Scoperang 2019 by The Boomerang

Illustration ÂŠ Lotte Schuengel

The Scoperang January 2019

The Boomerang | January 2019

IN AFRICA

You’re going where for Christmas? by Maya Homsy King ‘Even my Eritrean friends don’t want to go back there’ ‘Oh cool… where is that? In Asia?’

to seeing foreign faces. Once-glamorous hotels looked to be crumbling and empty, and the seaside city of Massawa was full of bombed- out imposing buildings which hese were some of the less-than-en- used to be banks and trading administrations. thusiastic reactions I got from The port was identifiable by a gigantic beached friends and acquaintances when I ship which looked as if it belonged on the set of disclosed where my family was plan- Pirates of the Caribbean, and which now served ning to go for the December break. as shade for a man who’d set up a makeshift Eritrea is a country that tends to fly under the mechanics business. The country appeared to radar when it comes to general knowledge. be a thing of the past, where I felt I could almost Before having done much research on it, all I see the glittering parties, and the luxurious lives knew was that Eritrea has one of the worst the colonial settlers must have led, while hiding internet connections in the world - a fact I found the ugly truth that was racial oppression and somewhat amusing and somewhat worrying. segregation. The visa is also one of the most difficult in the The last trip we made in Eritrea was to the world to obtain, and one needs permits for each islands of the Dahlak archipelago. We spent four city visited outside the capital. days in the meager but necesThat being said, I am used to my sary shade of a small acacia tree, family picking obscure places to drinking copious amounts of tea, go on holiday - my parents are Before doing any getting burned to a crisp, and vehemently anti-touristy-areas staring in disbelief at the sheer and consequently, definitely research, all I knew amount of stars that exist in the anti-mainstream-holiday-desti- was that Eritrea night sky, when the burn of artinations (we went to the Comoros light isn’t turning it into has one of the worst ficial last Christmas). a sickly shade of yellow-green. The ride to the little motel internet connections Beneath the placid surface of the where we were staying at in the world Red Sea there was a whole world revealed the capital as a city of labyrinthine corals, with bluewhere little had changed since the Italian colo- green-purple parrotfish, strange tiny boxfish, nial era. The taxi driver told me that the country and alien blue-spotted rays. had only officially gained independence from As a last point, I want to clarify that the Ethiopia in 1991, and that they have actually internet was in fact, the worst I have ever expeonly been at peace with the neighboring country rienced, and that is saying a lot. Most places just since July of 2018, following 30 years of conflict. didn’t have any, but the few times we frequented As a result, the capital city is composed internet cafes (and there were a ridiculous of remnants. We drove along wide, palm tree- number of them), the only thing that would load lined avenues, past big, art-deco style cinemas, was Facebook messenger. To be honest though, with names like Roma, Impero, Odeon, and at the end of the trip, I had a slight feeling of street signs identifying the road as Strada della dread at being able to access the world wide web Belleza. Italian food is served in addition to the again. Life seemed to become simpler without local injera (a spongy, pleasantly sour flatbread, the irresistible pull of the blue-lit screen, and served with different sauces) in most restau- the obligations, influences, and expectations rants. People would yell va bene? at us on the that come along with it. street, or just stare as we walked past, unused

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Tuning in to Radio Trottoir by Annabelle Willeme “The yellow vests should learn to protest without breaking things all the time! The least they could do is clean up after their demonstrations, like our youth did in Burkina in 2014” – Hamidou.

t may surprise some of you that this quote is from a man in Sabtenga, a village in central Burkina Faso. Despite nearly half the adults in Burkina Faso being illiterate, and only 10% having access to the Internet, the Burkinabe, even those with no access to formal news sources, are extremely well informed about world politics. The source of this is their widespread oral and social tradi-

tion, dubbed ‘Radio Trottoir’ or ‘Sidewalk Radio’ in English. Burkina Faso has always relied heavily on oral tradition. Lack of literacy and lack of formal news sources have made word of mouth the most effective way of spreading news. What strengthens this is that people in Burkina Faso are among the most social I have ever met. Even months after having met someone for the first time, he or she will call you ‘juste pour saluer’ (just to say ‘hello’). Although this can get extremely tiring when you start getting ten phone calls a day from people just saying hello, it shows the importance people place on relationships and socialising. All day, people can be seen sitting in small coffee bars, or maquis, on the side of the road, telling stories or discussing news. This social discourse is called ‘radio trottoir’ and keeps everyone informed despite a lack of formal news sources. What surprised me most is that people here are interested not only in local gossip or news, but in global news heard on the radio or on social

Dear Campus, Welcome back! Whether you went home for the entire break, took many trips around the world, or had to be back on campus after three weeks for your lab course, we hope you had a great time and have returned well-rested. Meanwhile, the Boomerang and Scope have not been sat idle. Across no less than twelve time zones, we have been assembling and communicating about this collaborative Bonus Edition, the Scoperang, which we are proud to present. Before you start to worry about the future of journalism: we have not fused or been taken over by a questionable party with monopolising tendencies. See it as a way to confuse even more people about the difference between the two publications. Or an object snatched from the desk of a UCU student in parallel universe. We didn’t have to look very far to come up with the theme, ‘travel’. During those six long weeks nearly everyone travelled somewhere. Snowy mountains, British isles, parents’ homes, and remote continents. Three out of seven Boomerang board members disappeared on exchange and will be deeply missed. After going through all options, we realised we had no choice but to replace them. So we are happy to welcome (back) on board Charlotte, Jamie and Iris! This issue’s authors have been all over the place, too. You can read about Christmas in Eritrea on this page, as well as the people’s radio of Burkina Faso, meeting people in Manchester on page 3, and on page 11 Sven talks about his nether regions and Turkey. If you’ve had enough of all this travelling, you can feel really bad about it on page 6, or immerse yourself in a thrilling, beautifully illustrated short story on page 7. To top everything off, we have a top 5 road trip songs to accompany your future travels, on page 10. May you take many blissful walks and not wander off too far. Love, Lotte Schuengel & Meike Eijsberg

