The year 1955 arrived with the good news that I had been selected to go to "Brakkeput",
a Roman Catholic Boystown in Curacao. Of course, being an altar boy back on
Saba did no harm to further my cause towards a better education. The
Reverend Sisters were the first ones to point out to the other children in
my class that there were certain rewards reserved for those who served.
My departure from Saba was delayed for several weeks because of a fall I had
had from a breadfruit tree which resulted in a nasty cut on my foot, which
had to be taken care of by the doctor before I could travel.
Finally the day arrived and my father, who was scheduled to go to the
hospital on St. Maarten, was to accompany me on the boat trip over.
In the anxiety of the trip ahead there was not much time for second thoughts
and, though my departure from my mother, sister and brothers was tearful as
required, I did not anticipate the rough road ahead to homesickness and the
responsibility of taking care of myself at the age of fourteen.
Taking on responsibilities at such a young age, and not having any superior
member of one's immediate family to turn to for advice and guidance, proved
to be positive as well as negative in later years, but at that moment all I
had on my mind was my first trip by boat to St. Maarten which was to be
followed by my first plane ride to Curacao.
We traveled with the sloop "Gloria", owned and operated by the then
Commissioner of Saba, Matthew Levenstone. In the best of condition the boat
was little more than a floating wreck and went adrift each time the wind
exceeded anything over five knots. But the day I made my first channel
crossing to St. Maarten the sea was calm, so calm in fact that the boat
could not move! Halfway over we watched my plane taking off for Curacao.
The weather had completely becalmed the old sloop. We must have arrived in
Great Bay Harbour some time in the night. In the "fore-day" when I woke I
realized that we were in port because the sea was so calm. Matthew promised
us that he would use his influence with the Watheys to get me on the next
week's flight to Curacao. I should have learned a lesson then because I did
not get a flight to Curacao until two weeks later, which happened to be on
my 14th birthday, September 22nd 1955. This delay turned out to be a
blessing in disguise, as I was able to observe and appreciate a way of life
on St. Maarten that was to disappear completely within a few short years.
The first thing which struck me was the complete calmness of the harbour in
which we were anchored. To one accustomed to safe anchorage this may sound
silly, but I had never ever experienced it that calm and it left a lasting
impression on my mind. There was no anchorage off Saba, my native island,
and what we would call calm was rough by comparison. The next thing which
struck me and which became etched on my mind forever, when daylight cleared,
was the blueness of the water and the whiteness of the sand beach in front
of us. Never in my wildest dreams could I have imagined it to be like that.
To me it was a thing of beauty and wonder; on Saba we have no beaches and
the water around the islands is so deep that it is a permanent dark blue
bordering on black.
The idea of a town by the sea was also a point of fascination for me because
up until that time it had been my conviction that people lived in towns high
in the mountains while the seas battered away at the cliffs far below.
This first impression of St. Maarten remains with me to this day: calm
waters, safe anchorage, beautiful crystal clear waters, white sand beaches
and, behind the beach, a quaint town with green rolling hills stretching
away in the distance.
Shortly after dawn a small boat with Fred Thomas, the boat- man, came out to
the "Gloria" to fetch the passengers and the mail. I guess the sloop could
have docked up to the small pier which was located just a short distance
away, but it never crossed my mind at that time to question everything as I
would later on. There was a fee involved for the landing of passengers and
the boat belonged to Mr. Cyrus W. Wathey. He controlled the operations in
the harbour, which in those days meant little more than the few passengers
coming in occasionally from Saba and the other islands, either in transit to
Curacao or to visit the doctor on St. Maarten.
I was scheduled to stay at "Miss Browlia's", as the guest house was called.
But it was not really a guest house. It was the private home of a teacher
named Miss Browlia Maillard on Backstreet in Philipsburg who took in
boarders from Saba and St. Eustatius, as did another lady just up the street
from her named Miss Zilah Richardson.
Mr. Frank Hassell, a teacher from Saba, was a regular boarder at Miss
Browlia's and he met us on the pier and took me straight there while my
father and some others from Saba went on up the Frontstreet to St. Rose
Hospital. Little did I realize then that this was the beginning of the road
downhill for my father who was a strong, rugged farmer and labourer.
However, he had worked himself into exhaustion and this was the first sign
of the deterioration of his health and the first of numerous stays in
hospitals until his death in 1971.
I guess my first impression of St. Maarten was one of large numbers of
bicycles. I had seen a bicycle once and my father had surprised quite a
number of Sabans by proving that he could ride one, a skill he acquired as a
young labourer working in Bermuda. But in St. Maarten it seemed that
everyone rode a bicycle. The one I marveled at most was Miss Clarie Woods, a
Saban lady who was employed by the Roman Catholic nuns at the convent. She
did all the errands for the convent on her bicycle.
Cars were also new to me, but only a little different from the Jeeps and
pickups we had on Saba. There were few cars in those days. Frederick
Froston's taxi "M-16" had just recently lost its position as the car with
the highest number. Although there were 109 registered cars on the island in
1955, few of these were actually on the road due to the lack of spare parts.
