A Village in a Volcano

The following article was found by guests William Clark and Kathleen Cole of Stonington, CT who own 'Boat House Antiques' in 'The Borough' of Stonington, which is also famous for its Sea Captains... The article is from a magazine called "The Mentor" and was published in April 1927 with a sale price of 35 cents. The magazine was published monthly by the Crowell Publishing Company at Springfield, Ohio, USA with executive offices at 250 Park Avenue, New York City. After transfer to digital format, Bill has requested that the magazine be donated to the Saba Museum - as it is believed to be the earliest magazine article on Saba which is known to the museum staff.

A Village in a Volcano - by M.J. Hodge

Pirates - With a Few Women Captives - Were Marooned Years Ago on an Island in the West Indies by That Master Buccaneer Henry Morgan. They Founded a Village in the Protecting Bowl of a Volcano and Formed a Settlement That Lives and Thrives There Today

Some people choose queer places to live in, but about the strangest of all is a town of fifteen hundred should high up in the crater of an extinct volcano on the island of Saba in the Dutch West Indies. The island, quite barren on its slopes, rises precipitously out of the ocean. To land on it is so hazardous few travelers care to take the risk. Another discouraging feature is the climb up the "Ladder," an almost perpendicular flight of stone steps eight hundred feet high. Arrived at the top one is rewarded by the sight of a long V-shaped crevice in the shell of the volcano. It is through this opening that entry is made into the town. Up the sun-beaten path to the natural back-breaking loads of assorted objects - lumber, seeds, provisions, furniture. Sometimes men and women porters make several round trips a day.

The name of the town, "The Bottom," perfectly describes its situation. Snugly enclosed in a volcanic wall, it is invisible to the outside world except from an airplane. A visitor on arriving inside the lava barrier instinctively looks skyward over the ragged top of the surrounding wall. His next impulse is to regard somewhat doubtfully the ground under his feet; but he need have no misgivings; the fire hole beneath the floor of the town has been cold a thousand years.

The crater, half a mile in width, is crowded with small houses painted white and kept in astonishingly good repair. One can’t help feeling respect for the industry and vigor of the inhabitants when one looks about and realizes that every stick of lumber used in building these neat little homes has had to be brought in from neighboring islands and carried laboriously up these breath-taking steeps.

Though a Dutch possession, Bottom’s white inhabitants speak English. Their forefathers, according to common report, were a handful of British buccaneers and women captives that the notorious ocean highwayman Henry Morgan left on this out-of-the-way dot of an island after a mutiny in 1665. The male members of the colony have always followed the sea, and most of the men are away from home a good part of the time. Sometimes their trips are to far-off ports and last for several years. The men of Bottom have a great reputation as sailors. While the mariners are at sea the women, old men and children take care of the island and keep the hearth fires burning for the wanderers.

The shore of the island is nowhere sufficiently indented to provide a harbor or even an advantageous landing place, and it is only on the eastern side that the existence of the village is in any way made apparent. Saba boat builders are celebrated through-out the Dutch West Indies, but curiously, their craft are made in the village and lowered over the precipitous mountainside to the shore by means of rope and pulley.

The skill of the Saban men with chisel and saw is demonstrated in still another branch of carpentry - that of coffin-making. Each householder carries out the island tradition of preparing a casket and keeping it well polished, assisted in spare hours by his family.

Everyone is known by his or her Christian name, as there is only one surname in the community - Simonds. How that happened nobody seems to know. Equally puzzling is the fact that despite centuries of intermarriage the Simondses one and all seem healthy and strong and give no evidence of degeneracy. The fair skin of their forbears persists, probably because the high wall that surrounds the town site acts as a shield from the sun.

There are two churches in Bottom, a schoolhouse and a jail. The jail has held only one prisoner as far back as anyone can recall. But if the jail is empty the churches of two different denominations are full, for it is the custom for all the inhabitants in the settlement except the clergymen to attend impartially Sabbath services at both.

Foodstuffs, like building material, are brought for the most part from the outside. Only a few vegetables such as cabbage, Irish potatoes, onions and others that have short roots can grow in the shallow soil. Certain delicacies, like strawberries, are shipped to the nearby island of St. Kitts. For water these peaceable descendants of doughty buccaneers depend on the rain, which is caught in large cisterns.

Few laws are required to govern the town, and there are no politicians, charity organizations or welfare societies. None is needed. Even the Negro portion of the population, living on the outer rim of the enclosure, is in comfortable circumstances. Altogether about five hundred persons of mixed race inhabit a number of little scattered communities that the islanders designate as "districts." Everywhere he goes the visitor finds smiling faces, pleasant manners, contented homes. Poverty, want and restlessness born of overweening ambition - these elements are entirely lacking.

With balmy weather the year around no cares beset them. Little wonder that the people of Bottom cling to their volcanic aerie high in the clous and, satisfied with their lot, "let the rest of the world go by."