media. The average Burkinabe is exceedingly well informed on European news. Considering how much the average European knows about Burkina Faso (i.e. nothing) this is striking. The oral tradition of talking ‘under the mango tree’ has incorporated world news, and people now bemoan Macron, insult Trump or discuss the latest EU policy over their afternoon tea (most likely still under a mango tree). Interestingly, almost everyone discusses these topics, not only educated or intellectual people . ‘Radio trottoir’ takes global news heard on the radio or social media by a select few, and makes it readily accessible to all through the constant social interaction of the Burkinabe. So if you ever have the chance to pay a visit to Burkina Faso, and need an update on the news, tune in to Radio Trottoir and ask the local taxi driver, or the cleaner of your hotel room. I guarantee you’ll end up with a great afternoon socialising over tea, and a very up-to-date and analytical picture of the news.

A University College Student Association Magazine

IN FOR A SURPRISE

Flying out of your country comfort zone by Tamar Goudsmit

because the day before we left, my mum told me to bring an adapter and that it wasn’t a euro country, which didn’t really leave many options. Even though we’d been hoping for Eastern Europe and a place we’d never heard of, we were still excited. We both know people who live in the UK and there also were plenty of places we hadn’t been yet. The next day we went on our way, first, all the way to Eindhoven Airport. This is another aspect of the surprise trip; to make it so affordable, you don’t necessarily fly from Schiphol, or even from the Netherlands. You might end up having to travel to Belgium or Germany before even leaving for your actual trip. During this trip to Eindhoven, our anxiety about the destination rose, but we stayed strong and didn’t open the

After a bit of a slow start the next morning, we headed out into the city centre ready to visit as many places as possible on his list. We ended up having brunch at a little hipster place and then went to an enormous building filled with dozens of little shops ranging from retro dresses to a tattoo and piercing shop and from a shop offering a broad range of LGBTQ+ paraphernalia to a tarot card reader. It suffices to say we spent quite some time there. Afterwards, we headed towards the other side of the city centre to a science museum. This suggestion wasn’t as interesting as it seemed mostly aimed at children, so we quickly headed to our last stop of the day which was a lovely art gallery. That night we went to the suggested gig and after thoroughly offending some people we met by suggesting that Manchester was only known for football, we discovered that it’s actually the music capital of England. This meant that we’d definitely gone to the right place for our last night and even though the music was… interesting, we did have a good time meeting more Mancunians. In conclusion, a surprise trip, would I recommend it? Well, there are some things to

Illustration © Anne van Wendel

trip with your best friend sounds like fun, right? It can, however, be quite a challenge to plan, especially when both of you are slight control freaks with some strong opinions. My best friend and I had had been thinking about taking a short trip during winter break, and we were trying to figure out where to go, when I saw a post on Facebook (because Facebook always knows) about a surprise trip: you book a 2-night trip to a city in Europe for as little as €90 pp including plane tickets there and back and stay at a three star hotel, you just don’t know which city it’s going to be. Sounds pretty good right? Well that’s what we thought as well, my friend had been discovering her spontaneous side during her gap year so this fit in perfectly; it was

decided and we booked the trip. When you book this kind of trip, they usually don’t keep you in the dark very long; a week later you receive an email with your destination and all the other important information. However, we decided that this was not adventurous enough, it would be like we just booked a normal trip but just generated the location randomly. No, we decided we’d make it a little more fun, so I forwarded the email to my mum without reading it and asked her to check all of the information, check us into the flight and give us an idea about the weather on location so that we could pack. I had expected that this waiting and not knowing would be excruciatingly difficult, but it turned out to be much easier than expected. Besides the occasional comment from my mom and shooing me away to tell my aunt where I was going, the month of waiting flew past. Sadly, I did find out which country we were going to

envelope with the boarding passes until we were at the airport and had to figure out where to go. Manchester it was! Neither of us had ever been there, but we also didn’t really know anything about the city, besides football, I guess. But alright, we still had some time to google Manchester and find some stuff to do and ask friends and family for tips. While we did find some things to do, we decided to rely mostly on the locals. By the time we actually arrived in Manchester, it was already around 6 pm so we checked into the hotel and headed into the city, ready to find a pub. We asked around and eventually made it to a pub, which is pretty much exactly what we did the entire trip: ask the locals. That night we also met a guy from Manchester who sent us a list of activities for the next (and only full) day in Manchester and invited us to a friend’s gig the next night. We were set for the rest of trip.

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We didn’t open the envelope with the boarding passes until we were at the airport and had to figure out where to go

consider. First of all, a three-star hotel is not as fancy as it sounds, and case in point: our room did not have windows. The hotel was, however, in the centre of the city, which made everything at walking distance. Second, while two nights might seem like enough time for a city trip, when your flight there is in the late afternoon and your flight back is around midday, and you also have to travel to the airports, it doesn’t really leave much time at the destination. But, despite these minor setbacks, we still had a great time. I don’t think I would’ve ever gone to Manchester if not on this trip, and we met some great people and some cool things. All in all, I would recommend taking a trip like this. Of course, it doesn’t have to be like this (I would probably suggest a longer trip), but it’s definitely an awesome experience.

