April 4, 2014

Beautiful Bonaire

beautiful Bonaire

The ABC’s (Aruba, Bonaire and Curacao) were all once part of the Dutch kingdom, or Netherlands Antilles, but after some confusing legal terms, paperwork and meetings, Bonaire is the only ABC that’s still part of the Netherlands (a “municipality”), along with Saba and Sint Eustatius which are over 800km away. But Bonaire still shares its unofficial “official” language of Papiementu with nearby Aruba and Curcao, which is a confusing mix of Dutch, Spanish, English and Portugese. Native American words from the Arawak Indians and some words from African languages are also mixed in there, but somehow It still sounds like a dialect whose vocabulary is based on a lot of borrowing. The governments and schools of the ABC’s still function predominantly in Dutch, since many of the words and spelling aren’t confirmed in Papiemento – the spelling is largely phonetic and makes it very easy to read but then changes from person to person. Thank God everyone speaks English, and while the locals are hard to pinpoint (where they’re from or what to speak), the tall, white, sometimes sunburned Dutch people are real easy to spot.

salt fields and pink seas

Bonaire is similar in size to Aruba and Curacao, but only 17,000 people live on this little countryside island. It’s flat and dry, with flamingos, stray donkeys and salt fields spotting the interior. The coast is lined with coral reefs and baby blue seas, but not so many sandy beaches. One of the main public beaches had all its sand blown away in a hurricane, and now they’re left with alot of rocky shores. Its a windy island, making it a kite surfers paradise, and tourists come from all over the world to windsurf and scuba dive. I get claustrophobic under water and prefer to fly kites from land, so I went for free-diving off Kleine Bonaire and windsurfing in Lac Bay… and loved both.

Windsurfing in Lac Bay

I couchsurfed with a tall white dutch guy, who was a breath of fresh air on the little island. He;s lived there for a year and half but seemed to already knew everything and everyone on the island. He took me to soccer practice and kick-boxing lessons, two more firsts after windsurfing. We partied and danced every night, even though there were only 2 places to do so, but they were really nice, waterfront places. We had a sunset beach barbeque on my last night, with all the new friends I had made, and even I started to feel like I had a lot of friends on the island. After seeing some flamingos, I got on a plane to Curacao hoping to do the same things on another island.

March 28, 2014 Image

Photo Highlight: Tropical Turquoise Sea

imagine trying to paint a blue like this… impossible.

March 26, 2014

TCI, the Turks and Caicos Islands

Everyone’s heard of the Bahamas, but not really the Turks and Caicos, but its basically the same place, geographically. We flew over the Florida keys and the Bahemian islands to land in Providenciales, also too long and complicated to say, so its just Provo and TCI from now on. I was confused about how to refer to a local… i accidentally asked twice if a local was ‘Turkish and caico…ish?” but they were shocked and appalled that I could ever mistake an ‘islander’ (the correct term to refer to a local) for a Turk. Obviously I wasnt doing that, but it was a problem of linguistics… and Katrin speak.

Grace Bay, 14 miles of perfect beach

It’s called the Turks and Caicos because one of the islands is named Grand Turk. Then theres North, Middle and South Caicos, but no north or West. Provo is kind of the west Caicos, and the biggest island, and finally Salt Cay. All of them have tourism, based mostly around fishing and resorts, but then theres also the migration of humpack whales and a friendly dolphin named Jojo that alot of people come to see.

so this is what conch looks like!

These islands are somehwere, yet nowhere, since they’re a British territory inhabited by alot of Haitian, Dominican and Bahemian workers. The official currency is the US dollar and the international phone code is +1, but British passports are given out simultaneously with the TCI passprt. The way the islanders speak isnt quite with a Caribbean or American or British accent, but something inbetween all three. Very very few people live here, only 32,000 (a tenth of the Bahamas or Iceland), but thousands visit. And I dont blame them…. its kind of a magical, post-card place hidden away to the secrecy of the few who know the place, and always return. People own time shares or homes that they return to year after year, andall the locals know them by name.

