Arie's Travels - World Wide Travel Blog

Now Released: Cross On Me – A Novel By Arie Uittenbogaard

2011-08-16T07:04:00.000-07:00

PRESS RELEASE:

A brilliant man flees from reality and drives in a panic from scientific Boston to the wilderness of Alaska. When his father learns of his son's plight, he sets out to find him. Before they can meet again, both men must pay an ultimate price.

In his ambitious, literary epic, Dutch-born author Arie Uittenbogaard shows the north American continent through the eyes of two displaced foreigners who are desperately looking for each other. Their quest takes them from the latest scientific findings to the ancient wisdoms of the Bible, from the Dutch city of Leiden to the arctic shore of Alaska, from the howling infinite of fiction and the squalls of madness to the folly of knowledge and the essence of redemption.

Cross On Me follows the trail blazed by Dante and Bunyan, and shows a modern day and unlikely Nazarene whose powerful father has to relinquish everything, follow his son into his grave and raise him from the death he died.

Arie Uittenbogaard is a former maritime engineer who moved to Massachusetts to study theology. He worked on cargo and cruise ships and spent most of his summers in Alaska. Today he and his wife live in Belgium and

Serbia

Arie Uittenbogaard publishes Bible studies, short stories and poetry in both English and Dutch. Cross On Me is his first full length novel in English.

Cross On Me was published by Abarim Publications and printed by iUniverse. It is available from online booksellers such as Amazon.com, Borders and Barnes and Noble. Cross On Me can also be read entirely online at http://www.crossonme.com/.

Mahon, Menorca

2011-04-16T23:57:00.000-07:00

We’re gliding into town through what’s said to be the largest natural harbor in the world. Since Menorca is also a tiny island, I’m forced to conclude that half of it consists of harbor. But what a sight for sore eyes; I feel home at once. Tiny European houses built smack on the shore, which is doable because there are no tides here. The Med feels like a big lake to sailors; no tides, no swell to speak of. But if Al Gore is right and the water level will rise by two meters, we’re in for a dip here in Europe. Unless of course they build some kind of dam across the Gibraltar Straight, with locks like they have in the Panama Canal. And do the same with the Suez Canal. They would have to install a bunch of pumps too, I guess, because then the Med won’t drain naturally into the Atlantic. It’ll take some thinking but hey, they can always come and learn from the Dutch because the

Netherlands

has been below sea level for centuries. We had the Southern Sea that’s now the Ijsel Lake. Who said it couldn’t be done?

And while we wait to see if Al Gore is right, we can enjoy cute ports such as that of Mahon, the capital of Menorca, which is an island in the Balearic group that also contains Ibiza and Mallorca. These islands have been inhabited since the Neolithic era. There are remnants aplenty; boulders turned upright defying time and leaving the onlookers guessing at the why of them. Then there are traces of the Romans and pretty much every invading force since. We pass buildings on little islets that are unmistakably Napoleonic, but quickly the coast is dappled with splendid waterfront villas, all with private beaches and docks and boat houses. Downtown, where we end up, a boulevard filled with restaurants and bars curves along the water’s edge. Yachts of all sizes are tied up in rows, and there’s even a blue fisher boat from Barendrecht, a Dutch city close to where I was born.

Menorca’s claim to fame is the invention of salsa mahonesa, known in the rest of the world as mayonnaise.

A bastion from the Napoleonic era in the harbor of Mahon, Menorca

The Barendrecht, making Mahon, Menorca look like a toy town.

Down town Mahon, Menorca

The boulevard of Mahon, Menorca

Saint Francesc Cathedral, Mahon, Menorca

Waterfront of Mahon, Menorca

Villas in the harbor of Mahon, Menorca

Cartagena, Spain

2011-04-14T09:52:00.000-07:00

We arrive when it’s still dark but as soon as the sun is up and I tear away from the goings on, the town of Cartagena fills me with memories of grandiose plans and romance. Row after row of yachts of all sizes bob in the marina. Buildings from every age thrust up from the sandy soil, and there is a handsome promenade to separate the two.

“What I want,” I tell Draga, who is always interested to hear what I want, “is to drive the entire southern coast line of Europe, in a camper.”

“We’re buying a camper now, hm?” she says with a tone of gentle forgiveness in her voice. “Is that before or after you build our house in Belgrade, with a library for you to work in and with a tower that overlooks the Danube? Coffee and donuts on the balcony? To the theater twice a week?”

“You’re forgetting the indoor swimming pool and the sauna,” I say. I have the tendency to loose grip on monetary reality after three months of hard work, 12 hours per day with barely any recreation. I also want a live-in kitchen and a yard to run around in.

Then we stare out over the town, imagining having the time to even see each other for longer than a coffee break once or twice a day. We’re both exhausted. We’re losing weight like drunk dromedaries. “I just want to be with you in a tiny little space and hold you,” she says while my eyes follow the road that meanders along the coast and up the hills, past an ancient looking building and across the horizon. A camper it is then, I hear myself say. Draga holds me closer for a brief moment. Then she has to go.

Cartagena, Spain

Gibraltar Straight

2011-04-13T09:51:00.000-07:00

It’s always a milestone in any journey: crossing Gibraltar Straight. We look forward to it for weeks and then it’s over in an hour or two. But thank God we’re off the Atlantic. From a sailor’s point of view, the Mediterranean really is a big lake; there are hardly any tides and hardly any swell. Sailing the Mediterranean is a walk in the park, so to speak.

