Snowflowers in the Valley

Posted on February 24, 2015 by swamsteker under Blog

Winter paying a surprise visit to the island can’t deter the heralds of spring from working their annual magic. While temperatures drop to historically low levels and red soil and orange trees take on a mysterious white hue for a morning or so, many of the gnarled, lifeless-seeming branches dress themselves in their own luscious snow. The blossoming of the almond trees is one of the secret joys of Ibiza, a bonus usually reserved for winter residents. These first trees to sport their flowers are a glorious solace during what most people agree is the least agreeable time of the year. February is the month the island hibernates: it’s when even the restaurants that stay open all year close, shops make their inventory, hotels finally have the time to fix those leaking faucets and replace any broken mirrors or furniture. But the end of February also signifies an awakening, and Ibiza’s only true winter month has one brilliant prize that everyone looks forward to. Suddenly it seems like all trees on the island are almond trees, there are so many of them. But although their whitest pink tufts can be seen everywhere, to get the full-blown fairytale picture, you go to Santa Agnes de Corona.The curvy road leading to Santa Agnes will bring you up to a vantage point from which you have a magnificent view of the almond valley. What you see is the announcement of spring, looking like a touch of winter. Thousands of trees that have erupted in unbridled exuberance, life pouring out of the branches like juice from an overripe fig. The island doesn’t exactly turn into a colorless desert during wintertime, so the early blooms don’t function the way they would in harsher climates, like little dots of hope in a depressing world. It’s rather like they are trying to outshine and discourage the measly snowflakes that have dared to materialize. It’s as if they want to say, ‘we don’t need you, we are the white island’s snow, and we’ll do a better job than you ever will.’ Many of the island’s immigrants want to immerse themselves in this floral snow, feel the petals land on their face like they would with actual snowflakes, and for them, walks are organized. The most intriguing must be the full moon walk, when, if done at the right time, the moonlight illuminates the flowers and turns them into the ghosts of spring.

Sweet Gem, looking like a blossom herself…

Word gets around though, and in February Santa Agnes, normally a sleepy hamlet consisting of one road, one church and two restaurants, turns into a bustling meeting point for hiking tourists. Among the companies organizing the walks is Walking Ibiza, run by Toby and his daughter Gem, who takes care of many of the kids walks. Gem sparkles likes her name suggests and the kids love her instantly. She lets us in on some interesting nature facts, such as which plants and flowers are edible (a future post will be devoted to all the savory little plants you can find on Ibiza). She explains the difference between the trees with the white and the ones with the pink blossom. It turns out the almonds of the latter are just the tiniest bit toxic. Yep, infamous almond-scented cyanide, though you’d have to eat buckets full of the nuts to get it to bother you. Gem also tells us that this year the flowering of the trees seems a bit stunted, or at least stalled by what turned out to be the coldest winter in fifty years. But even now, in their demure state, the almond trees are a sight for sore eyes, with their grey, moss-covered bark, and the bluest Ibiza skies as their backdrop. As a final prize, we get to see the island’s largest olive tree with a circumference of twelve meters, so Gem tells us. The kids only care about the excellent climbing the tree offers…

Hiking in Ibiza is not to be missed, even when the almond trees have shed all their petals. Only when you traverse the routes that locals have discovered for you, you get a full taste of the breathtaking beauty of the island. Remote calas that are inaccessible by car can often be reached by speedboat or yacht. But by doing that, you miss out on the stunning paths that lead you to it, and that’s a real shame. Everyone that visits Ibiza with the intention to do more than just go to the clubs, beaches or restaurants (which are all really nice too, don’t get me wrong!) should try to take in at least one walk.

Continue reading →

Ibiza Oil?

Posted on February 1, 2015 by swamsteker under Blog

So picture this: it’s about 2 P.M. and you have just woken up after an epic night of clubbing at Pure Pacha. Feeling rather dazed, just a watery holographic picture of the past night hovering over your beaten up brain, there’s nothing you’d rather do than soak your abused feet in the crystalline Balearic seawater of Cala D’Hort. Once you have managed to get there, ignoring the heavy fog inside your head, you stumble upon the sand and flop down on the F*** Me I’m Famous towel you bought at one of those crappy tourist shops. Seconds after registering the majestic Es Vedra rock-island rising up out of the Mediterranean like a warning, your heavy eyelids drop shut, and you let your feet splash around in the surf. Ah, what bliss. But as you’re drifting off into your comfortable holiday dreaming, there’s an odd sensation. The water has attained a certain viscosity, as if you’ve stuck your feet into a tub of molasses. As the realization of this off-ness becomes strong enough to rouse you from your daydream, you hear dismayed screams. Something’s souring your summer reverie. You open your eyes, only to discover your feet have turned black. The entire surf has. A thick ribbon of shiny black goo lines the coastline of this once pristine beach.