sunset in paradise

I didn’t know very much before coming here either. I mean I knew where it was but not what was there. To my surprise, there were still couchsurfers here, and at the last minute a host actually found me. Turns out he knew everyone and hooked me up with everything I’d ever want from an island get away – boating, snorkeling, conch diving, para-sailing and a lot, a LOT of rum punch. And thank God for him and all he did, because as it also turns out, TCI is probably the most expensive Caribbean island I’ve ever been to after St. Barth’s. If Cancun is for students on spring break, TCI is for families and the rich and famous any time of year. It’s kind of like a smaller, more intimate, adult, exclusive and expensive Cancun, where older and younger siblings play together, teenagers and parents get along, and couples never fight. Everyone seemed to be smiling at me smiling at them, all in the common knowledge that we were the lucky ones who had found this paradise.

March 21, 2014

St. Patrick’s Day in Chicago

the river runs green!

I tend to skip the mid-west whenever I go to North America, favouring the west and east coasts over the middle of nowhere. After the worst winter in history, I had yet another reason to avoid going to the frigid middle states, but my favourite Canadienne lives in Minneapolis and we were long overdue for a visit. We started planning an elaborate trip to Chicago, since I was visiting over St. Patricks day weekend, and the trip grew from us two, to 5 friends, to a group of 11 that all wanted to drink green beer and see one of the biggest Irish parties held outside of Ireland.

jumping at the “bean”

snowy Minneapolis

We stayed in some executive suite at the Hilton, which was worth every penny of the thousand dollars-plus we spent on it after my couch-surfing streak all over Africa. It was cold and snowy, but trading that for the mosquitoes and always being too hot was also a welcomed change. We had hot breakfast and a hottub to warm ourselves up every day, and the sun still peeked through on St. Patrick’s day to brighten up the parade and the green river Chicago (it was really, really, unnaturally green!). I was also a good tourist and visited the 103rd floor of the Sears Tower, Cloud gate (which everyone knows only as the Bean I learned), and the Chicago Arts Institute.

Me and Clio with an Irish elf lady

Google maps says Minneapolis to Chicago is a 6.5 hour drive, but it took 9 hours, and we played trivia the whole way in and out so I feel a lot smarter after this weekend. I learned all sorts of random facts about American and French history (we had a frenchie with us in the car who knew the answer to every question), and the capital of every American state. I drank green beer, Guinness and Bailey’s to show my patriotism to the Irish. My great-great-great-great-great-great…. grandmother was an Irish princess so I figured even I could claim to be a patriot.

Actual St. Patrick’s day was Monday, March 17, which we celebrated in up-town Minneapolis at an authentic Irish bar called Morrisey’s. We wore green sweaters, green leis, green jewelry and met an actual Irish man who I thought was most deserving of one of those “Kiss me Im Irish” tshirts. Like all of Chicago on Saturday, crowds of people just looked like one sea of green. I kind of started to forget what it was exactly we were celebrating, I just knew that it was green and Irish, but then I went to the cathedral in St. Paul and remembered. There in the church, alongside humongous statues of St. Matthew, Mark, Luke and John, stood St. Patrick, the patron saint of Ireland. I had always known he was connected to shamrocks (4 leaf clovers), rainbows and pots of gold, but the myth from reality was never a clear distinction.

the parade

Apparently St. Patrick wasn’t even Irish, but he was one of Christianity’s most famous missionaries. He was ordained a priest in Ireland against a pagan/celtic population, after being born somehwere in Britain around 387AD and being taken prisoner by Irish raiders. He died March 17, hence the holiday, and invented the picture of the celtic cross – a flaming sun ontop of the Christian cross. I still don’t know whats historically true or not, but the depiction of a bearded Green leprechaun with jodphur pants, shiny black shoes and gold buckles is the first thing that speaks to me when I think of St. Patricks day. The second thing I think about is Lucky Charms cereal, but that isn’t really relative since that just plays on the green leprechaun and rainbow ideology… but anyway. Everyone agrees St. Patrick’s Day is a great American drinking (non-recognized) holiday, and I’m happy to have been a part of the 3rd biggest celebration possible (number one and two is Boston and Savannah… and maybe Manhattan). Put them on the to-do list for next year 🙂

March 14, 2014

Haiti, Finally!

