On My Way to Abaco

After 16 months away I am flying back to Abaco today. I have a picture of what life could be for the next few months, but I can only speculate. I anticipate the rush I always feel as we approach CasaMar and see the ocean. The front seat from our rusting pick up always has the power to relax my mind and body. It only takes a few days to lose track of time. I hope to find focus not boredom in the abyss of time. Luckily there is always an endless list of projects to be completed. The chemical power of salt still surprises me. I expect everything crucial or trivial to break, corrode, and rot in the sea spray.

I'm off to the side terminal under the highway. To get on an 8 seater puddle jumper with one bag and my dog. The first leg of our trip is over. 16 hours in the EuroVan with Dad, Tom, Norval, and Tillie. A whirlwind trip to Miami and the Solar store will hopefully be my last bout with the rat race for awhile. I could turn my headache in the 6 lanes of trafic battling it out at 80 miles an hour into a metaphor but I'll resist. Just know I am safe this morning and on my way to my favorite place in the world. The moon is nearly full so you can picturing me watching it
rise over the ocean like a floating orb reflecting on the sea.

Smiles,
Amanda Mar
Fort Lauderdale, FL

_________________

** The following is an excerpt from an unfinished project that discribes my family traveling to CasaMar years ago. I thought it would be appropriate to post it today as I take the trip as an adult.

Escape to Punishment Bay

My mom has taken to calling us the Swiss Family Rissler as we prepare for our grand departure from the Midwest and America. We are returning to our small island community in Abaco, Bahamas. In his heyday of the 70’s, my dad, Captain Buck, sailed into Little Harbour. Like so many before and after him Buck fell in love with the protected anchorage, alternative people, and unmatched waters of Abaco. Over the years my family has made a home in this out island community. We moved aboard our sailboat, Cacique, when I was six months old. In 1997 hurricanes and family crisis anchored us in Southern Indiana for nearly four years, and we only returned to the island for quick vacations. It was time for an escape. Our adventure turned into a year learning to live simply on the island away from the speed of American life.

The aging brown full size Dodge Van contains everything we need for a year on the rock: two children’s bicycles, 3rd and 5th grade text books and curriculum, a desktop computer loaded with Windows 3.0, boxes of cloths, cases of garlic, stainless steel anchor chain, golf cart batteries for the solar system, random boat engine parts, spices, cookbooks, and our cat, Crystal, who disappeared among the cargo on the first day of the trip and didn’t surface until we arrived in Stuart, Florida two days later. Our lives fit in the few cubic feet of the vans near rusting frame. There is only room for the four of us to slip in and hunker down for the eighteen-hour car ride.

After two days of driving and a stay over in the Dolphin Motel in Valdosta we arrive at Uncle Rollie’s house in Stuart Florida. Rollie is not my uncle, but my Dad’s best friend and our neighbor on the island. The casual observer might be fooled by Rollie’s intimidating height, frame, and handle bar mustache. He wears leather, drives a Harley, and paints everything he owns Raider gray. In reality Rolando is the gentlest character in my life and today would do anything to protect or support me.

We have a few days to do our final shopping and put the van and all our belongings on to the Duke of topsail, the island’s only freighter. We also adopt a Dog, Gator. We affectionately refer to him as our Jack Russell terrorist. He lives up to the breed’s reputation by neurotically running circles (always to the right) and baring his teeth as you scratch his ears. Gator completes our eccentric family package- two kids, a growling dog, cat, and two hundred pounds of luggage. We are ready for our adventure.

We are exhausted and tired of traveling when we make it to the last leg of our trip; a short plane ride from West Palm Beach to Marsh Harbour. Cardboard boxes holding televisions, stereos, and other luxuries that are difficult and expansive to find on the rock are scattered around the check-in desk. We wait in line behind yachtsman in crisp blue fishing shirts, families with beach bags, and black Bahamian women sporting new hairstyles after weekend shopping trips to Florida.

Cody and I are impatient as we sit on top of our eight huge checked bags and backpacks whose seams threaten to break at any moment. Dad artfully packs our luggage in an array of duffle bags, dog and cat crates, and 1970’s style hard shell suitcases. We are ‘rag-baggers’ standing next to tidy sport fisherman with reel cases and compact rolling bags. Our bags are filled with food and boat parts stealthily raped in t-shirts to avoid the notice of apathetic customs officers. My backpack contains few personal items; instead it holds a six-pond leg of lamb (Christmas dinner). We bring very few cloths to the island that only requires bathing suits and t-shirts.