Is this a future scenario for the Balearic archipelago? The people of Alianza Mar Blava think so. With an exposition on the 24th of January at P/Art Ibiza they once again wanted to draw attention to the plans for building an oil rig in the stretch of Mediterranean that separates Valencia from the Balearic Islands.

A performance by Maria Claudia Heidemann, ethereal as a porcelain doll, dancing on stilts as if she was born with them, opened the art show. She gently swayed to the sounds of whales and dolphins, two of the many sea creatures put in jeopardy by all the steps that are involved in the search for oil. Following Heidemann was a speech by Flor D’Agnollo of Alianza Mar Blava, castigating the politicians for allowing Cairn Energy to go ahead with their test drilling, and urging the government to look for sustainable energy instead of desperately holding onto fossil fuels.

When D’Agnollo concluded her speech, we discovered that the black plastic garbage bag on the floor contained a human being. Amanda Cardona Orloff was rolling around in it, eerily resembling oil washing on waves. When she freed herself, she was the oil-smeared sea personified. Pacha DJ Beatriz Martinez, better known as B Jones, treated the visitors to the sounds of her track ‘Ibiza says no’, which can be bought online and the proceedings of which will go to Alianza Mar Blava.

So what’s the deal? Cairn Energy, a company that has also been drilling in the arctic, is responsible for this ludicrous plan. Ludicrous, first of all because the Mediterranean is an all but closed-off basin. In the case of an accident causing oil leakage, the oil is stuck like a goldfish in a fishbowl. Another reason why any plan to find new oil wells is ridiculous, is the availability of massive amounts of solar energy, especially in a place like the Balearic Islands. Sure, we still have to find a way to store all this sun energy, but it might be wise for companies to dedicate their time investigating how to do that instead of where to find what’s left of the dwindling amount of fossil fuels. Anyone but the oil companies themselves can come up with tons of reasons why this would be preferable, but one of them is the detrimental effects all stages of oil exploitation have on marine life. Part of the damage has already been done, since the seismic testing involves extremely loud noise amounting to a level of 250 dB. This is twice as loud as when you would be standing next to an airplane taking off. Marine scientist Matthew Huelsenbeck, who was interviewed by National Geographic regarding the same procedure in the Arctic, tried to explain the effect on marine animals, and put it this way: “Imagine dynamite going off in your living room or in your backyard every ten seconds for days to weeks at a time”. The Balearic sea is a habitat for both dolphins and whales, and this noise alone kills them off or disorients them from their seasonal routes.

Most of the islanders are fiercely opposed to the plans. But taking a stand against oil extraction presents a dilemma, especially for the people of Ibiza, who travel back and forth to the island by planes or ferries that run on kerosine or diesel, and who depend heavily on the tourists that do the same. No one wants oil to wash up on the gorgeous beaches of Ibiza, but everyone still needs it. They need it to make the plane and their awesome jetski fly, to enable their 4×4 to take on those sloping rocky roads and to fuel generators that supply electricity at those secret parties.

Read more: http://alianzamarblava.org/es/

To buy the track ‘Ibiza Says No’ by B Jones: https://itunes.apple.com/us/album/ibiza-says-no-feat.-aaron/id895769933?l=es

National Geographic article on the effects of seismic tests on marine animals: http://news.nationalgeographic.com/news/energy/2014/02/140228-atlantic-seismic-whales-mammals/

How a wolf moon ate the quadrantids

Posted on January 9, 2015 by swamsteker under Blog

After my most heartrending holiday season thus far, the new year failed to begin convincingly hopeful. The absence of my father was felt by each of us in a way it would had a piece of TNT blown a hole in our chests. Other, real, fireworks took their toll as well, mutilating a kind and careful boy and reinforcing the notion that explosions and bombs have no place at festivities. In fact, they shouldn’t be present at a war either, but I guess then it wouldn’t be a war. Euphemistically named Magnolia Candle or Royal Party Stars & Pearls, these contraptions still are nothing but explosives. At least the makers of the Atomic Warlord and Cyborg Massacre are a bit clearer on this. And I wonder, are the creators of the Kalashnikov shooters having qualms about having used the name of a terrorist instrument for their party-popper? I suppose the editors of Charlie Hebdo would have preferred having terrorists detonate the fireworks version, instead of toting the actual weapon. But I’m not sure if the damage potential would have been smaller. Besides, guns are just another firework variety. Bombs, pyrotechnics, guns, mines; they’re all part of the Great family of Explosives. So let’s dispose of fireworks, and add war while we’re at it; what a marvelous idea. Anyway, this charred juvenile hand made the demure passing of the year even less exuberant than it had been. The single advantage: none of the kids present would dream of coming within half a mile of a piece of firework ever again. No need to show them gruesome pictures of hands that metamorphosed into bloody tentacles or eyes covered with dirty white patches; they were eyewitness to what this fun product can do.

