“Plans should be ephemeral, so be prepared to move away from them.”
Every Journey Needs a Motto
I’m not flying into Sicily. Instead, I’m landing in Napoli—a deliberate detour. From there, it’s a ferry across the Tyrrhenian Sea to Palermo. Beyond that, the plan loosens. All I have are a few rough ideas: Fiat Panda, agriturismo, and unhurried days by the sea.
Visiting the United States had been on my mind for quite some time. I found it almost absurd that I had never set foot in one of the most influential countries in the world. When Donald Trump was re-elected in November 2024, the idea took on a new urgency. Since the election, I had been spending more than four hours a day following the news from the U.S.—I needed to see it for myself. Because I didn’t feel like renting a car, choosing to visit New York and Washington D.C. was an easy decision.
The plane ticket was relatively inexpensive, but my first hotel—while modest by New York standards—still felt quite pricey. I found the name The Nolita Express amusing at first, though I later realized it likely had no connection to Jeffrey Epstein’s infamous Boeing 727. ‘Nolita’ stands for North of Little Italy, a neighborhood in Lower Manhattan. My room was barely larger than the bed itself—more of a ‘pod’ than a traditional hotel room. I think I transferred from the E train to the F train, getting off at 2nd Avenue to reach my ‘pod’.
I arrived early in the afternoon and didn’t waste any time. After dropping my bag at The Nolita Express, I walked through SoHo (South of Houston Street) straight to Ground Zero—officially known as the World Trade Center site. I remember exactly where I was on September 11, 2001. It was an attack that changed the course of world history. Without it, there likely would have been no ‘war on terror,’ no 2003 invasion of Iraq, and no two-decade war in Afghanistan from 2001 to 2021. But that’s the unpredictability of history: if there hadn’t been U.S. troops stationed in Saudi Arabia after Saddam Hussein’s invasion of Kuwait in 1990, Osama bin Laden might never have targeted the United States and the Twin Towers would still be there.
Reflecting Absence, by architect Michael Arad of Handel Architects and landscape architect Peter Walker, is the name of the memorial in Manhattan. It consists of a North and South Pool on the exact footprints of the Twin Towers. I was moved by the serenity. Later I realised the similarity of the Inslagpunt (Point of impact) part of Het groeiend monument of the El Al Flight 1862 crash, which destroyed my apartment in 1992. See the photo below.
Point of impact.
After visiting Ground Zero, I wandered into Zuccotti Park—which, with no grass, feels more like a square. Its proximity to the World Trade Center made it a focal point for the Occupy Wall Street movement in 2011. Around the same time, the Tea Party was gaining momentum within the Republican Party. Fiscally conservative and opposed to big government, the movement rallied strongly against the Obama administration. In 2016, Donald Trump seized the moment, praising the Tea Party and earning the support of many of its members. While Occupy Wall Street helped pave the way for progressive activism, both movements—despite their differences—seem rooted in the same crisis of legitimacy.
Whenever I arrive in a new city, my first instinct is to get a sense of the space I’m in. Manhattan alone has about 1.7 million residents and measures roughly 21 kilometers long by 3 kilometers wide. The Dutch colony of New Netherland was established in 1614, when fur trader Juan Rodriguez began trading with Indigenous peoples as a representative of the Dutch. However, it wasn’t until 1624 that Peter Minuit acquired the land now known as Manhattan, and in 1625, the city of Amsterdam in New Netherland was officially founded. Below is a map of New Amsterdam overlaid on a satellite image of modern Manhattan—it corresponds roughly to today’s Financial District.
My hotel was in Nolita, Lower Manhattan, just below 14th Street, bordering the Bowery, SoHo, Little Italy, and Chinatown. Within walking distance are the East Village, Ukrainian Village, and countless other overlapping neighborhoods. These areas aren’t officially defined and tend to shift over time—neighborhood names in Manhattan are more of a colorful, informal way to navigate the city. By early evening, my biological clock was still set to midnight in Amsterdam, so to wrap up my first day, I headed to Chinatown in search of some cheap Chinese food.
I noticed Shanghai noodles with beef tripe on the menu. “Are you sure you want to order this?” the waitress asked. “Most people don’t like it.” I settled the matter by telling her I’d been to China.
After dinner, my head was spinning from lack of sleep. I stumbled upon the first “Made in China” Trump statues and spotted a T-shirt that read “New York Fuckin’ City.” It all seemed to vibe with my first impressions. I loved New York from the moment I stepped off the subway.
My ideal vision of politics is one of mutual benefit. But in the mind of a Manhattan real estate developer, politics becomes a zero-sum game: “If I win, you must lose.” This mindset inevitably leads to polarization—something we’re witnessing today. When I saw a mural in Nolita depicting Rich Uncle Pennybags, also known as Mr. Monopoly, it struck me as perfectly symbolic. The game Monopoly actually predates its commercial release by Parker Brothers. It was originally invented by Elizabeth Magie, a Virginia-born follower of political economist Henry George. She created The Landlord’s Game in 1904 to illustrate the dangers of land monopolies and unchecked capitalism.
On my first full day in Manhattan, I woke up early and, just after sunrise—at 6:10 a.m.—reached the Brooklyn Bridge on foot. It was too early for breakfast, but the bridge was already glowing in the morning sun. Generation Z was out in full force, setting up tripods for the TikTok posts they were undoubtedly filming. Below the bridge there was barely any traffic.
I spotted Ukrainian Village on Google Maps and it seemed like the perfect spot for breakfast. But when I arrived in East Village, it was still too early—Veselka, the Ukrainian restaurant I had in mind, didn’t open until 8 a.m. So I spent an hour wandering the neighborhood. I sat down in Tompkins Square Park and was amazed how peaceful it was in the morning.
A Green Thumb Community garden in East Village.
I hesitated when I saw the prices, but quickly realized it was going to be expensive no matter what. I ordered the breakfast with eggs, dill, and buckwheat, along with a black coffee—and, of course, I had to try the “world-famous pierogi.” Afterwards, I had a bit of a Larry David moment when I told the owner I thought the combination of pierogi and chipotle sauce was a bit odd. I probably should’ve just agreed with him they were the “best pierogi in the world”—except they weren’t. Still, I appreciated the breakfast and the endless coffee refills, so I left Veselka buzzing from the caffeine.
“Was That Wrong? Should I Not Have Done That?”
On my way to the Intrepid Museum, I passed through Times Square in the morning and noticed a 12-foot (3.6-meter) statue of an anonymous Black woman. I instinctively took a photo, and later learned that the artist was Thomas J Price, a London-based sculptor who had created a similar statue in Rotterdam, the Netherlands. Unsurprisingly, the sculpture in New York sparked the same kinds of reactions as it had in Rotterdam. Jesse Watters, Fox News host, remarked on his show: “This is what they want us to aspire to be? If you work hard you can be overweight and anonymous? It’s a D.E.I. statue”. Another Fox News columnist wrote: “Are there no notable Black women who actually exist to celebrate? How about a giant Condoleezza Rice?”.
The sculptor Thomas Price wrote in 2020: “if you’re a Black person being represented in sculpture, you don’t have to be an athlete, or strike a pose, or fulfill an expectation.” When an artist strikes a vein, it means they must be creating something meaningful. I personally like his work.
My journey to the United States was inspired by the geopolitical dangers unleashed by the MAGA movement. The era of Pax Americana, which benefited Europe for decades, is coming to an end. Of course, Pax Americana wasn’t so great if you were a farmer in eastern Cambodia in the late 1960s and early 1970s, or living in Hanoi in 1972. The Truman Doctrine of 1947 marked the beginning of the world order I grew up in.
When the Soviet Union dissolved in 1991, we entered what Francis Fukuyama called the “End of History”—the supposed worldwide triumph of liberal democracy. However, this vision failed to account for the rise of religious movements, especially in the Islamic world. This became clear on September 11, 2001. But Washington was also caught off guard by the Islamic Revolution of 1979 in Iran.
By 2025, even in the United States, the concept of liberal democracy is under threat. Donald Trump, in particular, seems to aspire to rule more like a king than a president limited by the U.S. Constitution.
I planned to visit the Intrepid Museum, centered around the USS Intrepid (CV-11), an aircraft carrier built during World War II. In the postwar era, the Intrepid served in various roles and participated in multiple NATO exercises. Decommissioned in 1974, it has operated as a museum since 1982.
While waiting in line, I struck up a conversation with a retired New Yorker who had visited the museum a dozen times. I joked that I had come to New York to reclaim New Amsterdam. “Well, good luck with that!” he replied, with a thick New York accent.
He gave me a great tip: visit the USS Growler (SSG-577) submarine first, as the lines to enter can grow extremely long later in the day. The Growler was an early cruise missile submarine, designed to carry and launch the Regulus I missile—a direct descendant of the German V-1.
The missile was named after the Latin word regulus, meaning “basilisk,” a mythical dragon. Regulus is also the name of the brightest star in the constellation Leo. The warhead was a Mark 5 nuclear bomb—one of only 140 ever built. I wish I could be a pacifist, but I’m a realist: military deterrence is necessary because there will always be bad actors in the world.
On the Hanger Deck some unique war planes are exhibited including a Grumman TBM-3E Avenger torpedo bomber, a FG-1D Corsair, and many more.
Everyone entering the special Space Shuttle Enterprise exhibition was photographed. “How many?” the photographer asked. I looked behind me and replied, “I’m the Lone Ranger.” So I posed in front of the green screen, and later, after scanning the QR code, I took a screenshot of the preview image and vowed never to buy low rise pants again..
The original Enterprise.
When I think of New York, I think of Seinfeld—a defining comedy series for me in the 1990s It wasn’t until later that I discovered Larry David was one of the creative forces behind the show. Hearing him deliver a hilarious tribute to Mel Brooks gave me a deeper sense of the New York comedy scene and its roots.
Mel Brooks, born Melvin Kaminsky, had a rich background—his mother was born in Kyiv, and his father’s family came from Gdańsk. Larry David’s mother was from Ternopil, now part of Ukraine. Even Jerry Seinfeld has a fascinating heritage: his father was of Hungarian Jewish descent, while his mother’s grandparents came from Aleppo, giving him a Syrian Jewish lineage.
One of the most famous Seinfeld episodes is “The Soup Nazi”—Season 7, Episode 6, which aired in 1995. In it, Jerry discovers a soup stand that serves incredibly delicious soups. The only catch? The owner, Yev Kassem, is notoriously strict about how customers place their orders. One misstep, and it’s: “No soup for you!”
As it turns out, the original soup stand is still in operation, though the original owner is now 30 years older and the place is run by different staff. Not sure if the episode was actually filmed in the soup stand or was just inspired by it. The soups, however, remain just as delicious. I ordered a small shrimp and sausage gumbo for $9. It came in a brown paper bag, along with a piece of fresh fruit and a tiny mint chocolate.
After lunch, I returned to my hotel “pod” to drop off the souvenirs I’d picked up at the Intrepid Museum, then spent the afternoon wandering around SoHo and its surrounding neighborhoods.
New York is known for its rich Jewish heritage, so I was pleased to discover that Yonah Schimmel’s Knish Bakery—located at 137 East Houston Street and established in 1910—was just a short walk from my hotel. It was 3:30 p.m., the perfect time to try a knish.
I wasn’t very familiar with knishes. In Amsterdam, the Jewish population was historically made up mainly of Sephardic refugees from Spain and Portugal, followed later by Ashkenazi Jews from Central and Eastern Europe. While the word knish is Yiddish with Slavic roots, it never quite caught on in Amsterdam—though pickled cucumbers and onions certainly did.
Knishes come in both savory and sweet varieties. I figured a savory kasha knish would be the most authentic—kasha being buckwheat. It was hearty and filling, which was perfect, since I wouldn’t be eating again until much later, after my Broadway comedy show. More on that below.
I spent quite a bit of time wandering around SoHo, short for South of Houston Street. The neighborhood has a great atmosphere, with plenty of small local boutiques, bustling with tourists and serious fashionistas. I loved it.
After exploring SoHo, I took the uptown subway to Bryant Park, located between West 40th and West 42nd Street. Manhattan’s street system is fairly logical. Generally, the west–east streets are numbered—the higher the number, the farther north you are.
There are exceptions in Lower Manhattan, where many streets have historical names like Wall Street, Prince Street, or Houston Street. Numbered streets begin in the East Village with East 1st Street. Streets east of Central Park are prefixed with an “E,” while those to the west get a “W.” If you’re heading north by subway, you’re going uptown; if you’re heading south, you’re going downtown.
The north–south roads are also numbered but are called avenues. Still, there are exceptions—10th Avenue, for instance, becomes Amsterdam Avenue around West 60th Street.
Bryant Park is wonderful—free chairs are scattered around for anyone to use. I paid an eye-watering amount for a freshly squeezed cane sugar juice and struck up a conversation with a man reading a book. Books are great conversation starters; I often pretend to decipher the title, which usually prompts the reader to start talking about it.
He turned out to be on the community board of the Bronx Community College campus and was a history enthusiast. I told him about the 1:87 scale model of historic New Amsterdam that my employer is building—a project currently stalled due to lack of funding.
I thought it would be a good idea to visit a comedy club in the evening—maybe I’d witness the talent of tomorrow. More or less at random, I came across the website for the Broadway Comedy Club. With few other options available, I bought a ticket for the early show, which came to about $30 including fees.
When I arrived early, I was the only one in the room, and I began to worry I’d be the lone member of the audience. But about ten minutes before the show started, the room began to fill. Staff pulled a curtain across the back to hide the empty seats, and soon the space felt full.
The billed comedians were Spencer Wright, Drew Tessier, Ali Mehedi, Harrison Greenbaum, and Al Lubel. Spencer Wright served as MC. I definitely didn’t see Al Lubel perform—instead, a comedian from Trinidad took the stage, possibly as a last-minute replacement. Ali Mehedi appeared to be the biggest name on the lineup.