The Boomerang | January 2019

ON A MOUNTAIN

Diary of a Sauze D’Oulx skier by Meike Eijsberg

Friday, January 18th 20:00 Let me start off by saying that this is quite literally half an article about the TripCo Ski trip. The bus from where I’m writing left three hours ago and this article is due Wednesday. Nevertheless, I really wanted to put something together for this special Scoperang edition. So enjoy this review/ diary-like report. 20:44 Quality entertainment is provided during this bus ride: Baywatch. What was once a loud, chatty bunch has now turned into a group of quiet people aweing at Zac Efron’s abs like teenage girls. I think I’ll tuck in soon. 21:08 My friend just called to congratulate me on my birthday. I Told him I was on my way to Sauze d’Oulx to ski. “Oh to Saus deluxe?” (translation: luxurious sauce). Clearly I pronounced it wrong. “Have fun! But whatever you do, don’t go with the Skifestcompany cause they suck,” he said. Sounds promising. Saturday January 19th 08:50 We have arrived! After nearly 16 hours this bright orange bus full of sleep deprived people made it to the mountains. Although our eyes are barely open, we’re soon awoken by the overly enthusiastic voice of a Skifest crewmember: “GOEIEMORGEN, jullie zijn er! — Oh wait, this has to be in English, uh kut.” Slowly but surely people start to move: chairs are put back in the upright position and bags are taken out of the overhead compartments. We drag all of our luggage to the designated shed, a shady little cabin around the corner of the village. Some motivated souls who paid the extra fee to get a seven-day skipass instead of six, eagerly gather their stuff and run towards the ski lifts. The rest have to find an alternative way to pass the time. For me and my friends, this meant playing cards in a café all day and repeatedly ordering food and beer. All is good but one thing seems to be missing: where is the snow? 15:44 Still in the café. Still no snow. 16:21 It has started to snow a tiny bit! But we’ve been told by the seven-day skipass people that there is more than enough up in the mountains. 22:15 After we picked up our luggage from the shady shed, we were finally allowed to check into our rooms. This did not go as smoothly as one would expect. Every group was given a checklist of literally every single item in the mini apartment. Every single type of cutlery, teacup and plate had to be crossed off. It was the lucky task of the Dutch speaking person to do this - which in our case was me. I never knew that there were at least five different types of spoons, not to mention that they all have translations (that I did not know, yet).

Around 10 we had to assemble downstairs for a welcome talk and introduction of the house rules. Based on these and the overly detailed checklist, I’m going to go ahead and assume that Skifest has dealt with a lot of horribly ill-mannered people in the past. Hopefully we won’t qualify as one of these people . Sunday, January 20th 14:15 Today was the first day of skiing! Except for me and a few other winter sport virgins. Classes don’t start until tomorrow morning and I didn’t think it was wise to attempt it by myself. Unfortunately there wasn’t much else to do according to Skifest: either chill or “go to a café and drink.” Although I proudly pursued the latter activity the previous day, I do like to think of myself as a non-alcoholic, so I went with the former. 16:29 The sun starts to set at 17:00 here, so the ski slopes generally shut down before that time. Surely, at precisely 16:30, the sound of those heavy ski boots stomping around on the stairs greets my ears. 17:30 Mariia walked into my room with the following announcement: “Your weird drinking culture starts in 30 minutes.” Great, après-ski is starting! Monday, January 21st 07:50 Goooood morning! Today I will finally be able to get rid of the greatest irony in my life: having zero skiing skills even though my dear mum and dad met each other during a ski trip, not far from here. 14:02 Skiing classes did not go as well as I hoped. Imagine a newborn giraffe with long lanky legs being forced by its mum to stand on its own and walk: that was me today. I wasn’t left alone, thankfully: the instructors provided by Skifest were absolutely lovely and helped with everything. 15:34 The first has fallen. Leticia returned with a broken wrist. Wednesday, January 23rd 15:00 This unstable giraffe has found her balance! After a solid 3 hours on the baby slope I can finally stand up right and turn. Meanwhile, the other rookies attempted their first red slopes. We are currently in the bus heading to Sestrière, to attend an après-ski that was deemed “crazy shit” by Skifest. I’m intrigued but at the same time sceptical. Either way, we have to arrive first: it’s snowing so hard outside that the mountain tops are invisible. 19:11 Skifest did not lie. When we arrived all that there was to see was old people dancing to 80s songs. Very cute but not the “crazy shit” we were promised. We didn’t have to wait long for it to kick in though: after 30 minutes it had stopped snowing so EVERYONE went outside to party.

People were jumping around, dancing on tables and screaming, all whilst a DJ was blasting hitjes from a food truck. It was amazing. I suppose it’s good to end this report on a high note and start writing the review. Even more so because I’m not entirely sure we’ll survive another day to report on: the busride back is 10 times more terrifying. It’s dark, it’s slippery, and we’re making quite a few 180 turns. 20:31 Final update: We survived! Busdriver received a huge thank you.

