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.

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Jet ski meditation

Posted on October 10, 2014 by swamsteker under Blog

Thick, white, convinced lines, drawn across the ashen San Antonio Bay by oblivious machines of buffoonery. No thoughts of waste or exhaust or obscenity enter the driver’s mind, the fifty horse power vibration of the waterverhicle traveling up through his crotch to utterly confiscate his thinking. No thoughts of change, loss or mortality dare enter this violently fortified mind. Mindfullness squared. The loud growling that renders this instrument of frolic upsetting to anyone not on it, is mercifully absorbed by the distance. In the silent picture that reaches me, the white figures they make in the cloudy water almost seem elegant. And unbearably carefree.

The last time I watched this postcard of a view, the water was still a sky-reflecting-blue, the air still simmering and I someone else. Someone with a living past. It was a past lacking the need to think about, as it was there for me to grab whenever I felt like it. And, like so many people before and after me, I failed to do this. And now it’s gone. A vault, that was at my disposal for such a long time, has been locked forever. And with the fickleness so characteristic of the human mind, thoughts of this lost past cannot seem to let up bombarding my consciousness. Now that I can’t ever have my father’s strong, loving arms around me, I’m unable to stop digging around in my memory for the moments they actually were. Real moments from early childhood, and invented ones I don’t truly remember, but that I know were there, in a certain shape and for a wide variety of reasons. Besides, after such a long time, who can say what and how it was exactly, anyway?

The island hasn’t lost it magic, it is comforting to be here, but it has dampened. The clear sounds of the water gurgling in the pool, the birds heralding the day’s end, the salving breeze ruffling the leaves of the palm tree, they are subdued. It’s me who has lost something. What exactly, I don’t know, but it’s larger than I can as yet fathom. For now, it has materialized in a persistent deafness, (the main culprit in the muffled sounds) that was born the day my father died. It’s a very explainable affliction, a side effect of a nasty cold virus that has held my sinuses hostage for that entire time. As a result, I have been living with my head in a fish bowl since my dad passed away, increasing this feeling of isolation, of being detached from the rest of the world. I guess that’s a fitting physical condition for my mental state, that can be described as a cauldron of utter confusion, out of which I need to distill anew my place in this world.

My dad, he was larger than life, and so much more than my father. He was my teacher, my doctor, my music coach, my best friend for a long time, my debating partner, my conscience. Now that he no longer is, I feel as if my body and mind are amputated. We already almost lost him once. A brain hemorrhage changed him and removed him from me somewhat, and I have been less mentally dependent upon him since. I thought it had prepared me for the moment he would really be gone. It didn’t, or, to put it this way, I don’t know how it could have possibly felt any more earthshattering to lose him. This brain hemorrhage he sustained eleven years ago was terrifyingly close to doing the job the cardiac arrest handled more successfully, on the eleventh of September of this year. Something about the date, I guess. My father always had a knack for symbolism.

Most things seem rather futile now. The island is rounding off the season with a few more weeks of festivities, and many friends and acquaintances flock to Ibiza for drinking in the last rays of autumn sun before taking shelter from the Dutch winter and digging up out of attics and cellars the woolen overcoats they’ll be needing again. Before my father’s death, I was looking forward to joining them for a sunset-hued freshly-caught-fish-dinner on the beach, or meeting them at one of last happening parties, savouring our special situation and the abundancy of time we have here.

When everyone gets on a plane back to rainy and frantic Amsterdam, we get to stay. There’s a sticky sadness carried by every breath of clean, consoling Ibicencan air, and a visceral pain at not being able to see my handsome and brilliant dad enjoying the same cloudless, light-filled skies I get to behold every day. I have failed at bringing him here sooner, so I could show him the full moon setting in a lavender sky moments before the sun rises, and make him smell the dew-dampened wild rosemary that thrives in these evergreen forests. But despite the tinge of dejection that has dropped a film onto life, I feel happy and grateful for being here, and for having had a father like that. I will be treasuring the sun reflecting off the bays like sequins, the turquoise waters that my children jump into and the praying mantis that visits our terrace every evening, perhaps even more so than before. But now, every experience will come paired with a picture of the radiant man that gave his life for the ones he loved and new life to many others.

In the spirit of Kees Wamsteker, my father, I will take in all life and this tiny island has to offer. Except maybe for jet ski riding.

