New Year's Address

Drifter. Nomad. Wanderer. Vagabond. Vagrant. Hobo. Squatter. Tramp.

These are all accurate descriptions of me in 2008. I have had an incredible run, having abandoned my apartment almost half a year ago. Since then, I have lived in four different households with people who took me in as if I were family- especially the people who actually are my family already. As many good times as I've had, it has to stop sometime.

I have been looking for my own place in Leiden. Well, a "room" is all I can afford. Yes, I am downgrading from my giant 2 bedroom apartment in Japan, back to the world of student rooms, shared kitchens and shared bathrooms. However, in Holland, they don't make it easy. I remember my Auntie once saying "Holland is full". I never really knew what what that meant until I started room hunting.

To facilitate finding a place to live, the Dutch invented a thing they call "De Internet". The way it works is, it converts everything to Zero's and One's, and when you look for a room, it gives you the zeros. I was given a list of 20 websites for finding accommodation, each with their own convenient joining fees. When a room in your price range became available, you pay some money to send a reply, and if the other party is interested, they arrange a time to meet.

But not only do you meet your prospective housemates, but all the other applicants show up too, on the same evening. This is not due to poor planning, but incredibly, it is done on purpose. It is like blind date, speed dating version of The Bachelor reality TV show, combined with the classy-ness of the Jerry Springer Show. However, without subjecting yourself to this degrading process, you could never get a room.

My first interview evening came up. I found the apartment, a charming building with a cobblestone street one one side with shops like a 2nd hand bookshop and butchers at the ground floor and apartments above, and a quaint canal on the other side. Even as I climbed the almost vertical stairs to the 3rd floor of the decrepit building, I thought "I 'd live here". Apparently 15 other people also thought the same thing. So, in one room, we had 6 people interviewing 15 people for one small bedroom. Half an hour later, we had finished the self introductions, and they asked some questions.

"What music do you like?"

"Where would you take us on a date?"

"What kind of person are you like to live with?"

I mean, I'm not making this up, this could seriously been the script for a reality-TV dating show. The problem for me is, I am like a fine cheese. I might look off-putting, have a funny odour and a pale colour, and you have to get used to me slowly. I can't charm a roomful of strange people, unless somebody says "Does anyone know any cool card tricks?". Although, to be honest, that happens more than you'd think. Just not today. My cards stayed in my pocket. I just can't understand why they couldn't ask only the top few candidates to show up, because this way no-one really got to talk. When someone got the chance to talk, you could feel the unhealthy competition in the room. Maybe some people were just trying too hard, and it was coming off wrong.

I went home, in defeat. It is like going for your driver's license, you never pass your first time. Except for me, I passed both my license test first time (although I think I passed because my dad dropped me off and the tester happened to be the husband of an old colleague of his). The chances of finding a room like this were practically zero. It is such a stupid system. It is the Dutch way...

The next evening, I went back to Leiden for another interview evening. This time, there were only 6 applicants. Two were Chinese and couldn't speak Dutch, so to even the playing field, we all spoke English. I don't know if this was an advantage, or if I am charming to Dutch people when I speak English. All that matters is this: I got the room. In 2 weeks time, I will no longer be a drifter. I defied the odds by successfully finding a room so quickly, and in a way, it validates me leeching off those four households for the last 6 months. It says that I was a desirable flatmate. That I was doing those four households a favour by staying with them.

Mostly though, finding this student room gave me time to think about the amazing transformation this year. 7 months ago, I had no idea what I was going to do. The only thing I knew for certain was that I wouldn't be going to teach another year. I even went to a job fair in Tokyo in June, hoping to find a respectable job somewhere among the greasy yuppie types that are attracted to big city Japan. But there was nothing keeping me in Japan, and somehow, I wasn't worried.

Then, 7 months ago, I stumbled across a masters course in Art History at Leiden University. It was like finding out there is an alternate universe where everything is tailor-made especially for you. I always said that I would continue my studies after Japan, and here I could study exactly what I want to, specialise in Japanese art. And it gives me a chance to live in Holland, the country of my birth, the country which will pay me handsomely to be a student. That was the idea.

Of course, I never applied to the University until after I arrived. I had no idea how difficult it would be to find work until study started. How much paperwork and forms I had to fill out to become a student and start working, or even things so simple as opening a bank account, or how difficult it should have been to find a room. In this last year, I had one moment of clarity where I wondered why I wasn't at all nervous or worried about the future. It was on the aeroplane to Holland. It's true, I suffer from a rare condition where I can't produce the chemicals your body needs to feel angst.

Okay, that last sentence isn't true as far as I know, but when I look at this last year objectively, I can see how recklessly I came here. I have a blind faith that things will work themselves out. They always have. As long as you have sincere friends and/or family willing to help you, and you are willing to laugh at yourself - even when you are working as a mailman and you put letters in the letterboxes of a whole street before realising that you were in the wrong street - not much can go wrong.

I want to say thanks to everyone who has indulged my reckless attitude over the years. Someday I hope I'll stop, but for now I am back on my feet. And unless I am completely over my head with my study, this time next year, I will be a master. I know that won't change anything, and I'll be back to exactly where I started. I haven't really thought about what I'll do next, but somehow, I'm not worried.

Happy New Year!

