Greece’s Lifejacket Graveyard

High up in the sunburnt hills of Lesvos, Greece lies a black and orange heap of plastic. It is large, about the size of an Olympic swimming pool, but its vastness pales in comparison to the scope of the reasons why it is there—the half a million and growing masses of displaced refugees who have washed up upon the island’s shores.

Lesvos is a major port for refugees fleeing chaos in the middle east, mostly from war-torn Afghanistan and Syria. The journey across the sea can be deadly. Refugees often pay over $5000 to smugglers who will bring them across the Mediterranean to supposedly safe ports in Europe, but there is no guarantee that the smugglers have not been bribed for one reason or another, or that the journey will be successful.

The black and orange heaps rotting in the hills of Lesvos are made up of lifejackets and boats that belonged to those who made it over, but in those quiet mountains one can almost hear the whispering of the hundreds of thousands who were lost on the way. A closer look reveals children’s floaties, some painted with princess decals, some emblazoned with the message, This is not a flotation device.

Once in Lesvos, the owners of these lifejackets were carted into packed camps, where many of them have remained for years. Conditions in the Moria camp in particular have been widely maligned by human rights organizations around the world. The camp was made to hold 2,000 people and now holds over 6,000, according to official reports, though many believe that the number has exceeded 8,000. Refugees live in cramped makeshift tents that flood when it rains, and the camps are overrun by disease, mental illness stemming from severe trauma, and chaos.

Following the Arab Spring in 2011, which catalyzed revolutions across the Middle East, Syria and many other countries experienced a mass exodus, leading to the flood of people seeking asylum in Europe that has come to be known as the modern refugee crisis.

Many refugees are university-educated professionals, fleeing in hopes of finding a better life for themselves and their families. But once in Europe, they are often caught up in bureaucratic tangles that keep them stagnant in the camps for years at a time, despite the fact that many already have family members in other parts of the continent.

Thousands of volunteers have flocked to the island in order to help. Nonprofits like A Drop in the Ocean host lessons and English classes for refugees, and facilitate the safe landings of newly arrived boats. Others work to provide hygienic services, like the organization Showers for Sisters, which provides safe showers and sanitary products to women and children.

Lesvos itself still functions in part as a tourist town, though it is mostly populated by volunteers, refugees, and locals. Not far from the lifejacket graveyard is the pleasant seaside town of Molyvos, which boasts sandy beaches and restaurants serving traditional Greek fare.

Much of the island is made up of open space, populated only by olive groves and forests, open plains, and abandoned buildings. The lifejacket graveyard is located in one such empty plain, and except for scavenging seagulls and goats, the area is empty, making the presence of the rotting heaps of plastic even more unnerving.

The only other proof of human presence to be found lies on a wall of graffiti nearby a garbage dump, marked by the sentiment Shame on you, Europe.

The combination of the Greek financial crisis and rising tides of nationalism occurring at the same time as the height of the refugee crisis have caused xenophobic sentiments to allow these horrifically overcrowded camps to mar this beautiful tropical island, which once inspired the Greek poet Sappho to write her legendary love poems.

The lifejacket graveyard has been left standing partly because of island officials’ lack of motivation to clean it up, and partly as a statement, a tribute to the thousands who still wait in limbo on the island.

If you are interested in helping out, organizations mostly need financial contributions, legal aid, medical aid, translators, and publicity. It is also possible to volunteer, and opportunities and detailed information can be found at sites like greecevol.info.

Eden Arielle Gordon

Eden Arielle Gordon is a writer, musician, and avid traveler. She attends Barnard College in New York.

A Refugee-Run Restaurant in Lisbon's Mercardo de Arroios

Mezze: Rebuilding, with Food

In a market as diverse as Lisbon’s Mercado de Arroios, where people from all over the world shop, Mezze doesn’t seem out of the ordinary. But the small restaurant deserves a closer look: it’s not only one of Lisbon’s few Middle Eastern restaurants, but, more importantly, its staff is almost entirely made up of recently arrived Syrian refugees. For them Mezze represents both a link back to the country they left behind and a crucial aid for putting down roots in their new home.