Two drinks were mandatory, and even a simple beer cost $11. I opted for two cocktails instead, since they were the same price as beer.
As for the show itself, the comedians weren’t particularly strong. I’m not saying none of the jokes landed, but most felt lazy. It’s just too easy to ask an audience member “are you from India?” and run with this.
Who is this guy?
Drew Tessier
Thanks to the two-drink minimum rule, I ended up having one gin-based cocktail too many and stumbled toward Times Square, feeling very hungry. I grabbed two pizza slices from a street vendor—which turned out to be the worst pizza I can remember. One was even drizzled with a sugary syrup. If you think pineapple on pizza is a mortal sin, this was definitely worse.
New York’s Times Square is a world-famous entertainment hub. It’s fun to spend some time there as a one-off experience, but it’s best to avoid it afterwards. The area is crowded and filled with people dressed as Disney characters and, I assume, King Kong. While it feels very safe—posing with these costumed characters can lead to attempts to wrestle money from you. But I did see the Naked Cowboy in his underwear playing guitar.
Taking the New York subway at night in Manhattan feels completely safe, despite how some right-wing media, like Fox News, try to discourage people from using public transportation. Those right-wing populists are some of the most fragile and fearful people.
“If you’re liberal, they want you to take public transportation ... the problem is that it’s dirty. You have criminals. It’s homeless shelters. It’s insane asylums. It’s a work ground for the criminal element of the city to prey upon the good people.”
After two nights in the city, I still hadn’t visited Central Park. My mother bought the 1982 album The Concert in Central Park by Simon & Garfunkel, so I’d been familiar with the park from an early age. The park itself is amazing—and so narrow that you can easily step out for breakfast and slip right back in, which is exactly what I did to grab a bagel in the morning.
Peaceful early morning reflections in Central Park. It is also a reflection on the Stone Mind koan.
I opted for another well-established bakery for breakfast: Orwashers, founded in 1916 by a Hungarian immigrant family. They now have several locations, and I visited the one on the Upper West Side at 440 Amsterdam Avenue, near the corner of W 81st Street.
Eating a bagel with a view.
I ordered a classic New York–style bagel filled with schmear and lox (brined salmon). The bagel, which has Polish origins, became incredibly popular in New York. In fact, by the early 1910s, bagel bakers in Manhattan had their own union representing over 300 craftsmen. I wasn’t disappointed—my 2025 bagel was undoubtedly a more luxurious version of the original.
The weather was beautiful, and I realized that New York was much cleaner and more pleasant than I had imagined. This was partly thanks to a new congestion fee introduced in January 2025 for the area south of 61st Street—charging $9 per car, depending on the time of day. By the time I visited, the city had nearly five months of data evaluating the success of the Congestion Relief Zone. The program is on track to provide $500 million that was initially projected. The revenue will be used to improve the subway, buy new rolling stock, and invest in zero-emission buses.
In February the Trump administration said it was rescinding federal approval of New York City's congestion pricing program. The program was approved in the final months of former President Joe Biden's administration.
I had learned that you could visit Trump Tower on Fifth Avenue in Midtown Manhattan for free—and I wasn’t about to give the Trump family a single dime. I had to smirk when I found out why entry is free: in exchange for providing privately owned public spaces (POPS), Trump received a floor area ratio (FAR) zoning bonus that allowed him to add several extra floors to the building. By city law, POPS must be accessible from the street, offer seating, and not require any purchase. I’m sure he’d love to charge admission.
So, I wandered in, rode the famous escalator a few times, marveled at the golf balls in the Trump-branded store, and decided to use the publicly accessible restrooms, which had only two gender options. In 2025 Trump Tower, with its oversized American flags, feels dystopian.
The event which should have never led to success: Trump’s presidential campaign announcement in 2015.
Strangely, there was another souvenir shop inside Trump Tower—not the upscale store selling golf apparel, but a separate shop filled with the tackiest, cheaply made trinkets from China.
“Drain the swamp: remove entrenched bureaucrats and root out internal threats”
Pink marble all over the public restrooms.
Executive Order 14168
Section 2. Policy and Definitions. It is the policy of the United States to recognize two sexes, male and female. These sexes are not changeable and are grounded in fundamental and incontrovertible reality. - January 20, 2025.
Corner of W 55th Street and 5th Avenue.
Harlem has a very distinct vibe. Although it’s part of Upper Manhattan, it feels like a different world. Originally, the area attracted poor Jewish and Italian immigrants, but that changed with the Great Migration of African Americans beginning in the 1910s. In 1910, only about 10% of Central Harlem’s population was Black; by 1930, that number had risen to 70%. The Great Depression hit Harlem hard, and the neighborhood has long struggled with issues related to education, poverty, and employment. In recent years, Harlem has begun to be revitalized through gentrification—a process that is neutral in theory, but often results in rising housing costs and shifts in the cultural landscape.
“To the genocidal gentrifiers, Harlem is still a Ghetto”
I spent some time in Marcus Garvey Park in Harlem, where people were blasting loud hip-hop music. The National Jazz Museum was closed—it was a Monday—and I found myself contemplating what to do next. The list of influential figures who were either born in Harlem or left their mark on it is long: Tupac Shakur, Q-Tip (A Tribe Called Quest), Kurtis Blow, Puff Daddy, Nina Simone, James Baldwin, George Carlin, Louis Armstrong, Count Basie, and Duke Ellington, to name a few. Even Marcus Garvey himself once stayed in Harlem.
The ATLAH World Missionary Church is led by an extremist pastor who believed in 2014 that Barack Obama was a muslim and not legally president. The church is located in the former Harlem Club building from 1889. In the late 19th century Harlem was a vibrant suburb for well-to-do Victorian gentlemen, but quite far from the club district. The Harlem Club attracted bankers, brokers, lawyers, and merchants. The building has been in use as a church since 1935.
When I spotted a Ghanaian restaurant, I abandoned my plan to get soul food—I was suddenly set on a Ghanaian soup with fufu. The place was tiny and didn’t have a restroom, so I spent half an hour wandering through Harlem in search of a public toilet. It was impossible to find one, so I ended up buying a $5 aluminum bottle of water at Chipotle just to get the restroom access code. At least after that, I could finally sit down at Accra Express and enjoy my soup in peace.
I ordered the yam fufu—as opposed to plantain fufu—and an egusi soup with mixed meat. Egusi refers to the seeds of a plant from the gourd family, Melothria sphaerocarpa, known as egusi in Yoruba. The Ga language of Ghana borrows the word from Yoruba. I’ve never been to Ghana or Nigeria, but I’m confident this egusi soup was as good as anything you could find in West Africa.
From Harlem I walked all the way down to 59th Street, where I caught the subway to the area near Madison Square Park.
I had to travel all the way to New York to discover the Indian vegetarian restaurant chain Saravanaa Bhavan—only to find out it’s also located in Amsterdam. But when I looked at the Amsterdam menu, I noticed it’s quite different from the one in New York. They don’t serve a thali plate there, which is a shame.
It is crazy to realise the Empire State Building held the title the tallest building in the world from its completion in 1931 until 1971. After visiting the Canton Tower in Guangzhou—briefly the tallest building in the world between 2009 and 2011—I’ve felt no urge to visit tall buildings. The elevator rides are expensive, and the views are not much different from what I see when looking out of an airplane window during takeoff. I can’t be bothered.
I spent the last hour of daylight in Madison Square Park. Manhattan’s smaller parks are absolutely wonderful. The iconic Flatiron Building is located there as well, though it’s currently under construction and wrapped in black cloth.
It was time to leave New York and head to Washington, D.C. That day, it was raining heavily—which wasn’t so bad, since I’d be spending half the day on a train. The ride on the Northeast Regional was pleasant. The Amfleet I passenger cars, though definitely old-school, were comfortable. First introduced in 1973, these cars are now over fifty years old! The locomotives, however, are modern Siemens ACS-64’s.
Moynihan Train Hall at Penn Station was fairly standard. Unfortunately, there was nowhere to sit— not even at the Starbucks in the corridor leading to the train hall. The food court seating wasn’t accessible early in the morning either. I don’t like the American grab-and-go food culture.
The 1973 Amfleet I passenger cars.
Upon arrival, I walked from Washington Union Station to Chinatown in search of a cheap meal. By the time I got there, I was soaked—I had completely underestimated the amount of rain. Fortunately, the restaurant had rice congee on the menu, which was exactly what I needed. It was served in plastic containers, with plastic cutlery and soy sauce packets. Why so much plastic?
My bed in the U Street Hostel in U Street Corridor was indeed a capsule. I had to leave my suitcase outside the capsule because there was really no space. Other than that, it’s comfortable. No electrical socket but an USB-A type charger. After checking in I walked around in the rain but I became too cold, found a bookshop and bought The Constitution of the United States and The Mighty and the Almighty: Reflections on America, God, and World Affairs, a 2006 memoir written by Madeleine Albright. I spent a few hours reading before falling asleep.
My capsule hostel was not far from Howard University. I tried to visit the Barnes & Noble located in the university building, but it had closed hours earlier than the posted time. Howard University is a Historically Black College and University (HBCU). This means it was founded before 1964 with the primary mission of educating African American students at a time when they were largely excluded from most other universities and institutions of learning.
I hadn’t realized how deep Washington’s African American history runs. In 1970, over 71% of the city’s population identified as Black. By 2000, that percentage had dropped to just over 40%. This shift is part of what’s known as the New Great Migration—a reversal of the previous 60-year trend of Black Americans moving north, with many now returning to the South.
On my first day in Washington, the weather was dry, but the morning began with low-hanging clouds. I spent some time walking around the National Mall, as it was still too early to visit the Smithsonian’s National Air and Space Museum, which was high on my list.
I had some time to track down the filming location of the ‘Department of Pre-Crime’ from Minority Report, which was shot at the Reagan Trade Center on Pennsylvania Avenue. We’re not quite living in that science fiction future yet, but modern artificial intelligence algorithms, when applied to government data, can lead to similar outcomes. U.S. citizens are likely already living in that once-futuristic timeline.
This museum is absolutely mind-blowing. It holds so many iconic originals: the 1903 Wright Flyer, the Apollo 11 Command Module used by Buzz Aldrin, Michael Collins, and Neil Armstrong during the first lunar landing, moon rocks, and much more. Watching the timeline of the Apollo program—interspersed with music from the 1960s—it was hard not to get emotional. The first moon landing took place just a few months before I was born. My mother, seven months pregnant with me, probably didn’t even have access to a television. My parents were living in Doha, Qatar. What was the biggest miracle of July 1969?
The 1903 Wright Flyer.
It took just six years to develop the first military version of the Wright Flyer: the 1909 Wright Military Flyer, the world’s first military airplane. This is humanity at its worst. The military has always been quick to adopt new inventions. Coincidentally, there were also only six years between the discovery of nuclear fission in 1938 and the first detonation of a nuclear bomb.
The 1909 Wright Military Flyer.
Moon rock.
I was lucky that day—there was a food market at the Reagan Trade Center on Pennsylvania Avenue. After checking out the other stalls, I knew I had to try the koshari. These guys had all three traditional sauces: a mild tomato sauce, da’ah (a tangy garlic-vinegar sauce), and shatta (a chili-garlic sauce). Most online recipes only include the tomato sauce. Best of all, they offered karkadeh, the hibiscus drink popular across the Arab world. I ordered it in Arabic, which they noticed. I held back on the ice and was glad it wasn’t overly sweet. The koshari was exceptionally good. I first drank karkadeh in the former North Eastern Province of Kenya, which is predominantly inhabited by ethnic Somalis.
It would feel strange not to walk up to the White House, even though you can’t get very close. The first president I remember was Jimmy Carter, followed by Ronald Reagan, George H. W. Bush, Bill Clinton, George W. Bush, Barack Obama, Donald Trump, Joe Biden, and now Trump again—the first president to run the government like both a mafia boss and an oligarch. I recall the Cold War, the humanitarian interventions during the Clinton years, and the war for regime change—or access to oil—in Iraq. Yet the way Donald Trump runs the government goes far beyond what’s normal in a liberal democracy.
It will get much worse. As I write this text in June Trump has already broken 18 U.S. Code § 1385, also known as the Posse Comitatus Act, which prohibits the use of the Army, Navy, Marine Corps, Air Force, and Space Force as a posse comitatus.
“What? Huh? Oil? Who said something about oil? Bitch you cooking? Me and my cabinet agree that that area is definitely right for regime change.”
The National Museum of American History houses artifacts spanning everything from transportation to culture. There was an exhibition on U.S. democracy, which included an interactive section. A young Black girl tried to answer the multiple-choice questions about voting and soon sighed, “I’m never going to vote!” I looked at her and said, “Please do vote—it’s important.” I missed the chance to add that if everyone had voted in 2024, her president might have been Kamala Harris, but that thought came to me too late.
A Vice President Kamala Harris mug was available in the museum shop at the National Archives Building. They were also selling National Archives socks featuring Donald Trump or Melania Trump.
The 2 Live Crew’s album and song As Nasty As They Wanna Be were briefly banned in the USA in 1990 after a Florida court ruled the album legally obscene. In the mid-1980s, the Parents Music Resource Center (PMRC) published a list of songs they considered offensive, including Prince’s “Little Red Corvette” and Queen’s “Another One Bites the Dust.” In 1985, the Recording Industry Association of America (RIAA) began placing parental advisory stickers on certain albums to avoid government censorship. Today, the Banned in the USA vinyl has become a museum piece.
