a heap of rubble to get out. But there’s gin and a meal waiting for me down here. This is where the best restaurants and most up market establishments are.

This road leads from the harbour, up to the north end of town and is lined with small beaches, which disappear and reappear over the years. Erosion is a big problem. The original wall defending the coast is several metres out, below water. The same fate, it seems, has befallen numerous colonial buildings along the path. Excavation and renovation has revealed an assortment of stone buildings, on both sides of the route. Existing plans are on hold, while they are all examined.

Maybe Not So Flat After All

Walking back to my hotel, I discover that the road from Quill to Oranjestad was a long, fairly gentle, descent. Returning is much harder work. I’m not encouraged to repeat the experience, especially as cars speed by giving little quarter. I’ve been told not to risk it at night. Which is fine, if you can track down taxi driver and don’t mind 10 USD a pop. I’ve also discovered that my hotel only serves dinner some nights and these are fairly random. So it’s town, or go hungry, or stock up at the supermarket, if you can find anything in the cabinets.

Exploring The Golden Rock

I’m back in Oranjestad again for a Round The Island Tour. Also along for the ride are a Dutch couple, normally based in Curacao, with the Dutch navy. Unlike my last guide, in Saba, taxi driver cum tour guide, Wade, knows his stuff and takes his time showing off the whole island, and trundling down most of the roads.

Round the Island is clearly a misnomer. There are roads on the flatter parts of Statia, but not into the hills at either end. and many are unmade. Where the streets are surfaced, the concrete is disintegrating badly. Wade says they were fine until building development expanded rapidly. Increasing numbers of parcels of land have been bought and built on over the years, with prices escalating accordingly.

Fort de Windt

South, to Fort Windt. (Yes, another one.) Fort de Windt at the extreme southern tip of Sint Eustatius about five kilometres south of Oranjestad, guarding the channel to St Kitts. It was one of 16 small forts built on Statia. It dates from 1756 and was named after its commander, Jan de Windt (not because it was windy there, though it is Dutch for wind). The fort never saw action and was abandoned in 1815. The two remaining cannons, on the restored fortifications, face across the choppy waters, to the loftier guns of Brimstone Fort on St Kitts.

South Statia

There’s little evidence of cultivation, other than market gardens. The sugar plantations, with their stone arched entrances and mills have long been abandoned and the ground is now a riot of flowering vines and creepers.

Hugging the bottom of Quill, to the east, and on to the not quite completed, but very upmarket, Golden Rock Resort. The gardens in the resort are glorious, replete with exotic blooms.

North, across the island centre and round the airport, to a viewpoint in the hills, in the north-west. These are the smaller summits of Signal Hill/Little Mountain (or Bergje) and Boven Mountain. From here, Quill consumes the whole of the horizon.

Then, we drop down to Zealandia Beach, where the turtles (three species) brave the Atlantic rollers and come to nest. But not today. It’s wild, windy and strewn with weed. Swimming not allowed.

Wade began the day by suggesting we could go to dinner at Golden Rock later. So, I’ve spent a lot of time talking about how old I am. He hasn’t mentioned it again.

Snorkelling, Oranje Bay

I’ve been more or less thrown out of my hotel, so time to go snorkelling. It was on my To Do List anyway. The lovely people at the dive shop, on the coast road, in Oranjestad, point out the reef, just off shore, in Oranje Bay and are very happy for me to leave my gear with them. They only run dive trips here.

The reef runs parallel to the shore, some of it inextricably mixed with the colonial, underwater ruins. It’s maybe a couple of metres at its tallest and perhaps two metres below the surface. It’s not the most thrilling of underwater experiences, but there’s bright yellow coral, some crimson strands and plenty of small fish, parrot fish, sergeant majors, weavers, puffer fish. The usual suspects. They’re congregating in twos or threes though, or hiding under ledges. No shoals. There’s also a cannon or two.

I’ve taken my underwater camera, but discover that I’ve brought it all the way from England with no SD card in it. So, after my swim, I toil up the Slave Path, to a Chinese supermarket, a glory hole containing every type of good that you can imagine in its depths and find a phone card I can adapt. It pours with rain. Back to the water and up and down the (murkier thanks to the downpour) reef again, taking pictures. When I emerge, (it’s one of those beaches where you scramble out trying to look dignified as the waves knock you over and your crotch fills with sand) I discover that I’ve had the camera on the wrong setting and most of the images are all out of focus.

It's raining again, so I wrap my towel round me and ask if The Barrel House Restaurant next door minds me coming in wet. The waiter says its fine, but it seems they thought I meant wet hair and are not so keen on me sitting there in my cossie. I’m not sure why - it is a terrace by the sea. But by now, all my clothes and towel are sodden and the rain buckets down again, blasting the terrace. So no-one objects any more.

Sayonara Statia

All good things come to an end. though not the renovations at my hotel, it seems. So it's time to return to St Kitts (on the evil ferry again) and on to Barbuda.

(Or read more about the BES Islands here.)

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