Don’t get me wrong, I do like fireworks. As long as it’s organized by people who know what they’re doing. I’ve been a spectator at shows that made me feel I had swallowed a hallucinatory drug, they were that dazzling (the fact that perhaps my mind wasn’t quite sober is beside the point). But putting it in the hands of some dumb ass hooligan, or kids, which pretty much amounts to the same thing, is a foolproof recipe for trouble. Unfortunately, having pyrotechnicians organize it doesn’t eliminate the harm done to our environment: all those toxins, like dioxin and heavy metals (antimony for one), being released in an atmosphere that’s pretty fragile as it is. People with respiratory afflictions are advised to stay inside come midnight of the 31st. And then there’s the birds, normally sound asleep around that time, dashing from tree to tree in a blind panic because they literally have nowhere to hide. In 2011 it was the cause of death for thousands of birds in Arkansas, USA.

Lighting a couple of bengal flares on New Year’s Eve is not a civil right in every country. And back on the island, I understood why Ibiza has no need for fireworks around News Year’s Eve. The sky is perpetually bursting with real royal stars and moonlight that won’t peter out after five seconds, like Black Cat’s Moonshine.

And to my great surprise I found out we would be treated to a galactic firework display across these almost eternally clear night skies. A meteor shower called The Quadrantids flies between the 1st and the 7th of January, making it the perfect new year’s celebration.

Because I wanted to do it right, shortly before the peak amount of meteors to be sighted, I figured to involve my mother-in-law’s serious telescope (barely amateur) to view the falling stars even better. However, when I picked up the manual and saw that the first chapter had as a title “How to use this manual” I got discouraged. I mean, when you need a manual to read a manual, you can safely assume you won’t grasp the workings of the Celestron Spotting Scope unless you study it intensively for a few days, or weeks. More likely, you won’t grasp it. Ever. Apparently, my mother-in-law does, but she isn’t here. So.

One of the Quadrantids not seen by me

I ventured outside to find the radiant point of this shower, right below the Big Dipper, one of the three constellations I am able to locate. The other two are Orion and Cassiopeia, the ones my Dad pointed out to me. However, an overwhelming moon dominated the sky, honoring it’s name, Wolf Moon, and making it impossible to see all but the brightest stars. Peering like one obsessed, I did not manage to discover one measly star stealing across that almost diurnal night sky. Disappointed, expecting to be treated to a spectacle comparable to the Perseids I marveled at once in the French Alps, I went inside. It took me a beat to change my mind, and go out again. To admire the brightest and fattest moon I had ever seen. And as I looked at my razor-sharp shadow and everything soaking in that frozen light, my thoughts wandered off to my beautiful and lonely mother back in the Netherlands, fragile like a glass wing butterfly or those delicate fairy-tale gelata (jellyfish) that die if taken out of their aquatic habitat, and wished for her to open her eyes for the magic that still exists. My dear Mom, it’s as with these Quadrantids: just because you can’t see the falling stars, doesn’t mean they’re not there. And you can still wish upon them.

a glass wing butterfly

Roadkill

Posted on December 11, 2014 by swamsteker under Blog

Every morning, at 8:25 AM, we need to drive a little under twenty minutes to get our kids to school. “So, what’s the big deal?”, all Americans will say, and I guess there’s plenty of Spanish who would react pretty much the same way. However, for the average Dutch person, a trip like that, merely to drop your kids off at school, borders on the outrageous. In Amsterdam, the elementary school our children attend is within walking distance, and the journey to school never exceeds five minutes. But it still feels like we have to hurry to make it in time. Now that we have to take the car to drive almost twenty minutes, we never feel rushed. And we’re rarely late. How come?

Well, this school starts twenty-five minutes later, which might have something to do with it. But when you take the increased commuting time into consideration it really equals out any advantage the extra time in the morning would provide. Here, we leave home no more than ten minutes later than we would in Amsterdam.