In those days every new car was given the next number, hand-painted on a
wooden plate, and old numbers were not re-used.
Just across the street from Miss Browlia's was the "Sweet Repose", or "Old
Home", a retirement home maintained by the luns for the old folks. Just down
the street from that was the Philipsburg Electric Company which served the
public from 6 p.m. to 11 p.m. When evening came the electric lights were
something to be marveled at. On Saba I had seen electric lights at the
hospital occasionally and at the home of the Roman Catholic priest, but at
our home we used a kerosene lamp to see by in the evenings.
Also across the street from Miss Browlia there lived an old man with a large
number of cats who I am told was named Mr. Darrell, one of the children of
the well-known Methodist minister by that same name. He and a brother, a
long time ago, had imported the second car to St. Maarten and, in order to
find out what it looked like unassembled, had taken it apart until the whole
yard was nothing but screws, nuts, bolts, and parts. No mechanic south or
north of Detroit in those days would have been able to put the old car back
together again and of course the two brothers were ridiculed for the rest of
their lives about their adventure into the world of the automobile.
Philipsburg at that time was a stately old town, the most advanced section
of which was "Upstreet" which began about where the Methodist Church is and
ran all the way to the head of town. In later years Sydney Lejuez used to
tell me how the van Romondt's had wanted to keep the Wathey's "Downstreet,"
but that the Wathey's had not only succeeded in gaining access to Upstreet,
but also ended up owning many of the former van Romondt's properties as
well. Sydney beamed with obvious pleasure each time he related this story,
as if he personally had been responsible for the Wathey's ascendency to the
Upstreet society. It did not seem to bother him that he had not made it
Upstreet himself. He seemed content in the knowledge that the Wathey's had
made it.
Typical to St. Maarten in those days were the numerous hawkers, vendors and
peddlers who, with their trays of vegetables, fish, fruit, meat, and bread
precariously balanced on their heads, passed along the houses in the early
morning hours selling their wares, passing on the news of the day and, in
some cases, carrying your news further down the street.
All of this held my attention when I first arrived in St. Maarten, but
after. the first day it suddenly dawned on me that I was away from home and
family. Homesickness cannot be described in the true sense of the feeling.
Those who have had it are the only ones unfortunate enough to know what
homesickness is like. The heat was always oppressive, so each day I would
walk down to the wharf, which had a roof over it and was the coolest spot in
town. Saba looked as if it were just outside the harbour. I was not ashamed
to cry my heart out in front of the "big people" who gathered there to
handle the cargo coming in from the sloops and schooners anchored in the
harbour.
I not only had to cope with homesickness, but also with the fact that I was
in charge of my own suitcase and, for the first time in my life, had to make
my own decisions. To me this was a great responsibility.
My parents, like almost everyone else on Saba in those days, were dirt poor
and getting me suited out for a stint of two years away from home involved a
lot of expense. Now the responsibility of what to wear and how to take care
of my strange new clothes fell solely upon me. Toothbrush and toothpaste
were things I really had had no use for at home, but now even this became an
added responsibility. I had been made to understand that people in the
outside world brushed their teeth. At home we usually washed out our mouths
in the yard, using leaves of the pigeon pea tree to scrub our teeth.
Despite my homesickness I was able to come away with some impressions of my
first two weeks on St. Maarten. Life, though not idyllic, was unhurried and
neighbourliness prevailed. There seemed to be a sense of being one people
and one did not seem to worry so much about the cost of living or the chase
after money, as prices were stable and less was required than is today.
I remember how mornings broke with the sound of the conch shells of the
Simpson Bay fisherman coming into the harbour peddling their fish. Soon
after that the vendors came by the houses peddling their wares. The children
were off to school and many of the older folks seemed to be always going to
"the country". In those days "the country" was anywhere outside of
Philipsburg proper. Even" Point Blanche, which had no road leading to it and
where there were cattle, was considered "country".
There was still some export of hay and cattle with the "Antilia" to Curacao,
and the busiest day of the month was when the Antilia was in port. The" Alma
Gloria" bus brought in all the
people from the countryside and the lighters were up and down between the
shore and the Antilia hauling cargo back and forth. Others just gathered
around the square to take a look at all the activity. Even the old lady
named "Mother-in- Trouble", an inmate at the Sweet Repose who swept the
convent and the hospital, would find time to be around the square to check
out all the activity. "Mother-in- Trouble" was the propagandist for Mr.
Bruce's fish, telling everyone in sight that "Mr. Bruce himself" had eaten a
piece of the barracuda and that it was safe to eat. Well, once it happened
that neither "Mr. Bruce himself" nor anyone else had tried a Spanish
mackerel and "Mother-in- Trouble" was blamed for the fish poisoning of over
twenty people. Luckily none of them died, but fish poisoning can be a very
painful experience.
Many years later I remember listening in to a discussion con- cerning the
real name of "Mother-in- Trouble's" brother. After many hours of arguing
back and forth the group finally agreed that his name had been "Appetite."