The weather is always a surprise in Gibraltar Straight (as it is anywhere else, I suppose). Sometimes gales get bottlenecked to full fledged storms and passing the straight is like passing a cactus. Sometimes it’s spectacularly clear and you can count the leaves on the trees on either side. Once I’ve seen a wind-still day produce strange whipped-cream globs of clouds just sitting on the water, for us to circumvent.

Today conditions are boring but not very trying. Rain and fog keeps the Rock of Gibraltar from our sight. We pass along the African Coast, along with countless other ships, safely separated in a convoy going west and one going east. And as we stand and stare and each other, we notice the dorsal fins and arched backs of a large herd of dolphins moving gracefully between us out the Mediterranean and onto the Atlantic.

A container ship in the Gibraltar Straight

Dolphins in the Gibraltar Straight

Casablanca, Morocco

2011-04-11T13:01:00.000-07:00

A couple of tired-eying line guys tie us up in the congested cargo port of Casablanca.

“Where’s Rick’s?” we yell, visibly making the line guys even more tired. We’re not the first foreign fools to refer to the 1942 movie, and we’re also not the first to forget that Casablanca existed long before Humphrey Bogart, and has existed long since.

In 2004 a brave woman from Oregon named Kathy Kriger moved to Casablanca and opened the only Rick’s Café in town. I’m sure it attracts many a foolish foreigner who come from afar to sing along with Sam. Well, if Kathy can stand it, so can they, or something like that.

We’re only here for a day; we’ll leave in the late afternoon. The town curves around the port like a cupped hand. An impressive mosque stands on the edge and I’d love to go see it. Unfortunately there’s no time. I’d also love to go see the 1930 Sacre Coeur Cathedral or the more recently built Notre Dame de Lourdes; two massive churches smack in the middle of Islamic Morocco.

Maybe some other time. Maybe not…

An impressive mosque close to the port of Casablanca, Morocco

Casablanca, Morocco

Agadir, Morocco

2011-04-10T09:50:00.000-07:00

We’re in Agadir, Morocco, for only half a day. Ahead lies the town in the blistering heat; a scorching dessert wind comes pelting over the mountains, carrying sand that scrapes the paint off the bulkheads and settles in corners and blows in through every gap or inlet.

To our port side, the pretty blue ship Taurus J is loading containers. Behind us lies a ship from Lima with a curious green hull. Half way the morning the cute little cruise ship we saw yesterday in Arrecife comes floating in. I recognize it now: it’s the Corinthian II. She was also with us in Senegal.

As we get ready to depart, the wind increases to a whopping gale force 8 and all brace for a rough ride to Casablanca. I can’t wait to see the lush green shores of Northern Europe, but first we need to cut through Gibraltar Strait and spend a month in the Mediterranean. After that we go back across the Atlantic. Northern Europe we won’t see for a while.

Agadir, Morocco

The mini cruise ship Corinthian II; our companion for the last few days

Cargo ship Taurus J loading containers in Agadir, Morocco

Another cargo ship in the port of Agadir, Morocco

Arrecife, Lanzarote - Canary Islands

2011-04-09T09:49:00.000-07:00

It’s hard to top an evening like last night’s, or to come down to earth after it for that matter. The Freon leak was quickly found and soldered shut again, long before any provisions would have started to melt. The storekeeper was assuaged and Ludin was instructed to stay away from the galley for a while, which would be best for everyone.

Arrecife, the capital of Lanzarote, the northernmost Canary Island, promises quiet delight and restful resorts, and even boasts a tourism industry based on tranquility. To us, Arrecife is a hardy sprinkle of white condos far out in the distance but still it manages to look fantastically boring. The hills that surround it are barren, and so are the plains and pretty much the whole island. Not a single tree catches the eye.

Still, it must have some allure. There’s a monstrously large cruise ship tied up behind us, and up front is a cute little cruise ship. At some point during the day, a third huge cruise ship docks. There’s no telling what might be out there but thousands were here to see it.

Cruise ship Fantasia in Arrecife

A cute little cruise ship off our bow

The white town of Arrecife

A third cruise ship docks, one owned by Island Cruises

Iglesia de la Concepcion in Santa Cruz, Tenerife - Canary Islands

2011-04-07T13:13:00.000-07:00

By the dry bed of the Barranco de los Santos and crouched amidst high rises and private homes stacked like domino stones, lays the pretty, horizontal cathedral Iglesia de la Concepcion; its slender and square belfry like a bastion overlooking the sea.

The indented chapels could use a lick of paint on the outside but on the inside the church is well kept, spacey and utterly hospitable. When Draga and I enter we find the congregation conducting a worship service. We scoot through the isles and sit down somewhere and listen to a friendly Father deliver his sermon. I have no idea what he’s saying but around me the world stands still and becomes reverent, and I look at the statues, the paintings and the impressive arches that hold up the ceiling.

I’m holding Draga’s hand. I want her to know that I understand that she belongs to a world that’s not made from steel and peeling paint, and that needs to be perpetually maintained at the price of human lives. She belongs to an eternity that, although it must be misunderstood by the merits of its nature, can be wholly enjoyed in silence and surrender.

After the service the congregation shuffles out and lingers by the entrance, chatting and laughing. I remain inside and take pictures of the statues (with flash because the lights go out as soon as the door opens). When we finally also exit, we walk quietly around the church. Near the belfry we find a plaque that says rather esoterically:

“Although it was built very slowly (XVIth - XVIIIth century) the temple presents a great unity of style. The first edifice, that today corresponds to the first part of the central nave, was a little, rectangular ground-plan church. Along the XVIIth and XVIIIth centuries other naves were added to it, changing the temple to the present church of five naves, transept with cupola and isle chapels.

