A Walk on the Weird Side by Claire Gervat
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Blinking in the sunlight, I stared at the row of gabled houses across the harbour. Something strange was going on. I had travelled nearly 5,000 miles to a Caribbean island just off the coast of Venezuela. So what was this Dutch town doing here?
Curacao is full of surprises like that. It was first discovered by the Spanish 500 years ago, but was taken from them by the Dutch in 1634 who saw potential in the large natural harbour. When they built their settlement, Willemstad, at its mouth, they copied the architecture of their faraway homeland: the tall, narrow houses I could see along the waterfront were a small part of their 17th-century legacy.
No other Dutch town, however, is this colourful. Apparently one of the early governors complained that the sun reflecting off white buildings gave him a headache. If you walk around the historic districts of Willemstad - Punda, Otrabanda, Scharloo and Pietermaai - you'll spot every hue from ochre or primrose yellow to baby blue and candyfloss pink.
A World Heritage city, Willemstad is well worth exploring. Sadly, all the organised walking tours of Punda and Otrabanda are in Dutch. I went along to one of them anyway, and by halfway through the two-hour session had convincingly disproved my theory that if you concentrate hard enough you can understand any language in the world. So until the tours start in English your best bet is to get hold of a map and wander round at leisure.
My self-guided tour began in Punda, the oldest part of Willemstad, at one end of the town's very own technological marvel, the Queen Emma pontoon bridge. The floating walkway connects Punda with the other side of the harbour, except when there's a ship coming in or going out. Then the hooter sounds, and the bridge slowly swings open as everyone still on it makes a run for dry land.
I went through Fort Amsterdam and stopped off in the fort's church, drawn by the piano music I could hear wafting out of the window. From there it was a short stroll to the original residential area and I walked along craning my neck to admire the beautiful old facades in the narrow streets, trying not to trip over my own feet.
I finished my tour on the opposite side of Punda from the fort, where a flotilla of sailing boats was moored up on a small waterway off the main harbour. In front of them were wooden stalls laden with fruit and vegetables, everything from bags of tiny, vivid green limes and satiny crimson tomatoes to piles of mangoes in every colour from green to red.
The "floating market" - though, in fact, only the fishermen sell directly from their boats - is a good example of how cosmopolitan Curacao is. The stallholders have sailed across from Venezuela to sell their wares, and business is conducted in Spanish. Not that that's a problem for the locals. Everyone speaks several languages - Dutch, Spanish, English and the local Papiamento - and switches between them with ease.
There were more surprises in store the next day, when my guide Erwin took me out to look at the rocky northern coast. The San Pedro route follows the line of a series of limestone terraces that were pushed out of the sea aeons ago. We drove along a barely made road that petered out into a dirt track scraped out of the red sandy soil. Lizards with bright blue tails scuttled out of our way, taking cover among the thorn bushes and cactus that were the only greenery.
Erwin was trying to find a cave he knew of, one that was apparently used for voodoo. It wasn't easy, but just by an ultra-modern wind-farm Erwin said, "Yes, this is it; I recognise it." We went along a footpath barely wide enough for one person, scattering a flock of bright green parakeets who squawked in protest.
The cave was large and full of strange smells: fire, moss, bats, incense. Water dripped from the ceiling, and in one corner we found burnt remnants of clothing. Was this proof that someone had been doing voodoo here? I wasn't sure, and I wasn't going to hang around to find out. "It's beautiful down here by full moon," Erwin said. "But if you drive at night on the plateau, you might see some strange things."
There were more strange things at the nearby Hato Caves, a more extensive system open to the public. Our guide Edsel led us through dimly lit chambers where long-nose fruit bats flitted round our heads. "Don't worry," he told us. "There are no vampire bats. There is only one vampire here - and that's me."
In the aptly named Fantasy Cave, he pointed out the curious formations made by the water seeping through the limestone above. There was the face of a fierce-looking pirate; that was definitely a donkey's head hanging down from the roof; that, up there, was surely a Madonna and Child.
It was all very weird. But, like Curacao itself, it was definitely weird and wonderful.