We wait anxiously for the Cessna to land. If it is more then an hour late our flight will be canceled due to sunset. There are no lights on the runway in Marsh Harbour. Luckily, AirSunshine does not disappoint us on this trip. Just months later AirSunshine would be grounded by the FFA indefinitely after fatally crashing two planes in two months. It was notably the discount airline for a reason.

My family and three black Bahamian women line up on the tarmac for the pilot to assess our weight. He strategically assigns us to the eight sets. Cody, my younger brother, scores the copilot seat. Even at age eight Cody jumped at the opportunity to be close to all those buttons (Cody is currently in his second year of flight school at Purdue University). My Dad’s six foot two frame ducks into the tight puddle jumper and squeezes in behind Cody. Mom sits beside Dad and I am put in the single seat in the back of the plane surrounded by carry-ons, fishing rods, boxes of mail and the crates containing Crystal and Gator who we sedate for the trip.
The pilot is young, flying for log hours and little pay. He cracks a few jokes before giving his obligatory “in case I crash us into the ocean there is a life jacket under your seat” speech. The prop comes to life with a charging sound and blur of black blades. The plane is hot and my legs stick to the beige pleather seats. I look out the window and wait for the grand release of takeoff. We are finally in the air and the humming engine quickly lulls me to sleep. I wake up forty minuets later from some turbulence. I look out the window and catch the first view of the water as we pass over Freeport. My heart jumps –I am finally on my way home.

As we approach Abaco we pass over a mile of marshland littered with crashed airplanes (legacies of 80s drug traffickers). Some plane skeletons are simply bulldozed to the side of the runway to make way for other flights to try their luck navigating the short, potholed Marsh Harbour International Airport. We touch down safely and all the passengers take a collective sigh of relief and applaud our young bush pilot. The pilot opens the door and the humidity hits me like a blow to the face. My heart jumps a little more.

We collect our backpacks and move towards the small customs office. Docile ceiling fans creek more then they move the air above us. As a family we wait patiently behind the torn yellow piece of tape on the tiled floor. We approach the bulging immigration officer; her fat black face looks slightly intimidating in the blue polyester uniform. No smile, but Dad lays on the charm as he explains we are finally back to stay in our home in Little Harbour. Most Bahamians consider anyone choosing to live in Little Harbour insane, and you have to seriously bribe a taxi driver to even bare the road to get there. Her eyes leave our passports for only a moment before she slams her stamp of authority and waves us through to customs.

We retrieve our bags from a rickety cart sitting under a makeshift roof. When it’s our time to approach customs our twelve bags take up the entire counter. The uniformed officer surveys our load, makes us take the sedated animals out of their cages, opens the top duffle my dad has strategically placed in the middle. He sees the bathing suits, sunscreen, and our white face. We are waved through the tinted doors. We line up our bags on the cracked sidewalk while Dad goes over to the taxi stand in search of “my man Aubry” our loyal taxi driver. Mom puts Gator on a leash and he wobbles out of sedation and into a new world of fascinating smells. Aubry loads up our bags, takes us to the Golden Harvest, the only food store on the island, to pick up some staples. He drops us off at Boat Harbour Marina.

For years only a primitive logging road cut through the bush to Little Harbour, but after an Abaconian became Prime Minister the island got a paved roadway. The van won’t arrive for a few more days so we us Mario, our runabout motorboat, to get to Little Harbour. We use an aluminum dock cart to ferry the endless stream of bags and groceries. When everything is stowed Dad starts the engine and we are finally on our way back to Little Harbour. We cut through the sound for thirty minuets before reaching the mouth of the harbour. Dad hikes up the road to get the four-wheeler and a converted trailer that looks like a white plywood wagon. We load all our bags into the wagon and Cody and I climb in on top. The wagon bumps along the harbour road and up the hill. At the peak we get our first view of the ocean and my heart leaps.