The tile roofs with two and four slopes corresponds in the inside with the traditional Mudejar coffered ceilings. The walls are made with rubblework being the hewn stone only used in the corners of the edifice, in the tower and on the main facade on which a dark basalt is used. Outside the Canarian wooden balconies stand out, being considered a unique example of the architecture of the islands.”

Whatever cultural significance this church may have for the Canarians, to us it was a brief symbol of safety, of being part of something that must evolve like all other things, but which was based on something eternal that will never go away. Draga and I are part of each other. Today we were part of the congregation of the Church of the Conception in Santa Cruz, Tenerife. We are part of the much larger Body of Christ, equally unfathomable and ultimate more mysterious and eternal. Standing hand in hand in front of this cathedral, to which we will probably never return, we realized that we were part of the great union of heaven and earth; a marriage that can never be described in any human language of logical system, but which defines us at large and at every tiny detail; from the purpose of our lives up to the level of everyday’s most quiet need.

Iglesia de la Concepcion in Santa Cruz, Tenerife – Canary Islands

Could use a lick of paint

Staring over the heads of the congregation to the impressive Marian altar piece

Detail of the Marian altar piece of Iglesia de la Concepcion in Santa Cruz, Tenerife

Arches hold up the ceiling - Iglesia de la Concepcion in Santa Cruz, Tenerife

Mary and Jesus, probably

The baptism of Jesus; stained glass window of Iglesia de la Concepcion in Santa Cruz, Tenerife

Veronica - Iglesia de la Concepcion in Santa Cruz, Tenerife

After the service the congregation lingers

Iglesia de la Concepcion in Santa Cruz, Tenerife - Canary Islands

The Christless cross, unusual for Catholic churches but not in Santa Cruz,

which city symbol is the Christless cross.

(To the right, that's Draga, by the way... )

Santa Cruz, Tenerife - Shore leave per Captain's orders

2011-04-06T13:11:00.000-07:00

He called me into his office, the captain, which usually means you’re fired. He wasn’t going to fire me, he said immediately when I entered, trying to remember my latest and gravest infractions. But he wanted to know why my work-and-rest hours list looked like a Dalmatian. It’s because stuff falls apart, I explained. Well, he assured rather loudly, stuff won’t be falling apart tonight because you and that Draga of yours are going out!

Rounding up that Draga of mine and convincing her that we had to go ashore per Captain’s orders took a while, but at 1900 sharp we marched off, tasting free air for the first time in weeks.

Of course we veered towards the old church called Iglesia de la Concepcion, where we joined a worship service. Then we crossed a noisy shopping street where Draga bought me 18 pair of Nike socks, vowing she would throw my old ones out (But they’re only three years old, I tried. I bought them in Ketchikan! They’re souvenirs!). We turned corners and crossed squares and finally we ended up in the gentle care of senior Julian at his fine eatery called Dorada, had ham and cheese and pizza and grilled fish, and babbled nose to nose about living in a little house somewhere, with a dog and a cat and plants on the window sills. No pagers, no machines that fall apart in the middle of the night.

Rosy and content we headed back to the ship and what I had tried not to dread the whole evening became reality in the cheerful face of Ludin, smiling at me from the top of the gangway.

“Boss!”

“Ludin…?”

“No more Freon inside fridges. Storekeeper very angry.”

“What have you done so far?”

“I put more Freon.”

“How much…?”

“Only one bottle.”

“You put fifty-seven kilo of R22 in a seventeen-kilo system?”

“Yes, chiep. Shall I put more?”

“No Ludin, let’s continue tomorrow morning,” I say stepping by him as I follow my Draga down the corridor, to our little house with a dog and a cat and flowering plants on all the window sills.

A pleasant pedestrian street in Santa Cruz, Tenerife

Same street, but now viewing in the direction of the Church of the Conception.

From where we sat at Julian’s restaurant Dorada

Julian, a bueno hombre who works at Dorada restaurant

Four cruise ships in a row in the port of Santa Cruz, Tenerife

Quaint enclaves of houses built on the hill slants, Santa Cruz, Tenerife

Dakar, Senegal - a huge city in the middle of nowhere

2011-04-04T04:52:00.000-07:00

As we pull into the sandy haze, and the city of Dakar, Senegal emerges, the first thought that crosses my mind is: My goodness, who on earth put this here?

We’re in the Sahara, geographically spoken, but Dakar is a handsome metropolis with high rises galore and the obvious regalia of bustling international trading grounds. We’re not the only ones here; the anchorage is crammed with ships waiting to be hailed in. We see lot after lot of brand new cars, containers, steel in massive rolls. There’s even a cruise ship tied up: the Corinthian II.

Directly off the coast lies a pretty island. The buildings are old and majestic. Only later we learn that this is a place of atrocity and horror. Ile de Goree was once a holding house for slaves. While the owner and his family dined upstairs, up to 200 people were kept in tiny cells down below. Guards could have an unchecked go at whatever poor sap was taken there, along with his wife and children. It’s a museum now. Fortunately for all of us, there’s no time to go ashore. Ludin’s tender sensibilities won’t take another blow, I'm sure.