My hostel was right in the U Street Corridor, known as “Black Broadway” in the 1920s. Legends like Cab Calloway, Louis Armstrong, and Miles Davis all performed in its clubs. But the area was more than just music and entertainment—it was home to the city’s oldest African American-owned bank and hundreds of black-owned businesses, including law firms. Following the 1968 riots after the assassination of Martin Luther King Jr., the neighborhood fell into decline.
Apart from the mandatory drinks at the Broadway Comedy Club, I hadn’t visited a bar yet. I noticed a whiskey bar within walking distance of my little capsule hotel. They were said to have 3,000 bottles of whiskey and bourbon in stock, with some of the pricier bourbons costing up to $65 per glass. I rarely drink whiskey and was worried I wouldn’t be able to taste the difference between a $65 glass and a $15 glass. However, the cocktail menu prices seemed average.
I ordered a Manhattan, since I had never tried that classic cocktail, invented in the late 1880s. According to the IBA recipe, it contains rye whiskey, sweet vermouth, and Angostura bitters. It was good, but the bar was loud, and there was no one to strike up a conversation with. So, I stuck to just one drink. When I entered, the bartender swiped my credit card to open a tab, which puzzled me since I intended to—and did—pay in cash.
The phrase “clear and present danger” was first coined by Justice Oliver Wendell Holmes Jr. in 1919 as a legal standard to justify limitations on free speech. Decades later, in Tom Clancy’s political thriller Clear and Present Danger, the term was reinterpreted to reflect the abuse of political and military power within a government bureaucracy, where accountability is elusive and actions skirt the boundaries of legality. Today, in my view, the current occupant of the White House represents a clear and present danger to the United States—and even to the world.
“Do not obey in advance. Most of the power of authoritarianism is freely given. ”
Harrison Ford as Jack Ryan in the 1994 movie adaptation of Clear and Present Danger.
On my second day in Washington, I had only visited a very small portion of the Smithsonian museums, but the sun was shining and I was curious to explore Georgetown. It seemed like a perfect place for breakfast. The Chesapeake and Ohio Canal—abbreviated as the C&O Canal—runs through Georgetown, nearing its endpoint in Washington. Its starting point is in Cumberland, nearly 300 kilometers to the northwest. The canal ceased operations in 1924 and is now preserved as the Chesapeake and Ohio Canal National Historical Park. When I visited, the water level in the canal was very low.
I had avocado on toast and a cappuccino at Blue Bottle Coffee—a chain, as I later found out. Despite the outrageously high price, the cappuccino came in a paper cup and the toast in a cardboard box. What is the obsession with disposable packaging? A cappuccino simply tastes better from a proper ceramic cup. It just feels cheap. I had to think of the European Mind Cannot Comprehend-meme.
Debris was floating in the Potomac river due to heavy flooding upstream.
In Georgetown, I came across a Barnes & Noble bookstore that had several books by Sarah Kendzior. I was hoping to buy her latest book, The Last American Road Trip: A Memoir, but it was only available in a bulky hardcover. Instead, I picked up a paperback copy of They Knew. It was such a beautiful day that I walked from Georgetown to the Lincoln Memorial and spent a few hours reading on a bench in the sun.
Before reaching the Lincoln Memorial, I passed the U.S. Institute of Peace, founded in 1984 by Ronald Reagan. I assumed that an institute with such a name would have felt the full force of the Trump administration, so I quickly snapped a photo. In March, Elon Musk’s DOGE team forced their way into the building. Trump fired the USIP’s staff, and DOGE locked the doors for two months. The USIP, with a modest $55 million budget approved by Congress, is tasked with promoting conflict resolution and prevention around the world.
“It is not enough for Trump to commit an illicit act: He needs to know that you know that he got away with it.”
The American flags were at half-staff because of Peace Officers Memorial Day on 15 May.
On January 31 The Washington Post published an article about Butterworth’s, a Capitol Hill bar and restaurant which was suppose to cater to far-right intellectuals and enfants terribles. This triggered my interest, so I decided to visit—well before Italian aperitivo time.
The bar has been visited by figures such as War Room co-host Scott Presler, Raheem Kassam of Breitbart News UK, Grimes, Jack Posobiec, Kash Patel, far-right political blogger Curtis Yarvin and even Secretary of the Treasury Scott Bessent. Despite its appearance—resembling an old cabinet of curiosities—the bar only opened in October 2024.
Bart Hutchins on the right, the man with the white cap is the New York Times photographer.
“In February, according to a source present for this meeting, several senior House Republican aides from different congressional offices gathered at the Capitol-area restaurant Butterworth’s, touted as the latest martini-heavy MAGA hot spot. At one point, after several rounds of drinks, a leadership aide took out a pen and pad of paper and started asking the table for increasingly ridiculous ideas for legislation that could bring a smile to the president’s face. The brainstorming session — described to Rolling Stone as “obviously” in jest — produced bullet points of mock legislation like making Trump’s birthday a holiday, and naming the National Zoo “Donald J. Trump Presents: the D.C. Zoo”
Wallpaper inside Butterworth’s restrooms.
I don’t believe someone like Curtis Yarvin should be given a platform on CNN. His ideas are too fringe to be treated as legitimate political commentary. Don’t give him oxygen. While it may be newsworthy that tech billionaires like Peter Thiel and Marc Andreessen are reportedly drawn to his views, promoting the idea of replacing American democracy with a tech-monarchy is a dangerous thought experiment.
I clearly arrived earlier than most. I ordered an Old Fashioned and settled in at the bar. The place was quiet, with only a few patrons. A photographer lingered nearby, taking photos of the sparse crowd. Not wanting to sound like a secret agent, I asked if he was “on a mission.” He replied that he worked for The New York Times.
“Part of the thesis of [Butterworth’s] was that politics are pop culture right now,” Hutchins says. “People are going to come here to be seen by these people they see on Twitter and on the news every night.”
He offers Bannon as an example. “Somebody like Steve’s just as famous to the average American — because we all watch the news 24/7 now — as Cindy Crawford was in the ’90s,”
Who needs another drink?”
I liked Butterworth’s. The bar is named after its principal investor, Alex Butterworth, an Australian-born senior counsel at Uber. Another backer, Raheem Kassam of Breitbart News UK, contributed to its reputation as a supposed right-wing clubhouse. The day-to-day operations are run by Hutchins, a 34-year-old bearded, operating partner, who is credited with shaping its distinctly European vibe. I imagined Hutchins had personally curated the 1939 “Visit the Belgian Congo” poster by Dutch illustrator N. Lenaerts—and perhaps even sourced the red fez and ceremonial sword himself.
After the Old Fashioned, I ordered an Espresso Martini, made with vodka, espresso, coffee liqueur (usually Kahlúa), and sugar syrup—though it has nothing to do with a traditional martini. I got hungry and ordered an $18 plate of fried soy sauce marinated cauliflower heads. I wanted to stay longer, but a third drink would have been too much. By ordering two cocktails, I had already broken my James Bond “one drink” rule. Including tip, I ended up paying $70.
My $18 plate of fried cauliflower heads
“In cafés where the boys are never wrong; in cafés where they are all brave …”
It’s just coincidence that the $20 bill features Andrew Jackson—Donald Trump’s favorite past president. Like Trump, Jackson pushed the limits of executive power. But there are key differences: Jackson aimed to build a government that would endure beyond his presidency, something Trump seems neither interested in nor capable of doing.
When I stepped outside, the sun was still shining brightly, and the Capitol building had never looked more impressive to me.
Despite the presence of a far-right-aligned administration in the White House, daily life in Washington carried on as usual. Police vehicles blocked streets to allow Washington Capitals fans to head to Capital One Arena for that evening’s game.
Feeling hungry again, I ordered a plate of fried beef and vegetables in Chinatown. My fortune cookie read, ‘September will bring you peace and serenity of mind.’ It was May.
Somebody still demanded change for Joaquin Oliver who was shot in a hallway outside his creative writing class at Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School in Parkland in 2018. He was 17 years old. 16 others were killed in the same shooting.
I took a FlixBus back from Washington to New York. For some reason, the train was outrageously expensive on a Friday, so I opted for the $30 bus ride instead. The journey took about four hours. It rained heavily along the way, but by the time we reached New York, the skies had cleared. The bus dropped me off right in the heart of Manhattan.
I spent my last two nights in Queens, just off Jamaica Avenue. Looking at the map, it seemed like a convenient spot for getting to Brooklyn—though, the fastest subway route between Queens and Brooklyn went through Manhattan. Interestingly, Jamaica Avenue isn’t named after the Caribbean island; its name comes from “Yameco,” a word in the Lenape language meaning “beaver.”
When I arrived at my hotel, a giant TV screen was already set to Newsmax. I spent a few hours watching, but it wasn’t the television news I remembered. I haven’t owned a TV since 2003. On Newsmax and Fox News, the news has become pure entertainment—little remains of real journalism. Between segments of dramatized opinions, the Mad King appeared, hawking cheap watches. The Wi-Fi password in my room read: americafirst.
I wasn’t sure what to eat for dinner, so I walked up and down Jamaica Avenue until I spotted a Mexican restaurant. Antojitos means “little cravings,” and since a large part of the United States was once Mexican territory—from 1821 to 1836—I figured it would be interesting to have some Mexican food. Lately, I have this odd habit of connecting food with geopolitics.
After studying the menu, I went with Tex-Mex beef enchiladas and beans—plus a salt rimmed margarita, which hit the spot. The place wasn’t busy. Music blasted from a TV screen, and one of the two men sitting at a table across from me kept giving me a thumbs-up. Maybe he didn’t speak English and this was his way of communicating. I returned the gesture with a thumbs-up of my own. I decided I’d try barbecuing the same Tex-Mex dish myself this summer back home.
I dedicated my final day to exploring Brooklyn. I joined the morning commuters on the subway, where everyone seemed lost in their phones. I can’t help but feel that phones have made us lonelier as a species.
The fastest route from Queens to Brooklyn was actually through Manhattan. I wanted to photograph some of New York’s bikes, so this was my last chance. Bike messengers have mostly switched to electric now—the fixies are gone. Their current weapon of choice is the Chinese EP-Arrow10, which costs around $1,800.
The view from DUMBO, Brooklyn, looking toward Manhattan with the Brooklyn Bridge in full view. In the distance you can see the Mexican Navy tall ship Cuauhtémoc, which would tragically collide with the Brooklyn Bridge later that day, resulting in the deaths of two crew members.
The name sounded Jewish because of “Jacob” and the Jewish tradition of pickling, but the food was actually Southern. In hindsight, the word “biscuits” was a giveaway. I ordered the Honey Chicken and Pickles biscuit sandwich for $17 in DUMBO. The original Jacob’s Pickles is located on the Upper West Side near Central Park. The lunch was so filling that all I had for dinner was $1.50 worth of bananas from a convenience store in Queens. The biscuit was stuffed with two giant pieces of perfectly fried chicken, and the pickles were packed with spices. All in all, very satisfying. If I ever return to the States, I’d love to visit the Deep South—I’m a fan of True Blood, the TV series based on The Southern Vampire Mysteries.
Honey Chicken and Pickles biscuit sandwich.
Another beautiful, large park in New York. I wished I had brought a book, but I left my bag at the hotel—I generally hate carrying stuff. Most visitors were running or playing sports. Since I wasn’t dressed for exercise, I just sat on a bench for an hour, watching the people go by.
I haven’t been to New York in the 1990s, so I can’t say how much has changed. But I found it hard to reconcile the raw lyrics of Gang Starr—both artists, Guru and DJ Premier, are from Brooklyn—with the affluent parts of Brooklyn I wandered through. I saw Gang Starr perform live twice back in the 1990s.
Iconic view of the 1909 Manhattan Bridge, famous for the 1984 film C’era una volta in America directed by Italian filmmaker Sergio Leone. I always feel a bit embarrassed taking the same photo as everyone else, so I quickly moved on.
You don’t often see American wines in Europe. It was sunny—perfect for a glass of red on a terrace. But finding a bar with pavement seating wasn’t easy, so I ended up back in DUMBO. The choice was simple: the menu offered only one American red by the glass—a 2021 Tensley Red Blend from California’s Central Coast, priced at $16. This winery was founded in 1998 by Joey Tensley. Though it’s a blend, Tensley specializes in Syrah grapes.
You might expect American winemakers to benefit domestically from the 20% tariff Trump imposed on European Union goods on April 9, 2025. But the TACO president backed down quickly—by April 11, the 20% tariff was off the table for three months and reduced to 10%. Still, the tariff war makes American wines more expensive. Portugal exports nearly 60% of the world’s cork, French oak barrels must be imported at higher costs, and China produces many glass bottles now subject to a 145% tariff.
Including sales tax and the customary tip, I paid $20 for a glass of red wine. Sitting under the Brooklyn Bridge (DUMBO stands for Down Under the Manhattan Bridge Overpass, but is also located under the Brooklyn Bridge Overpass), the location certainly added to the price. By far, this was the most expensive glass of red wine I’ve ever ordered.
My last glimpse of Manhattan.
Back in my room, there was a critical segment on Putin’s Russia on Newsmax, but the main focus was on the attacks against evangelicals in Ukraine. Evangelicals make up only 2% to 4% of Ukraine’s population, yet they have a strong lobby in the USA. While JD Vance has said, “I don’t really care what happens to Ukraine,” Steven Moore, a veteran Republican Hill staffer, coordinates support for Ukraine from an evangelical Christian perspective.
With the American system collapsing under authoritarian rule—it remains to be seen what the situation will be in 2028—I had the word coda in mind as a theme for my journey: the concluding part of a musical movement or dramatic work. I felt a disconnect between the political reality and this vibrant, super multicultural city. Being in New York doesn’t feel like an era has ended. Tourism seems as strong as ever.