After long days of traveling Cody and I are itching to be set free. One final push is required to ferry all our gear from the trailer into the pitch-black kitchen. It is our first trip of the season and the entire house is boarded up with shutters for hurricanes. Solar panels and deck furniture consume the living room. Sheets cover everything in a futile attempt to protect furniture and electronics from the salt. Dad gets to work taking the shutters off the main bedroom before it gets dark. All of us will sleep in the front room with only candlelight until we can adjust the battery system in the morning. Some of my best sleep comes from a mattress on the floor with the sea breeze shooting through the sliding glass door. That first night even in the disarray of moving in I feel instantly at home. The journey from Southern Indiana to Little Harbour takes five days and when we finally fall asleep at CasaMar it feels like we’ve arrived at the end of the earth. In some ways we have.

The Waiting is over.....

My 6 months back in the US and back to school are over. I now have a bachelors degree in Political Science from Saint Louis University.... wooot. You know what that means, it's time to adventuring and to use this mind that bubbles away in my skull. I plan to post here in over the next few months much more then I did during my stint in the midwest. The good news is I put together several polished non-fiction pieces during the 6 months I ignored this blog and will be posting them as I see fit.

I'm driving from Indiana to Florida on January 6th with my dad, two of my dads friends/handymen, and my dog in our Eurovan. The 18 hours in themselves should be an adventure. Then I'm flying to Abaco for the spring. I plan to stay their until the first week in April. I've set lots of goals for myself. I have this need to learn all the practical knowledge I missed while partying or being consumed by academia. To keep myself accountable and you informed my short term goals are.....

Become a much more comfortable free diver
Learn various times of fishing (spear, surf, bottom....) how to clean and prepare all types of fish
Learn how to operate and fix solar, wind, electrical systems, and water systems at CasaMar
Lean how to operate and fix typical electrical, water, and engine problems on Casique
Haul and anchor by myself
Plant and maintain a small garden
Free write everyday
Produce one new piece of non-fiction every week
Read every day
Learn ins and outs of outboard engine
Attempt to surf/ find a teacher

Extrodinary Routine

**** I wrote this piece for my non-fiction creative writing class. I thought you all might enjoy reading it.

I am up and out the door. My keys are in my hands. Three locks twist shut and I jerk the giant brass knob once for insurance. My boots hit the cobblestone and I head through our sixteenth century two-story wooden gate. The bitter wind makes my hair fly, and my eyes squint in the mist of gray Brussels morning. My headphones wake my brain with the melodic sounds of The Weepies. Two blocks down I slide though the automatic doors of the GB-Express. The same young clerk greets me with Bonjour. I smile, and jet to the back of the store. My Friday morning essentials include: two Coca Colas, two warm croissants, and a tall liter bottle of water. My body punishes me for Thursday nights drinking heavy Belgian beer. The quick stop is all that can prepare me for three hours of Art History. The Cokes are a poor substitute in a country that does not believe in to-go coffee. My sluggish feet bump against raised cobblestones as I walk another block and cross the street. By the time I reach the escalator I’ve nibbled half the croissant and gulped down a pint of water. I routinely walk to the East end of Saint Kateline metro tunnel. The first car will put me a few steps closer to the ascending escalator when I reach Pévillion. My Friday morning timing becomes an art, and my hung over body acts like a dependable robot on her way to school.

I watch the blinking lights on the over head sign that indicate how much time until the next train. When it comes I can hear the train arrive over the music in my headphones. The sliding doors open, I enter, and push my body tight against the opposite door. Fridays are my only peak hour commute. The metro fills with school children, parents, students, Eurocrats, and businesspeople. I essentially hold my breath until we pass the next two stops in the center of the city. De Brouckére and Gare Centrale release and accept hordes of bustling people. Each Friday my Ipod and sleepy eyes give me the autonomy to observe my fellow groggy commuters. I cannot help but sympathize with nodding five year olds clinging to consciousness on their way to kindergarten. Often I see the same African women surrounded by her five beautiful children. The youngest one sits on the orange pleather seat, thumb in mouth, next to his mother. The head wrapped mother whispers, what I hope are sweet nothings, to the child sitting on her lap. She appears so foreign to me. We come from different worlds, but find ourselves whiling underneath Brussels at 7:30 in the morning. I can only assume she is an immigrant- voluntary or forced. Her children consumer her in this moment, but I am alone and grasping my bag while listening to American indy rock. Despite our alternative realities the love as she eyes her children is universal. When they reach their stop the only girl, who is about ten, acts as a second mother by corralling everyone off the train. The commute is routine, but each time it feels extraordinary.