Dakar, Senegal in the sandy haze

Sunrise over a ship at the anchorage of Dakar, Senegal

Ile de Goree, off the coast of Dakar, Senegal

Dakar, Senegal

The Corinthian II docked in Dakar, Senegal

Banjul, The Gambia

2011-04-03T04:51:00.000-07:00

We arrive early but when the sun comes up we see a strangely attractive town. It’s not very large because it’s on a relatively small island in the river Gambia. The country is called The Gambia and it’s about a quart of the size of The Netherlands, which makes it a very small country indeed.

Banjul awakes under a golden sandy haze. From afar come flat and sleek fisher boats. They beach where people are waiting to buy the catch. Below, the dock fills up with merchants and dancers and everybody is donned in magnificent and brightly colored garb. They’re tall and slender and move slow. A beautiful people.

Beautiful enough to entice Ludin for a walk. Something urged him to leave his monstrous Canon on the ship, but he left, dressed in his finest shirt and nose in the air. Two hours later he was back. He had no shirt on. Wide-eyed he paced up the gangway.

“No good,” he brought out, “They poor, chiep. They very bad poor.”

“What happened to your shirt?”

“I gave to that poor bastard.”

“Which poor bastard?”

It took Ludin a while to find his bearings, but over a cup of coffee in the messroom he told his story. Apparently, when Ludin was about to walk out the gate into the city he was stopped by two burly guards. They told him that the city was very dangerous and that he could only go out if they would accompany him. Initially Ludin was quite pleased to have an armed escort. The three marched on in the best of spirits but the spirits turned when Ludin found a city of misery, hopelessness and neglect.

“Only girl, chiep,” he sobbed, “Already have baby. And flies everywhere, and no eat.”

After that Ludin’s story lost cohesion. But from the fragments we deducted that Ludin’s guards, now suddenly armed with machetes, explained to him that they only guarded people on even days. On odd days they robbed them. What day is it now, they asked Ludin.

“It’s my birthday,” said Ludin.

“That odd,” said the guard.

Ludin then began to freely donate his money to the locals and even gave his shirt to one of the guards. The guards, not at all unwilling fellows, escorted Ludin safely back to the port gate.

“Give me your shirt,” we heard Ludin say to the storekeeper as we began to exit the messroom.

“I no have extra shirt, you bum!” the storekeeper replied, and life returned to normal. Later in the afternoon, the lines came in and we set off north. I may be mistaken, but I think I saw a beautiful, tall and slender man wearing Ludin’s shirt and waving a machete.

http://www.visitthegambia.gm/

Dancers in Banjul, The Gambia

Fish market in Banjul, The Gambia

Dock merchant in Banjul, The Gambia

Beautiful ladies in Banjul, The Gambia

Banjul, The Gambia

Mindelo, Sao Vicente, Cabo Verde

2011-04-01T04:50:00.000-07:00

Cabo Verde is a island group consisting of nine larger and a hardy sprinkling of smaller islands. And it’s one of the few places that hasn’t lost its indigenous population to invasion of the present. Locals will proudly inform the traveler that when the Portuguese explorer Luigi da Cadamosto first arrived here in 1455, there was nobody living here. The traveler may rest his gaze upon this lush land, daubed in festive shades of brown and grey, and wonder why…

We have arrived at Port Grande, the naturally shielded harbor of Mindelo, the main town on the island called Sao Vicente, which is the second most important island of the group. Across the water lies the island Sao Antonio, which was settled by mostly Jewish folk in 1548. They existed there for two centuries pretty much undisturbed because the island was not situated near any main shipping routes.

I’m overlooking these barren turds, wondering why anybody would want to live here. But they did. I’m sure the Jews who came here were on the run from persecution and found their little haven a gift from God. I have no time now but I would love to come back here some day and check out Sao Antonio. Are they still there? Did they go to Israel? Did their religion evolve in any significant way?

Some day I will return.

http://www.caboverde.com/

Mindelo, Sao Vicente, Cabo Verde

Crossing the Atlantic

2011-03-30T13:03:00.000-07:00

Crossing the Atlantic Ocean

Lulled by the gentle, Atlantic swell we glide eastward. It’ll take us four days to get where we’re going. After more than seventy days of port hopping we’re all kind of glad to be out on the open again. Four days isn’t much, but it’s four days without maneuvering and for and aft and bolting down the doors in dubious ports. The engines rumble along and all doors are wide open. Padlocks sway idly on hooks. Here and there are clothe lines with laundry and tool bags safely left in corners during coffee breaks. For four days we’re an island.

I remember crossing the Atlantic for the first time, in the late eighties. I worked on a reefer ship that ran bananas from central America to Europe. My first port on the other side was Almirante, Panama, a tiny fart of a town consisting of nothing but dilapidated shacks. We were warned not to go ashore because the Americans were rounding up the general, and had the locals all stirred up. We went anyway, of course. I remember that utterly exhilarating sense of being in another world. I was not only in another country with another climate and on another continent, I was in a kind of place that didn’t exist in the northwest Europe where I came from. People cooked their meals on fires outside their huts. They congregated and made music during work breaks. There was very little electricity and there can’t have been much television. As far as I can tell, the people of Almirante were blissfully unaware that the Americans were thought to have them all stirred up.

A lot has happened since then; I’m afraid I lost count a bit. The wall came down soon after Almirante and eastern and central Europe broke open. That same decade Yugoslavia spiraled into a civil war and Belgrade got shot to shit by the NATO. Kuwait was liberated and a decade later Irak was democratized. Afghanistan was in there too somewhere. In the mean time, six weeks old newspapers became condensed versions emailed to the ship by the home front first, later by the World radio.