But something has changed. Eliot Higgins, founder of Bellingcat, said: “We built 20th-century democracies on the assumption that truth could be verified, and those in power could be held accountable. But the systems those assumptions relied on are in decline. In their place: an algorithmic chaos where every citizen is a broadcaster, every feed a battleground.”
We can only hope the 2028 elections, or 2026 midterm elections, will be fair because voters have the power for change.
On my last day, I had only the morning to spend in Queens before heading back to JFK.
The last time I had a haircut was more than five months earlier, in Indonesia. It was Sunday morning, but many hairdressers on Jamaica Avenue were already open. They all seemed to be from the Dominican Republic. I usually let the barber decide my haircut, and this was no exception. He asked if I wanted my beard trimmed too, but I said, “Just my hair.” After the haircut, he trimmed my beard anyway but didn’t charge the extra $10, which was kind of him. In the past three years, I’ve only had haircuts while traveling—in Saudi Arabia, Moldova, Ukraine, Indonesia, and now Queens. “I will make you look beautiful,” he said before he started.
My morning croissant and black coffee cost just $5 in Queens, about half the price compared to Manhattan. I left a one-dollar bill in the tip jar. Everybody else did a grab-and-go and left the store without taking a seat.
In Queens, there’s a strange juxtaposition between what looks like low income housing on Jamaica Ave and apparent wealth. The streets perpendicular to Jamaica Ave look quite affluent, with townhouses and nice cars. This is just a few hundred meters from the subway overpass.
Then there’s Forest Park with its Strack Pond, a glacial kettle pond. Suddenly, the city fades away, and you’re left with a glimpse of the massive glacier that once covered the area during an Ice Age. While writing this post, I tried visiting a few websites to find out which Ice Age created the pond, but I was met with this message: We recognize you are attempting to access this website from a country belonging to the European Economic Area (EEA) including the EU which enforces the General Data Protection Regulation (GDPR) and therefore access cannot be granted at this time.
Back on Jamaica Avenue, reality set in. Many Americans struggle to make ends meet. The WIC program in New York is the state’s implementation of the federal Special Supplemental Nutrition Program for Women, Infants, and Children (WIC), administered by the USDA’s Food & Nutrition Service. In New York, U.S. citizenship is not required to qualify. The Trump administration proposed cutting WIC funding by $300 million in 2026. Additionally, the Cash Value Benefit (CVB) — used to buy fruits and vegetables for children — would be reduced from $26 to $10 per month. As of this moment of writing, the 2026 budget has not yet been approved.
After taking the subway to Sutphin Blvd-Archer Ave, I spent my last dollars on lunch at Viña Del Mar, a Salvadoran restaurant. El Salvador became notorious when Trump began deporting migrants without due process directly to the Terrorism Confinement Centre (Cecot), a mega-prison that President Nayib Bukele called the largest in the Americas. “It’s like Guantánamo on steroids,” said Juan Pappier, Human Rights Watch’s deputy director for the Americas.
I had no prior knowledge of Salvadoran cuisine, but they made a fine chicken soup for $10. Thankfully, it was made with bone-in chicken. Pupusas are filled corn tortillas, so I tried one filled with pork rinds and cheese for $2.50. The juice was made from tamarind. The pre-tax lunch cost $15.50, which was very reasonable for the quality.
At JFK, my KLM Dreamliner was waiting for me. But after I arrived home in Amsterdam, I read in The Guardian that ecologists are warning of a “new era” of ecological collapse due to the rapid decline of insects. “The hum of wild bees has faded, and leaves that should be chewed to the stem hang whole and un-nibbled.” It’s not just pesticides; a clear culprit is emerging: global heating. “Insects can’t hold water. Even a brief drought lasting just a few days can wipe out millions of humidity-dependent insects.” ‘Half the tree of life’: ecologists’ horror as nature reserves are emptied of insects
I’ve noticed that the little pond in my father’s backyard, which used to buzz with many insects, is now silent. Two weeks ago, I saw only one type of bumblebee. Gone are the honeybees, butterflies, dragonflies, ladybugs, and cockchafers. That is another coda to contemplate.
Indonesia was on my short list of countries to visit, and in late 2024, an opportunity arose. I planned to visit Sorong in what was once Dutch New Guinea, a place where my father lived in the early 1960s, and to explore the ancestral village of a close friend, Nenik, in East Java. I flew via Singapore to Surabaya, and to my surprise, her entire family was at the airport to greet me. My first lesson: in Indonesia, you don’t travel alone.
While Tanjung Priok, the port of Jakarta, is more prominent, my father’s steam- and motor ships from the Rotterdamse Lloyd also docked in Tanjung Perak, the port of Surabaya. Most Dutch sugar factories were located just south of Surabaya, and I can imagine that this port city, spelled Soerabaia on an old Dutch postcard, was used for the majority of sugar exports. By the 1950s, Surabaya had become part of Indonesia, yet Dutch ships continued to sail their routes.
I spent the first afternoon in my hotel room, trying to sleep off some jet lag. In the evening, I learned a new word: "hitam", which means black. This was in conjunction with my first dish, Bebek Hitam (black duck), featuring fried duck (bebek goreng) in a spicy black spice blend (bumbu hitam pedas), accompanied by lalapan (raw vegetables) and serundeng. The duck was so tender that I even ate the bones. It was a fantastic start to my culinary journey and a remedy for jet lag—at least that’s what I told myself. The price: 33,000 Indonesian rupiah (2 Euros). I drink black coffee so I quickly realised that I had to order Kopi Hitam.
The usual means of transport in many Asian cities: the scooter with a combustion engine.
My first impression the next day was of the breakfast courtyard at the five star Bumi City Resort Hotel. It felt warm, reminiscent of the tropical butterfly greenhouse I remember from Dutch zoos. As a child, the hot and humid greenhouse was my favorite part of the zoo. Now, I was having breakfast in a tropical greenhouse, and I was enjoying every moment of it.
One of my favourite dishes: pecel sayur. Because of the spicy pecel peanut sauce this is not gado-gado, a similar dish but made with a different bumbu kacang or peanut sauce.
Even though it was the rainy season, the weather hardly bothered me; the rain showers were quite brief. In the morning, I wanted to visit the harbor to experience its atmosphere. During my father’s maiden voyage with the steamship Overijsel, he didn’t reach Surabaya, but he did with later ships, the s.s. Tomini and the motor ship Kota Baroe. In 1955, my father signed off with the Rotterdams Lloyd.
Motor ship Kota Baroe leaving Rotterdam. Date unknown.
Liberty ship s.s. Tomini, built in 1943.
It is interesting to note that not all shipping lanes were between Asia and Europe. The Java-China Japan Line (JCJL), founded in 1891, maintained a network of shipping routes connecting Java, China, and Japan. Exports from Nederlands-Indië were finding markets in China and Japan.
The North Quay is open to the public. With a small entrance fee, you can access the second floor of the cruise terminal, which features a food court and views of the harbor. While there wasn't much to see, I specifically wanted to visit the harbour so we could slowly backtrack to the hotel and see the entire city.
The 10 November Museum, located beneath the Heroes Monument, was closed on Monday, so we decided to visit Chinatown and the Roode Brug instead. Surabaya's Chinatown is primarily a hub for Chinese traders, with the main activity consisting of trucks unloading boxes into small warehouses. This Chinatown does not cater to tourists.
The Chinese restaurants in Surabaya China Town are spartan.
It might not be a surprise that the “Roode Brug” gets its name from the distinctive red color of the bridge. During the Dutch colonial era the bridge served as an important transportation link across the Kalimas River.
While I am interested in architecture, there was not enough time to really delve into Dutch colonial architecture and what remains of it.
The Cigar Building (Gedung Tembakau) on Jalan Rajawali in Surabaya.
The distribution of sugar factories in Dutch colonial Nederlands-Indië highlights the importance of Surabaya as a port city and its influence on the current road and railway network in East Java.
Complete list of sugar factories in Java on 11-02-1932.
While visiting the Museum Hidup Polrestabes (Metropolitan Police) in Surabaya, I realized that Indonesians love to take photographs. It seems impossible to have a conversation without ending up posing for a picture together. I even found myself in a photo with the man who exchanged my euros for Indonesian currency—it’s a bit wild. The museum is housed in the old Hoofdkantoor van de Politie from the Dutch colonial period. I posed in front of weapons used in the aftermath of World War II. I immediately recognised the Bren light machine gun.
Detail of a painting in Museum Hidup Polrestabes.
Gebouw van de handelmaatschappij Borsumij aan de Sociëteitsstraat te Soerabaja, ca 1936
If you love architecture, Surabaya has some hidden gems. Dutch architect Cosman Citroen (1881-1935) designed the office for the Borneo Sumatra Maatschappij (Borsumij), which was built in 1934 and completed in 1935 in a modern style influenced by the Nieuwe Zakelijkheid.
Citroen was well known for his Surabaya City Hall (1925). The city hall was build in the Nieuwe Indische Bouwstijl (New Indies Style), early modern (western) architecture (e.g. Rationalism and Art Deco), applied to local architectural elements suitable for the tropics.
Citroen passed away shortly after the Borsumij office building was finished, unaware that just over a decade later, a devastating world war would have occurred and that the Dutch would have relinquished control of Nederlands-Indië.
This is not a real car but a replica of the 1940 LaSalle SB 723 sedan used by Brigadier A.W.S. Mallaby of the British Indian Army. In 1945, he attempted to negotiate a ceasefire between British forces and Indonesian nationalists in the post-war power vacuum. The British forces were tasked with re-establishing Dutch control; however, Mallaby's convoy was attacked in Surabaya near the Roode Brug. A photo taken in 1945 served as a blueprint for the current monument. His death led to the Battle of Surabaya in November 1945, culminating in a large-scale operation on November 10. This day is now commemorated as Hari Pahlawan (Heroes’ Day) in Indonesia.
This fried catfish dish comes from Lamongan Regency, located near Surabaya. It was one of the meals I had been looking forward to before my arrival, so when I spotted fried catfish in a small warung, I couldn't resist. The catfish used is a freshwater variety. Pecel lele is typically served with sambal, steamed or fried tofu, and in my case, a small piece of cooked banana. The cost of this dish is usually very affordable; I paid less than one euro for the fish, vegetables, and white rice.
Indonesian food courts are usually bustling with numerous small restaurants operated by independent entrepreneurs.
By chance, we stumbled upon this little eatery. The number of scooters parked outside quickly led me to believe this was the best spot for cheap and delicious food. The customers were predominantly young. The menu is straightforward: they wok either shrimp (udang), mussels (kerang hijau), cockles (kerang dara), chicken intestines (usus), chicken feet (ceker), or chicken wings (sayap) in the same spicy sauce. You can choose from five levels of spiciness: original, lamis (5 chilis), lower (10 chilis), lincah (15 chilis), or rusak (20 chilis). I opted for a safe choice of 15 chilis. "Rusak" means "damaged," and that sounded a little intimidating. In hindsight, I could have handled the 20 chilis. Yes, I had the mussels with chicken intestines, and it was one of the culinary highlights of my entire journey. The sauce was complex and flavorful. As we walked out, all the chefs clapped and cheered for us.
Most people eat with their hands in Indonesia.
The phrase "Luweh huenak teko cocote tonggomu rek?" translates to "Is it more delicious than your tongue, right?" in English. The place has a strong presence on Instagram and uses playful local crude Bahasa Jawa slang in their advertising. In principle, every Indonesian is bilingual. The official language is Bahasa Indonesia and in addition, each island has its own language.
On the last night before our flight to Sorong, we decided to indulge a little at the bar of the Bumi City Resort and we ordered mocktails. I chose the Mint Rock, made with non-alcoholic rum. It arrived with a small sign that read: "I sat in silence, finding the dark side of myself in every sip of my drink." Don’t we all have a dark side?
“Aku duduk dalam diam. Menemukan sisi gelap diri, dan di tiap sesap minumanku ini. ”
I had a compelling reason to visit Sorong. For as long as I can remember, my parents attended the annual Sorong reunion for Royal Dutch Shell colleagues. When my father was in his late 20s, he worked in Sorong for a couple of years as a crew member on the landing ship, the Kais, which served as a supply ship for the Dutch oil industry. I wanted to visit Sorong while my father is still alive so I could entertain him in his care home with some new stories, hopefully keeping his memory active.
There are no direct flights between Surabaya and Sorong, with a total distance of 2,171 km—roughly the same distance between Amsterdam and Athens. We took a Lion Air flight via Makassar in South-Sulawesi. When flying domestically in Indonesia, about 90 percent of your options are with Lion Air or its subsidiaries. Currently, Lion Air operates 118 aircraft, mostly Boeing 737s. Notoriously, during the 2000s, Lion Air experienced many incidents, some of which were deadly and primarily caused by pilot error. However, in 2016, the airline was removed from the EU blacklist and is now considered safe. Ticket prices are quite affordable, especially given the distance.
Curiously, our plane was painted partially in Boeing's house colors and partially in Lion Air livery. The 737 looked a bit battered, but, jokingly, I considered it safer than the new 737 MAX. Remember Lion Air Flight 610?
Indonesia has many regional dishes, so during our stopover, I had to try sop saudara, a buffalo meat soup. Since we woke up at 3:30 AM to catch the early flight, it was the perfect breakfast. Another famous meat soup is konro, which is a bone soup. I tried konro in Sorong for breakfast a few days later.
In Sorong, we opted for a homestay, primarily because I wanted a local contact to help arrange transport to Klamono, a name my father had suddenly mentioned in his care home. The homestay was located in a lovely residential area that seemed safe, but the owner had installed corrugated iron plates against the mango tree to prevent thieves from climbing and stealing mangoes at night. A mosque and a church were nearby, and during prayer times, both places of worship used speakers to amplify their messages to the believers—the volume was so loud that conversations had to pause.
