You’re sitting in the back of the pick-up, next to a bag of cement, a wooden door, and something that once was a sink.
The driver and his co-pilot cruise slowly along narrow roads, dodging stray cows and stopping along the way for a chat with a cousin at the supermarket. By now, he’s picked up a few cold beers, one of which he presses into your hand.

On your left, the Quill. On your right, the sea. In between, a colourful collection of houses in every shade the paint store ever sold.

Halfway through, the vehicle suddenly stops. Engine off.
No panic — the driver gets out, lifts the hood, and disappears with an empty jerry can to a house down the road.
Ten minutes later, he’s back with some fuel, three new stories, and an extra passenger.
After a detour via the gas station and a quick stop at a friend’s place, you suddenly find yourself at your hotel.

With your first Statia lesson learned: here, the journey is at least as important as the destination.