Now we’re headed east. We going to Africa; west coast first and then into the Mediterranean to the north African shores. During coffee breaks we watch CNN because these days we have satellite receivers on board. We have telephone and internet, just like everybody else. That is to say: perhaps not in Libya. Who knows what goes on over there? All we know is that they’re getting the shit bombed out of them. CNN makes us believe that they have what was coming. Just like all the others. Evildoers! Mad dogs of the middle east!

Perhaps somewhere in Libya people still cook their food on fires in front of their houses. Maybe there are even still a few who gather to make music during work breaks. If that is so, then they probably also let their clothes out to dry on lines, or tool bags in corners when they go off on breaks, without having to fear that someone will come to swipe them.

I hope so.

Barbados - The final gathering before crossing over

2011-03-28T13:02:00.000-07:00

Morose from looping around South America we pull into Bridgetown, the capital of the island Barbados. And we’re not alone. There are four huge cruise ships in today and they spew their passengers out over the town. Three centuries of British rule, says a line guy, but now we’re discovering our African roots.

This afternoon we’ll cast the lines off a South American shore for the last time and head just there: Africa. We’ll be crossing the Atlantic for four days.

Into the sun we’ll go.

A cruise ship in the port of Bridgetown - Barbados

Cruise ships approaching the port of Bridgetown - Barbados

Bridgetown, Barbados

Two more cruise ships in the port of Bridgetown - Barbados

This afternoon we’ll cast the lines off a South American shore for the last time and head just there: Africa. We’ll be crossing the Atlantic for four days.

Into the sun we’ll go.

Fort de France - Martinique

2011-03-27T13:01:00.000-07:00

Martinique has a few claims to fame. It’s somehow believed that the first “Western” coffee plant was imported to Martinique from Ethiopia. This was in 1720 and it must have caused the Martiniquans to stay up later than usual and embrace whatever entertainment they could device. Not long after, a baby girl was born in the island town of La Pagarie, and named Marie Josephe Rose Tascher de la Pagarie. Somehow she managed to catch the eye of no one less than Napoleon, and she became Empress Josephine Bonaparte.

All that excitement enticed Draga to head for shore, and she left around noon. Remnants of fort St Louis and a beautiful old church just a few steps away from the ship lured, but Draga’s idea of an afternoon out is to sit somewhere, drink coffee and look at people going places. An hour later she was back, soaking wet, mumbling that Fort de France is a joke; only shops and no coffee places.

As she paced nose-up top the mess room to finally get her coffee I couldn’t help wondering what that cathedral looked like on the inside, or fort St Louis, or whatever happened to that first Western coffee plant that they imported to Martinique from Ethiopia.

Fort St. Louis - Fort de France , Martinique

Fort de France , Martinique

Bateau des Iles - A House made from a Ship at Bourg des Saintes, Iles des Saintes

2011-03-26T04:54:00.000-07:00

Coming into the marina of Bourg des Saintes, on Terre de Haut, the largest island of the Iles des Saintes archipelago, the observant visitor will notice a big white bow sticking out of a rock on the water. On its flank is written Bateau des Iles. Only then will the visitor notice that it’s not a ship but a house, build on the real bow of some old ship.

I remember watching a Discovery Channel special about this house, but I hadn’t remembered where it was. I do remember it cost the owner a fortune to get the bow there, and to convert it into a house. But it was his life’s dream, and his wife (interviewed on the side) seemed happy with it too. I wondered then, and am still, why anyone would want to drag some old bow onto a plot of land and not (a) build a new house in the shape of a ship, or (b) buy a ship and live on it.

If I would feel the need to live on a boat (I’m now living on a boat, but I mean when I’m not working), I’d probably buy some old ship somewhere, buy a waterfront plot and build a dock to park the boat against. Then the dock could be expanded into a house, based on the boat. Now that I’m thinking, I’d probably make the whole thing detachable so that Draga and I could take the living room and kitchen out for a spin on Sunday afternoons, while the garage and the bathroom stay behind.

We could even park a camper in the carport and connect it to the main structure with a flexi-duct, so that when we come back with the living room, we can take the spare bedroom out shopping. And maybe we can build a bedroom out of a helicopter.

There, it’s been decided. I’ll tell her over dinner. Now all we need to find is a waterfront plot, not too expensive and preferably close to home, and a supermarket nearby with a movie theatre, and a library of course. And Draga wants a dog, so there has to be a park in the immediate vicinity.

Real estate agents may use the below comment form. All reasonable quotes will be taken seriously.

Bateau des Iles - A House made from a Ship at Bourg des Saintes, Iles des Saintes

The delightful church of Bourg des Saintes

2011-03-25T04:53:00.000-07:00

The Church of Bourg des Saintes

In Bourg des Saintes, Iles des Saintes, just off Rue du Marigot, stands a delightful little church, with a modest steeple that still hovers like a beacon over the town and doors wide open. Inside rules an atmosphere of Caribbean ease. There seems to be an emphasis on the humanity of Christ in this church, and more specifically on the humanity of His earthly parents and the humanity of their little family.