Krupuk drying in the sun. The girl is the owner's daughter, who showed us the way out of the neighborhood on our first day.
In the early 1960s my father was housed in simple barracks built by the Americans during the world war. It was a very different Sorong.
In Sorong, there is little visible presence of the Free Papua Organization (Indonesian: Organisasi Papua Merdeka, OPM), apart from some graffiti. "Papua Merdeka" literally means "Papua Independent." However, as recently as 2019, government buildings were destroyed in Sorong, resulting in over 31 deaths in the region.
Papua students are calling for a new referendum. When West Papua was transferred to Indonesia in 1963, following an agreement mediated by the United Nations, many Papuans felt it was done against their will. In 1969, Indonesia organized a referendum known as the "Act of Free Choice", which involved a council of around 1,000 selected representatives from various Papuan tribes. However, significant pressures and intimidation marred the process, leading many Papuans to feel betrayed.
To this day, a movement continues to fight for an independent West Papua. The Indonesian state is hitting back hard, using drones in the warfare against the West Papua National Liberation Army. One case, were the Kiwirok bombings in 2021. I have an excellent 700 page book on this topic: P.J. Drooglever, Een daad van vrije keuze. De Papoea´s van westelijk Nieuw-Guinea en de grenzen van het zelfbeschikkingsrecht (Den Haag 2005).
FWP stands for "Front West Papua," which is a political organization advocating for the independence of West Papua from Indonesia.
There wasn’t much time on the first day, so we had a deep purple fresh 100% dragon fruit juice and looked for a local restaurant serving fresh fish. A lot of tuna is landed in Sorong, and we came across a restaurant that wasn’t busy, but judging by the plate of the only customer eating there, we decided to go in. It turned out the man was eating a jaw of a tuna fish. We ordered the same, along with another grilled fish. The quality was simply perfect. The head of a fish has the best tasting meat.
A common grilled fish side dish is this spicy tomato sauce. It looks very similar to Malay air assam tamarind.
Ingredients; 3 small shallot (the dark Indian type, not the light Thai type). Peel it and dice it fine, 4 red rawit (birds eye chilli), cut 4 each, 2 red chilli sliced small, 1 semi ripe or green tomato - diced small, a pinch of salt, 1 tsp of sugar, 1 tbsp of fish sauce, 1 ping pong sized tamarind pulp, diluted in 1 cup of water, seeds and pulp removed, juice of 2 jeruk limo. Simply mix all ingredients together.
Of course, Nenik was feeding stray cats with pieces of fish, which led to a cat accidentally scratching her foot. We spent the last hour searching for a shop that sells disinfectant. During our search, we walked past a colorful little restaurant. I’m known for my adventurous palate, but I draw the line at bats. Later, I learned that bats (Paniki in the local language) are consumed as “medicine” for asthma.
Our homestay featured a typical Indonesian bathroom setup. The shower wasn't working, so the water in the white bucket was used for both showering and flushing the toilet. It may be basic, but it functions perfectly.
Early in the morning, we visited the fish market. Although there were no restaurants, the market was bustling with both fishermen and customers. That evening, we would enjoy grilled fish again, likely purchased at this market just 12 hours earlier.
This lady was baking a mixture of desiccated coconut and palm or coconut sugar in clay holders. We bought some of the baked "cookies," wrapped in banana leaves and still warm. They were simply awesome—sweet and complex.
In the afternoon, we explored Sorong. We got around using tiny Japanese minibuses called Angkot (short for "angkutan kota", city transport). Angkots operate on predetermined routes and are inexpensive, although the buses can be quite battered. A single journey costs about 30 euro cents. Alternatively, you can take a Grab taxi, but the Angkots were more fun.
I thought it would be a good idea to visit the Taman Wisata Mangrove just outside of Sorong, but the walking path into the mangrove was closed. The Grab driver then took us to Taman Wisata Alam Sorong, a nature park, which turned out to be a little underwhelming. While there were some nice orchids growing on the trees, it was unclear how to explore more of the forest. I attempted to walk deeper into the jungle, but Nenik exclaimed, “Don’t go there!”
“Why not?” I asked.
“There’s no path!” she replied.
“Yes, there is; it’s just overgrown,” I countered.
“But there might be snakes!” she warned.
Me: “…..”
Taman Wisata Mangrove Klawalu Sorong
Once upon a time, Taman Wisata Alam Sorong must have been proudly inaugurated by local administrators, but it has now fallen into disrepair. There was little to see, and the paths were not well maintained.
Taman Wisata Alam Sorong
There is a strong Chinese presence in Sorong, but the Vihara Buddha Jayanti was only build in the 1980s. The temple was under renovation so we entered without paying the entrance fee.
View from the Chinese temple.
You wouldn’t expect to find a Berlin Wall in Sorong, yet this is the name of a historical site that has become a symbol of independence from the Dutch. It is an old wall dating back to the Dutch colonial era. Today, the area is filled with grill restaurants in the evenings.
The principle is simple: you select a grill place, pick a fish from the table, and look it in the eye. They will grill the fish for you and serve it with rice and the usual sauces. You’ll need to order the vegetables separately.
Separate order: stir-fried kangkung (water spinach) with garlic.
Papeda is a well-known dish found in parts of Sulawesi, the Maluku Islands, and coastal Papua. While it can sometimes be found in restaurants, it's not always available due to the time-consuming preparation involved; you need to pound sago flour with water until a sticky glue-like paste forms. The owner of our homestay kindly prepared a complete papeda meal for us, featuring spicy fish stew and vegetables.
To eat papeda, spoon the kangkung tumis vegetable soup into a bowl, add some of the sago-glue on top, and then pour in the spicy fish stew to taste. The vegetable soup also contained tiny leaves from the edible moringa tree, Moringa oleifera. I had never eaten moringa before; the leaves are particularly nutritious, rich in vitamins A, C, and E.
My father worked in Sorong for two years, so I was familiar with the name. According to his own stories, he also visited smaller villages in the Papua jungle. As a hobby, he carried a small metal box with scalpels and some basic medicine, like aspirin, to help treat sick Papua. He never mentioned any specific names, but in October 2024, I pressed him to recall one. "Klamono," he suddenly said. I looked it up on Google Maps and discovered it was indeed a tiny village located roughly 50 kilometers from Sorong. I saved the name and planned to visit Klamono during my time in Sorong, though I had no idea what to expect.
There are no buses to Klamono. We hired a car and driver for the day for 600.000 IDR. When we arrived in Klamono, it looked like a dusty town in the Wild West. I decided to walk around a bit and soon I heard religious music in the distance. The sound was coming from giant loudspeakers attached to an equally giant church. In the greater district of Klamono there are apparently 3,000 people living, in the village the number is less than a 1,000. Not sure how accurate these numbers are, but the church seemed big for the community.
Some men standing near the church were a bit puzzled by my appearance. But they were extremely friendly, although they hardly spoke English. Posing in front of my iPhone broke the ice. Nenik could explain my presence in Bahasa Indonesia. When I asked my father which language the Papua were speaking in the 1960s, he said: kust-Maleis, which is also known as pasar-Maleis or Bahasa Dagang, dagang meaning “trade”. It was the language spoken in coastal areas and trading cities. The Papua also speak a local language called Kais.
We wandered around a bit and a man simply started walking with us, and when we returned to the car he just got in the passenger seat and we had ourselves a local guide.
The Catholic mission was as integral to Nieuw-Guinea as oil exploitation. Some Catholic priests were trained as scientists, studying and documenting the local languages. It wasn’t always easy; some priests lived remotely for years with little contact with the outside world. Additionally, there were problems unique to the Catholic clergy, as highlighted in this quote from the book “Toean, Toean, Kartu Abis!” by Jan Aartsen. The book (“Sir, Sir, We ran out of map!”) chronicles the adventures of the Dutch sailors working on the landing ship Kais in the 1950s.
“The next port of call, was the seat of the local ruler, while the Dutch bishop wielded the spiritual scepter there. After the greeting, a local church worker stepped on board with an urgent question: “Did you get any bottles from Sorong?”
With a happy face, he accepted the box of glass bottles. He explained that the sacramental wine was delivered in wooden barrels, which often burst due to the local climate conditions. It was then important to quickly transfer the wine from the barrels to bottles or directly to the ‘users.’ The bishop and his closest spiritual workers drank as much of the wine as possible, to prevent waste, as it was a shame to throw it away. When asked whether the church was perhaps breeding alcoholics, the priest replied that it was not that bad, compared to local administrators.”
My father was not based in Klamono but in Sorong, serving as a first mate on the landing ship Kais under Captain Piet "Snor" (nicknamed "Moustache" for his large mustache). The Kais was built in 1954 by the Arnhemsche Scheepsbouw Maatschappij N.V. and specifically designed to serve as a supply ship for the oil industry in Dutch Nieuw Guinea. I don’t think the 45-meter vessel could sail all the way to Klamono. My father cannot remember whether he traveled to Klamono by road or via the Klasafet River. The road was barely usable in the late 1950s, so the river seems more likely. The road was primarily used to inspect the pipeline and required regular clearing of the encroaching jungle.
Some of the oil products were used locally to develop the area.
“At an incomprehensibly fast pace they built a village (Sorong) from the ground. The roads were paved with the asphalt-rich oil, brought by the Minjak Tanah from Klamono.”
Photo: 1950s.
Typical landing place for the Kais. Photo: 1950s.
This seems to be the Kais sailing up a river, maybe it could reach Klamono.
One day, my father, Kees, was on board one of the mappi, a small motor launch powered by a powerful diesel engine. Without prior warning, Captain Piet Snor handed my father the steering wheel. According to the story, my father didn’t know how to control the mappi, and after some wild manoeuvres, he accidentally hit the Kais, despite having been the third mate on the 136-meter-long oil tanker Omala just before being assigned to the Kais. The complete chapter can be read here: De mannen van de Kais, hoofdstuk 9
“The shock was somewhat dampened by the cork bags protecting the skin of the Kais, but Piet, who had apparently been too flabbergasted to get off his bench, was thrown backwards into the water by the impact.
Kees, as if in a daze, had a brilliant idea and closed the diesel supply tap of the still rushing launch and the boat came to rest. As if in a movie, Kees saw Piet Snor, who looked to him like a walrus in the water because of his fearsome moustache, swimming towards Kais.”
Below the river and the quay were the ships of the NNGPM would land, bringing supplies.
Below our local Papaua guide. His right arm was about 10 centimetres shorter than his left arm
Just before World War II, the NNGPM (Nederlandse Nieuw-Guinea Petroleum Maatschappij), a subsidiary of Shell, discovered oil in Klamono, though it was of poor quality. During the war, the land was occupied by the Japanese, and it wasn’t until 1945 that the NNGPM could exploit the oil fields in Klamono. A pipeline was constructed all the way to Sorong in the 1950s.
I hadn’t realized there was still oil production in Klamono in 2024. I expected to visit a small village, find little to see, and then head back to Sorong. Discovering functioning pumpjacks—two in total—was a pleasant surprise, and I was as excited as if I had discovered the oil myself. The Papuan children were also thrilled to guide me, a guest from Belanda, to the pumpjacks, making it a highlight of my journey.
There is some localised oil spillage.
In my excitement at finding oil and the distraction of seven Papuan children, I hadn’t paid attention to which phone was used to take some of the coolest photos. Unfortunately, it was Nenik's Android phone, which has a really bad, cheap potato camera. Some of the photos below are not even sharp.
For reasons I still don’y fully understand, this young fellow was so happy to see me he was holding hands with me and at times he was literally clinging to my leg. All the children looked unfiltered happy grinning ear to ear all the time.
If you leave it to the jungle, it will take over every machine left behind.
Another small church in Klamono. opposite the church, in green, is a masjid, so there is a small Muslim population on Klamono as well. But in general the, mostly Dutch, missionaries have succeeded in converting the Papua’s of Klamono to Catholicism.
One young Papuan thought I needed a cool pair of sunglasses for the photo, and now I look like a member of ZZ Top—minus the long beard. The little shop belonged to the parents of the girl in the yellow T-shirt next to me, who was the only one able to speak some English. We tried to treat all the children to candy, but they all declined. In the end, we bought some water bottles for ourselves.
Above some old pre-1960 oil tanks. Below the current oil facility of Klamono.This is a pumping station. I don’t believe I have the complete overview of West-Papua oil industry. There is a report available for download for 125 USD. The oil refinery is located in Kasim, which is 90 kilometers from the oil terminal in Sorong. According to the report summary the Papua oil field recovered more than half of its total recoverable reserves, with peak production in 2020. Based on economic assumptions, production will continue until the field reaches its economic limit in 2069.
The oil company now based in Klamono is Pertamina, which is state owned by Indonesia. In 1957, Royal Dutch/Shell's assets in Indonesia were nationalised, from which Permina was founded. In 1968 Pertamina was created as merger between Permina and Pertamin.
Lunch in Klamono was definitely not Papuan. The only restaurant was run by a family from Madura, an island off the coast of East Java. A case of transmigration. I had ayam goreng lalapan, which consists of fried chicken and fresh vegetables.
In the afternoon we drove around the district Klamono. Below is Block B, apparently Indonesians are living here who came to West-Papua as transmigrants. The Indonesians call the movement of people between the different parts of Indonesia transmigration. They are often people from Java seeking job opportunities in parts of Indonesia with more space.
I never questioned how dragon fruit is grown, but in Klamono we drove past some dragon fruit cacti. It is the flower of a cactus native to the region of southern Mexico and along the Pacific coasts of Guatemala, Costa Rica, and El Salvador.
On our way back to the main road, a group of Papuan children waved at us. It would have been rude not to stop for a chat and another photo opportunity. They greeted me by kissing the back of my hand and then briefly placing my hand on their foreheads.