The idea behind Mezze is one that’s being tried out in other countries. Refugees, particularly those fleeing the war in Syria, are given the chance to earn a living and get established by sharing their culinary heritage, either by opening or working at a restaurant or catering business. The benefit is not just for the refugees, who are able to earn some money while at the same time preserving a taste of home, but also for their new communities, who can support those displaced by war and gain insight into their cultural heritage through the universal language of food.

Mezze’s start, though, was motivated by something simpler – the desire for bread. Alaa Alhariri, a 24-year-old Syrian woman who came to Portugal to study architecture in 2014 after a brief time spent studying in Egypt and Istanbul, was missing the flatbread she used to buy back home. “Bread is the beginning of everything, it exists in every culture,” she says. “In the Middle East it means family, it means sharing. Syrians open bakeries as soon as they arrive in Turkey and in other countries as well.”

Alaa is one of the four founders of the non-profit Pão a Pão, which means “Bread by Bread,” a name inspired by the Portuguese saying “Grão a Grão” (“Grain by Grain,” which has a similar meaning to “step by step”). The organization was the brainchild of Alaa and Francisca Gorjão Henriques, another cofounder and Pão a Pão’s current president. Francisca and Alaa met by chance – Alaa was living with Francisca’s aunt. Pão a Pão was originally created with the intention of opening a bakery.

“Refugees [from Syria] started to arrive in Portugal in 2015 under the European Union program to relocate them,” explains Alaa, whose eyes shine with enthusiasm when talking about the project (while she’s heavily involved in behind-the-scenes work, she doesn’t work at the restaurant). “They only receive state assistance for two years, after which the funds stop.” The aim of Pão a Pão is to help young people and women, in particular, integrate into the work force. “Some of these women have never worked before,” says Alaa. “They’ve been housewives all their lives.”

But the team at Pão a Pão began to think bigger; the bakery plan was scrapped and their new aim was to open a restaurant. They organized a series of successful test dinners in December 2016, which took place in an old covered market that had been converted into an events space. Buoyed by the positive response, Pão a Pão felt confident in taking the plunge. They were able to crowdfund just over 23,000 euros (around $30,000) – almost 10,000 euros more than the initial goal – over the course of 2017, with the restaurant finally opening its doors in September, serving such classic Syrian dishes as moussaka, kibbeh (fried balls made of bulgur, minced meat and walnuts), kabseh (rice with vegetables and chicken) and baba ganoush.

“The people working here feel like they’re doing something useful. So the more people we can help feel this way, the better.”

“People’s reactions have been amazing, it is better than we could expect, we’re always busy,” says Francisca, who recently left her job as a journalist at the Público newspaper to concentrate on her work with the organization. “We have improved a lot since our first test dinners, especially considering that 90 percent of the team had no prior experience.”

Mezze has also been extremely well received by the Mercado de Arroios’s neighboring shops and stalls, which supply the restaurant with its ingredients. Everything Mezze cooks with comes from the market except the meat, which is sourced from a halal butcher in Almada, south of Lisbon.

Perhaps more significantly, the refugees employed by Mezze take pride in their work. Serena, a 24-year-old from Palestine who has been living in Lisbon for one year now, loves the atmosphere at the restaurant. But, more importantly for her, she values the chance to show that refugees are the same as everyone else: “We work hard, we love life and want to be part of society as much as anyone.”

While we talk, she welcomes people to the restaurant and explains the menu. “The Portuguese ask a lot of questions because they don’t know these dishes but everyone loves the food,” she says. Although she finds the language difficult, she considers Portugal to be her home now. “It’s my home, where I find myself,” she explains. “It still has traditional a family structure, family bonds, and at the same time, more freedom of movement and speech.”