Salt of the earth; light of the world
The main altar of the church of Bourg des Saintes

The face of the main altar is as modest as the rest of the church, and features a crucifixion and the words “Salt of the Earth; Light of the World.” To the right of Jesus on the cross is painted what seems an angel. Elsewhere in the church stands a statue of that same person:

Saint George / Saint Michael in the church of Bourg des Saintes

An image of someone killing a dragon is often depicting either St George or St Michael. George is often shown piercing the dragon with a lance. He also usually carries the Georgian symbol of a red cross on a white field, or at least some obvious combination of these colors. And he’s most often seated on a white horse. Michael doesn’t need a horse because being an archangel, he has wings to get around by. We don’t know how it got the better of the dragon; all we know is that he fought him. There are three Michaelean battles recorded in the Bible; two of which are with satan. Once Michael expels him from heaven (Revelation 12:7-12) and once he argues with him over the body of Moses (Jude:9). But in both accounts he doesn’t kill him or run a lance down the dragon’s throat. The statue of the dragon-slayer in the church of Bourg des Saintes has the lance, colors and theriocidic mission of George, but lacks the horse of George and has the wings of Michael. I’m not sure if this weird hybrid is a cultural phenomenon to be treasured or a complete screw up of some ignorant sculptor, but I’ll keep my eye open for more of these saint Georchels.

Statue of a lovely lady - I wonder who she is...

A lovely eyeing lady holds a crucifix. No idea who she is. She holding on to three red flowers; three white lilies are a symbol of purity and thus Mary, but Mary is mostly dressed in blue and she wouldn’t be holding a crucifix. I sure hope this isn’t supposed to be Mary and the sculptor who created Saint Georchel was running a two-for-the-price-of-one special. This lady is outfitted as a nun but I don’t know which kind. I’m obviously not less ignorant than any sculptor.

Mary teaching Jesus from a scroll

Mother teaching a royally robed pre-adolescent from a scroll. It’s a very small scroll. Maybe a shopping list, but certainly not Isaiah or something like that. It’s highly unlikely that Mary ever came close enough to any kind of scroll that she could touch it, and certainly not to a scroll that Jesus would famously learn from. It looks like our sculptor was running a three-for-one special.

The Good Shepherd

The Good Shepherd, presumably. The sheep also functions as holder for the cable of the sound system.

A delightful statue of Joseph, depicted as carpenter, holding on to the infant Christ.

The church of Bourg des Saintes, viewing down the isle to the entrance.

The steeple of the church of Bourg des Saintes looming over the town.

Bourg des Saintes, Iles des Saintes

2011-03-24T04:52:00.000-07:00

Technically, we’re in France. At least, that what I’m guessing. Nobody really seems to know, or care for that matter, and neither do I. But we’re in French speaking country, and we’re paying in Euro.

We’re docked in an enchanting bay, off the coast of a town called Bourg des Saints, which is on a Caribbean Island called Terre des Haut, which is part of a group of islands called Iles des Saintes, which is part of Guadeloupe, which is a part of France. At least, that’s what I’m guessing and trying to piece together from various flyers. Of course I could consult the Wikipedia, but where’s the fun in that?

Part of our intensely secret mission, which I can’t talk about, is hauling super-secret goods ashore. We have a few little boats for that, and I’m the one who’s supposed to keep those bastards running, and for that I need to do periodic inspections on the fly. That means that I take boat 1 to shore, boat 2 back to the ship, boat 3 back to shore and boat 4 back to the ship. And in between waiting for the next boat (10 minutes) I dart through alleys and dash across squares – in full regalia, sweating oil and shaft grease and with tools and weaponry sticking out of every pocket – shooting pictures left and right.

My flash-impression of the three streets surrounding the marina is a lot more positive than that of St Bart yesterday. Tourism doesn’t seem to have picked up much here; locals saunter about their modest domiciles, a few T-shirt shops hang out their slowly fading wares, and a hardy helping of little oompah-loompah scooters stands hopeful outside a rental joint.

Folks mostly live off fishing, informs me a kind gentleman from beneath the Good Shepherd. A nameless church on Rue du Marigot lured me in. The gentleman has seen many shapes and forms come in but perhaps not a besmirched engineer, especially one who finds life’s weight lifted some when staring at symbols that have survived centuries of madness. Every culture depicts their Mary’s, Jesuses and Josephs their own way but in the end, the need to depict and explain mankind’s orphanhood has been with us for as long as we have realized that we’re out here by ourselves. And so we believe that God is up there, out there, taking care of us in ways that go beyond our imagination. And sometimes He puts an old wrinkled man in a church, to console a wandering engineer.

Fishing huh, I say. Imagine that.

A street in Bourg des Saintes, Iles des Saintes

Another street in Bourg des Saintes, Iles des Saintes

Little scooters waiting for someone to rent them

The charming bay of Bourg des Saintes, Iles des Saintes

Cute house - Bourg des Saintes, Iles des Saintes

Yet another street - Bourg des Saintes, Iles des Saintes

The local library - Bourg des Saintes, Iles des Saintes

Waterfront - Bourg des Saintes, Iles des Saintes

Boats in the bay of Bourg des Saintes, Iles des Saintes

Central square and church - Bourg des Saintes, Iles des Saintes

St Barthelemy - Playground Of The Haves

2011-03-23T04:52:00.000-07:00

In the north-east tip of the ring of islands that form the border of the Caribbean Sea lies a little blip of an island called St Barthelemy, a.k.a. St Bart, named by Christopher Columbus himself and after his brother, who, we shall assume, was named Bart. So next time you want to dazzle folks at a party, pose the question: who was Bart Columbus? If anyone guesses right, ask them why Bart became a saint, and let us know through the comment form.