After our tour of Klamono, I felt we should give our impromptu guide something, but I had no idea what would be appropriate. In the end, Nenik gave him some money to buy betel nut, which he seemed pleased with.
In Sorong, I had noticed many red splashes on the pavement that I couldn't quite place. It turned out to be the spit of betel nut chewers. You buy the betel nut and betel leaves along with a mustard stick dipped in slaked lime powder, and then chew the combination, spiting out the red saliva.
How it ended for my father.
“Politics had put an end to the future of a Dutch New Guinea and Kees flew via the airport at Yefman with a small local plane to Biak to transfer to a Stratocruiser of the Panam and fly first class to Manila. After a night in a hotel with film star treatment, he continued via Saigon to Singapore. Apparently he was not allowed to go home yet. On the second day he was called by someone from the office in the Singapore hotel.
’How long do you need to pack,’ was the question. ‘Five minutes,’ said Kees. ‘Then you are the man I am looking for,’ came the sound on the other end of the line, ‘you are going to board the tanker Saroena, which will pass through the Strait in three quarters of an hour, but is not allowed to dock because it is sailing in Indonesia’.
’What about a visa?’, mumbled Kees.
’No time.’ And indeed, three quarters of an hour later, Kees boarded a sailing Saroena, from the agency’s little Shell boat, and was probably treated in the ship’s log as a picked-up drowning person.”
Driving back to Sorong I noticed the Dutch made pipeline. Somebody told me it is still the original pipe, which was laid in the 1950s but I find it hard to believe. In the 1950s the road was difficult to navigate and inspections were carried out by motorbike and even from a Bell helicopter. In the 1990s the road between Sorong and Klamono was properly asphalted.
We had plans to visit Raja Ampat from Sorong, but we soon discovered it was a hyped Instagram destination. Instead, we diverted our plans to spend a couple of days in the Maluku Islands, known in the Netherlands as the Molukken. It's hard to grasp the sheer size of the Maluku Islands, we only visited Ambon because the airport is near Ambon City, along with the spice island of Saparua. There are an estimated 1,027 islands in the Maluku, with Ambon being the most developed, yet relatively small. The Dutch conquered Ambon from the Portuguese in 1605.
We had a comfortable yet affordable hotel in the city center of Ambon, a lively city. In 2019, UNESCO officially designated Ambon as a Creative City of Music. We strolled around for a couple of hours, waiting for the night food market to open. During the day, the food market is a bustling street with cars, but in the evening, the road is blocked and dozens of restaurants are set up. Most places serve grilled fish, but you can also find chicken dishes and goat.
At the night market, you select your fish for grilling. A serving of white rice is included, along with two sauces: a regular sambal and a spicy tomato sauce. The spicy sweet and sour tomato sauce, also served in Sorong, pairs perfectly with grilled fish. We also ordered kangkung (water spinach) and sambal peteh. I thought I had tasted the best grilled fish ever in Sorong, only to be convinced again in Ambon that I had discovered the best grilled fish yet. It was truly that good.
Stir-fried kangkung (water spinach) and garlic, chilis and papaya flowers.
Sambal peteh is made by frying cabai merah (long red chilies), cabai rawit (bird's eye chilies), garlic, shallots, and tomatoes. Lime leaves and peteh beans are added for extra flavor. Some recipes also include tempoyak, which is made from fermented durian.
The ferry to Saparua leaves early in the morning, so once again, we didn't have time for nightlife. I had my first and only beer in Indonesia—a giant 620 ml bottle of lukewarm Bintang beer. The bar had live music, but the songs were mostly international classics. It was almost empty, except for a retired Dutchman, originally from Germany, who had just married a much younger woman from Ambon. He approached me and bluntly asked, “Ben je Nederlander?” He guessed correctly. I tried to finish my warm beer and wished I had ordered fresh fruit juice instead. As we left, we high-fived the singer.
I still have to get used to the idea that Indonesians love to pose with about anybody they meet for no particular reason, like a random hotel front desk clerk in our hotel in Ambon. In a way it’s kinda fun, but who is this guy?
To reach Saparua you first have to cross Ambon to reach a small port where the ferry boats to Saparua leave. The Grab taxi ride takes almost an hour, the boat ride takes about the same amount of time.
Upon arriving in Saparua, you immediately sense its rich history. I could almost imagine the sounds of Dutch hemp ropes squeaking under the tension of the wind as the VOC crew gazed at the same emerald green forest when their ship moored at a distance from the coast. In reality, the VOC ships sailed toward the bay, where Fort Duurstede was built in 1691 after Fort Hollandia was destroyed by an earthquake in 1671. The scale of Benteng Duurstede isn’t particularly impressive; initially, only 10 soldiers were housed in the fortress.
On Saparua, there are very few cars, and the minibuses serve as taxis; they can be expensive if you take one without a larger group. The best mode of transport is on the back of a scooter. It’s about 5 kilometers from the port to Saparua village. I soon discovered that my Indonesian eSIM wasn’t working, and just before we boarded the ferry, I noticed that Booking.com didn’t have any listings available. After arriving on Saparua, I found myself basically offline, as the hotel we found didn’t offer Wi-Fi.
Cloves drying on the street.
Our hotel courtyard.
Just across the street from our hotel there was a very decent restaurant. I got myself a bakso soup with a giant filled meatball called beranak. We shared some fried tofu and tempe penyet and Nenik got an ayam geprek, which is smashed chicken. Penyet means squeezed, and refers to the light squeezing of the tempe to release its flavours.
Ayam geprek.
The fortress (Benteng in Indonesian) was extensively renovated in the 1990s. The original buildings inside the fortress remain as foundations. The outer walls have recently been painted white, and somebody cleaned the few remaining cannons during our visit. The entrance fee is based on a donation, and I contributed a little more than usual on behalf of my Dutch ancestors, even though one family line of mine lived in what is now Germany during the time of the VOC. I had to record my name, and in the comment section, I wrote: “a long and difficult history.”
You cannot travel to Saparua without learning the story of Pattimura. For starters, the airport in Ambon is named Pattimura Airport. His real name was Thomas Matulessy, and in 1817, he led a rebellion against Dutch colonial rule. Matulessy’s forces successfully captured Fort Duurstede, resulting in the deaths of Captain Van der Hellen, his wife, their three youngest children, and a garrison of 19 soldiers. Matulessy has been used as a symbol of both Maluku independence and Indonesian nationalism. He was declared a national hero in 1973 by Sukarno, recognised not by his birth name, but under the title Kapitan Pattimura.
Statue of Thomas Matulessy
In the afternoon, it started to rain, and we sought shelter in the small shop of a Chinese man. I noticed shark fins hanging from the ceiling, and he proudly showcased some of them. They fetch 1.5 million rupiah per kilo, less than 90 euro. The man was the husband of a lady we had met on the ferry, who was active in the church and also a businesswoman—what I would describe in Dutch as a “handige tante.” Earlier, Nenik had mentioned our interest in buying cloves and sago, and before we knew it, the lady claimed she had already purchased a kilo of cloves and two boxes of sago for us. It was hard to back down, even though I had already bought 200 grams of cloves just before. Nenik handed her some money for the cloves and sago. At that point I still assumed we bought sago flower for making papeda.
The next evening, just before we left, the couple appeared at our hotel with two giant boxes filled with sago blocks and a kilo of cloves. I was stunned. How could we carry these boxes all the way to Surabaya? We quickly gave one box to the hotel staff and managed to lug the other box all the way to Surabaya and the village of Durenan.
More sea creatures used for Chinese ‘medicine’.
While we were waiting for the rain to stop, Nenik suddenly followed her nose, disappeared, and returned with a siomay—fish dumplings with vegetables doused in peanut butter sauce. This dish has its origins in China, where it is called shumai. I had eaten it before at a pasar malam in the Netherlands, and I adore the taste.
Warehouse with bags of cloves. I bought 200 gram of cloves.
The humble nasi goreng.
The next day was Sunday. We hired two scooter drivers and headed to Nolot, a predominantly Christian village on the other side of the island. Most villagers were at church, and as we walked around, some services were ending. Churchgoers, dressed for Sunday, filled the streets. One church had a complete brass band playing songs, which reminded me of the Dutch 1993 anthropological film by Johan van der Keuken “Bewogen Koper” (Brass unbound), which explains the global distribution of brass music through colonial military brass bands. The scenario was partly written by anthropologist Rob Boonzajer Flaes, connected to my University of Amsterdam.
Drying sago blocks in Nolot. Little did we know we would end up with two large boxes of this stuff just a day later. The sago is baked in sago ovens, which imparts a smoky flavor to the blocks. After baking, the blocks are dried and then ready for consumption. Roy Ellen and D. Kyle Latinis published a study in 2012 titled "Ceramic Sago Ovens and the History of Regional Trading Patterns in Eastern Indonesia and the Papuan Coast."
Two types of ceramic sago oven produced in Keligah, East Seram in 1986.
Distribution of ceramic sago ovens in: (a) island southeast Asia as a whole, (b) Maluku, and (c) Ambon-Lease and West Seram;
In Nolot, Christmas and New Year's wishes are permanently painted on the walls, along with nativity scenes sculpted from concrete. I dubbed Nolot the village where Christmas lasts 365 days a year.
Jesus standing on a globe.
Due to strong low and high tides, the coastline is composed of mangroves.
We made the mistake of relying on an open restaurant for breakfast, but because it was Sunday and Nolot is a really small village, nothing was available. By 12:30 PM, we were quite hungry and decided to drive back to Saparua village. However, just as we were leaving, we passed a lady’s house with a small shop selling rujak buah, also known as rujak manis.
Side note: There are many different rujak recipes in Indonesia; just on Wikipedia, there are more than twenty. For rujak buah, you need a flat cobek, which is how Nenik noticed the shop. I would have driven right past the house without realizing it was a restaurant.
First, you grind some salt and fresh rawit (chili pepper) into a paste. The lady asked me how many rawit I wanted; I requested five, while Nenik and our two scooter drivers opted for just three. Next, you add fried peanuts and continue grinding until you achieve a coarse paste.
The next step is to add palm sugar, and to balance the sweetness, you can also include tamarind paste. However, I didn't see the lady add any tamarind (asem jawa), unless the block of palm sugar was pre-mixed with it. You can also add some trassi (shrimp paste).
Then comes the fruit. Pineapple is very common, and it was also the season for Malay apples (jambu bol). You can basically add any seasonal fruit, and she also had a bowl of pre-cut fruits available.
Mix everything together, and you have the perfect fruit salad.
We spent our last afternoon in Saparua swimming in the sea, fully clothed. Nenik chatted with many children in Bahasa Indonesia, while I managed little more than responding to the question, “Hey Mister! What is your name?” I took the photos below after swimming, but by then, the golden light of the setting sun had faded. It was a magical afternoon, and the children's faces glowed with a copper hue from the sunlight.
We opened the boxes filled with sago blocks to ensure we weren't smuggling drugs, but they contained only sago. Back in the Netherlands, I tried one of the blocks—you're supposed to dip them in coffee or tea, which softens the block, allowing you to eat it like bread. However, it is quite tasteless, and if you didn't grow up eating sago in this form, it really isn't very enjoyable. Nenik gifted some of the sago blocks to a Dutch-Indonesian friend from the Molukken, as they evoke childhood memories for him.
Our last meal in Saparua was a simple nasi goreng and tempeh penyet. Along with pecel, these are among the simplest meals you can find in Indonesia. I could eat this every day!
In Ambon, we had four hours to spare before our flight to Surabaya. Having spent my entire adult life in Amsterdam, I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to visit Fort Amsterdam. The blockhouse inside the fortress was built in 1637 by the VOC. Although the fortress was restored in 1991, it has lost much of its historic charm, likely due to the fresh white paint. Next to the fortress is Café Amsterdam, but it appeared completely deserted; I could only find one bar stool.
Durenan is not a place you’re likely to know. It is situated between the larger towns of Trenggalek and Tulungagung on the main road, about 4.5 hours south of Surabaya. The road is primarily a two-lane route shared with scooters, and the average speed by car is 50 km/h. You can shorten the journey by an hour by taking a toll highway for the first 100 km. However, it is the home village of Nenik, whom I met in The Netherlands some time ago.
We took a bus from the Surabaya bus station and arrived in the dark. The entire journey from Saparua felt like an Indiana Jones travelogue: we began on the back of a scooter, then took a fast ferry, followed by an hour-long taxi ride, a nearly three-hour flight, another taxi, and finally, a four-hour bus ride. Upon arrival, I was too tired to do anything. The next morning, we had to leave at 7 AM to head to the mountains for an ancestral ceremony with her extended family.
The extended family lives in Pintu, an administrative district in the Ponorogo Regency. Pintu has a population of 1,667 residents. Practically all houses are farms. Pinto is another 2,5 hours from Durenan. For the occasion the family hired a bright coloured minibus to travel to Pintu. Below a typical Pintu farmhouse painted in Hello Kitty pink.
Typical East-Java farmer’s meal: white rice, vegetables stews, often made with some type of fish, a tiny piece of meat, boiled egg and krupuk.
While the two-day trip served as a social family gathering, it was also an occasion to honor the ancestors. We visited three separate burial sites. The first site resembled a typical graveyard, and the path leading there wound through the rice fields. After washing our hands and feet, we squatted around the family grave of five ancestors. Following a recitation of religious texts by one of the elders, we sprinkled flowers over the graves—three handfuls of flowers for each one. By that point, I could no longer squat; my leg muscles simply couldn't handle the Asian squat.
On the way to the graveyard I spotted my favourite vegetable: bitter melon. But I prefer the Surinamese name: sopropo.
The second graveyard had a little wooden construction dedicated to another ancestral grave and a plate with the family tree going back seven generations. The same ritual with recitations and the sprinkling of flowers was repeated. The oldest ancestor was buried in the mountains. We would visit that site later in the afternoon.