Rafat Dabah, 21 years old, has been in Portugal for just under two years, after being relocated with his family from Egypt, where they first moved after leaving Syria. “My father had a restaurant in Syria and in the school holidays I would work there with him,” he tells us. “Here in Portugal I worked in a kebab place in a shopping center.” This experience seems to have served him well. He began working as a waiter at Mezze, but is now the restaurant’s manager – he eagerly explains the improvements they have made at the restaurant and the positive feedback they’ve received from diners.

Originally from Damascus, he lives in Lisbon with his younger brother and his mother, who also works at Mezze. His older brother, 24, lives in Turkey. His father died in the war. Living in Loures, a suburb north of Lisbon, Rafat can’t image going back home to Damascus anytime soon. “It’s tough there. Sadly things are still dangerous.”

As for life in Portugal, he doesn’t feel quite at home yet, although it’s getting better. He tells us how he’s enjoying learning so much, including the Portuguese language. “To integrate you need to learn the language, I’ve learned a lot and I’m practicing more now,” he says. “Once I could communicate, life became much easier.”

This isn’t the first time refugees have made Portugal their home. Because of its neutrality during the Second World War, the country saw a large influx of exiles from other European countries as well as North Africa. Likewise, hundreds of thousands fled to Lisbon after the independence of Angola and Mozambique in 1975. More recently, 1,659 refugees took shelter in the country as a result of the Balkan wars in the early 1990s.

In the last two years, 1,507 refugees (mostly Syrians but also some from Iraq and Eritrea) were relocated to Portugal from Greece and Italy, according to the Portuguese Council for Refugees. The Portuguese Government announced recently that they would receive 1,000 more currently residing in Turkey (again, mostly Syrians but also some from other Middle Eastern countries). Although small in number compared to the massive number of refugees being sheltered in the countries bordering Syria, they are being welcomed warmly. The extraordinary success of Mezze speaks to that.

The support of the Portuguese people has been fundamental to the realization of this project, which leads us to wonder if this openness would have been possible, say, even 20 years ago. “Maybe 20 years ago, without social media amplifying this disaster at the gates of Europe, this wouldn’t be possible,” admits Francisca. “At the same time, today’s Lisbon is much more cosmopolitan than it was 20 years ago. Diversity is now a prime feature in some parts of the city, like in the Arroios neighborhood.”

The ongoing support of Lisboetas, many of whom felt a wave of solidarity with the refugees after Europe initially bungled the refugee crisis, has inspired Alaa and her colleagues to think bigger. “We’re thinking of opening another location. The Portuguese love to eat and we’re lucky that they love our food,” says Alaa.

Francisca confirms the plans to open another place. “We’ve developed this project with the hope of replicating it in Lisbon and other cities in the country. We’re still starting out and we want to improve, but we think we might be able to open in other locations in a year. We also hope to expand our current Mezze to include a take-away and catering service.” They also have plans for debates and workshops, with Pão a Pão hosting a conference on integration at Mezze on Friday, January 26.

According to Alaa, the people working at the restaurant “feel happy, they feel like they’re doing something useful. So the more people we can help feel this way, the better.”

 

This article originally appeared in Culinary Backstreets, which covers the neighborhood food scene and offers small group culinary walks in a dozen cities around the world.

 

AUTHOR

CÉLIA PEDROSO

Célia, CB’s Lisbon bureau chief, is a freelance journalist, writing mostly about travel and food, and is the co-author of the book "Eat Portugal", winner of a Gourmand World Cookbook Award. Her work can be seen in such publications as The Guardian, Eater, and DestinAsian. In 2014 she started leading food tours in Lisbon through Eat Portugal Food Tours and now does the same with CB. She wrote the Portuguese entries for the book "1001 Restaurants you Must Experience Before you Die" and keeps searching for the best pastéis de nata so you don't have to.

PHOTOGRAPHER

RODRIGO CABRITA

Photographer Rodrigo Cabrita was born in Oeiras, Portugal in 1977. He started his career at the daily newspaper Diário de Notícias in 2001 and has worked at a variety of publications since then. He is now a freelance photographer and takes part regularly in exhibitions. Rodrigo has won several photojournalism awards, most notably the Portuguese Gazeta award. You can see more of his work at his website and his Instagram page.