Review: A snowy improvement by Meike Eijsberg

hat happens when you take 66 UCU students to Sauze d’Oulx for a week? An exhausting amount of fun! TripCo was in charge of organizing the annual trip. Designated Trip Coordinators Merijn Dorr and Vale Benavides were in charge. Though I might be biased since I was still in TripCo while they organized it, I think they did an admirable job. Every year another company is consulted for good group deals. This time it was Skifest. Although we ran into some minor troubles, their slogan, “#HetLeuksteFeestjeIndeAlpen” certainly lived up to its expectations. Skifest had après ski parties planned nearly every single day. If there wasn’t anything pre-booked, Merijn would arrange something with Anouk, our go-to a Skifest crewmember, right away. Some activities were a bit disappointing: the unlimited pizza night was certainly limited and some of the bars were very expensive. However, as it turned out, this wasn’t even Skifest’s fault. Personally, as a first-time skier, what really mattered to me was the quality of the classes. The group lessons were not as beneficial as I had hoped they would be, but the private classes were tremendously helpful. Something rather disappointing was the lack of daytime activities other than skiing and après-ski. Not every ski newby was enjoying it, even after a couple of classes. The more experienced got tired after a few days as well. There wasn’t much more to do other than eating, drinking, and walking around a bit on those days. Compared to former ski trips, this year’s is a winner. Merijn, who went on the ski trip last year, said that “Skifest was 10 times better than Husk, last year’s chosen company.” She said that we had better housing, better deals, and the slopes were just as good. Who knows, we still have three days left in the Alps, so things could still go horrendously wrong. Skifest might add us to that long list of rules of theirs. But for now, I suppose my friend who called me that first day was incorrect: Skifest doesn’t suck.

A University College Student Association Magazine

ON A TRAIN

Illustration © Vedika Luthra

Column: Dutch travellers by Sophie Martens

Sunday, 8 PM. ’m making my way back to Utrecht, which I do almost every Sunday. I’m that typical Dutchie that goes home pretty much every weekend. That also means that I put my faith in the NS -the Dutch railway exploiter- to bring me home every week. Usually, that works just fine. Today it doesn’t. I had just made myself comfortable in my second class train seat when I hear the message. There’s a defect train in front of us, meaning that I won’t be going anywhere. I feel like swearing, but that won’t help me. After 30 minutes, a new -also delayed- train arrives. I’m feeling cold to my very bones – Personally, I believe train stations are the coldest places on this earth. My frustration grows as the delay grows. Every trip I make southwards costs me twenty

euros. To be honest, I have a student OV-card, which means that my OV is a conditional loan and I don’t have to pay any of this as long as I finish my degree. Anyway, I think our railway system is highly overpriced given that it is rather excep-

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Train stations are the coldest places on this earth.

tional when trains are on time. Too much wind? No trains. Too hot? No trains. Too cold? Also no trains. Leaves on the tracks? Forget about it. The saddest one is suicide, or as the NS formally calls it, “collision with a person’’. You can cancel all your travel plans when that happens.

Last year there were 286 delays, most of them being in autumn, when the leaves fall. And yes, the trains have Wifi, if you’re lucky. But most of the times, you’ll find yourself impossible to even connect to the network. If you are amongst the lucky few that manages to connect, good for you! The NS can now track every website you visit, because ‘free Wi-Fi’ is never completely free. Also, paying the huge sum of money doesn’t guarantee you having a seat. In other words, you could find yourself paying 20 euros (or more) to spend an hour and a half standing. All in all, you must have noticed that I don’t have a lot of good things to say about the NS. Now, I don’t want to keep on complaining, because it literally doesn’t get me anywhere. But seriously, NS, get it together.

The Boomerang | January 2019

ON AN AIRPLANE

F ro m the window of the aircraft, the land unfolds like a tabletop game, ready to use, easy to tread over and transform. The world becomes an image of itself: a quilt of coloured farmlands, highways drawing up a grid devoted to separating different shades of green and red. A river cuts through this blanket and flows into Schuengel the shallow ocean like a thin stream bleeding from a leak pierced somewhere deep into the earth with a pocket knife. At the shores of these rivers, towns erupt like splotches of luminescent fungi, densely clotted up at the center and fading into the empty land as they reach out to the extending veins of another settlement. Two index fingers searching to touch in the dark. They replicate the stars that we can no longer see when we look up from the bottom. The planet may as well be hollow, with this plane tumbling a t its core and everyone else living upsidedown around it. Icarus touched the sun not out of hubris, but as an act of atonement. Man was meant to facilitate his own apotheosis with 16 January, 2019 aluminium and gasoline.

Flygskam, a journal entry Retrieving the analog humanity of travel by Lotte

e tend to define the quality of a journey by the numerical value of its distance from the home of the traveller. This is strange, because modern aviation makes it so easy to go far, that going to the other side of the world is no more impressive than burying a thousand euros in a hole in the ground. It took Odysseus ten years to return to Ithaca from Troy, an itinerary the modern man covers within an hour by plane. We think of our journeys in terms of their destinations, because the speed of travel has approached teleportation. To go to Shanghai is to activate a button, make a transaction, move through a revolving door, step onto a conveyor belt that launches you into the air, to hover there, and to descend and feel the earth reverberate through your body while wheels touch down gently on the concrete. You walk the metal stairs, lightly disoriented and nauseous, but unharmed. You have been beamed down onto the alien land (welcome), and during the thousands of kilometers travelled, your fellow passengers have remained the strangers they were when you queued up before boarding. Between departure and arrival, between ascension and descent falls the shadow. There is only empty, silent space. What did you encounter on the way? An incoherent set of disconnected observations: a fat man occupying two seats, a stewardess tripping over someone’s bag, coffee spilling

from a paper cup, the smell of vacuum cleaners, an infant crying. Shape without form, shade without colour. All these experiences will leave your mind within two days, and when you return home, you will be exactly the same person you were before. Aviation shrinks the world and makes us forget how large it truly is. Compare a ten hour flight to a ten hour hike. If you start from the center of Utrecht in the morning, walking northwest for ten hours will get you to the coast of the North Sea by the end of the day. Going southeast, it takes about seventeen hours to arrive at the German border. You will not get far on foot. But imagine what you might encounter, what variety of landscapes, wildlife and sounds, and how rewarding the arrival will be when the sun that kept you company all day finally sinks into the water. When you walk, you do not only leave an imprint on the land, but the land also leaves an imprint on you. That is why Odysseus changed so much. The distance between your home and the destination becomes part of the journey itself, doubling the value of the experience as a whole. Distance becomes a physical sensation, and not just a metric jotted on a map. Strapped into a seat, you are nothing but a shell in a process of replacement, with your mind floating elsewhere, among satellites. But if you carry your own weight through the elements, over hills and across roads until all your limbs hurt, you are travelling in your full humanity, united with the