The final stage of the family gathering took us higher into the mountains. Our minibus driver wasn’t sure how to get there, so we followed another black minibus with more family members. At times, our two-wheel drive bus barely made it up the slopes; a four-wheel drive vehicle was almost a necessity. After about an hour, we reached our destination: a small house that was apparently the family's ancestral home.
The house consists of just one room for praying and sleeping, where both men and women share the space, even at night. Meals are enjoyed outside on the veranda. At the back of the house, there is a kitchen and toilet. The house has electricity and fresh water.
A little higher up in the mountains was the ancestral grave. I'm not sure if anyone is actually buried there. The "grave" is a small wooden structure next to a rock with striking features.
At the rock, another ritual was held. However, during the recitation of the texts, I suddenly heard hissing and growling. I saw Nenik’s sister's hands transform into claws, clawing at the muddy forest floor. The growling grew louder, and the people around her became agitated. It appeared that she was possessed by the spirit of a tiger. One of the men rushed down the mountain to fetch some water while other family members tried to restrain her, but her movements became increasingly violent and uncontrollable. The anthropologist in me wanted to capture everything on video, but I had only just met half of the family members a few hours earlier.
Close up of the ancestor’s house.
In the end four men carried her down to the house where everybody sat around her, singing and comforting her. The tiger spirit slowly left her and after twenty minutes or so, she was back to normal and it was if nothing had happened. “Oh, she does that all the time”, somebody explained to me. The night set in and the forest went dark.
While tigers were officially declared extinct on Java in 2003, they remain part of the cultural memory. The last reliable sighting of a Javan tiger occurred in 1976. I had already become fascinated by the Korean mountain god san-shin, who can shapeshift into a tiger. In Indonesia, there is a similar belief in tigers as protectors of forests and sacred places. Within the Kejawen mystical tradition, there is a concept of siluman harimau (tiger spirits), which are shapeshifters or supernatural beings capable of taking the form of a tiger.
COLLECTIE_TROPENMUSEUM_Wajang_Kantjil
The next morning, the family gathering resembled any typical family gathering. We all took a walk together to a viewpoint, with the women wearing their pajamas. In the photo below are Nenik, one of her sisters (not the one who was possessed by the tiger), and her Dutch-Portuguese husband. In the middle is Yogi, a nephew who is still figuring out life. Currently, he’s working in a hotel in Bali and enjoying the Balinese nightlife. He joked that he believes in Allah, the Christian God, the Hindu gods, and Buddha if necessary to the hilarity of the family. While the family may be Muslim, there is tolerance toward other beliefs.
After our walk, two deer hunters stopped by. In true Indonesian fashion, we soon found ourselves posing with their guns, looking like Bonnie and Clyde. The guns were probably not loaded, but in hindsight, it didn't cross my mind at the time to ask. The Javan rusa natively occurs on the islands of Java.
The forest is filled with magic. Not far from the ancestral house is a small stream with a water source. I stripped naked and washed myself with the healing water using the plastic bucket. Everyone believes that the water can heal any ailment.
On our way back to Durenan, the family spotted a man on a motorbike carrying fresh bundles of harvested peteh beans. He was practically ambushed, and after some haggling over the price, we bought two large bunches of the beans. Some of the peteh beans eventually made their way to my fridge in Amsterdam.
Normally, I am not a fan of sweet desserts or drinks. However, this es dawet gempol jabung, made from rice and coconut milk, was only lightly sweetened. I was fortunate, as this drink can often be very sweet. Some fermented rice grains floated in the drink, and a block of ice kept it cool. In West Java, this drink is known as es cendol.
The kitchen in the family home serves as the main gathering space. The house doesn't have a living room; instead, there is a reception room with furniture that nobody ever uses. The family spends most of their time in the kitchen, sitting on the floor while preparing food and eating. Although there’s a table with chairs outside, it remains unused. The rest of the house consists of nine bedrooms and six bathrooms.
Indonesians are serious about krupuk. These crispy crackers come in many variations, some made from cow skin and others from fish skin. Krupuk udang is the most well-known variety outside of Indonesia. On our flight to Amsterdam, we filled our checked baggage with food, each weighing 23 kilograms, with uncooked krupuk among our haul. Meanwhile, my carry-on, which contained clothing for two weeks, weighed just 7 kilograms.
The cheapest food you can find is paper wrapped pecel. The name refers to the peanut sauce. It is served on rice, boiled vegetables like beansprouts and any green leaf vegetable available, including a small piece of krupuk. This is not even street food, it is usually cooked by a nearby neighbour. It costs around 30 eurocents. Eat with your hands.
Full view of the family house.
Between the road and the houses, there is a canal. As recently as the 1980s, the houses didn't have indoor toilets. At 4 AM, when it was still conveniently dark, villagers would hang from the bamboo bridges and relieve themselves directly into the canal. One day, the bamboo railing broke, and everyone fell into the canal among the floating excrement. Decades later, people still find this story hilarious.
Nenik’s sister has a little roadside restaurant selling Tahu Sumedang, a Sundanesedeep-fried tofu from Sumedang, West Java.
Location of the family home on Google Maps.
Ribbon development along the main road.
In the evening, we walked into the village to buy some take-away food: nasi goreng and satay. There’s no single correct way to make nasi goreng, and this cook was simply frying eggs, green vegetables, and rice over a high flame. As he cooked, he added a splash from each of the six bottles into the wok: chili pastes, ketjap, and possibly oyster sauce.
On the second-to-last day, I finally had satay. The price is per 10 satay sticks. Before I knew it, I was ushered toward the cooking station, waving the kipas (fan) as if I was grilling the satay. The cook was from Madura, and suddenly everyone seemed to know how to speak Bahasa Madura.
From Durenan, it’s about 38 kilometers to the beach, or roughly an hour by car. Between the flat plains of Durenan and the sea are mountains. When we arrived, it was pouring rain—a true case of Kurosawa rain. When I checked my Radar Pro app, it didn’t seem like the weather would clear that day. We spent an hour drinking coffee and eating cow skin krupuk in a small café.
Around noon, the weather improved, and we drove to a popular beach. The narrow boats there are used for tourist trips, but I was more interested in swimming. I had brought my swimming trunks from Amsterdam, but they were deemed too revealing, so I had to buy a pair that offered more coverage. As is customary, I kept my T-shirt on.
At first, I ran into the sea where the family was swimming, only to realise there were sharp rocks hidden beneath the surface, and I cut my finger on a piece of coral. So much for paradise! Fortunately, 500 meters away, I found a narrow corridor with only sand. I stayed as long as possible in the warm water.
The next day, we explored the rural side of Durenan. Until then, I had only seen the ribbon development along the main road, which made Durenan seem like a very noisy village. However, walking perpendicular to the road, everything changed within a few hundred meters. Suddenly, a peaceful silence became apparent. Villagers use the paths between the rice fields for running or jogging. Some of the rice fields are privately owned, while others belong to the municipality.
Below is the nursery for rice plants. Once the tiny plants are big enough, each seedling is transplanted to the rice field.
Mobile shop on a motorbike. When I looked closer, I saw the man was selling fresh meat, fish, vegetables, fruit, and dried foods. It had everything you need to cook a meal.
This is what you can achieve with the earnings from more than a decade of kitchen and healthcare sector cleaning work in the Netherlands, typically working between 6 and 7 days a week. Nenik built this hotel on a piece of land she personally inherited. The hotel features four rooms, each with four bunk beds, and is intended as a student hotel for a nearby school. When fully occupied, the annual turnover should be around €6,000, which is enough to live on after retirement. However, like many first-generation migrants, Nenik faces the question: Should she fully migrate back to Indonesia as planned, or should she stay in the Netherlands to be close to her daughter and possibly grandchildren?
In the final hours of daylight on our last evening, we visited the family grave, about 10 minutes away by motorbike. I sat on the back of a driver who had one eye. It became evident that the flowers traditionally sprinkled over a grave can be purchased at the entrance of the graveyard. They consist of a mixture of white and red flowers along with green leaves.
The family plot in the graveyard was purchased recently. An unknown baby was already buried there, marked by a tiny unmarked grave that cannot be removed for obvious reasons. To prevent others from using the plot, the family built a wall around it, as this is apparently a concern. Weeds grow quickly in Indonesia, so we all spent time removing them by hand after sprinkling flowers and praying. Aside from the baby, the only other grave is Nenik's father, who passed away just a few years ago. At that time, I bought the family a goat to be slaughtered so they could serve satay kambing to the funeral guests.
Last home cooked family meal in Durenan: cooked vegetables and pepesan ikan, fish steamed in banana leaf with a spicy bumbu. Once you get the bumbu right, Indonesian cooking is quite easy. The journey home to Amsterdam was long: almost four hours by car to the airport in Surabaya, a flight to Jakarta, an eight hour flight to Dubai, and another eight hour flight to Amsterdam. Each layover was about four hours. It took me a week to recover from jetlag as I didn’t sleep for 33 hours.
Ἀνερρίφθω κύβος . The dice is cast. My ticket to Athens is booked, and from the airport, I will head straight to the port of Piraeus to catch a boat to Naxos. Thanks, Tony. I stumbled upon Naxos thanks to Anthony Bourdain's 2016 episode of Parts Unknown, filmed there.
I find inspiration in Bourdain; perhaps it’s those well-crafted one-liners, like, "Is it worse to be someplace awful when you're by yourself or someplace really nice that you can't share with anyone?"
Then, at 61 years old, he took his own life.
This journey will be another opportunity to contemplate loneliness. Great hiking trails too.
“A smell of seaweed and salt rose from the wind-tossed, always invisible sea. This empty town, white with dust, saturated with sea smells, loud with the howl of the wind, would groan at such times like an island of the damned.”
I packed just one book before boarding my plane to Athens: The Plague by Albert Camus. I bought this book during the early weeks of the 2020 coronavirus pandemic, but until now, I hadn't found the peace of mind to read it. I had read The Plague in the 1990s but had forgotten much of it. Ironically, in the week leading up to my journey, I had fallen ill with a virus—perhaps COVID-19 or possibly influenza. I felt extremely tired and had lost my sense of smell. Of all the food I ate and photographed, I could only sense texture and the basic tastes of salt and bitterness. It was a Greek tragedy.
Early in the morning, I boarded a ferry in the port city of Piraeus. It felt like walking into the belly of a great whale, surrounded by thick clouds of diesel fumes—a fitting start to my odyssey.
Upon arriving in Naxos, the world shifted from dark to light. I rented an electric fat bike to reach my "Villa," located roughly 14 kilometers from the Chóra, also known as Naxos or Naxos Town. The owner of the villa texted me directions: “Turn right at the olive tree.” However, since I was coming from the opposite direction, it was actually a left turn. I had five full days to explore Naxos.
The day before my flight, I hadn't booked anything yet, so my choice of a villa in Kastraki was made quite randomly. Kastraki is a cluster of houses located 14 kilometers from the port; it’s so small that it hardly qualifies as a hamlet. I was pleasantly surprised by the property: a bedroom with a double bed in the basement, a living room and kitchen on the ground level, another double bed on the first floor, and a private swimming pool. It felt like an abundance of luxury for just one person.
On my first day, there wasn't much time to explore. I was too tired anyway, so I lingered in the swimming pool, watching the shadows of the waving reeds dance on the white wall.
Despite lacking both smell and taste, I decided to pretend otherwise. I walked to a beach tavern aptly named Paradise, just a ten-minute walk away, and ordered a glass of ouzo, a Greek salad, boiled vegetables, and grilled sardines.
Greek restaurant owners in Germany have a habit of serving a glass of undiluted ouzo after dinner in a shot glass. Ouzo is an apéritif and should be diluted with two parts water and sipped slowly.
The next day, I did some light exploring in the morning. I started cycling south until I spotted a cedar tree forest on Google Maps. To my surprise, the cedar trees turned out to be comically small; I towered over even the largest ones.
A bit further south, Pyrgaki Beach was completely deserted despite the near 30-degree Celsius temperatures and a clear blue sky.
In the afternoon, I cycled to the Temple of Demeter in Sangrí, only to discover it was closed on Tuesdays. Perhaps, like the God from the book of Genesis who rested on the seventh day, Demeter takes a break on Tuesdays.
I maintained the same dinner ritual as the evening before. At 7 PM, just after sunset at 6:50 PM, I sat at the same table and ordered my meal as if I still had my sense of smell and taste. I chose the taramasalata, which was thankfully not pink, along with stuffed bell pepper and eggplant. Naturally, a glass of ouzo and a glass of red wine accompanied the meal. The texture of the stuffed bell pepper and eggplant was perfect, and the taramasalata also seemed very good.
In restaurants, taramasalata is often bright pink, typically colored with beet juice or another food coloring. However, the color should be beige. It is simply emulsified fish roe mixed with olive oil, lemon juice, and soaked bread or potatoes.
I had planned to recreate everything I ate on Naxos in Amsterdam. However, I soon realized that many Greek dishes are oven-based, which is unfortunate since my oven in Amsterdam is not functioning, and I’m not sure if it can be repaired.
After dinner, I pointed my iPhone at the moon to observe the starry sky. The bright sparkle just above the horizon turned out to be Venus, and I was staring right at the constellation Ophiuchus. The 2nd-century astronomer Ptolemy had already cataloged this constellation. Ancient sailors navigated the Aegean Sea by looking at the stars; they must have gazed upon the same constellation.
The next day, I made sure to arrive at the temple site when it opened. What you see there is not the ruins of the original temple; a Byzantine basilica was built on the site around 600 AD. This basilica fell into ruins during the Middle Ages. In 1949, the remains of a temple were discovered, and excavations began in 1976 and continued until 1995. In the mid-1990s, the original temple, built around 530-520 BC, was partially restored.