 

 

Wolves of the Sea

INTRODUCTION

The photo documentary ‘LUPIMARIS, Wolves of the Sea’ began in 2010 with an art project on Paros, a small Greek Island. I had always been fascinated by the islanders’ traditional, wooden Greek fishing boats, or Kaïkis, and I wanted to photograph them from a new perspective.

In 2013 I returned Paros again and realized that half of the boats I had photographed in 2010 did not exist anymore. They had all been destroyed, abandoned, or sold to tourists. The few boats that are left today will soon be gone too, not only on Paros, but across all of the Greek islands. None of today’s younger generation are interested in becoming fishermen, and the traditional Greek fishing craft, a millennia-old practice, is dying.

During October of 2014 I traveled to Paros with a camera crew. We captured the work and life of the fishermen — the ‘wolves of the sea’ — and spent time with the only remaining boat builder on the island. I took thousands of photos, collected hours of interviews, and shared many moments with the old fishermen on Paros, listening to their stories. These fishermen really are the last of their kind. They are threatened with extinction.

I hope that LUPIMARIS will create a lasting memory of the Greek fishermen and their traditional colourful wooden boats, the Kaïkis, and help to preserve this history and stories for future generations.

In this story I will share some of the images that capture the lifestyle, the traditions, the adventures, and the endangered future of these last Wolves of the Sea. You can explore the full book at www.lupimaris.com.

BOAT NAMES

Greek fishermen have a special relationship with their boats, and they are traditionally often given the name of their wife or daughter. A logical consequence, because the Greek word for boat, βάρκα, is female. It is also common to give the name of a saint. These names have an extraordinary importance for the fishermen, and reflect a special relationship with their spiritual namesakes, or honour the memory of an important person.

MYTHS, LEGENDS, STORIES, LIES

The life of Greek fishermen is full of fantasy. They spend days, weeks, or even months with the same visual and auditory impressions in permanent solitude on the seas. This stimulates the imagination. The myths and legends they tell develop on one hand from their need to come to terms with dramatic and traumatic experiences at sea, while on the other hand it is often an attempt to explain or idealize their intimate relationship with nature.

It is common for the fishermen to describe their fellow fishermen as untrustworthy daydreamers or even liars. The results are usually funny or naughty defamatory nicknames, but are sometimes meant more unkindly. Nevertheless, there is a strong code of honour. Older fishermen who have more experience are respected and their stories will not be questioned.

FAITH & SUPERSTITION

No matter which religion or which country, fishing and Faith have always been close-knit. Greece is no exception, and rumour says that the islanders are generally more religious than their fellow residents on the mainland. The majority of fishermen from Paros are religious and this is reflected in the plethora of icons and crosses found on their fishing boats. Icons of Saint Nicholas, the patron saint of sailors, and Saint Andrew, the patron saint of fishermen, can be seen on many boats.

The most impressive monument to their faith can be found at the entrance to the Bay of Paroikia, where the fishermen of Paros built the church of Aghios Fokas. In addition to faith, superstition also plays a big role in their day-to-day lives. Certain events are interpreted as good or bad omens for a trip out to sea and will often influence the decisions of the fishermen.

NATURAL ENEMIES

There are enormous problems with dolphins, seals and migrant fish. Dolphins and seals have always existed here, but due to the over-fishing of the Aegean Sea they often tear fish from the nets and damage the nets or themselves, so that the fishermen not only lose their catch but also have additional expenses such as laborious net-repairs that must be made.

In the past fishermen hunted the animals with guns or dynamite. Today, this practice has been discontinued due to the efforts of environmental and animal welfare groups, so that the populations have recovered and even more dolphins and seals will hunt for prey in the fishermen’s nets.

Another threat are migrant fish species such as the silver-cheeked toadfish (lagocephalus sceleratus) which came into the Mediterranean through the Suez Canal. This particular fish is toxic and strong enough to damage the nets. Since it has no natural enemies, it can multiply unchecked — at a great cost to the local fish population and fishermen.