earth and gratefully suffering the painful length of time. Flygskam is a Swedish neologism, capturing the shame one feels when travelling by plane because of the environmental damage it does. But ‘shame’ suggests a solution found in secrecy, rather than abandonment. To fly and feel ashamed solves nothing, no matter how many trees you plant as a compensation (a new word for ‘apology’). We have an understandable need to move between places, and to visit other worlds - there should be no shame attached to that. But satisfying these needs with the frictionless luxury of commercial flight, makes any alternative unappealing. Necessary commutation between continents justifies the choice of aircraft to an extent. But if we choose aviation to soothe the desire for adventurous travel or vacation, we create a narrative void that mere presence at the destination cannot fill. Strip away Polyphemus, Charybdis, Scylla and Calypso from the Odyssey, and it leaves you with the most tedious story about a man coming home after a day at work where nothing happened. Obstacles create meaning. Hitchhiking, cycling and walking are more than just cleaner alternatives. They elevate travel above the modern three-act teleportation play. There will be dangers on the way. The world will grow unbearably large again. But you will retrieve your hybrid autonomy over the path you take. That is what human travelling has been for ages when nothing but bare feet could carry us.

A University College Student Association Magazine

ON AN AIRPLANE

The tropical getaway by Rafaella Karadsheh

he day he left, the sky was dressed in a robe of grey, as the clouds wept loudly. He didn’t like the rain, despised it even, even though he grew up playing in the damp outdoors with his siblings. It must have gotten repetitive however, because thirty five years later, the man impulsively packed his bags and booked the cheapest flight he could find to the sunny beaches of the Caribbean. Now boarded on the airplane, the tingling feeling of elation spread throughout his body- it had been years since the man willingly stepped out of his comfort zone, and for the first time in a while, he felt free. He would no longer be confined to his small hometown whose stone walls whispered secrets to every passersby. Nor would he be expected to plaster a smile on his face every day, in spite of the muttered rumors that spread like wildfire among the residents. It was the start of something new. For the next few weeks he could be anyone: an author travelling the world in search of inspiration for a novel, or a millionaire taking a soul cleansing trip after doing some charity work in Africa. The man chortled and shook his head; he was getting ahead of himself. There would be no need to build a new identity, for he would not encounter anyone from his past. Being his normal self, save for a few characteristics, would suffice. After all, the point of this trip was to rediscover, not recreate himself. The man looked outside his window as the plane picked up speed for takeoff. The rolling green hills of the countryside became a blur as he rose through the air. Never before had he seen so much land at oncehe could see villages dotting the distant hills, next to blocks of cultivated land. The patterns formed by the winding roads became more visible from higher altitudes, and he impulsively searched for the road that lead back to his hometown, until the low clouds blocked his view of the land below. Despite the passing hours, the man was still mesmerized by the outside view. Everyday sights seemed all the more exciting from thousands of feet in the air. Sunsets appeared more vibrant, with shades of pink and orange streaked across the sky, like a paint palette. The colours were reflected in muted tones by the sea of clouds below. As soon as the darkness washed away the light and the clouds broke away, the man couldn’t help but notice that the constellations formed by the stars in the night sky were mirrored on the land below as fluorescent orange specs. Miniscule cars

travelled along the winding roads like shooting stars in the sparkling black sky above. It wasn’t long until fatigue claimed its victim and forced the man’s eyes shut as he still faced the window. The gentle turbulence lulled him to sleep, encouraging him to dream of the sandy white beaches and fresh tropical air he would breathe the next time he opened his eyes. At those thoughts, he dozed off with a faint smile painted on his face. The man awoke from his slumber moments after the plane landed with a jolt. He rubbed his eyes, and looked outside the window once more. Clear blue waters sparkled under the sun, lapping on the pebbled white beach and invited him to dive in. With this image stamped into his mind, excitement coursed through his body as he began to formulate a million plans. The

Illustration © Amu Endo

opportunities seemed endless- he could spend his days sipping on cocktails by the beach, or jog in the shade of towering palm trees, or even going on a hike to explore the island’s rainforest. All in due time, the man thought to himself wistfully. It was then that he decided to challenge himself to say yes to every adventure presented to him- at thirty five, it still wasn’t too late to learn from new experiences. After passing through passport control and picking up his luggage, the man left the concrete airport with a confident spring in his step. This is it. This is the start of a new life, he thought to himself as he reached the doors of the building. The man stepped outside the airport and closed his eyes, taking a deep content sigh. To him, the crisp tropical air was almost as refreshing as the realization that here, he was no longer known as the man who murdered his sister.