I first tried to go to Haiti in 2011, to celebrate my 24^th birthday with my best friend Ursula. We were at JFK airport, when American Airlines kicked us off the flight, since no one would voluntarily take a delay in exchange for a travel voucher. We were chosen since we were last to check in, the arbitrary system AA uses to deal with overbooked flights. This year, I visited Ursula in DC to try and take her with me, and booked a super cheap flight to Port-au-Prince with AA. I only flew AA because I was still trying to finish the $600 voucher they gave me back in 2011, but swore this would be the last flight I’d take with them.

Port-au-Prince

By the time I had convinced her to come, the prices of flights had nearly doubled. But I didn’t give up even after she had dropped me off at the airport and said goodbye. As I suspected, AA had overbooked the flight, and they asked for volunteers in exchange for travel vouchers. I volunteered first, got the voucher, and called Ursula. She wasn’t sure if she could come, so I stayed at the airport long enough to get bumped off my next flight, and get another voucher, and then went back home thinking I had enough money to buy her flight. But, we didn’t, so I planned to leave the following morning, alone, until I got a call at 8 am that I had been rebooked 24 hrs later…

Hotel Montana

I still wasn’t sure Id make it Friday morning, but I got yet another voucher and actually got on a plane bound for Port-au-Prince without Ursula because she didnt believe me or we would ever get there. I finally landed Friday afternoon, half an hour late, but my couch surfing host made up for all the lost time. He showed me the city from ontop the mountains surrounding the plains, with the thousands of tiny concrete houses piled ontop of eachother and spilling into the lowlands without any sign of the 2010 earthquake. There were a few deserted, cracked houses, but not more than you’d expect from any developing country. Apparently Haiti is the poorest country in the western hemisphere, but that was also hard to believe with proof of the rich and luxurious also calling Port-au-Prince home.

After years of defending a dangerous reputation, the stability of security and crime has also risen since the earthquake. Hundreds of ex-pats and NGO’s have made progress in the infrastructure, economy and human rights, and Haiti wasn’t any different from what I’ve seen in local neighbourhoods of the Dominican Republic. I wondered over and over why so many people questioned my motives for going to Haiti, asking what I could possible want to do there, and felt both a sense of relief and pride that I had finally made it to Haiti…. and enjoyed every minute there.

March 7, 2014

Eventful Days in Washington D.C.

a snow stroll on Little Seneca Lake

Its supposed to be spring in 2 weeks, and we’re much further south here than in Boston, but still a snowstorm came tumbling down on us a couple days into March. After partying into the wee hours of Sunday morning with my best friend Ursula, we spent all of Sunday hosting a brunch for 25 people – not an easy feat when you’re jet lagged, hungover, and have no idea who anyone is. But I knew my mimosas and bloody mary’s just fine so the food turned out great. Sunday night we went to Mayor Vincent Gray’s re-election party, someone I had never expected to meet in person after seeing him so often on TV with President Obama.

Me and Ursy by the Washington monument

The snow came while we slept, but everything was decided hours before the first flakes of snow fell and all hell broke loose with school closures and cancelled flights. In the end, only a few centimetres fell, but without enough snow plows or winter tires, everything still shut down. The capital wash an eerie ghost town on Monday, barely a car or person in sight on the mall where we went to check out all the major monuments. We saw Abraham Lincoln, the new MLK memorial, the Washington Monument, Capitol Hill, the White House, and finally the Jefferson memorial where our only company was a stray (or rabid) fox.

Then Tuesday came, not any regular Tuesday, but Mardi Gras Tuesday, and some schools were still closed and flights were still delayed. Me and Ursula had breakfast with her mom, who was on her way to the elementary school she works at, where President Obama would be visiting that afternoon and deliver his budget speech. She sent us minute by minute updates on his whereabouts in the school, had her car swept by security, and later showed us the footage of his visit on the 5 o’clock news. We visited Ursula’s 94 year old grandmother, who was once the Mardi Gras queen in New Orleans back in the 40’s, then went for our own Mardi Gras party with a whole lot of beads and a feather mask.

the rabid fox in front of Jefferson memorial

When Wednesday came, there were no more politicians to meet or flight cancellations, so I headed to Reagan National Airport to catch my on-time flight to Haiti. Since I was flying via Miami, there were a lot of over bookings and stand-by’s from the last 2 days of delayed flights, so I volunteered myself off for a travel voucher. I returned to Ursula for Ash Wednesday, where we broke all the rules of lent, and tried to book her on my new flight to Haiti with the voucher I received. That didn’t work so well, but my feelings of failure only lasted a few hours until Thursday, when I woke up to a phone call from American Airlines that my flight had been rebooked for tomorrow.