St Bart somehow managed to become territory of France. Hence the locals speak French, and they even pay each other in Euros. US dollars are excepted with Caribbean cheer, provided they come in fistfuls and not too much is demanded in return.

St Bart is a right playground for the “haves” (meaning: those who have, as opposed by the have-nots; that us, basically) and the haves have it, display it and parade it about. Yachts the size of warships lay inert on their chrome anchor chains. Crew stand on low boat decks, donned in spotless white garb, tying little zodiacs to gilded boulders.

The island’s only town, Gustavia, sits like a spider in a web of houses on the flanks and pinnacles of hills all around. Its Mediterranean heritage is obvious in the architecture, the false balconies and the white painted louvers. There are even clear traces of Scandinavian designs, but how Scandinavian architects ever got a say on the island is not immediately clear.

Beaches abound. Shore sided companies rent sailing boats, jet skis, scuba gear. Every free foot of shore line has been turned into a terrace. In the early morning light, rain oscillates between drizzle and shower. St Bart yawns and stretches. Then it awakes and embraces another day of leisure and unbridled entertainment.

The Luna, off the coast of St Barthelemy

The Eclipse off the coast of St Barthelemy

Sail boats in the sun

St Barthelemy

St Barthelemy marina

More boats and a herd of zodiacs - St Barthelemy

Just a street in St Barthelemy

Edward Grieg meets Gone With The Wind - Strange blend of styles in St Barthelemy

Fort Lauderdale - possibly the largest gathering of cruise ships in the world

2011-03-21T13:57:00.000-07:00

We like to do business with the Americans because we can sue the crap out of them when they do something wrong. Thus, our only US port in months is one of myriads of service techs, sales people or wannabe’s. We get donuts, pens and baseball caps. Free advice on all kinds of things. Tune ups, shake downs and clever one-liners that were practiced in a mirror. And we get stores that make us think it’s Christmas. Pallet after pallet, truck after truck. Food, parts, fuel. The works.

And of course, the US border patrol would like to know if we’re all carrying our I-95’s. They march on board, all gunned up with nothing to shoot at. Ludin, apparently, comes from a solid pedigree of potential terrorists and is marched off for in-depth scrutiny. The remaining crew get subjected to the piercing inquiries of officer Snodgrass, a chubby good ol’ boy with a drawl that testifies of a heart for beef jerky and old John Wayne movies.

“Hey,” I say, “Are you related to the famous Snodgrass?”

Snodgrass speaks not but his eyes say, “Famous Snodgrass?”

“The poet,” I say helpfully, smiling fatherly, “Anne Sexton’s buddy…”

Snodgrass speaks not but his eyes say, “You want fries with that?”

A painful yelp rises from the belly of our beast. The store keeper’s trying to mush months worth of goodies into a freezer the size of a beer crate. And a timid ribbon of eerie reeking smoke just ascended from the main refrigeration plant. “Is that supposed to happen?” he asks sincerely curious.

“That depends on your religion,” I reply. “I like to believe that God causes all things to work together for good to those who love Him. Do you love God, son?”

“Is God going to repair my fridge?”

“Well,” I say, trying to stay on the theological straight and narrow, “God is an engineer, and I was made in His image.”

“I’ll make an extra strong pot of coffee then,” he says.

“You do that,” I say while pull a screw driver from my back pocket, release the stainless steel front and brace for an all-nighter. I can already feel the goodness of all things working together.

Fort Lauderdale seen from Port Everglades

A Princess monster docked in Port Everglades, Fort Lauderdale

Cruise ships docked in Port Everglades, Fort Lauderdale

The charming harbor mouth of Port Everglades

Aruba - more Dutch than the Netherlands

2011-03-19T05:00:00.000-07:00

My generation grew up in the Netherlands not knowing any better than that Aruba was Dutch, together with Curacao and St Marten. Nobody questioned this very much, and many of the islanders came to the “main land” to work and live. Of course, there were also people from Suriname and Indonesia that did the same, and we lived together, all happily united in the Netherlands. At least, that’s how it seemed to me.

In reality, the Dutch spent a few centuries looting these lands and killing those who thought that wasn’t entirely fair. They’ll never recover, and there’s very little original culture left on Aruba, but it has wonderful beaches and are now top tourist destinations. The capital of Aruba is Oranjestad, which is pronounced with the emphasis on the second syllable. It means City of Orange, where Orange is part of the last name of the Dutch royal family, and signature color of the Netherlands.

The architecture shows a blend of Dutch Calvinistic austerity and colorful Caribbean cheer. From the parking lots and malls surrounding the port rises a merry din. Up ahead is the marina and all around the blue-green water of the Caribbean Sea. Whatever its cultural heritage, Aruba still looks like a fine place to spend a holiday lazing.

Aruba welcomes a traveller with lots of parking lots and malls

Nice coasts

Slick marina too

Can someone please retire me...?

The Panama Canal

2011-03-17T04:59:00.000-07:00

Unique in our time is the ability to take seagoing vessels across the isthmus of Panama. Fortunate for all of us, there were already a couple of lakes half-way and all that needed to be done was connect the lakes with the shores on both ends. Unfortunately for the canal builders, the lakes are much higher than the Pacific on one end and the Caribbean on the other. The solution lies in a series of locks that receive the ships one at a time, then are filled with water and thus actually lift the ship up the lake-level. Funny looking locomotives drag the ship in and out the locks; up the hill, down the hill, two convoys per day. Few people know this, but the canal runs not straight north-south, but diagonally from south-east to north-west.

