Curacao (True) Children’s Stories
The Colourful Governor
In the early 1800s, Governor-General Albert Kikkert supposedly suffered from migraine headaches. The doctor told him that this maybe due to the sun reflecting on the white paint of the buildings in Willemstad.
Albert issued a decree to paint the structure any color other than white. It is said that when Albert died it was found out that he had an ownership stake in the only paint factory on the island.
Read a local story about the eccentric governor
Governor Albert’s Secret
Many hundreds of years ago, in the port town of Willemstad on the island of Curacao, there lived a mean-spirited and difficult man named Governor Albert. From his grand office at the city hall perched on a hill, Albert overlooked the town's colorful rooftops and the large harbor, constantly scheming new ways to grow his fortune.
Governor Albert took special delight in counting the tall ships sailing in from Holland. Each ship represented 100 guldens in taxes—60 grams of pure, gleaming gold. Whenever a ship arrived, he would smile to himself, pleased by his growing wealth.
But one day, as Albert gazed out of his window, he noticed something alarming: no ships were in sight. The harbor was eerily still. His smile faded, replaced by a deep scowl.
"Bring me my magistrate immediately!" Albert barked, ringing the servant’s bell.
The magistrate, a round man with little hair on his head but plenty on his chin, hurried up the stairs, huffing and puffing.
“I want to make a decree,” growled Albert, his sharp eyes gleaming. “By the end of the week, every house in Willemstad must be painted white.”
“White?” the magistrate asked hesitantly.
“Yes, white, you imbecile!” snapped Albert.
Chaos erupted in the town. Everyone rushed to buy white paint, but there wasn't enough for all the houses. Ladders became scarce as neighbors scrambled to borrow or purchase them. The price of white paint skyrocketed from one florin to thirty florins, leaving townsfolk grumbling and their pockets empty.
Albert, however, seemed happy. From his window, he watched as the buildings turned a dazzling, blinding white.
But the following day, Albert summoned his doctor. A thin man with round glasses balanced on a large red nose rushed in.
“I have a terrible headache,” complained Albert. The doctor examined him but could find nothing wrong.
“My governor,” said the doctor finally, “it must be the sun reflecting off all those white buildings.”
Albert rang for the magistrate again.
“I want to make another decree!” he bellowed. “By the end of the week, every house must be painted in different colors—blue, red, yellow, green—anything but white!”
“Colors?” stammered the magistrate.
“Yes, COLORS, you imbecile!”
Once again, the town plunged into chaos. Paint shops bustled as people scrambled to repaint their freshly whitewashed homes. They spent more money on colorful paints and toiled tirelessly to meet the new decree. Meanwhile, Albert sat by his window, smugly watching as Willemstad was transformed into a patchwork of bright hues.
But only a month later, Governor Albert passed away unexpectedly. After his funeral, as his estate was sorted through, the townspeople uncovered a surprising secret: Albert had owned the only paint factory on the island. All their hard-earned money had gone straight into his pockets.
In time, Willemstad’s residents came to see the beauty in their multicolored town. The vibrant buildings became a source of pride, celebrated by visitors from far and wide. And though they resented Albert’s greed, they laughed to think that even his schemes had left behind something wonderful.
Canon-ball Church
Admiral Sir Home Riggs Popham (1762–1820) was a fascinating and somewhat controversial figure in British naval history. His life was filled with daring adventures, inventive schemes, and colorful episodes that reflect his brilliance and occasional recklessness.
Popham is best known for developing a revolutionary naval signal code that enhanced communication during battles. His system of using numerical flags was adopted by the Royal Navy in 1803 and played a critical role in the Battle of Trafalgar (1805). Lord Nelson famously used Popham’s code to signal "England expects that every man will do his duty."
As part of the operation to seize the Dutch-held Caribbean island, Popham and his forces aimed to subdue local defenses quickly. One of the most vivid accounts, though possibly apocryphal, claims that Popham personally ordered a cannon shot to be fired into a church. The canon balls is still proudly stuck in the fort’s church facade.
This story explains what really happened.
Admiral Popham and the Talking Flags
Long ago, there was an eccentric British sailor and inventor named Admiral Popham. When he sailed the seas over 250 years ago, ships didn’t have phones or radios to talk to one another. To speak to his other ships, he would have to shout across the waves or send letters in small rowboats, which took far too long—especially when they needed to work together in battle or share urgent news.