Sibling wars

Posted on September 8, 2014 by swamsteker under Blog

For people without children it is impossible to fathom how busy you can be entertaining and caring for your progeny, how they can take up a great deal of your time, especially during those precious holidays, usurp it. This is how it’s possible the days fly by, leaving you wondering what on earth it is you did. It wasn’t lying idly in the shade, reading a half-decent novel, that’s for sure. Or even browsing one of those mindnumbing fashion editorials. Hell, you hardly even checked your Facebook newsfeed or retweeted some mindblowing headline.

Well, first of all, you fed your offspring. That means making breakfast, lunch and dinner, although one of these might be avoided by eating out. Secondly, the kids need to be played with. Just placidly floating in the swimming pool is not a realistic option. Even when you try to enter the pool without anyone noticing, knowing the youngsters are miraculously sojourning in another section of the vacation grounds, they find out through some age-old telepathic instinct that also convinces children up to a certain age that nothing beats playing with one of (or, better even, both) their parents. So doing some laps is not a viable alternative either, unless you can manage this with two cheerful but very present minors hanging onto your neck and arms.

No, it will be ball- and kid-throwing from now on, joining in a diving contest, or pretending to be a shark. Before, or after, their pool fun, the children need to be lathered with sunscreen. That’s not something they like, mind you, so it takes quite some patience and persuasion before this is carried out. It takes at least half an hour, and once a day is not enough, not with this August sun beating down on their rain and cloud habituated skin.

Next come the waterballoons. The kids are big enough to fill them with water, but not quite big enough for tying the knot. So that’s where you come in, wriggling your big fingers in impossible curves to make sure the water stays in. Well, at least for a while. And, what’s the use of making the water bombs without having a fight? Before you know it, you get drawn into a water-balloon war, which is actually a lot of fun.

And then there’s the no-fun wars. Sibling wars. You try to figure out what happened, who did what and who is right, which is utterly impossible and exhausting. You notice the big sister ‘accidently’ turning off the tap a bit too late, which causes the balloon to extend beyond its capacity and explode in her little sisters face. You are pretty sure she did it on purpose, but she says ‘no’. So how to deal with it? Next, you catch the little one sticking out her tongue to her sister or hitting her on the head with a naked Barbie-doll. Quite some time is spent in the guise of a blind referee.

Worst of all, when you finally have the opportunity to be by yourself, to clip your toenails for example, because the other parent generously decides to take the little ones snorkeling, you feel torn, as it will be their first time to experience the mystifying underwater silence. When they return with excited stories of salt-and-pepper fish and underwater hedgehogs, pushing and interrupting each other in order to be the first one to tell you, this nagging little splinter of regret gets stuck somewhere between your stomach and solar plexus. So when the plan is hatched to jump off cliffs into the cyan waters of Cala Salada, even though you just planned on checking some emails or brew a peaceful cup of coffee, you resignedly join the excursion. With kids, you just can’t win.

But then again, you already have.

Leo’s first jump ever off a six foot cliff…

Robin doesn’t bat an eye. She just spreads her wings and flies, like the good little bird she is.

Settling in

Posted on August 29, 2014 by swamsteker under Blog

After three days, I think we are starting to settle, ease into the temperature and the rhythm of the island. Like I said before, to adopt a house that has always only been used as a holiday hideout and turn it into a regular everyday work and school domicile takes some adjusting. School beginning will help tremendously, of course, as that will automatically draw us into an everyday structure. And I think it is time for some structure after this endless summer holiday of packing, work and childcare. But first one more week of dolce far niente.

Yesterday we had a little taste of the schoolattending days, when we went to the Morna International College to introduce the kids to their new learning environment and buy them their uniforms. The school surroundings won’t be a problem, I guess. Nestled between fir trees in the countryside of Santa Gertrudis, with gorgeous sportsfacilities and a small adjacent forest for romping. I guess our already spoiled children will be even more so. Oh well, anyting for the offspring, right?

Going to Ibiza

Posted on August 27, 2014 by swamsteker under Blog

This is the second day of our new life. Yesterday morning we arrived by ferry from Barcelona, and were greeted by a shameless sun like a spotlight that dared us to drive our car from the ship onto ibizencan soil. On our first day on the island we fittingly saw the sun come up and go down in a perfect cloudless sky. It feels strange to be here without it being an actual holiday. Well, we will take some time to relax before the hard work begins. And we will find out how island life becomes us…

Letters to Niels

NEW CHAPTERS