DESTRUCTION

Greece has the largest number of fishing boats in the EU — mainly due to the numerous individual fishermen. However, by European standards, the catches they make on each trip to sea are rather low.

The collective fishing fleet of the EU member countries is too simply large compared to the fish available to be caught in European waters and their capacity exceeds a number that would result in a sustainable maintenance of resources. One of the central elements of the Common Fisheries Policy was the reduction and rejuvenation of the fleet.

The self disarmament of national fleets was a key element of the European fisheries policy. The EU developed programmes and put money at their disposal. The precise implementation was determined by each country. The Greek Government developed incentives for handing over fishing licenses (mainly for amateur fishing) and at the same time fishermen had to destroy their boats. As a result, thousands of boats have been destroyed since the 1990s, mainly the traditional wooden boats owned by individual fishermen.

In reality, what all fishermen want instead is the maintenance of these boats. There were at times programs aimed at the preservation of selected boats (for example, special boats with a socio-historical value) but the results were rather sobering and there was no significant implementation of these projects. Instead of destroying the boats they could also have been converted for tourism purposes, but this practice too was hardly implemented.

The Greek reality, and the Greek bureaucracy, has led to the destruction of many traditional wooden boats and to a part of national identity.

BOATYARD

An interview with Petros Aliprantis, the owner of the boatyard Naoussa.

“I have built seventy-eight boats. These are all my boats. Although I have sold them, I still call them my boats because I built them. They are all in the Cyclades, some in Crete. I do not use plans, it’s all in my head. I learned the craft from my father and my grandfather. There are no offices and no ties. If you want to make a living out of it, you have to work day and night.

But there is no interest in such boats anymore. This has something to do with the crisis, but I have seen it coming for some time that we will not survive much longer. Most people buy plastic boats. Besides that, there are no young people interested in learning this craft.

It’s hard work, without rosy perspectives and without support from the state. When I retire, it’s over with the shipyard.

There are only a few of us left, and also only a few wooden boats.

Now come the plastic boats.”

 

You can find the full book, which captures a total of 99 traditional boats and 31 fishermen, at www.lupimaris.com. The research and text in this story (with the exception of the introduction) is by Giannis Mavris.

 

THIS ARTICLE WAS ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED ON MAPTIA.

 

CHRISTIAN STEMPER

Christian's great passion is to tell stories photographically reinterpreted. “LUPIMARIS, Wolves of the Sea” is one such photo project, and you can learn more at www.lupimaris.com

Bear Dance

One of my most vivid memories growing up as young child in Romania is watching loud, drunken bears dancing wildly around my grandparents’ living room. Electrifying, enchanting, and at times also quite scary, the annual “bear dance” was always one of the highlights of our holiday season, especially given the strict era of Communist rule.

Every year, in a handful of towns and villages along the Trotus Valley of Romania, troupes of “dancing bears” — men and women of all ages wearing real bear skins — tour villages and visit people’s homes between Christmas and the start of January. This traditional folk ritual, where raucous packs of bears dance and play music for tips, liquor, and cubes of pig fat, is believed to chase away bad spirits from the previous year.

A troupe of bears performs in central Comăneşti during its annual Bear Parade and competition. The mayor organizes the event and offers a cash prize to the best bear troupe. Comănești, Bacău, Romania

When I was only eight years old, my family left Romania behind, and we became political refugees in Yugoslavia. After initially resettling in Canada, we then moved to New York when I was 16. I later went on to study Economics, Neuroscience, and International Development, and eventually returned overseas when I took up a career in humanitarian aid, often working with displaced populations, much like my family and I once were.

In 2013, I decided quit aid work and fully pursue a career as a photographer. I continued to spend most of my time in areas experiencing social unrest or humanitarian emergencies, but now I had a camera in hand. Last year, however, I took a week to return to Romania and visit my ailing grandmother — and to see the dancing bears again.

