Shiver Me Timbers! Chilling in Aruba
Written By Karly Pierre
I was still humming the iconic Beach Boys song “Kokomo” long after I passed through customs at Queen Beatrix Airport and hopped in a cab.
Aruba, Jamaica, ooh I wanna take ya…
The tune echoed in my mind as we drove through Oranjestad, Aruba’s capital—its colorful Dutch colonial buildings to my right, and the Caribbean’s lapping waves to my left. I could finally belt out the chorus as I tumbled onto the bed in our hotel room. My husband laughed.
“Do you plan on doing this for the entire vacation?” he said, smiling as he unpacked his suitcase.
Long before Hollywood could bank on Captain Jack at the box office, I was a childhood fan of all things pirate. I grew up along the Gulf Coast of the United States, one of many pit stops for pirates in the Americas, so I was told stories of their secret hideaways, adventures, and buried treasure for most of my life.
Now as an adult, I was in one of the most popular destinations for those Caribbean pirates of old—Aruba.
Twenty-nine kilometers off the north coast of Venezuela, this Dutch colony is a relatively small island. It is only 19 miles (30 km) long and you can drive around the perimeter of the island in about two hours. The island’s size gave it a small-town charm and was a big part of its appeal for us. We were able to easily rent a car and leisurely see the sights at our convenience.
Of course the main sight for us was the beach. The beaches’ powdery white sands and clear sapphire water begged you to relax in the sun and go for a dip. We spent most of our time at Eagle Beach. This stretch of sand is a quiet retreat away from the more raucous resort-lined Palm Beach, but is convenient to access by major roads. My husband—too pale for the equatorial sun—spent most of his time under the shade of the watapana trees that line the beach, reading and watching bright aqua-blue lizards dart in and out of the bushes. I, on the other hand, strolled along the beach enjoying the soft, perpetual ocean breeze and relatively calm waves.
One of the highlights of our trip was a visit to the Donkey Sanctuary, located in the interior of the island. We enjoyed the scenic drive through arid scrubland, marked by cacti, thorny bushes and wild goats. When we arrived at the sanctuary, we pushed open a large metal gate. The donkeys greeted us first. They roamed freely in the sanctuary, to my husband’s delight. We made our way to a small house at the center of the sanctuary where a caretaker welcomed us. He gave us feed for the donkeys and told us a little about the charity. Apparently wild donkeys are a pest on the island, often destroying property or getting hit by cars. The sanctuary provides a home for injured or sickly donkeys and keeps them out of trouble. Before we left, my husband bought a shirt at the gift shop that read, “I Love Donkeys.” I asked him to never wear it in public.
Later that evening, we decided to have dinner at Old Cunucu House restaurant for classic Aruban fare. Originally a traditional farmhouse, the restaurant is quaint and far away from the more glamorous restaurants in more popular areas. My husband convinced me that his love of donkeys was heartfelt, so I lifted my ban on his T-shirt for the night. He wore it proudly. I devoured my cabrito stoba—Aruban goat stew—soon after it landed on the table. We shared a mixed appetizer of calamari, meatballs, cheese pastechi and fish cakes with Creole sauce. All of it was delicious. While we relaxed, we heard the sounds of a birthday party in a distant banquet room. A Frank Sinatra impersonator had been hired to sing for the event, but his warbled attempts at a croon only resulted in stilted applause from the guests. We laughed, but when he began to sing “Summer Wind” I began to sing too. It was such a beautiful night at our cozy corner table. I couldn’t help it.
On our last day, we drove out the north of the island near the weary, rusted California Lighthouse. Waves crashed fiercely on this side of the island. We parked near the edge of a long stretch of white sand dunes. There we found what appeared to be a graveyard of coral. Large lumps of brain coral lay near bright red spindles of succulents that blanketed the ground. We were alone. My husband climbed a massive boulder and waved at me when he reached the top.
“Get off that thing,” I shouted.
As we drove back to our hotel, the sun setting, I spotted the silhouette of a pirate ship in the distance. Never mind that it was a campy adventure boat for tourists; I could imagine that it was the real deal. Avast! Those scurvy pirates are at it again.