Now its Thursday, and instead of flying to Haiti, I walked around the Smithsonian museums all day. I learned a lot about American history and natural science without paying a penny, and saw some of the most beautiful buildings and exhibits I’ve ever seen. At the portrait gallery in the Reynolds Center, I saw images of all 44 American presidents except Obama. I also saw the first piano ever placed in the White House, a beautiful 1903 Steinway and Sons painted grand Piano, chosen by President Roosevelt. Then I saw an amazing 1930’s box piano at the American history museum, followed by a contemporary grand piano smashed to a million pieces at the Art & Destruction exhibit at the Hirshorn Museum. Interesting how history has developed…

Capitol Hill

The most amazing things I saw today included the original, torn and tattered, Star Spangled Banner, the 30x40ft 15 striped, 15 starred US flag hung after the war of 1812, and inspiration behind the American national anthem. At the Air and Space museum, I saw the original Wright Flyer, the actual plane built in 1903 by the Wright Brothers and the first aircraft to ever make a manned flight. Shortly after, I touched a piece of the moon, and felt like today’s accidental day in DC was definitely worth being delayed for. Now I just home that tomorrow comes and brings me to Haiti, since this will be the 5th confirmed flight I’ve had booked to Port au Prince but still never made it on one!

March 1, 2014

Masters Degrees and Birthdays to feed my homesickness

now I’m a master in everything icelandic

I didn’t attend my first master’s graduating ceremony, and I wasn’t going to attend the second, but then three of my closest friends and partners in anti-studying crimes from the program were invited to (slash threatened to attend) the occasion; Steve, Liv and Marie. I felt I had to be present too once they all showed up in Iceland and I was still MIA. My flight out of Sierra Leone was delayed nearly a day, but I made it in time for the ceremony and a lot of celebrations.

The first celebration was Steve’s birthday, then my graduation. I felt like a spectacle since I was the only person to walk the stage from the program, and it was the only program announced in English, “Masters in Medieval Icelandic Studies.” It should have been called a Masters in Norse Mythology, or Icelandic Horse History, but now everyone thinks I’m one of those medieval enthusiasts who should wear a Thor’s hammer necklace or studded, black pleather clothing. Unfortunately, I’m not pale enough for gothic fashion, and I don’t know nearly enough about Vikings or the middle ages, so I just claim it as a degree in being more Icelandic than before.

We took a road trip to celebrate my new truck, a Kia sportage I bought 2 days before leaving for Africa for 4 months. But the Kia was a party pooper and ran out of gas in the middle of the highlands between Thingvellir and Laugarvatn…

me and my mustache friends

The next celebration was my roommate Harald’s birthday, followed 2 days later by my birthday. There weren’t enough champagne bottles for all the events, but we popped at least 4 over the week, and polished off some 12L of miscellaneous other alcohol. We threw a mustache and bowtie party, where I received the kind of amazing gifts little girls wish for on shooting stars. My father treated me like a princess, a special guest from France came to visit, and my Icelandic chef friends spoiled me rotten for the Reykjavik Food and Fun festival.

Then, I was gone as quickly as I had arrived, with another flurry of happy home memories and a bunch of friends to miss even more. But I was on my way to other friends that Im always missing, so once more I tore myself away from the comfort zone of safe at home, with a tingle of travel bug itching again at my toes.

February 28, 2014

The UN in West Africa

It´s a common sight to see white UN jeeps driving around Africa, but I´ve never seen so many as I saw in Abdjan and Monrovia. Im not sure which UN mission is bigger, but they both claim to be the biggest in West Africa, and there are more UN jeeps driving around than unmarked jeeps. They don´t all say “UN” with the big, black, block letters, but some cars are UNICEF, some are with FAO (the Food and Agriculture Organization), the World Health Organization, or IMF and the World Bank. All of their offices are in big, guarded buildings, many of them old hotels turned into base camps, and the security for each building would rival that of the US Embassy. In Abidjan, it was normal to see UN trucks driving around with the ´blue helmets,´ armed military personnel who cruise around town enforcing the peace.