A troupe of bears dance through Comăneşti, stopping at homes where they have been invited to perform. Comănești, Bacău, Romania

My mother’s childhood friends introduced me to Dumitru Toloaca and his troupe of men, women and children clad in bearskins. I spent a few freezing days photographing them as they performed in the main square of Comăneşti, and then danced their way into the night, through villages like Asău, on their way to private homes where they had been invited to perform.

It’s not unusual for roads to be blocked by bear troupes towards the end of the year.

Cătălin Apetroaie chats with a young bear and the ‘bear tamer’ seated on his porch. He and the rest of Toloacă’s troupe have just finished performing for Apetroaie’s family.

There were so many times that I wanted to put my camera down, put on a bearskin, and join them. It was magical, like going into a fairy tale.

At first, you can’t see much because it’s so dark. You just hear the crunch of the bear-claw boots on the snow and then, all of a sudden, drumbeats break out and you hear the sound of flutes echoing through the alleyways. Then the dancers pass under a streetlamp, and you see bears caught in a snowstorm!

Toloaca’s troupe of bears dance through the night, making their way to the homes where they’ve been invited to perform. Asău, Bacău, Romania

As a child I remember how beautiful it was to wake up filled with anticipation on a snowy December morning and to hear drumbeats and chanting echoing through the valley. The bear troupes would come door to door and everyone would let them in. They were quite rambunctious, swinging their heads around and causing a mess as the snow on them melted.

Catalin Apetroaie, a bear in Toalaca’s troupe, serves his fellow bears a refueling of pig fat at his home in Laloaia where they have just performed. His wife fills up glasses of homemade palinka liquor.

The origins of Romania’s bear dance date back to the 1930s when the Roma, or gypsies, would descend from the surrounding mountains with bear cubs on leashes, and visit the homes of villagers. My grandmother still recalls how gypsies would be given a tip in exchange for the bear cub walking on the backs of the villagers, said to alleviate back pain.

Once a bear aged, the Roma would then employ it for a different purpose when visiting households — they would set the bear to walk on hot metal sheets, which would cause the bear to “dance” or skitter about on the metal to avoid the burning sensation beneath its feet.

Between visits to houses where they have been invited to perform, Toloaca’s troupe of bears stops at a bar for some rest, drinks and more celebrating. Asău, Bacău, Romania

No one really knows when the Roma began wearing bear skins and imitating their dancing bears, or when ethnic Romanians then adapted the ritual, but the gypsy origins are still clearly discernible in the lyrics sang by the “bear tamer” as well as the more traditional costumes sometimes worn, often complete with black stove grease or soot smeared onto the tamer’s face, to imitate the darker skin of a gypsy.

A troupe of bears performs down the main street in Moinesti, during the town’s annual bear parade. Moinești, Bacău, Romania

Today, the Roma are largely excluded from the tradition of bear dancing. Reasons include widespread discrimination against the Roma, as well as the increased cost of bear skins — as bear hunting in Romania has been strictly regulated for some time now, one skin can fetch up to 2,000 Euros.

A lady bear in Toloaca’s troupe plays with the young son of Catalin Apetroaie, a bear dancer himself, after a performance at his home. The child’s grandmother scurries by while his great-grandmother peers at the bears from inside the house. Asău, Bacău, Romania

In today’s post-communist era, modernization and westernization have created a new generation of youth more interested in video games than folk traditions . Moreover, most young adults move to nearby countries or larger cities, in search of work, leaving the rural areas populated by only the elderly or very young. It’s difficult to find people that will carry on the tradition. Coupled with the increasing financial struggles of rural households — after the the fall of communism, rural areas became poorer while urban ones became wealthier — the bear dance tradition is now at risk of disappearing.

A troupe of bears from Asău village performs in central Comăneşti during the town’s annual Bear Parade and Competition.

Although in the minority, female bears can be found in nearly every troupe. Comănești, Bacău, Romania

So far, Romania’s bear dance has survived largely due to the efforts of local governments who throw parades and competitions to incentivize the organization of bear troupes, as well as to recognize and celebrate the individual efforts of dedicated and passionate troupe leaders like Dumitru Toloaca. Like most of the other troupe leaders in the area, Toloaca grew up with the tradition as a boy and holds it close to his heart.