One day, as Popham watched the wind fluttering the sails of his ship, an idea struck him like a bolt of lightning. “What if I could make the wind speak?” he wondered. He hurried to his cabin and began scribbling on a piece of paper.
Using flags, Popham created a secret code. Each flag was a command. The next day he tested it. One ship wave flags to the another ship. For example:
A red-and-white striped flag could mean “Attack!”
A blue flag with a star could mean “Follow me.”
It worked, By raising these flags in different combinations, ships could communicate without shouting. But Popham didn’t stop there. He wrote a secret book where numbers were matched to important phrases sailors needed. For example:
Number 2296 = “There is a large Enemy Fleet”
Number 2297 = “There is a small Enemy Fleet”
This clever flag system made it possible to send messages quickly, even across a battlefield.
But not all of Popham’s adventures went according to plan. One curious tale took place outside of the port of Willemstad on the island of Curaçao. Popham and his British fleet had arrived to capture the island from the Dutch, and the Admiral, confident that the island would surrender without a fight, raised his colorful signal flags to tell his ships to “Hold fire.”
Number 371 = Hold
Number 295 = Fire
But just as he did, a cannonball suddenly flew from one of his ships with a loud BOOM! It flew over the port and crashed into the island’s largest church, lodging deep into the wall. The townspeople froze, staring at the metal cannonball now stuck, smoking on the side of the church.
The signaling officer had mistakenly misread the code and only saw flag number 295 = Fire
It seems that the people of Willemstad, had their own flag system. To signal surrender, they raised a WHITE flag. Perhaps fearing what else might come next from this unpredictable admiral, they quickly used their white flags, signalling peace.
If you visit Curaçao today, you can still see that cannonball buried in the church wall, a lasting reminder of Admiral Popham’s unusual victory. Even though things didn’t go exactly as planned, Popham never minded when his adventures took unexpected turns.
Please play with Popham's code book. He assigned the digits 0 to 9 to ten signal flags, which were used in combination. Code numbers 1–25 represented letters of the alphabet (omitting J and with V=20 before U=21); higher numbers were assigned meanings.
Tomasito Pirate Cave
The Tomasito Cave is a breathtaking example of natural beauty sculpted by 1000s of years of tide washing through this rock formation. Perfect for an afternoon of exploration or an evening of storytelling, the cave is a must-see for travelers seeking to connect with the natural wonders of Watamula under the shade of the Manchineel tree.
But there lies more than beauty. Read the tale of this pirate cave.
The True Tale of Tomasito and the Pirate’s Cave
Long ago, in the time of pirates and hidden gold, there was a fisher boy named Tomasito or Little Thomas. He lived in a hut on the northwest side of the island of Curaçao and his job was to gut and scale the fish at the Playa Piskado dock for the town folk. It was hard work with little pay. Tomasito spent his time thinking about how he could earn enough money to buy own his own boat and go out to sea with the other men.
One day, he overheard an old, toothless man with a long beard down to his feet whispering to the fishermen.
“You know where the Manchineel tree leans over the cliff on the north side of Playa Kalki on the way to Watamula ” the man began, “You will find a pool at the bottom of a deep cave. And I tell you as I live and breath, there is a trove of gold there belonging to pirate Black Caesar. It sits at the bottom of that there water.”
”But beware,” he warned as he slowly looked over at Tomasito, “Black Caesar was a brutal man and the spirit of the cave that he has forced to guard his treasure does not take kindly to intruders.”
Tomasito pretended that he was not listening but his heart was pounding with excitement. That very evening, he prepared for an adventure. He was sure that by this time next week he would be buying his own fishing boat.
Taking a rope and a lantern from the dock, he made his way to Watamula, where the old Manchineel tree leaned over the rocky cliff. There, just as the old fisherman had said, he found a cave—wide and deep, with walls of jagged stone disappearing into darkness. Waves crashed nearby, and the wind howled as if whispering secrets of the deep. Without hesitation, Tomasito tied his rope to a sturdy rock, gripped it tightly, and began his descent into this hidden chamber carved by the sea itself.
There, at its very heart, Tomasito found the pool of water, small and perfectly round. The pool gleamed like liquid silver, shimmering as though a light danced inside it. Tomasito approached, his footsteps echoing loudly in the still night. He knelt beside the pool and gazed into its depths.
