Kenepa Grandi is the most photographed cove on Curaçao, and the house on the hill above it is where the island's revolt against slavery began. The bay is a bowl of white coral sand with dry cactus hills around it and water banded from green to deep blue. The postcard is taken from the lookout beside the clifftop car park, a few steps from the car, and most people photograph it there before they ever reach the sand. Down on the beach the middle of the bay is plain sand and the life is at the edges. A few strokes towards either rocky arm and coral heads, sponges and parrotfish come up underneath you, close enough to watch from the surface; strong swimmers carry on to the reef off the mouth. On the rocks a ledge some five metres up is the unofficial diving board, and the water under you is deep and clear.
The name is a fruit. Kenepa is Papiamentu for the Spanish lime, a green thing no bigger than a grape, sold in bunches at the roadside, whose brittle skin cracks between your teeth onto tart salmon-coloured pulp around one big seed. The trees still stand behind the sand and throw most of its shade. On the slopes behind them every divi-divi leans the same way, its crown combed flat to the southwest by a trade wind that blows out of the east-northeast almost every day. The island tells you where southwest is without a compass. At weekends the cove fills with island families, coolers and speakers and children in the shallows, and it stops being a postcard and becomes a neighbourhood. The plantation house above is Landhuis Kenepa, which Tula and some fifty others walked away from on 17 August 1795, and it is now his museum. He was not asking for the estate or for revenge. He asked for three things: no more collective punishment, no more being worked on Sundays, and the right to buy his clothes from someone other than his own master. The colony granted him none of them.