Dumitru Toloaca embraces his daughter, Roxana, as his troupe dances to the beat of the drummers and the lyrics of his bear tamer. Roxana, an only child, is his only hope for his bear troupe to carry on into the next generation. Asău, Bacău, Romania

About a year ago, at the urging of concerned local governments, UNESCO initiated a process that may result in Romania’s bear dance being included on its official “List of Intangible Cultural Heritage in Need of Urgent Safeguarding,” an international measure for the protection of cultural practices that are in danger of disappearing. This process takes at least two years to complete, and acceptance is not guaranteed.

Toloaca’s bears dance and encircle their tamer, Gabriel Hanganu. After winning first place at Comanesti’s annual Bear Parade, Toloaca‘s troupe celebrated in the streets, singing, dancing and toasting with homemade palinka liquor handed out by residents. Asău, Bacău, Romania

 

THIS ARTICLE WAS ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED ON MAPTIA.

 

DIANA ZEYNEB ALHINDAWI

Diana is a photographer working internationally on stories about humanitarian, human rights, or cultural issues.

Unexpected Friends in Amsterdam

August 29, 2015: I was cruising on my bike on a rare sunny day in Amsterdam, weaving in and out of pockets of confused tourists, when I rode past an orange and white sign that read “A’DAM INT’L ART FAIR.” Just two weeks into my four-month long journey of self-discovery in Amsterdam, my one-item agenda on this particular day consisted solely of exploring my new city. In that moment, my explorations led me to Berus van Berlage, a medieval looking building in the city center where the art fair was slated to take place. I secured my bike to a nearby pole and headed inside having neither the intentions of purchasing art, nor the expectations of what fascinating people I might meet inside. 

I took my time strolling up and down each aisle, attempting to take in all of the photographs, sculptures, and paintings hanging on the walls of Berus van Berlage amidst the mixed crowd of intrigued passersbys and veteran art collectors. Eventually I found myself in the far right corner of the hall, where I came across a row of ceramic necklaces next to a sculpture of what appeared to be a naked woman with a severed torso. Nervously, I approached the woman standing next to the display and inquired if she was the artist who created the necklaces. She told me she was not, but the artist who did make the necklaces would be back from lunch in just a few minutes. I wandered aimlessly for a couple of minutes before returning to the far right corner to solicit information from the artist herself about the necklaces. 

Upon my return to the far right corner, I was greeted by a beautiful blonde woman who introduced herself to me as Mirjam (Miriam). Originally born in Turkey, Mirjam had immigrated to The Netherlands at the age of 5, living in different places throughout the country until settling in The Hague, a small city southwest of Amsterdam. From inside her apartment on the beach in Scheveningen, Mirjam creates all different types of art—pottery, paintings, and nearly everything in between—which she then sells at regional art fairs. The only piece she does not sell, but brings to every art show, is her most prized creation: a sculpture she calls “A Tribute to Every Woman in the World,” the woman with the severed torso. 

I then introduced myself as Allie, an American college student studying in Amsterdam for the semester, and asked if I could purchase one of the ceramic necklaces on display. In an exchange that lasted no more than 5 minutes, Mirjam wrapped up the necklace, handed me her card, and invited me to have coffee with her in The Hague should I ever found myself there. I then left the fair, not thinking too much about the encounter I just had with Mirjam. 

The following Wednesday I boarded a train from Amsterdam to The Hague. Mirjam was going to meet me and my friends at the train station, share a bite to eat with us, and then we would be on our separate ways; or at least, that is how I envisioned the day going. When I arrived in The Hague, Mirjam greeted me with a hug so tight you may have thought we had known each other for years having no prior knowledge of our relationship. She treated me and my friends to lunch, showed us the ins and outs of town, and then brought us back to her beachside apartment for snacks and drinks. Before heading back home to Amsterdam, we strolled along the ocean just as the sun was setting and I thanked her for an unforgettable day. On the ride home I replayed moments from the day over and over again in my mind, finding it difficult to process the bond I had just formed with a woman I met at an art fair that I hadn’t even planned on going to.  Though we had just gotten acquainted with one another, Miriam believed that our souls had met one another prior to our first physical encounter, and I could not help but think that she was right. 