The Boomerang | January 2019

IN COLOMBIA

La Tierra Del Olvido - Carlos Vives by Valentina Esconjauregui

I suggest you look up the songs that will come along the way so that this word picture is painted with more vibrant colors.

he story is about the adventurous journey to a little corner of my country, Colombia. We begin in a little village called Machetá. The town is in a valley, surrounded by mountains so wide and high you feel that their greatness will consume you at any minute. Once you look out into the distance, you will see under the vibrant rays of the sun a few sheep and cows, grazing in the green grass. If you want to feel the melody of the mountains align with your thoughts, you can play some slow Boleros, such as Te Busco, interpreted by Celia Cruz. It is typical of any Colombian family to have a little haven, to escape from the craziness of living in the cities, from the well-accustomed drama and loudness, from the insecurity surrounding everyday lives. We call these havens fincas, ranchos, cucuruchos, little spaces where we breathe clean air. Of course, as good Andeans, we pride ourselves in having these safe havens at the top of a little hill, mountain, or really any type of soil that makes us feel closer to the sky. The town can only be reached by car, in a long ride from the capital city, Bogotá. Otherwise, you come in a flota, a little bus including (but not limited to) live chickens, rich divorced soccer moms, robbers, three-year old children, and so on. Let me walk you through this adventure. A Colombian friend of yours has invited you to their country house and has given you the keys so that you can come at anytime. The house is in Machetá, to the northwest of Bogotá. The first thing you do is call a cab. The cab driver is 1.65m tall, say forty or fifty years old. The alwaysturned-on radio is playing at an annoyingly high volume. The latest reggaeton artist is playing, Sebastián Yatra’s Ya No Tiene Novio, which for some reason doesn’t sound as bad as most people who speak Spanish would argue. You ask the cab driver to take you to the Portal del Norte, the northbound bus station, where you’ll be taking the flota to Machetá. It’s seven in the morning because the clerk at your hotel told you to get a start early on, to avoid getting stuck in the infernal traffic jam that is the city of Bogotá on normal days. Of course, you had not imagined what this meant. After thirty minutes of staring at the back of some irrationally fancy SUVs and different intonations of Hijueputadas, the typical lexicon of city drivers, you make it to the bus station. The entire forty-five minutes in the station are a type of chaos you have never experienced before. The smell of some wellbrewed tintico, strong black coffee, takes over your sense of smell. The man selling you the tinto has three flasks full of the rich drink and an old stereo, which plays an old Vallenato interpreted by Peter Manjarrés called Obesión. Out of the corner of your eye you see a woman, no older than thirty-five years, selling some deep fried delicacy while she dances to the song playing on the man’s stereo. It’s eight in the morning and the entire city is moving around you. Thirteen million people are hurrying about, going about their business because “al que madruga, Diós le ayuda” (he who wakes up early is helped by God). You end up buying from the lady one of those delicacies called Arepa ‘e huevo, a flat bread that has been filled with a fried egg. That is how the people of Barranquilla start their days. You then try to find the flota that will take you to Machetá. The only problem is the little boys selling the tickets at the entrance of every bus are yelling different names and you have gotten confused. “Directo directo Fusagasugá, Facatativá, Chocontá y Sogamoso!” yells one of the men. No, that’s not it, no M’s in any of those towns. You walk up to an old lady who is sitting in one of the benches around and ask her which bus will take you to your destination.

The lady is listening to La W radio station in a little portable radio. On it, a classic salsa is playing called Pedro Navaja. The old woman is singing to its lyrics, depicting a tragic story of a thief and a prostitute who eventually suffer an unannounced death in New York City. The lady tells you to ask one of the Coo-Transpensylvania bus company drivers if they can take you there. Finally, one says yes. He charges you three thousand six hundred Pesos, the equivalent of one Euro. You pay and take a seat in the middle rows of a bus so old it was manufactured in 1964 and is still running. Oblivious to all, you take your phone out and the woman next to you swats your hand and tells you to put it away. She tells you can’t really trust the safety of the bus and that you might get robbed if you have your things out like that. You quickly put your phone away and wait for the crowded bus to depart. In this bus you see all sorts of people jump in, sometimes literally, because these buses don’t necessarily stop to pick up their passengers on the street. A young man carrying around seven dead chickens, a young girl who is no older than twelve years old, a beggar who sells all sorts of candy and snacks typical to the Colombian palette. Look them up if you want (Chicltes, Gansistos, Piel Rojas, Manimotos and so on). You see an old man slowly come in, he seems terrified of the machine. The woman next to you explains that he is a countryman who has probably ridden a bus once or twice in his life. This microcosm is an entire universe you had never pictured. You decide to take a break from the people so you look out the window. The sabana of Bogotá comes across to you with its old Haciendas from the colonial times (classical colonial houses), you see bikers who travel over 150km to do sports every weekend, and little children playing tejo (a typical game) with their grandparents. In the background, a street-artist is playing a Ranchera called Mátalas by Alejandro Fernandez, which doesn’t seem to go along with the sites around you. Soon, you have left behind the suburban areas of the capital city and now are passing the various mountains of the country. There is no highway, just a road that curves around the hips of the mountains. The trip started at seven in the morning. It’s only ten in the morning and you already feel exhausted. Soon after, you have reached Machetá. You get off on the side of the road and you look around, the tune of Pa’ Olvidarte from the ride still playing in your head. There isn’t much of a town. Some stands and countryside bars are open. You ask a few people where the Vereda La Colina, the farm’s street, so-to-speak, is. The halfdrunk farmer tells you to cross the road and go up the mountain and turn left where the altar of the Virgin of Cundinamarca is. You decidedly turn around and start up the mountain while the sol picante (spicy sun) shines on your neck and back. From the back you hear a click-clack of hooves from a mule. The kid riding on the cart attached to the animal’s back asks you where you’re going. You answer the child and he says he’ll take you to the farm for one thousand pesos. That will be enough for him to buy himself and his little sister an ice cream in the village. As you ride with him he sings Shakira’s Antologia. Ten minutes later he drops you off left of the Virgin’s altar. You walk the last one hundred fifty meters and open the gates to a farm called Edelweiss. Your friend’s family is of German descent and decided to immigrate all the way up to the mountains. You drop all your stuff in the middle of the white house’s patio with colonial style architecture. You walk to the balcony and look out to the vastness spread before your eyes. All of a sudden, the exhaustion drains away. Before your eyes, the great mountains consume every fiber of your being, and your soul is full of peace and love for Mother Nature. You feel you made it home.