My Friday morning commute becomes normal during my five months in Brussels. I travel half sleeping, but each time I enter the metro car I am shaken by how much I have to learn from the people who surround me. I greet a group of new and familiar passengers knowing that each has a destination and routine. I am present and part of this daily scene. My twenty-minute commute gives me a small privileged window into the humanity. We all grow a little closer through the collective burden of commuting. Each pair of feet will hit the cobblestone at the top of the platform. Their hands will stuff in wool coat pockets, their eyes will squint in the cold mist of morning, and they will begin their Fridays somewhere in this thriving city. By the time I reach the Pévillion platform the car is nearly empty. Most of the passengers are university students standing like fellow robots on their way to torturous eight o’clock classes. I exit and walk the four blocks to class, sit down, and hand Ashley her coke, croissant, and water. She greets these staples with a smile. We spend a few precious moments giggling about crazy Thursday night antics in the streets and clubs of Brussels. This week’s agonizing lecture on ancient Iranian art begins.

Milwaukee, WI

Mom and a I took a little trip up to Milwaukee to visit Bubby on Sunday. Every time I visit Milwaukee I fall in love with it's midwest charm a little more. However, I have yet to be there in the depths of January so I'll have to see winter before I can truly understand it's charms and faults. Never less the urban center is clean with manicured green spaces along the lake and hip neighborhood bars and boutiques within walking distance from Bubby's 14th floor apartment looking over the lake. She lives in the perfect location to show off how beautiful the city is.

It was so good to see, learn, and get to know my Grandmother. The city and her endless stream of surprises makes me want to go back soon. Here are some pictures of mom, Bubby, and I (the 3 ring circus) doing a little urban GeoCaching and a few of the views from her place.
Me and Mom on Bubby's Balcony

Stalking the Cach

Found it!

Mom and Bubby with our treasure

Me and Bubby in our glamor glasses

Summer Recap, Where I've been

Hello Hello,

I kind of fell off the blog sphere for a few months. My last few weeks in Europe were packed with parties, good byes, and an adventures. My mom came at the end of school and we went to the South of Spain for a week. Beautiful. Spain makes it so easy to fall in love with her. The sun, colors, and life style are slow and accommodating. The beauty makes it easy to fall into the Mediterranean pace. I turned 21 in Spain and had the perfect birthday dinner with my mom in a restaurant right on the Mediterranean. A full moon welcomed in my twenty first year and created one of those ingrained memories that sticks with you.

Lauren came to Belgium for a few days before I left and went on a few little adventures to DeHann and Brugges. I wish we could have spent the whole summer together. Instead it was back to the U.S. and two months of working at the BBC serving beer and cheeseburgers. The work was hard, and you never feel like you get paid enough. But as always made me respect money and look forward to doing fulfilling work that pays me with results and progress instead of a few dollars on the table.

Car free Sunday. Brilliant!

So last weekend was yet another random holiday. The Belgians truly know how to celebrate the good life and Spring. Friday night was spent at all the usal places down town. I’ll take the time to finally and conclusively name my favorite beer, Delirum Tremens. That’s right the 9% beverage of choice. Plus at Delirum (the bar with the most beers in the entire world) it’s the house drink and only 3 euros. Don’t think about how many dollars that is. After Dellirum there was some unsuccessful bar hopping that ended was it always should, Fritland! My official favorite fritery. If you are ever in Brussels go to Fritland (only after a few beers or your stomach can’t take it) and order the Special. Frits+Maynase+Ketchup+Grilled Onions = HEAVEN. Sitting in Grand Place taking in the buildings, eating frits, and reliving the last 4 months with the best people I could have asked for made for an excellent Friday night.

Me in Delirium with an (empty) Tremens Glass

Papas frits in Grand Place

Saturday evening was a massive free concert. The city set up a huge stage in the square outside the Palace of Justice. I met up with a group of friends and danced like mad to electronic piano bliss. Okay, he kind of sounded like Cold Play. That didn’t stop it from being awesome or me from rocking my face off. I had such a good time dancing. Every five minutes I would look around and realize that I’m standing in front of a massive palace in Belgium. Perfection. After the concert we did some more bar hoping and sipped beers until early morning at a indoor/outdoor café.