A good side view of the partially restored temple.
Remains of the temple and basilica before reconstruction (1988). Attribution: Mark Landon.
The oldest remains of cult activity are protected by glass plates and date back to a time before the construction of the marble temple. It is not definitively proven that the temple was dedicated to Demeter; no inscriptions were found, and this is inferred only by its location in a rural area far from any larger settlement.
Below, the fertile fields stretch all the way to the coast, making it easy to see why this site could have been chosen for a temple dedicated to a goddess of harvest and agriculture. Further reading: The Temple of Demeter.
One of the main reasons for coming to Naxos was to explore the hiking trails. I started my first walk at 11 AM, planning to cover the 6.5 kilometers to Chalkio, also known as Chalki or Halki. Normally, I wouldn’t think twice about this distance. However, upon arriving in Chalkio, I realized I would need to walk back to retrieve my electric fat bike to return to my villa. Three hours of walking was all the energy I had for that day.
The hiking paths mostly wind through agricultural fields, separated by rock fences. Most fields are dotted with old olive trees, sheep, or both. Without the sense of smell, the landscape felt flat, like walking through a painting.
The first time I traveled to Greece, Freddo Espresso didn’t exist; it was first created in Athens in 1991, made by mixing two shots of espresso with ice in a frapièra and pouring it over ice. I ordered a Freddo Espresso without sugar—bitter like the night. That I did taste.
In Chalkio, I discovered a small restaurant called Tradizionale Caffè Ristorante Galanis. They had a handwritten menu that changes daily. I ordered Briam, a slow oven-baked vegetable dish for just 7 euros.
For the third time, I sat down at the same table exactly at 7 PM, ten minutes after sunset. I ordered tzatziki and lemon goat with Naxos potatoes, but they didn’t have goat and instead offered the same dish with pork. For good measure I also ordered a glass of ouzo and a glass of red wine.
Tzatziki is made from strained yogurt, which should be very thick, mixed with cucumber, garlic, salt, olive oil, and a touch of vinegar.
“ Don’t tell me what you ate. Tell me who you ate with.”
Lemon Pork and Naxos potatoes.
Next chapter: Dionysus
It was time for another attempt at a long hike. This time, I fat biked to Chalki (Χαλκί), also known as Halki, and found the footpath to Moni. The distance is roughly 5 kilometers. Moni is about 500 meters above sea level, and it’s an easy path when you’re fit.
Hiking from Chalkio to Moni.
In Moni, the cats have their own little houses. The village is known for its textiles, and several women approached me, trying to sell me pieces of cloth. However, my small two-room apartment in Amsterdam has no space left for souvenirs, so I had to politely brush the ladies off.
There are a few taverns in Moni. I ordered a Freddo Espresso. The interior featured a mermaid painting and a small photograph of Karl Marx. Traveling off-season, I was the only tourist in Moni around noon.
On my way down I was followed by a Cyclops.
Back in Chalki, I returned to the same restaurant for lunch and chose the eggplant in tomato sauce, which looked amazing and would have tasted great.
“It was one of those times when the plague became invisible. This silence, this death of colours and movement, could belong to summer as much as to the pestilence”
In the morning I cycled to the sanctuary of Dionysus. It was striking how agricultural the land is. These are the fertile plains of Naxos. The road leading to the sanctuary isn’t asphalted; it’s just a dirt path lined with green potato fields. Autumn is the best season for Naxian potatoes.
The existence of a Temple of Dionysus was mentioned by Herodotus, but its location was forgotten over the centuries. In the 1960s, archaeologists studied a Byzantine church on the plains near the Chóra and conducted test drills in a field nearby, ultimately discovering the missing temple. However, it would take decades—until the late 1980s—before Greek and German archaeologists excavated the temple area. They found the bases of pillars and wall foundations from several temples built at the same location over two thousand years.
The current site features the partial reconstruction of some pillars and the foundation of the temple. It is believed that the place of worship dates back to the 14th century BC (Mycenean era), which is a long time ago.. From around 850 to 750 BC, during the Geometric period, four buildings were constructed, and in 580 BC (Archaic period) the last monumental temple was build.
An overlay of a drawing of the 580 BC temple can be seen against the current remains in the background. The roof, including the roof tiles, was made of marble, which was an innovation at that time. Due to political developments, Naxos lost its power by 477 BC, and the temples of Dionysus, Demeter, and the unfinished temple of Apollo were the only temples built on Naxos.
In the afternoon, I realized I hadn’t even taken a swim in the sea. I needed to head back to my villa on my fat bike to grab my swimming trunks and a towel. The importance of traveling with a towel cannot be overstated. Every interstellar hitchhiker knowns this. “You can lie on it on the brilliant marble-sanded beaches of Santraginus V, inhaling the heady sea vapours”.
The crystal-clear blue water evokes a sense of eternity on a calm day. The tiny ripples seem suspended in time. Nothing is moving, not even my mind. I had lunch in an almost empty restaurant, where tables and chairs awaited better days. For me, the empty chairs inspired thoughts of my future plans. I envision having a small outdoor space I can call my own, dedicated to a little table and at least two chairs to host a future female friend. That’s all I want from life at this point: to share a meal with someone.
In the clear water, I was surrounded by at least a dozen young saddled seabream. They seemed eager to nibble on my legs and were not afraid of me; these little fish appeared to feel invincible.
Despite the goats reminding me of the goat stew I had seen on the menu, I was too tired to visit the Paradise Tavern in the evening. Instead, I bought sheep’s yogurt and kefir and spent some time reading Camus’ The Plague. I couldn't help but chuckle when I read about civil servant Joseph Grand polishing the first sentence of his book and failing miserably.
“Triumphantly, he read out the sentence: ‘On a fine May morning, a slender woman was riding a resplendent sorrel mare through the avenues full of flowers of the Bois de Boulogne.’ But when it was read aloud, the repetition of ‘of’ at the end of the sentence sounded ugly and Grand stumbled a little over it. He sat down, seeming crushed.”
Third and final chapter: Zeus, and Apollo I guess
I saved the best for last, or so I thought. Earlier, I was too tired to climb the highest peak of the island, but I wanted to see where Zeus acquired his bolts of lightning. On a more human level, Zeus was worshipped by the Naxians as "the protector of sheep and goats," which is important too.
The path to the peak of Mount Zas begins near a small spring. The first thirty minutes were manageable, but the ascent soon left me breathless. It took another forty-five minutes to reach the peak, followed by seventy-five minutes on the way down. Although it’s considered an easy mountain, the path ends after fifteen minutes, requiring you to scramble over large rocks to reach the summit. Unfortunately, I simply didn’t have the energy—thanks to that damn virus. I found myself explaining my situation to a random American girl for no particular reason, wishing her luck as she continued onward. I felt a bit defeated, but once I decided not to continue, I simply shrugged and stumbled back down.
In the mountain village Filoti, I ordered a glass of red wine to help me forget my failed mission and devise a plan for the afternoon.
All I could think about was returning to the beach for my final afternoon and evening. Once again, I was surrounded by the brave little saddled seabream, and I stayed in the warm water to watch the sun inch closer to the horizon. These were the last moments of light. I realized that in two days, I would touch down in a dark autumnal Amsterdam—no more lightness.
I had to return to the Paradise Tavern for my final ritual: fine dining without smell or taste. The grilled octopus was excellent, and the texture was truly enjoyable. I have hesitated to eat octopus ever since I learned about their incredible intelligence. Then I thought: would Odysseus eat octopus? He probably would.
As a digestif, the staff at Paradise tavern offered me a glass of Kitron on the house. Perhaps they took pity on me, as I was the only person dining alone all three nights I visited. This citron liquor is made from citron leaves, with the main production occurring in Chalki. However, a shortage of citron trees limits its availability. Kitron comes in three varieties: green, colorless, and yellow, with the latter being the most bitter and the green version the sweetest.
On a small island connected by a pier to the Chóra, and the port, stands the Portára, a monumental temple gate erected around 530 BC. It was part of a temple dedicated to Apollo, but the temple was never completed. Apollo and Dionysus represent two opposing principles: the static, clear, and pure Apollo, and the dynamic, unleashed, ecstatic Dionysus.
This was a strange journey, traveling with two important senses—smell and taste—diminished from the usual. With less energy to be active, I had more time to think and read. My flight back home was on Monday, so I spent Sunday evening in the port city of Piraeus. When there are cats, I’m happy. But the marina filled with expensive yachts is quite unappealing. The heart of Piraeus lies in the narrow streets between the apartment buildings on the many hills, where people grill over open coals in the street and neighbors gather outside, with balconies overflowing with green plants. Unlike Oran, Piraeus is anything but a neutral place.
“A convenient way of getting to know a town is to find out how people work there, how they love and how they die. [...] Naturally, they also enjoy simple pleasures: they love women, the cinema and sea bathing. But they very sensibly keep these activities for Saturday evening and Sunday, while trying on other days of the week to earn a lot of money.”
Piraeus beach.
A placeholder post for my upcoming journey. The title is the official motto of Qatar. The photo below was taken in 1968 or 1969. I will finally set foot again in Doha, Qatar.
Few destinations have been as eagerly anticipated by me as the city of Doha. When I last left Doha, it was a town of 80,000 people; by 2024, the population has grown to 1.2 million, making it only slightly larger than Amsterdam. Although Doha is not a vast metropolis, it maintains a human-scale feel. I booked a hotel within walking distance of the old Souq Waqif, which was established in the late 19th to early 20th century.
In 1969, we lived not far from the souq. As I sat down for breakfast, I listened to the music from the vintage radio on display, enjoyed the morning sunlight, inhaled the aroma of cardamom from my coffee, and felt completely at peace. My sensory experience was likely similar to what my parents experienced 55 years ago, although I never heard them rave about Arabic coffee. My father insists he didn’t drink it.
Visiting Doha, or any Arab Gulf nation, at the end of May is considered off-season. Temperatures typically reach 43 degrees Celsius at midday, which most tourists find too hot. However, I wasn't bothered by the heat. In Doha, a cool sea breeze can often be felt, making the temperature feel just below 40 degrees.
Souq Waqif on a postcard, late 1960s.
Qatari coffee
Breakfast in Souq Waqif included unsweetened Arabic coffee and a simple chapati, which can be filled with egg, cheese, or both. The souq is a great place to buy spices, kitchenware, and clothing. I purchased a handmade Qatari agal with tassels, although I'm not sure when I would wear it outside the Arab world.
Katara is like a village within Doha, opened in 2010. I visited Katara after seeing it highlighted on the in-flight entertainment on Qatar Airways, but I found it wasn't really for me. While it's intended to reflect the country's cultural and architectural heritage, all I could see were unappealing buildings. However, it does host many cultural festivities, so perhaps I shouldn't judge too quickly.
The beaches of Katara appear to be private; I was kindly escorted away by security guards three times before I gave up. You can't touch the sand.
One non-alcoholic drink I learned to love was a mint-lime drink.
The Doha Metro, which opened in 2019, still looks brand new five years later. Each train has three compartments: family, general, and gold. The family section is designated for women, while the gold compartment is accessible to anyone willing to pay extra for a journey and a gold membership card. All trains, built in Japan, are driverless.
The MIA (Museum of Islamic Art) is definitely worth a visit. Designed by Chinese-American architect I.M. Pei, it opened in 2008 and was newly renovated in 2022, so it looks brand new. The collection is extensive, spanning three continents—Asia, Africa, and Europe—and showcases 1,400 years of Islamic influence.
“What was done was worthwhile ”
This folio belongs to the 9th Century Blue Quran, written in Kufic script. It was likely produced in Tunisia or Spain, although its exact origin remains unknown. During the Ottoman Empire, the 600 folios were scattered, with many pages ending up in museums around the world. The indigo-colored parchment is even more beautiful in person; photos do not do it justice.
Al Wakrah is a city with 90,000 inhabitants located just south of Doha. It can be reached by taking the red metro line to the final station, Al Wakrah. From there, you can either take a local bus or a taxi to Souq Waqif Al Wakrah. While it may appear to be a restored old souq, it is actually a completely newly designed space featuring heritage elements. It's a fantasy, but I must admit it has been executed with great taste.
Iced karkadé
Camel patrol on the Al Wakrah beachfront while I was sipping my iced hibiscus drink, called كَركَديه karkadé in Arabic. I visited Al Wakrah every day just before sunset because it is such a relaxed and quiet place to be.
I appreciated the traditional dallah served with Qatari coffee and dates. I love this way of serving coffee, as a tea light keeps it hot, allowing you to sip from tiny cups. This approach is far more relaxed than having to finish a cup of coffee before it cools.
Al Wakrah has a small fishing harbor that is off-limits to unauthorized persons. I managed to slip past the security guard by pretending I was meeting someone. Once inside, I was amazed to see that wooden dhows are still used for fishing, although they are now motorized, and the crews are typically Bangladeshi or Indian. Each dhow tends to specialize in catching one type of fish.
In the Souq of Al Wakrah, grilled fish restaurants abound. When ordering, you can choose how you want the fish spiced: Arabic with no chili or Indian with plenty of chili. The grilled fish is generally of good quality; I tried the sea bass. 'Mandi' has its origins in Yemen and is made by cooking basmati rice in spiced meat stock.
Back in Doha, the city truly comes alive at night. You can take a boat trip on a dhow toward the West Bay and its colorful high-rise buildings.
The National Museum of Qatar is built in the shape of a desert rose. [ this post is under construction ]
The first onshore oil concession was awarded in 1935. At that time the people of Qatar were living a nomadic lifestyle. In the hot summer, they would spent time on the cooler coastline diving for pearls. In the winter they packed their large tents and lived in the desert, leaving some to guard the family house on the coast.