But it’s in precisely that drive, taking up such a substantial amount of the pre-school morning, where the answer lies to the zen-disposition we are blessed with when we get to leave our kids in the capable hands of their English speaking teachers. First of all, the time spent in the car takes care of any hurried feelings that might be present at the moment of embarking. Usually, everything that needs to be in the car is, so that vexing thought can be released at the moment the key is in the ignition. Secondly, the car is comfortable. It’s warm (yes, it does get cold here as well) and dry, as opposed to the often bleak trips we made by bicycle in Amsterdam, facing freezing wind and rain. All of us get to relax into a little daydream. Well, the driver not as much, of course.

However, the most important element in making the day start off right is the landscape we get to traverse and the absence of other vehicles. The time schools start is rush hour in all cities in the world, which means it doesn’t matter whether you travel by car or by bike, the journey to school or work is stressful by definition. Here, we get to take a deserted country road to school. The only point in our Ibiza commute that might be regarded as a wee bit taxing, would be the moment parents from all over the island arrive at the Morna International College with their Range Rovers and Jeep Cherokees, needing to squeeze through the narrow entrance to park their car in the crowded parking lot. That parking lot, by the way, is as lush as a parking lot can possibly get, with lots of pine trees and gravel and pieces of tree-bark to park on.

The island itself is the biggest treat in the early morning. It does rain and it does get clouded sometimes, but in general, the sun greets us in a crystal clear sky. And even when the weather isn’t that great, the skies and the horizon and the sunrise join to make such a pretty picture. Our drive takes us through the back-country of Ibiza, if you can speak of a such a small island having that, which means we pass small agricultural plots, vineyards, olive and orange groves, and lots of pine forests. This is the time of year the oranges ripen, and the trees are laden with fruit, adding a dash of color to the abundance of green. Because of the rain, in summertime all but absent, the hills and meadows are greener than I’ve ever seen them before, and they’re covered in tiny white and yellow flowers. The carob tree grove we pass welcomes us with its heavily sweet scent, instead of the exhaust fumes we so often get to inhale in the big city. When we set out for school, the sun has just come up, and its optimistic rays spotlight the natural beauty of the island, reflecting off the dewdrops on the grass. It’s enough to take your breath away. By the time we reach school, the light and scenery have worked their magic, calming any bickering or lingering distress. Could a commute be any better? Every once in a while, we get stuck behind a tractor or other slow-moving agricultural vehicle, but even that cannot wreak havoc on our mood.

There’s only one downside to our daily commute that we don’t have to deal with (or not nearly as much) in Amsterdam. Roadkill. My kids’ road to education is strewn with untimely snuffed out lives of residents that belong here as much as we do, in fact even more so. A parade of poor, witless hedgehogs, rabbits and cats that are more or less disfigured by the onrushing car they only see the split second before it rips open their skull.

A while ago, on the way back home, the kids safely in the car after a day filled with various educational exercises, my throat tightened as we neared what turned out to be a tortoiseshell cat, still alive, while its brains were scattered across the concrete. Its hind leg was hovering a bit in the air before it landed softly in surrender to the inevitable. I screeched to a halt, jumped out of the car, holding onto a desperate sliver of hope that I could still get this animal to the vet to be saved. But when I approached it, I saw only death in its eyes.

This was the only afternoon the drive home failed to make me happy.

Halloween at Pikes

Posted on November 25, 2014 by swamsteker under Blog

Note to the reader: the following text has aged somewhat since the actual event. It really was written right after the Halloween party, at 6 AM, but at the time I didn’t have the balls to publish it.

I just returned from a Halloween party at Pikes Hotel, a place where some twenty-year-old memories of mine were created. Because of the state I’m in, I want to warn anyone who reads this in advance: my account might be a little incoherent and not exactly conscientiously written. I might even repeat myself, but hopefully it won’t be boring. I can’t guarantee anything.

Pikes Hotel is a wonderful boutique (I really dislike that word but that’s what it would be called) hotel with quite an illustrious history. Famous people, mostly Brits, flocked to it and added to its original flair. Wham’s Club Tropicana was filmed there, and a room is dedicated to Freddy Mercury, a regular when still mortal. Apparently, Kate Moss is there for every Halloween party they throw, except for this year. Darn. But then again, the gathering was so eclectic, who needs her? Besides, at Halloween parties almost everyone is more interesting than they would be at other parties. And you get to ogle to your heart’s content, without feeling uncomfortable. Halloween is like a show, or a museum with music. Even if you don’t talk to anyone, you still have a good time just looking. And most of the people that come to this party are not tourists, unlike the club vacationers that come here during the summer to party their brains out for a week or two. They are people that have chosen to live here, and they are a very different lot.