Garret, Me, and Stephanie waiting for the concert to start

Freaking out during the 4th encore

Here is where Belgian brilliance for the weekend really kicks in. Sunday was officially Car-Free. From 7am-7pm no car are allowed on the streets downtown. Just buses and police. People ride their bikes and wonder through the streets undaunted by the normally whizzing traffic. The city also sponsors djs and music all day. We met a group around 3 to wonder and see what we could find. We eventually came upon a giant dj set up outside a palace (I forget which one). They laid grass over the cobblestone so you could sit down or dance barefoot. it was bout 75 degrees and we all danced and worshiped the sun to techno and cold beer. Around 6 we went back to my place to regroup and grab some food. Then we were off to what we thought was a Beetles cover band on the main stage. Unfortunately, the Beetles set was just ending. Next was an Abba tribute band….. I couldn’t take the sounds. We retreated back to the DJ and danced some more palace side. Basically it was the perfect weekend in the sun, in a city that has come to life. Finally.

No cars!
DJ Lady Jane
Elena and I chillin in the sun on fake/real grass
The Crazy (awesome) guys dancing next to us
Litwinka jamin to Lady Jane

Abba????
More photos

Now it's exam and good bye Belgium time. A few more days and then Mom and I are off to Spain. I'll do a sappy good bye recap later. This post should just be a tribute to a beautiful weekend in the sun.

May!!!

The last five days have been some of my best in Belgium, and maybe even the best since I’ve been in Europe. Last Thursday and Friday were public holidays so we had no class, and the whole city finally relaxed a little to stop, smile, and take in the sun. Honestly the city looks completely different in the sun. After months of gray and rain the green, flowers, and sun was the exact remedy for the Belgium gloom.

I had three term papers due last week so for a week solid I was writing and cursing VECO for their lame education. However, all three papers taught me something and now I realize they weren’t the worst topics in the world. My last paper was turned in by Wednesday afternoon so that left me time to nap and prepare for a celebratory night out. My housmates and I decided to get all dress up, as opposed to our normal slobby college student garb, and go out. We meet up at a friends house and then we went downtown to Mappas, a really chill Cuban bar. After a round we were off to a Irish bar/ disco for happy hour. My friends host moms (awesome lesbian couple Elsa and Iria) met up with us to dance. Then they took us off to another disco and we twirled the night away. By 4:30am I was ready for food and home, but Elsa and Iria wanted to keep going. I just couldn’t keep up haha. I went off for a Kabab snack and then home.

Celebration!

Thursday was May 1st which is labour day. The socialist party was out in full force and threw a party just down the street from my house. Lauren, Elena, and I joined in and danced to awesome jam bands with horn sections. I wore my bright red hat and enjoyed just people watching. I stood and took in this scene that could never happen in the United States. It felt like I was breathing in freedom, and thoughts of the US felt claustrophobic.

Party in front of St. Catherine's

The Internationals (I danced so hard)

Friday I woke up early and caught a train to Amsterdam. I was suppose to spend the weekend there with Keziah, but it didn’t work out. Now I think it was for the best because I had such a good time on my own and in Brussels. I hit the streets by noon and wondered. The city is completely different in the sun. People everywhere just basking and taking in the day and all the sights. After finding the perfect coffee shop I went to a sidewalk café and ate a beautiful lunch in the sun as I watched the spectacles of Amsterdam street traffic. Then I was off to wonder some more. Sat in squares, along canals to write and just breath in this city. By 8pm I was on the train back to Brussels completely contented with life.

Amsterdam in the Sun

Saturday I woke up early to catch a train to southern Belgium. 12 of us went kayaking. At first it felt like any other float trip I’d ever been on. But when we turned a bend and there was a vertical rock face with a castle on top I had a “We’re not in Kansas anymore” moment. Just gorgeous. It was a moment that I will never forget. It was perfect and I felt like I was in a fairy tale. It was mostly locals and boy scouts on the river. We seemed to be the only ones so impressed with this sight. After all, the castle was there before them and will outlive them. Americans don’t realize what old is. By the end of the trip we were exhausted but so happy to have this once in a life time.

Me in Kayaking gear

Castle!!

Sunday gave us yet another perfect day. I went to the open air market to pick up some gifts to take home. Then we were off to our favorite park for some lounging. The park was full of families and couples. Spring was in the air and so was romance and beauty. I was contented to simply sit and take in yet another unforgettable moment in Brussels.

Lounging

Excellent!!

De park

My head want to explode this weekend was so much fun. My days in Belgium are on a count down now, but I’m going to get the most out of each one of them.

Love from Brussels,
Amanda Mar