After my two weeks were up, Frederick Froston, the taxi driver, took me to
the airport. I left for Curacao on a three-hour flight with KLM's DC-3 which
flew once a week to St. Maarten in those days.
Each year on my way to and from Saba for the summer vacation I stayed on St.
Maarten for a few days, sometimes longer, waiting for the "Blue Peter", the
government-owned schooner which took care of the mail service between the
Dutch Windward Islands until it was retired in 1962. Captain Austin H.
Hodge, my later landlord of ten years, was captain until 1955. He was
succeeded by Captain John "Buchi" Craane of Bonaire.
In late August 1960, I took the same path back to St. Maarten after
obtaining my MULO diploma on Curacao. I took passage on the Antillean via
St. Eustatius and St. Kitts to St. Maarten. There I applied to Lt. Governor
J. J. Beaujon for a job with the government, and I was assisted by Mr. P .C.
D. Labega ("Clem") in filing the necessary requests to the Minister on
Curacao. I arrived back on Saba September 3rd 1960. Within a month I had a
cablegram from the Lt. Governor informing me to report for work at the Post
Office on St. Maarten by October 10th. I left Saba with the "Aura", a small
motor yacht owned by Mr. Chester Wathey. The weather was terrible, but we
made it safe and sound to St. Maarten. I was to replace Mr. Willie Williams
at the post office. Willie was dying of cancer and he was well loved on St.
Maarten. I never did get to meet him as he died shortly thereafter, but his
wife told me that he was happy that the boy who had replaced him, was also
named William.
And so I started my affair with St. Maarten, an affair which was to take me
through a world of politics, intrigue and rapid development. Well-prepared
by my experience in St. Maarten I would lead my party to victory on Saba in
1971. I returned after that victory to live on St. Maarten until, in 1973, I
went home to Saba to lead my island for the next ten years.
My first boss was Mr. Alphonse ("Fons") O'Connor. In those days he was quite
the playboy and a much discussed character around St. Maarten. He favored a
fast Buick car, wine, and the women of course.
I will always remember one night at the Pasangrahan guest house when we were
running the bar. overtime. It was the week before Christmas 1961, and a Mr.
Henry Taylor was buying the drinks and paying the bartender to stay
overtime. The subject was duck hunting, for some reason a favourite subject
of Fons's when he was in his cups. Mr. Taylor, although crippled and
confined to a wheelchair, seemed quite the expert, at least until Fons got
irate and left the scene. Five minutes later he was back with a
double-barreled shotgun and proceeded to blast a hole in the ceiling in
demonstration of the proper way to shoot ducks. We all were forced to agree
that Fons knew what he was talking about. The frightened guests rushing out
of bed at 3 a.m. were assured that there was no need to worry, "just Fons
showing the boys at the bar how to shoot ducks."
Indeed Fons was quite a character and a practical joker as well. I remember
a time when he, Chester and Claude Wathey, Clem Labega and some others went
around by boat to Little Bay Hotel. Mr. Eric Webster was the new bartender.
Being quite young and from the country he did not know Fons. When it came
time to pay the bill Eric asked Fons for his name and room number, just as
he had been instructed to do. It was "Mr. Newcome", room ~en, and signed
accordingly. Fons did come around the next day Just in time to save Eric's
job, and to identify the real "Mr. Newcome" and pay the bill. To this day
when the two of them meet the standard greeting between them is: Hello, Mr.
New come!
In those days change, if any, came slowly to St. Maarten and we loved the
island for what it was and enjoyed it to our hearts' content.
Tropical islands, even for those of us whose forebears have been here for
more than three centuries, still hold their magic. No wonder we agonize so
much if we have to leave. Those who do so only do this in times of economic
hardship, and never get the islands out of their blood. How best can I
describe the feelings, which I share, but through the poetry of an
82-year-old lady who wrote the following poem some 65 years after she was
forced to leave her beloved islands. In the twilight of her years she looks
back at her youthful home. The poem also expresses my longings for the St.
Maarten of my youth. In the evenings, after so many years, I still lull
myself to sleep remembering the crash of the waves on the shores of
Philipsburg.
The skies are gray, my spirits low.
I sit within the firelight glow.
My thoughts go back to other days,
To coral sands and sunlit bays.
Again I see tropic trees
As delight the eye and scent the breeze.
Poinciana, oleander, frangipani, these
And many others my mind's eye sees.
A banyan is home to a bright macaw,
A monkey sits eating some fruit from his paw.
A landcrab scuttles on his way to the cove,
A coconut falls with a thud in the grove.
Ah me! Ah me! That I could go
Where palm fronds clash and trade winds blow,
For these are the things I used to know
So faraway and so long ago.
The red-roofed house, by the tall palm tree,
In the long ago, was sweet home to me.
I think of it now as a haven of rest
Where I wish I could go as a bird to its nest.
But the years that are flown have made the wish vain,
I could only return to sorrow and pain.
Beatrice Pfaffhauser the lady who wrote this poem was a cousin of mine who
grew p in these islands and, and like myself, she loved them. She ace said,
and I agree, "You never get the tropics out of your blood once you absorb
them."
