Cartagena, Spain

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



Cartagena, Spain



Cartagena, Spain

Cartagena, Spain

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lima - La Catedral on Plaza de Armas

Just off Lima’s busy central square Plaza de Armas stands an imposing Gothic cathedral, fittingly called La Catedral. The white façade covers one whole side of the square but all the doors are closed except one. When we enter, we find a kind of sub-cathedral; a smaller version for daily use, we surmise.

There are a few unusual pieces inside the church. The altar piece consists of an elaborate symbolic structure, centered upon a Trinity consisting of a humble Christ carrying a cross, God the Father and Mary beneath them. Over them flies the Holy Spirit in the form of a dove. Over the Holy Spirit towers a cluster consisting of the four evangelists, who are accompanied by their animal symbols derived of the four creatures of Revelation 4:7 (a connection I’ve always disagreed with). Strangely, only Matthew, Luke and Mark look up but John looks down.

Below the central Trinity we see a picture of the Lamb, again surrounded by four faces, presumably the four evangelists. Left and right are cherubim and images of Christ handing His cup to people.

Elsewhere in the church we find an unusual statue of what seems the twelve year old Christ, but already adorned as Pantocrator. Across the sanctuary stands a pieta, but again unusually, with Mary donned as Regina, posing in front of the empty INRI cross.

In its entirety, La Catedral in Lima is a tired old church which fails to engross. The noise from the street is deafening; the interior is dark and we feel unwelcome and shunned. Moments after we enter, some irked eyeing man in a T-shirt hastens across the central isle and disappears through a door next to the main altar. A moment later the lights go out without ado, and the man reappears and begins to herd us out the door. I’m sure it’s closing time but it’s sad when a church’s caretaker shows his sole modicum of enthusiasm only at that hour.

“Maybe there’s room for us at other inn,” Draga says wisely as she grabs my hand in consolation, and lovingly leads me out the door towards a coffee place off the other end of the square.

La Catedral on Plaza de Armas

Unusual 12 year old Christ Pantocrator

Magnificent altar piece of La Catedral on Plaza de Armas

Pieta/ Mary Regina

Lima, Peru - a dark town

There are 29 million people living in Peru; 9 million in Lima, and I think I met about half of them.

We docked in Callao for an overnight, meaning that Draga and I could go ashore (on the proviso that nothing would break down just five minutes before quitting time). The agent informed us in hysteric guffaws that just outside the port gates gangs of ruthless locals awaited any sailor foolish enough to venture out on foot. Many of us get beaten, stabbed, abducted even, severely mistreated and some never heard from again.

“You take taxi taxi,” he urges. “Callao no good. You go Lima. My cousin has good taxi, taxi good good, always good price, special price for you.”

The agent’s cousin, it appeared later that night, specialized in running sailors to Lima for the special price of 70 dollars. However, for Draga and I, he volunteered the extra special price, only specially now on this special evening, of only 50 US.  For that he would wait for us in Lima, to take us back.

After forty minutes of death defying driving through traffic as thick as an asteroid belt, zigzagging along the most depressing slums that seems to consists entirely of alleyways peopled with hordes of hapless kids and bums and small animals, we arrived at Plaza de Armas. I had my mind set on La Catedral; Draga wished for a coffee on a terrace somewhere.

For two hours we felt like human beings again. We partook in a service worshipping something else than mad labor and moneymaking, and we drank coffee on a terrace, trying to pretend this half-lit square is not a glum pearl in an giant oyster of dirt and poverty.

Peru's signature mist



Fountain on Plaza de Armas - Lima, Peru

Seat of the Peruvian government - Lima, Peru

The entire Plaza de Armas is surrounded by oppulent buildings

Plaza de Armas - Lima, Peru

A shopping street off Plaza de Armas - Lima, Peru



Pisco, Peru - Timelines, eternity & opportunities

We’re definitely back in the tropics again. I’m not partial to the tropics; sweltering heat followed by those dark evenings. I’ve never been able to properly explain myself in this kind of climate (said the good doctor, and I’m with him). I like moderation and lots of light.

Ludin asked me this morning if he could go away for three days to visit the famous Mayan ruins at Machupicchu. Of course I told him no, so Ludin is now probably in the dessert somewhere. Speaking of the dessert. I’m not keen on desserts, but two of my most desired destinations are smack in the middle of it. Having travelled most of my life, all I really want is to go home, but if I can’t go home, I’d love to visit (that means stay there for a few weeks and absorb) (a) the Giza complex, and (b) the Peruvian dessert drawings.

Much to my consternation, a rope guy just told me that we parked the ship about 40 minutes away from these coveted Peruvian dessert drawings! And I can’t leave! Just like anybody else can’t just up and leave the office. Of course, sailing around the world, and seeing Antarctica again, can’t be compared to sitting in an office somewhere, but hey, I sure would like a day off sometime.

What would I do on my day off? Sleep in? Translate some more Hebrew names? Finally finish watching Life, with that groovy David Attenborough? Or read Bill Bryson’s Walk in the Woods for the fifth time? Perhaps Draga and I could sneak off, like two kids from a party and just sit somewhere, pretending we have as much time as the Peruvian dessert drawings.

http://www.go2peru.com/

The charming port of Pisco, Peru

Sailboats in Pisco Bay

Definitely Mayan

Peruvian pelican

Valparaiso - Valpo, Chile

Like a bank of submerged gems, the city of Valparaiso lies dreamy over its sleepless port. She’ll wake up soon. Her streets will fill with throngs of those who lovingly call her Valpo, like the brand name of some superglue or Velcro-type invention. It’s almost tempting to ponder the miracle of an entire populace existing without our recognition or slightest concern.

“You’re getting depressed and you’re talking out of your but,” says Draga, suddenly appearing out of nowhere, like she always does. “Don’t collaborate with your sadness.”

“George bought dog,” she says. The indefinite article doesn’t matter much to Draga. She knows the difference between things that are important and those that are not. “He name him Jerry.”

“Jerry,” I echo. “Can’t wait to meet Jerry.” And my mind takes me to Belgrade, where I dropped my anchor a small eternity ago, where human souls drifted from the clouds and spoke and got names. George’s smile, his pizza’s, his TV that’s always on the Serbian version of MTV; it’s home to me, the most sacred place on earth.

Day break in the port of Valparaiso

Day break in the port of Valparaiso

Day break in the port of Valparaiso

Puerto Montt - Draga's Day Off

“There’s a world out there,” she said this morning, looking out the porthole of our cabin, “It’s a beautiful day. If I can’t share it with you, I’ll walk into that world out there.”

“Bring back pictures,” I said. She knows I can’t leave my work, but she also knows how important it is to me to know that there are places that are not made from steel and grease and peeling paint and rust.

I’ve lived so long in my own head, looking at the laws that make the world tick, that I forget what I’m part of. Someone once said that a cow is so dumb that he can stand to his knees in snow and still die of thirst. I know now that I’m that cow. When I met Draga on the Amazon last year, I didn’t know how thirsty I was. I didn’t even know what I was thirsting for.

Somehow she pried her way into my head and found a barren world. Ever since then she’s been plowing furrows and planting seeds. There are flowers in my head now; green pastures on mountains, and lakes between them with boats bobbing on them and quaint white churches with friendly people inside on their banks. Far away the snow is on the pinnacles. There are dilapidated cottages by every travel road. There’s even a lama.

That’s my Draga; my lifeline to the real world.

Lama

Pretty white church with friendly people

Dilapidated cottage by the travel road

Snow on pinnacle

River flowing into a lake

Boats bobbing on a lake

Boat house on the lake

Snow on a volcano - Puerto Montt, Chile