At first, by the light of his lantern, he saw only his reflection, but then he noticed something glinting at the bottom—something gold. His breath quickened. His heart pounded. “The treasure!” he whispered, leaning closer.
But as his fingers reached into the water, the pool began to ripple. The light grew brighter, and a ghostly pirate figure rose from the water, its form appeared like mist but his large cutlass gleamed as if with blood.
“You, who seek what is not yours,” Black Ceasar’s cave spirit cried, its voice cold like the crash of a wave, “This pool is no place for mortal hands. I am the spirit of the tides, keeper of gold. You have disturbed my rest, and now you shall sleep.”
Before Tomasito could remove his hand from the cold pond, the water surged upward, covering him like a flowing veil. The light from his lantern flickered and died, and the boy collapsed on the cold stone floor. The spirit sang softly, a song of the sea, as Tomasito fell into a deep, enchanted sleep.
The tides came and went, flowing into the pool and retreating again, carrying the spirit’s power with them. For twenty long years, Tomasito lay at the bottom of the cave, forgotten by time.
When the spell at last broke, Tomasito awoke. His body was stiff and weary, and his hair was now gray and wiry. A beard had grown down to his feet. His body was all but a skeleton. There was not one tooth left in his head. What remained of his clothing was crusted with barnacles like a sequin robe.
He slowly climbed back out of the cave. The world he now saw had changed. There were strange houses built around the cave. Instead of horses in the street, there were monsters with round wheels. The age of pirates had passed, and no one spoke of buried gold anymore.
From that time, the cave near Watamula became known as Tomasito Cave. Little Thomas spent the rest of his years at the Playa Piskado dock. Sometimes whispering to strangers about the spirit that guarded the pool and the treasure was still there, glimmering at the bottom.
Watamula Blowholes
The name Watamula comes from the Dutch word Watermolen which means “water mill.” It is named after the currents that form whirligigs around the point of Cliff Villa Peninsular. Watamula is the land on the Northwest point of Curacao where natural sea geysers are carved into the coral. Sea waves explode through the bottom of these natural wonders. The holes cut through the limestone cliffs dropping down up to 250 feet (76 meters) to the sea below.
Some say the holes were formed by the constant pounding of the waves on the limestone cliffs over millions of years. Some say by a sea witch.
The Sea Witch & the Blowholes of Watamula
Long ago, at the northwestern tip of Curaçao, where the wild sea crashed against towering cliffs and the wind howled through twisted divi-divi trees, there lived a sea witch. Her eyes gleamed like red snapper’s scales, and her arms twisted and curled like the tentacles of a giant octopus.
Everyone feared the sea witch, for they knew that when she came to feed in the evening, the waters churned into a deadly whirlpool or “watamula” and many a sea boat had been swallowed by its current.
But Machi, an old grandmother, paid no mind. Every night, she went to the cliffs to fish, casting her line into the deep blue sea.
One evening, as she perched on a rock where the two oceans met, the water below began to swirl. Machi’s fishing line tugged violently. She braced herself, expecting a mighty fish—but then, from the dark waters, the Sea Witch rose. Her red eyes twitched, and her great, curling arms flopped over the rocks.
“Release me, old woman,” the witch screeched.
“No,” Machi said firmly.
The witch writhed and raised her pale fingers. The sea trembled at her touch. “I will break the bones of the earth and stop the tides,” she spat.
Still, Machi did not yield.
The Sea Witch stopped struggling. “If you free me, I vow to protect you. Just call my name, and I will come.”
Machi, knowing that a Sea Witch never speaks false, cut the line. In an instant, the witch was gone, vanishing into the frothing sea.
Time past. And Machi continued to fish at the cliff.
Until one day Governor Nikolaas and his men arrived to build a fort in Watamula. The cliffs were soon swarming with workers. Roads were carved into the rock, thorn bushes torn from the earth, and drills split into the coral rock. The fish vanished from the waters. The deer, owls, and spotted lizards fled.
Villages and fishermen came to Machi for help. And Machi went to speak to the Governor. But the Governor simply scowled back at her and said, “Begone, old woman, begone!”
Machi turned slowly as if to leave and then cried, “Sea Witch, as you have vowed, come and save our land!”
At first, everything was silent. Governor Nikolaas and his men laughed.
Then the waves darkened, and deep below, something ancient stirred. A sound like distant thunder rumbled from beneath the cliffs. Cracks split through the coastline. The ground trembled. Suddenly, with a mighty roar, great jets of seawater exploded through the rock.