Me and my UN FAO couch surf host

There are hundreds of expats working for these organizations, plus alot of other NGO´s and international development projects, so all the white people around town are usually not tourists but living and working or volunteering there. The UN even have their own flights and helicopters to transport them around, so taking public transport or landing with a commercial plane as a white person is a strange sight. When I flew into Monrovia airport, the immigration got really confused that my passport wasn´t a diplomatic one. Its a bright blue colour, so they couldnt figure out how it was a ´normal´ passport and felt very sheepish to ask “excuse me ma’am, is this a regular passport?”

I couchsurfed with a Colombian FAO worker in Monrovia, and a Spanish UN architect in Abidjan, who first applied for his job dreaming to help rebuild a destroyed city after their recent civil war. His colleagues and employers just months before him lived through the unrest and violent attacks, so its still fresh in their minds the risk they take trying to stay and help. I can imagine getting a job with the UN is a major accomplishment, and a scary commitment in many places, but the faces behind these jobs feel less and less noble as time goes on.

Outisde the American embassy

The Spanish architect realized that he was hired to build temporary homes for the blue helmet base camps, Jordanian and Togolese soldiers living in a large trailer parks he puzzles together. The Colombian started to realize how much money gets wasted in administration and over-paid salaries, and the incompetencies of the local people hired to work for their people but eventually give into selfish greed, losing touch of any compassion. The UN expats enjoy a Western salary, paying for western-luxury apartments, grocery stores, bars and restuarants built just to exploit them (thanks to the very innovative Lebanese running all of ex-pat West Africa), and spend a lot of time talking and planning for projects that take more resources to execute them than they produce. They drive around the all-expense paid jeeps, drunk or sober, party alot, and become a major contributor to the prostitution industry. I realized that all those agencies and organizations are trying their best to do some good, but if only more people saw the reality of everyday life for ex-pat workers who eventually stop feeling any heroic, good samaritan pride in their jobs. I think it would work so much better if they stopped caging themselves behind gates, security and air-conditioned jeeps, burst out of their expat bubbles, and made some attempt to give up their western comforts to really live and sympathize with Africa. I almost started to worry we do more harm than good, coming in to a country without paying taxes or adhering to their laws, ordering their government around, and dividing the population’s wealth between the have’s and have not’s… besides, ‘enforcing the peace’ doesnt make any sense – isn’t that an oxymoron?

February 15, 2014

Between Conakry and Freetown

Sierra Leone is one of those West African countries that I expected very little from. I had no expectations of the place, no images in my mind, and the name implies it would be Portugese speaking. Instead, its one of the few English speaking countries, one of the most densely populated, and exports, like Liberia, include diamonds and rubber plantations. I didn’t sit still for very long in Freetown, but just the place names taught me a lot of about its history; Freetown was named such because, like Liberia, it was the settlement of North American freed slaves. Sierra Leone was the name given to the country because when the first Portugese settlers approached Freetown from the sea, it’s a harbor backed by huge mountains, which look like a crouched pride of lions protecting the steep slopes and valleys between them.

a Guinean road

I ended up crossing the whole country of Sierra Leone, taking the road north from Freetown to Conakry too. The road to Guinea was worlds away from the journey I had made just days before, since it’s a fully sealed, 2 lane, painted, EU-funded highway with kilometer markers every 2 km. Its only 311km between Freetown and Conakry, which should only take 4 or 5 hours, but somehow it didn’t phase me when it actually took 10-14 hours. First it takes over an hour to get out of Freetown, but you have to account for unforeseen delays, like when my taxi ran out of gas in the middle of traffic. Then, it only takes a couple hours of traffic-free highway driving to the border, past rubber tree plantations and the rolling countryside spotted with little villages. The border alone takes a couple hours, and then the last 130km from the border to Conakry is the slowest, longest 130km I traveled in all my west Africa adventures.