Twenty-five thousand men died building the canal. The total cost is estimated at around 375,000,000 US dollar. France had the first go but gave up. The Unites States continued, finished it and became the proprietor of the most lucrative shipping project in the Americas. Since 31 December 1999 the canal is owned by Panama. The first year that the Panamanian ran the canal, it made them a little under 800,000 dollar. Last year they made 2,100,000,000 dollar off of it.

Early in the morning we join the north-bound convoy at Balboa, slip through the Miraflores Locks and onto the canal. At noon we arrive at the other end and line up to enter the Gatun Locks. Locals hoard on tribunes and wave and cheer us on. We stand on deck and wave back, wide-eyed and exited. It’s fantastically bizarre to see perfect strangers this close to the ship, and all of us enjoy it. From a sailor’s perspective, the Panama Canal is one of the most surreal places on earth.

Eraly morning arrival at the Miraflores locks

Funny looking trains drag us up the hill

The Panama Canal

Little island somewhere in the lakes we're crossing

Some parts are kinda wide

Big blue neighbour going north too

Couple of big boys right behind us

Tribune at the Gatun locks

We can almost shake the viewers' hands

Nice line guy

Finally, the end of it

Panama City - A Handsome Town

2011-03-16T04:58:00.000-07:00

It’s curious. Technically we’re still very much on the other side of the world, taking into account that I’m from Europe. But arriving in Panama after sailing around South America gives me a feeling of homecoming.

Panama City is a handsome town, spawn to grandeur due to the Canal, I’m sure. We’re in the northern hemisphere again, and tomorrow we’ll cross this tiny worm of water that connects the alien Pacific to the familiar Atlantic. I grew up on its beaches, breathed its air. Now we share the anchorage with countless mastodons, waiting for the convoy to pick up. I’ve crossed the Canal so many times but it never fails to excite me.

Yesterday I saw Orion. Today the moon stands slumped over Panama City and tomorrow we’ll rev up the mains, hoist the anchor and go home.

View on the bridge between North and South America; the entrance to the Panama Canal

Panama City; a handsome town

Nice marina too

Countless ships waiting for the north bound convoy

Moon over Panama City

Manta, Ecuador - Seeing the Light

2011-03-14T04:58:00.000-07:00

Engineers don’t get enough sunlight. It’s a known fact. So on sunny days we tend to select deck machinery that’s a pending disaster. Deck officers run their winches until they combust, which is also a known fact, so this morning I decided to pull Ludin out of the filters and took him along overhauling a winch.

A sunny day in Ecuador might get a bit toasty so we brought water, tied bandana’s around our heads and labored in the sweat of our brow, whilst singing engineering songs and telling engineering tales. Engineers are known for their narrative qualities, and work is usually conducted in environments too noisy to outshout, so when the weather permits and the job is on deck, we lavishly review the digest of our lives and recount the heroisms of those who went before us.

Next to us a reefer is loading tuna from smaller fisher vessels. No doubt they’ll take them on transport to Japan or even Europe. Two decades ago I was an apprentice on a reefer. We ran bananas from South and Central America to Europe mostly. As I stare across the concrete dock and recall my early days I see the crew and recognize them. Ben the Cook, who died. Captain Sherby who excelled in creating Caribbean cocktails. Frowning Willy. Simon Suddenly. And Ludin! For crying out loud! In an unguarded moment, Ludin must have snuck off, got his Canon and stands yapping with the neighboring crew, shooting pictures of the fish while I’m standing with half a winch in my hands!

Then I see the light. It’s too warm to be carrying on with winches. I’ll go up to the bridge to inform the Chief Officer that he broke his winch and that it won’t work for a while.

Fisher ships at anchor

The cruise ship discovery at Manta, Ecuador

Fishermen everywhere

More fisher boats

A reefer vessel at Manta, Ecuador

One of Ludin's photos of the reefer

One of the holds of the reefer

Little fisher boat in distress

2011-03-12T04:17:00.000-08:00

It’s amazing how little people realize that the ocean is a wilderness without any mercy. They set out in rinky-dink vessels to have some fun or adventure, then find machinery failing and them the subject of a slow and torturous death. The crew of Flor Maria is fortunate enough to be able to flag down a merchant. They haven’t even brought a radio and we discover them waving white flags, somewhere on the amorphous expanse of the Pacific Ocean. We slow down and try to drift along side, fully aware that at any time we might get a bazooka trained on us for our trouble.

“Does anyone speak Spanish?”

“I speak,” says Ludin, popping up from the galley. He is a small man but he has a voice strong enough to cut steel.

“Ask them politely what their problem is.”

Ludin leans over the railing and thunders, “What you want? You evil Somali bastards!!”

“That wasn’t Spanish.”

“They understand,” says Ludin with a fatherly nod and heads back to the galley.

The crew of the Flor Maria set out on a fishing trip five days ago, lost their water tank and refrigeration. They haven’t eaten in two days and are still a long way from shore. We pitch a line, tie six-packs of Brazilian mineral water to it, and run them over. Bags with bread and fruit follow. Blessings and curses waft from our torrid decks. Then we disconnect and go our separate ways.

Soon we are tiny specks on each other’s horizon. The world arches its back between us and spreads its final wilderness like an open hand that lets us go.

Little fisher boat in disress on the Pacific Ocean

Flor Maria in distress

Giving water to a marooned crew

The crew of the Flor Maria looking up for more