From the raging tide, the Sea Witch emerged, her swirling hair lashing like a storm. Her great arms reached through the holes in the shore, grasping and twisting like the roots of the ocean itself.
Governor Nikolaas had no time to flee. With one last roar, the sea rose and swallowed him whole.
To this day, the blowholes of Watamula remain, a sign that the Sea Witch still watches over the land. Some say you can still hear the voice of the governor screaming from the blowholes—a reminder that witches never forget a promise.
Notes of López Penha
In 1826 a man called Moseh de Daniel López Penha who lived in Curacao wrote a family history. In this document he detailed the lifes of many of his uncles. One inscription was about his uncle Isaac who was born in Amsterdam in Adar Rishon 5508. He came to Curaçao in the year 5529. His uncle was ship wreaked on the shores of Categena, Colombia.
This is a true story of his friendship with the local bishop.
Isaac and the Bishop of Cartagena
A long time ago, a Jewish man named Isaac sailed across the Atlantic sea, carrying only a small leather-bound book and his dreams of a new home. He had traveled far—from the bustling city of Amsterdam to the warm island of Curaçao, where he hoped to start a family with his beloved wife, Ribca. She was expecting their first child, and Isaac promised her they would land in Curacao before the little one arrived.
But the sea had its own plans.
One evening, a storm as fierce as a roaring beast rose up from the ocean. The waves crashed and howled, tossing their ship like a leaf in the wind. The storm raged for hours. Isaac held up his wife over the waves. And his wife held up Isaac’s small leather-bound book.
When it was over, Isaac and Ribca found themselves washed on the shore outside a city called Cartagena off the coast of Colombia. When Isaac opened his eyes, he saw a towering figure in a red robe. It was the Bishop of Cartagena, a man who ruled over the land.
For seven days and seven nights, Isaac and Ribca rested beneath the Bishop's roof. The Bishop spent those days reading Isaac’s small book, his eyes growing wide with wonder as he discovered the wisdom it contained.
Finally, the Bishop spoke.
“I have read your book,” he said. “It speaks of the Great Spark of Creation, of kindness and justice, of the ways of a good man. Join my faith, Isaac, and I will make you governor of this land.”
Isaac smiled and shook his head. “I cannot,” he replied. “We are on our way to our family in Curaçao.”
The Bishop's eyes narrowed, and a smile flickered across his face. "Then let me ask you one question to see whose wisdom is greater," he said. "If you answer well, you may go free. But if you fail, you will stay here and serve the church."
The Bishop leaned forward. “You wish for freedom. What is freedom?”
“That question has a clear answer,” replied Isaac. “Freedom,” he looked at the sea through the window behind the bishop, “is the ability to walk one’s own path.”
The Bishop frowned, pondering Isaac’s words. “But is not safety a kind of freedom? Is not life without worry a freedom? We can offer you that here in Cartagena”
Isaac smiled, “It may seem that way, but that’s not real freedom. True freedom comes from within. It’s about being able to make your own choices, to follow your heart, and to stay true to your promises. No one can give you that kind of freedom—it is a gift you give yourself.”
The Bishop was silent for a long time. Then he sighed. “You are right,” he said softly. “Freedom is not something I can grant you. It is already yours.”
With that, the Bishop nodded and admitted defeat. “You have bested me, Isaac,” he said with a smile. “I cannot keep a man who walks with such wisdom.”
That evening, beneath a full moon, the Bishop led Isaac and his wife to a Dutch ship sailing back to Curaçao. Before they parted, he handed Isaac the leather-bound book together with a present of three books from his personal library.
As Isaac and Ribca sailed across the sea once more, the waters were calm, and they held each other close. But just days before they reached their island home, Ribca gave birth to a beautiful baby girl. “You are our light,” Isaac whispered, naming her Herut after the word freedom.
Yet life is often bittersweet. Ribca, too weak from the journey, passed away shortly after the birth. Isaac’s heart was heavy with sorrow, but he wrapped her in a sail and promised her a peaceful farewell once they reached Curaçao.
True to his word, Isaac united with his family in Curacao, laid Ribca to rest in the Beth Haim cemetery, the sacred resting place of their ancestors.
Isaac’s daughter inherited her father’s leather-bound book and her father’s love for walking his own path.
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