A University College Student Association Magazine

IN A PHOTOGRAPH Breaking borders by Kiek Prins Far away, on my own. Going places anywhere but home. To explore, to discover who I am and who I want to be. I want to live, I want to feel, I want to see. In a distant place, so brand new, I will manage, I will grow, I will ensue When shall I go, when shall I stay? In the process of figuring out my way. While following my dreams, And trusting my own sense I will always be moving on, Till the very end.

Photography by Thijs Korsten

The Boomerang | January 2019

IN A CAR

5 songs to liven up your road trip playlist by Stanley Ward Are We There, while electric, was noticeably mellow and haunting, ‘Comeback Kid’ is an uptempo celebration of moving forward in terms of the small things “I’ve got a job now, that my brother found.” Play this track while barreling down the highway and you’ll feel unstoppable - and if you’re hooked, she’s playing Paradiso in March. I hope I get her autograph.

CU students seem to always be travelling everywhere - Why? I couldn’t tell you. I spent my winter break alone reorganising my entire record collection in terms of how much I think Radiohead’s Tom Yorke would enjoy each album, while listening to the radio explain how my country’s parliament is confusing itself out of existence, and I’m doing fine. Just fine. But there is one reason to travel, and that is an excuse to curate an inspiring road trip soundtrack, so you can pretend you’re in a film whilst you stare longingly out of the window of an automobile/train/plane. Now creating a good travel playlist isn’t easy - in fact, like all fun activities, there are strict guidelines to follow. To contribute to a road trip playlist a song should: 1. Be about travelling, wandering, moving, or even about a place. (pretty obvious really) 2. Be at least fairly uptempo - I’m talking a killer drum beat, or some driving rhythmic feature, because if you’re going somewhere, the music should too. Don’t you want to feel inspired? 3. Not be from the seventies. Don’t go straight to Spotify’s 70s road trip playlist. It’s 2019, think outside the box, don’t just cue Springsteen and Tom Petty. Sure, it’ll get the job done, but at least mix it up a little.

Prior Things - Hop Along This is a different kind of road trip anthem - picture a swarm of fireflies on a moonlit night, as you cruise through the American Midwest, and that’s what the violin arpeggios in the intro of ‘Prior Things’ sounds. From the band’s latest album Bark Your Head Off, Dog released by Omaha label Saddle Creek (whose 2018 output has been pretty amazing) singer Frances Quinlan delivers a emotive octave spanning vocal performance over a beautifully Illustration © Lise Derksen organic and minimalistic (yet somehow still lush) band So, I present to you, 5 songs to liven up your arrangement. The lyrics even have lines about road trip playlist vacations and roads, so in conclusion, perfect travel song. Bloodbuzz Ohio - The National It’s got a place name in the title goddamit, and it Suck the Blood from My Wound - Ezra starts with great drum fill - it ticks all my boxes, Furman while being forlorn and angry, the two greatest The opening track from Furman’s Transangelic emotions. While not specifically about travelling, Exodus, a loose concept album centred around The National’s frontman Matt Berninger engages two supernatural queer lovers running from in an emotional struggle with his relationship to authority (one of whom is a hospital escapee his hometown of Cincinnati, Ohio, but like all guardian angel) ‘Suck the Blood from My National songs, the lyrics are wrapped so tightly Wound’ plays like an ultimate escape song, with in metaphor it’s kinda hard to know what any of a saxophone riff and powerful snare on beats two their songs are actually about. and four - like Springsteen’s ‘Born to Run’, but Song for a Seagull - Teleman A single from one of my favourite releases of 2018, Teleman’s Family of Aliens, ‘Song for a Seagull’ is a glistening pop gem, with a soaring chorus and sparkling production. Featuring the London band’s signature quirky lyrics (in this case a whole lotta bird imagery) Song for a Seagull is the perfect accompaniment to staring out a plane window, watching a sea of clouds pass by. Comeback Kid - Sharon Van Etten This song gets on the list by virtue of being so utterly badass - the 808 distorted drum machines and gritty synths may as well punch you in the face, but you like it. In a change of pace for Sharon Van Etten, whose 2014 release

a whole lot weirder. Even if you’re just getting the bus, this track can inject a beautiful mixture of danger and opportunity into any commute. The production is distinctly both lo-fi and crisp, and as unique as Ezra Furman’s crackly vocal delivery, but the songwriting is as pop savvy as any Furman’s previous work. (If you want more of Ezra Furman once your journey is over, and you will, he’s written the soundtrack for the new Netflix series Sex Education, and even cameos as a band in the show - so meta, I know.)

And so, as a new semester starts, I expect you all to be carefully curating your own travel playlists in advance for summer break - and if you find anything good, come tell me about it.