Miriam and I kept in touch throughout the remainder of my stay in Amsterdam. Each month we met in a different city in Holland: Rotterdam in October, Amsterdam in November (where she met my family while they were visiting me), and Delft in December. Seeing all of these new places from her perspective made me appreciate them that much more. Every time I met up with her became adventures that I will never forget. When I return to Amsterdam next month, we will surely add another adventure to our list. 

Traveling or spending any significant period of time abroad presents one with unique opportunities to meet people they more than likely would not have met otherwise. While I could have never anticipated meeting Miriam where I did or forming the relationship I have since formed with her, being open to new experiences and meeting new people definitely lends itself to the possibility of forming relationships like the one I have with Miriam. So next time you find yourself at an art fair in Amsterdam, strike up a conversation with an artist you meet; perhaps she’ll become your Dutch mother just like Miriam became for me. 
 

Miriam and I in Delft at Café De Waag, December 2015

ALLIE BLUM

Born and raised just outside of Philadelphia, PA, Allie's love for travel has led her to find that you can call many places "home." While she is primarily based in New Orleans, LA, where she will be completing her undergraduate studies this coming May, Allie has spent significant periods of time traversing the continental US (mostly by car) and Europe, and parts of the Middle East. Allie hopes that her curiosity to understand other cultures will bring her to every continent over the course of her lifetime. When she's not studying or planning her next trip, Allie loves to read, write, and make playlists on Spotify.

ITALY: Rainbow Warriors

The idea to sleep in a hammock suspended hundreds of feet above the ground in such an incredible place was born back in 2012 at the very first Highline Meeting held on Monte Piana, a peak of 2.324 meters.

The event was founded by Alessandro d‘Emilia and Armin Holzer, two highliners who wanted to share the spectacular scenery of Monte Piana (Misurina) in the Dolomites, giving professionals and enthusiasts from all over the world the chance to slackline between mountain peaks, hang out in hammocks strung high in the sky, and meet like-minded people.

This year the place where d‘Emilia, Holzer and action coordinator Igor Scotland from Ticket to the Moon hammocks built their set up was memorable not only for its natural beauty but for its particular historical importance. One century ago, fierce battles broke out in the shadow of Monte Piana in the Italian Dolomites as WWI began, and today the area is an open air museum to honor the memory of the 18.000 young soldiers who lost their lives here. The seven kilometers of trenches are still visible.

“Just a hundred years ago, winters up here were characterized by bombs, grenades, and lots of pain,” d’Emilia and Holzer explain in the video from the event. “Our idea was to re-experience Monte Piana in friendship and peace with each other, accompanied by kindhearted feelings during the day, and lulled to sleep at night by magical silence.”

On September 10th 2015 this idea came to life and their unique project took place for the third time. 26 athletes came together to sing, laugh, and relax in 17 specially designed rainbow hammocks strung high in the sky between the peaks — a symbol of peace and a tribute to the past.

The stunt, named “Rainbow Warriors”, was performed and designed by a professional team of athletes and riggers, and the set up has a breaking strength of greater than 150 kN (15.000 kg) for the main line, along with a redundant back up. The maximum force at any one time on the line during the event was 32 kN (3.200 kg).

The values and principles of d’Emilia and Holzer — a non-competitive spirit and practicing respect for the mountain so that they can be in harmony with the location — are also shared by all of the participants.

Today Monte Piana has become a meeting point for young people from all over the world who want to share more than a passion for the sport of highlining, who come to share a philosophy and a way of life.

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED ON MAPTIA

 

SEBASTIAN WAHLHUTTER

@swalhuetter

Sebastian Wahlhútter is a photographer and anthropologist from Vienna, Austria.