On Ibiza, island of parties, the 31st of October is the best party of the year. Everyone who lives here knows it, but they don’t tell. Whereas in summer, you can see billboards for the club nights pop up like mushrooms in a moldy forest, the Halloween fests are barely advertised in local tabloids, and the places that accommodate them don’t even mention it on their websites. I’m not exactly new to this island, but it wasn’t until last year I started to become aware of something I was missing out on. Most clubs have already shut down for the season and only a few venues host an All Hallows Eve party, but they go out of their way to do it.

Although I have been madly in love with Halloween since the first time I was introduced to it (’twas in Los Angeles, where they certainly know how to throw a horror fest), this year my feelings towards ‘el dia de los muertos’ were shook up. It turned into something I didn’t know I was allowed to love anymore. Death has taken away such an important part of my life, can I still make fun of it? Should I party in its name? Am I supposed to relish the elaborate make-believe graveyard the people of Pikes Hotel have created on their lawn, when it was only a month ago I said farewell to my father in a real one? Can I paint my daughter’s face so that it resembles a skull or an evil templar? It feels like a twisted form of blasphemy. But then again, it doesn’t feel like the same thing; death is not a skull or a zombie or a ghost. It’s emptiness, an unfathomable abyss of loss, and most of all, the absence of life. Not just of the deceased’s life, but also of the people who loved him. With the death of someone this close, a piece of the life of the ones who remain behind, seeps away. Like a rechargeable battery than won’t ever be able to fully be charged again. So I decided to go after all, in a futile effort to fill up that gigantic void inside of me with images of gratuitous diversion.

The Pikes hotel is legendary. It’s also the perfect haunted house, with so many nooks and crannies you get to pass through; it takes a couple of rounds to understand how it’s laid out. An old finca, an Ibicencan farmhouse, it still retains many of its original elements, like the millstone in the middle of one the rooms, so substantial you can hardly walk around it. It’s charming with serious star-attraction.

The last time I hung out here was over twenty years ago. Lured by the stories of celebrities that were supposed to lounge at the pool bar everyday, I headed over there, riding a scooter and wearing a more than presentable white dress, because, well, you never knew who you might meet at a place like that. I walked onto the deserted grounds. No stars anywhere. Hesitant about how to proceed, I lingered on the terrace for a few moments, the harsh afternoon sun thrashing my bare shoulders. Finally, I decided to act all worldly and sit down at the bar to drink…orange juice, of course. Fortunately, there was a bartender, but she was the only one present. My juice all but downed (I do that very fast, drinking, that’s why I have to take care with alcohol: it usually goes down like lemonade, or well, juice. Sipping is something that’s beyond my abilities), I rose, ready to mount my scooter. But as I was doing this, a guy walked up to the bar. He had a mustache (absolutely not done at that day and age) like a mariachi and a sly smile. He knew what I was here for.

Tony Pike and Grace Jones

Tony Pike and I had some amusing conversations. I accompanied him to a couple of parties and a special Privilege club night, and got a taste of what it’s like to be the owner of an (in)famous rock star hotel on a small island, how people approach you. Interesting research material.

A few hours ago, I saw him again for the first time in twenty years. Although the mustache had gone, I did recognize him, and at eighty, he still looks pretty good. One of Pikes’ employees, a gorgeous and sweet skull girl that served beer from a hole in the wall, told me he still attends every party. Guess it keeps him young. I didn’t go up to him; he wouldn’t have recognized me.

As we danced and chatted our way through the Beetlejuices, the clockwork orange staff, the many walking dead and the party people holding plastic chainsaws and axes, we were let in on the night’s big secret: the Witch’s Tit. Only the Chosen were allowed to suck the mesmerizing motherly ambrosia from her rubbery nipple. Another delectable hotel employee, who assisted in the suckling, told us it had been Tony’s idea, which goes to show that living a life of neverending fiestas is good for you. Was it magical milk, that the Witch so generously offered to us, unworthy mortal souls? Nope. It was orange juice, just like that first time twenty years ago.

Or was it…?

Vamp at Pikes

For anyone who doesn’t want to pass up the best party venue on an island that has made partying into an art, Ibiza Spotlight puts it even more elaborately and convincingly.

Continue reading →

Letters to Niels

NEW CHAPTERS

Category Archives: Blog