A University College Student Association Magazine

IN A CAFÉ

The Looming Language Barrier by Saskia Vrensen

othing can truly prepare you for full immersion into a language you don’t really know. I hate to break it to you, but your UCU language requirement classes aren’t enough to set you up for easy communication with the locals. Don’t let this deter you, though! Before arriving in Mexico City a few weeks ago for my exchange semester, I was pretty confident in my Spanish language skills. I had been watching some telenovelas (with subtitles) and had been following Mexican meme pages to keep up to date with freshest Mexican comedic talent. I could read most of the emails that the exchange coordinator was sending me, at least with the help of the English translation conveniently attached below. I was ready! I wasn’t nervous at all! I was enrolled in an Art History class taught in Spanish! Nothing could go wrong!! I won’t lie and say going to a place where little English (or your first language) is spoken is easy. I definitely wasn’t ready. But all of the locals are

more than accommodating, and usually love it when you try to speak their language. Yes, I may have experienced a couple of blunders. The most traumatic was probably when I tried to order an iced latte with two pumps of vanilla (let’s not dwell on my sweet beverage of choice please, the

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Try ordering an iced latte with two vanilla asses at your local Starbucks, see what they say

story is embarrassing enough), asking for ‘un latte frío con dos pompas de vainilla por favor’. I ended up with an iced latte and two vanilla teas, and of course I paid for and sat drinking all of them because I was too ashamed to admit my

linguistic error. To make it worse, I was informed a few days later that ‘pompas’ means ‘asses’. Try ordering an iced latte with two vanilla asses at your local Starbucks, see what they say. Despite never being able to go back to that cafe again, I am becoming more and more confident in my Spanish. If you force yourself to order in the chosen language, talk to and text locals that you meet in that language, and maybe try to take a class or two taught in that language, you could leave your holiday or exchange a lot more competent, and maybe even fluent. Don’t be ashamed or embarrassed, because, frankly, I don’t think anyone will ever fuck up a coffee order as badly as I did. Note: I am, in fact, writing this in said cafe, and apparently they love me. I think that they thought my mistake was purposefully hilarious. So I am happy to say that my trauma has a happy ending!!

sweet svensationsby Sven Bosma TESTICLE SCRAPES Don’t worry, this article won’t be TMI. I spent New Year’s with diarrhoea. Not because it’s necessarily tradition for me. More because I travelled to a country that wasn’t in Europe, and when I do that, diarrhoea does seem to be almost a tradition. Or food poisoning in general; I like to say I am an adventurous eater when abroad, but others say I have a weak stomach. Either way, this was my experience of Istanbul, Turkey. I arrived at Schiphol and got through check-in and security fine. Of course, I got ‘randomly selected’ for a frisk, which happens every single time, I assume because of the beard. This means some guy gets to squeeze up and Old is one thing, but down my limbs, gently knocking my boys as this plane still has he checks whether or not I’m carrying ASHTRAYS in the anything lethal around armrests. I’m all for my thigh. Fine, I’m reusing and recycling, used to it by now. I hop on the plane, run but preferably not by Atlas Global, and with things I have to quickly notice something. Everything is fly in. in Russian. There’s no little net for me to put my book in. As we get ready for take-off, the lights keep flickering. The head of the cabin crew hops on the mic to tell everyone “The lights are nothing to worry about, the plane’s just a bit old”. Hang on, old is one thing, but this plane still has ASHTRAYS in the armrests. I’m all for reusing and recycling, but preferably not with things I have to fly in. Upon arrival, I thought I was smart, because I’d arrived in Turkey

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with my British passport. Last year, the Dutch government refused to allow the Turkish foreign minister into the Netherlands, so I was hesitant to identify myself as Dutch and opted to be a neutral Brit. However, this caused some visa issues. I spent an hour in the immigration line only to find out at the desk that a British passport required a €25 visa… so I’m not even in the country and already €25 down. I thought I was being cool like James Bond with a British passport abroad but ended up being more like his simpleton cousin, Jimbo Bond. The first full day I was in Turkey, I made the mistake of eating something that wasn’t fried or roasted, and was promptly hit the next morning by something I can only describe as Ataturk’s Revenge (the Turkish version of Montezuma’s Revenge, look it up). Anyways, this bout of food poisoning was bothersome, and severely hampered my experience of Istanbul. Not that there was that much to experience; it was more like surviving. The first thing that hit me was, quite literally, the Turkish person. This may be my autistic need for personal space, but I quickly got sick of people pushing and shoving me from all sides. Standing in line is Hell, since the burly bearded man behind me was tickling my neck with his moustache most of the time. But it wasn’t all bad. The Turks know how to do relaxation and all that. I enjoyed a traditional hammam, where you lie on a marble stone and get scrubbed raw while being splashed with warm soapy water. This is followed by a massage, which was heavy-handed, but nevertheless relaxing. My only complaint was that, again, the person ventured too far up my thigh, promptly scraping the boys yet again. I suppose that in some poetic sense, my trip to Turkey ended much the same way it began. So, would I recommend Turkey? Yes. What about Istanbul? Not really.

The Boomerang | January 2019

QUAD QUERIES

What is the weirdest or craziest thing that happened to you on a trip?

“On the hitchhiking trip last year we slept outside two nights, once on a park bench and once on a cardboard” - Keye

“I came back from Berlin and Guus de Krom was there and brought me back to Utrecht” - Michele

“I broke my arm on the second day of the skitrip” - Leticia

“In Honduras we went swimming in a cave with bats and jumped from trees 10 meters above water. Oh and we went skinny dipping” - Kyra

“I was in south america and I accidentally gave a girl a epilepsy attack” - Marco

“I lost my virginity” - Hugo

“I accidentally stole a jar of nutella” - Mariia

“Having my roommate VERY EXPLICITLY tell me about all his sexual escapades around the world” - Zohar

“I went sailing with my parents and it “A barman once gave me 10 free shots started storming so we went for anchor because he was so drunk” and the hatch was suddenly blown off by - Anasuya the wind. My dad fixed it” - Merijn

“I nearly lost my phone on top of a mountain” - Laura

THE BOOMERANG BOARD 2018/2019

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