somehwere in Guinea

It took me 2 hours to find a seat in a car leaving from the border to Conakry, since the conditions of the road and new import/export regulations have made land-border traffic and trading much less popular between Sierra Leone and Guinea. The car I finally got into is supposed to hold 7 passengers, but we were 1 child, 2 chickens and 11 adults, including the driver. The sun set shortly after we left, and only the brakes and bumps along the way proved to me how bad the road really was. We swerved around potholes and side roads that I couldn’t see in the dark or through the dust, and finally reached the outskirts of Conakry by 9 pm. Little did I know that these last 30km would go even slower (2 hours!), since it’s the only road into the city on the end of a narrow peninsula, where all the traffic bottlenecks and creeps around the new highway being built. They’ve torn down all the houses on the side of the road works, just for cars to be able to pass while the foundation is laid, but every rainy season sets back their work and the tarmac will probably never get laid.

I realized I should start my journey back a little earlier, get a head start on the day and avoid some traffic, give myself some more time. I went at the first call of prayer, shortly after 5 am, to a sleepy carpark. Deserted cars stood crowding the lot, but I was one of the first customers to arrive. I first watched the sunrise. Then sleepy drivers started crawling out of their cars where they had been asleep. Then the market sellers started setting up, and the ladies with breakfast and men with coffee for sale. By 9 am it was a bustling medina, but only 4 out of the 9 car seats had been paid for in my shared taxi. At 10:30 it started to get hot and I was tired of waiting, so I paid for 3 seats for the taxi to leave for the border.

Lac Koba in Guinea

As they tied down all the baggage on the roof of the car, the taxi destined for Freetown direct also filled up and left. I thought “damn, should have taken that one.” But then, a few hours later, we passed that same taxi on the side of the road, smashed into a truck, and I felt instant gratification for taking the car I was in. We passed a semi-truck flipped on its side, its 50kg rice bags scattered all over the steep corner it hadn’t made. I saw 2 motorcycle accidents, and then we got a flat tire. At least our problem was fixable, and I reached the border in time to find an onward taxi to Freetown. The car and driver both seemed promising, but then I realized the driver was a devout Muslim and we made 2 stops along the way for prayer time. That added an hour to our journey, and his coal-collecting and dropping off was another hour, so in the end it took me just as long to make my return journey.

my Freetown goodbye party was thrown by these kids

For anyone who’s googling how to make the journey from Freetown to Conakry, just make sure you give yourself an entire day, and delays and waits are just part of it, so don’t believe any guidebook or local that tells you it only takes 5 hours.

February 13, 2014

The long way through Sierra Leone

There was a lot of unclear and contradicting information about how to get from Monrovia to Freetown, the capital Sierra Leone. Some guidebooks said 5 hours, others said 2 days; the dry season had to be accounted for since the rainy season closed down the shortest route, and the bad roads and choice of motorbike vs. car also made a big difference.

the hand-drawn ferry and my motor taxi driver

I couldn’t set off until 1pm, since I was still waiting at the Sierra Leonean embassy in Monrovia for my $150US visa. The visas seem to get more expensive as I move west, but Im not sure why. By 1:30, I was in a shared taxi , squashed into the front seat with a customs officer on his way to work, and luckily his presence sped up all the checkpoints and eliminated all bribe demands. I crossed the border quickly and without hassle, a marvelous surprise, but then got accused of smoking marijuana on the bridge I crossed by foot to get over the river separating Liberia and Sierra Leone.

At 4pm, I was negotiating the next leg of my journey, a 250km 4×4 dirt track through the forest on a dusty, sometimes soggy road barely passable by car. So I did it on the back of a motorcycle, and 5 hours later, I couldn’t feel either one of my ass cheeks and my face and backpack had become the same colour of reddish brown. Luckily it was already night time so no one could see quite how outlandish I looked, and I checked into a hotel for the most welcomed cold-water bucket shower I had had yet.

Our private beach on the outskirts of Freetown

I still had 3 hours left of my journey to Freetown, which I continued the following morning. I reached the capital around noon, and took another series of mototaxis through some side-street hilly roads to reach my next couchsurfer host by 3pm. He fed me and took me straight to the beach after my 24 hour trip, were the next few hours of deserved clean and calm fed my soul more than my senses.