Double Dutch

After a week merrily hopping around the southern Windward Islands, our second began further north among the Leeward Islands, landing first at the intriguing—and delightfully perplexing—Saint Martin. It is one of only two Caribbean islands divided between two distinct countries (the other being Hispaniola, shared somewhat uneasily by Haiti and the Dominican Republic). Here, though, things are considerably friendlier: the southern half is Dutch, known as Sint Maarten, while the northern half is French, known as Saint Martin. Easy. The boundary itself is practically invisible, marked mostly by cheerful road signs, changing languages, and a noticeable uptick in pastry quality as you head north.

Politically speaking, the Dutch half isn’t a country, but rather a ‘constituent country’ within the Kingdom of the Netherlands—a designation about as clear and helpful as Ikea instructions. Adding further to this delightful muddle, Saint Martin boasts one of the most varied populations in the Americas. Only about 30% are native islanders, and an astonishingly small two per cent are Dutch. Instead, the island hosts a friendly assortment of people from India, North America, other Caribbean islands, and various far-flung corners of the globe, making it feel like a tropical airport terminal: multilingual, oddly efficient, and full of people who clearly arrived from somewhere else and might not be staying long.

Most outsiders, including us, instinctively pictured a place overflowing with tax-shy billionaires, excessively priced cocktails, and superyachts. Saint Martin, however, is a place largely populated by people who own no yachts at all—indeed, people whose economic fortunes depend heavily on that most capricious of industries: tourism. Recent years haven’t been kind to them, thanks to COVID-induced travel lockdowns and the lingering effects of Hurricane Irma, a ferocious Category 5 storm which barrelled into the island in 2017 and left it looking as though it’d had a vigorous argument with a blender. Not all of Irma’s effects were negative, however, as we were soon to discover during our first stop—a beachside establishment with a bright red windmill on the roof and the wonderful name of the Dutch Blonde Beach Bar.

When you find yourself on an island divided between the Dutch and French, it seems culturally essential to embark on an afternoon of wine and cheese tasting, and it was in this civilised pursuit that we found ourselves at the aforementioned bar. Our tasting was enriched by the establishment’s charismatic owner, Sunil, a man whose life story had had its fair share of remarkable twists and turns. Following a colourful series of adventures, he found himself washed ashore on Sint Maarten, just in time for Hurricane Irma to arrive and thoroughly rearrange the landscape. Spotting newly affordable land amidst the chaos, he established the island’s very first microbrewery and, ever since, his beer has been winning prestigious international awards, putting Sint Maarten firmly on the global brewing map.

In double quick time, Sunil has become Sint Maarten’s Alan Sugar—albeit warmer, cheerier, and far more likely to offer you a free pint. Not content with merely running an award-winning brewery, he has since diversified with commendable enthusiasm into other ventures, including the island’s first escape rooms and an array of creative alcoholic concoctions. Realising that managing the company’s social media required someone more youthful than himself, he quickly spotted Lowri as a prime candidate. Had our schedule permitted, he’d almost certainly have offered her a job on the spot, and she’d just as certainly have accepted—thus condemning me to spending my days sipping beer on a Caribbean beach. I’d have learned to cope, eventually.

Directly outside Sunil’s bar stretches the island’s celebrated beach—one of Sint Maarten’s prime attractions, second only to its uniquely hazardous airport. This is the same airport famous worldwide for passenger planes swooping so alarmingly low over the sand that startled sunbathers occasionally find themselves involuntarily hurled into the sea by powerful jet blasts. Thankfully, we weren’t on that particular beach. Our one was, in fact, delightfully peaceful—empty but for a couple of sleepy beach dogs and a small cluster of cruise entertainment staff, whose animated gossip about tiresome passengers was shamefully compelling. With zero guilt, we ignored most of the island’s cultural offerings, opting instead to gently baste ourselves under a faultless sun and paddle lazily in bath-temperature waters, staggering back aboard just moments before our ship set sail once again.

J