How the Dutch Stole Christmas
And more unfortunate incidents of an Immigrant labourer















My latest stint in the world of honest employment was "bicycle mail man". Finally, a job that doesn't require a 2nd sentence to explain what it is.

Girl: "So what do you do?"
Man: "I'm a sales analyst executive sub-prefecture of the delta department 2nd in Chief."

Of course, in the busy month of December, the postal service needs extra men on the ground. You may remember that I applied for a postal-sorting job for the month of December. I never gave a re-cap of how that went. I think I feel a flash-back coming on... ming on...ingon...ngon.. on. on...

I got on an unmarked bus, and the bus led me and 5 other hopefuls to an undisclosed location. Wow. The post centre was enormous. How could this go undetected for so long? We infiltrated security, and the receptionist told us to take an elevator. I could feel the group-psychology working here. We were all huddled together like a school of nervous fish, getting into a tiny room, in a building where noone knows we are. The elevator opened, and we walked down the most disorienting set of hallways I have ever seen. I half expected to see people walking on the ceiling.

We came out into a giant room filled with hundreds of computers. A small corner of the room was lit, and there were 30 people autistically tapping away on the keyboards. Noone noticed us there, apart from two old ladies. They were the examiners. The idea was this: we had to take a series of tests of postal sorting, and if we were fast enough, we would have the most boring job for an entire month.

The test was this: A scanned picture of a letter would appear on the screen, and you had to type the post-code and house number. Then you press enter, and the next letter would appear. I had practiced a little at home with a CD, so the first 5 minute test was okay. The next test was 18 minutes, and you could only make four mistakes. This is rather difficult, as many letters are written by hand. (Or, judging by how messily they are written, by feet.) I failed this test four times. It's like playing a computer game, and to open the next level, you have to get a certain time. Only, this was the crappiest computer game ever, which wasn't even fun in the first place. I took a break, and a coffee, and amped myself up. Success! I passed with less than 10 seconds to spare. That was exciting, but not in a good way. I started to understand the true meaning of "going postal".



The next 2 tests were easy, and soon I was up against the big, bad final test. You have to scan 200 letters in 11 minutes, with no more than 2 mistakes. You know when you are playing a computer game, and reach a boss who is impossible to beat? It was impossible. Just impossible. I wasn't upset or annoyed anymore, because hopelessness had won. It was 5pm, and the building was closing. I had lost.

I could come back to challenge the boss again, but I knew already that I couldn't ever beat him. I went home, nursing a sore typing wrist.

And I never went back again... Until this week for my stint as mail man. Well, it was a different location, and this one was on the map. I was supposed to be there at midday. It took a long 45 minute bike-ride to get there. Then I was told to wait for my partner to have lunch. I could join him, and he'd show me the ropes. He ate lunch for 40 minutes. Something tells me that people get paid an hourly rate here...

So I joined him, and he showed me what to do. There were 3 steps:
1. Hold letter in hands.
2. Put letter into the letterbox or door-slot
3. go to the next house and repeats steps 1-3

Because it was my first day, he shouldered most of the responsibility. At 1:10, 40 minutes later, we arrived back at the mail centre. The team captain looked at me.
"I'm sorry, we are finished today... You started at 11, right? Okay.. [He looks at the clock]. It's 1:30." And with that, he signed my work slip for 2 1/2 hours. That half makes up for my flashback story.

I had to go back a few days later. This time I joined a different guy. These guys are definitely getting paid by the hour. This postal route was much longer, through a very pretty part of Rotterdam. We biked past a large pond, some well-maintained windmills, charming streets, and so many posh houses. My partner kind of explained the nuances of the job (You should check each letter for the house number...), but mostly I was there to chat to him. He did the entire route by himself. In the entire 3 hours of work, I delivered exactly one letter.

The next day was christmas eve. I showed up at 10 and was told that I had to join the same guy again, on the same route. Okay... This "work" was starting to feel rather suspicious. Still, I went along without complaining... Until... DUM DUM DUM...

I had a flat tyre. Shit. It was a Christmas Miracle! I had no choice but to walk back. I walked back past the same houses, past the windmills, the charming streets. I walked for 45 minutes back to the headquarters. I told the team captain I had a flat tyre. His eye twinkled, and he said: "Do you think you can do a postal route on your own?"

I modestly said that I felt capable of putting letters into slots. So I borrowed a bike, put a bag full of mail on it, and biked away. It was nice weather, and entertaining work. It is perfect for me: I am active, I don't need to be able to write Dutch, and I don't look foreign. I mean, I know it's not fair, but I'm sure the owners of the houses would rather see me walking though their expensive neighbourhoods, than Achmed. I'm just saying. I did 2 routes like this, working a solid, honest 5 hour day. A Christmas Miracle indeed!

My lasting memory from the day was when I asked a lady which house was number 90. She asked me, "Are you the mail man?"

Yes, yes I am.

The Semi-Success Story Of An Immigrant Labourer and Others Like Me.


In this time of crisis, there is one thought that immigrant labourers all over the world can reassure themselves with: People still need to eat. Also, apparently people are generally too lazy to make food for themselves. This is a job for one of us!

For the last month and a half, I have been working inconsistent hours in catering. I have little experience in the field, other than I also sometimes eat food. In that respect, I have a lot of experience for someone of my age. The job varies a lot, as I am actually a substitute caterer. I get a phone-call the day before, and a message with an address. I show up, and have to work 3-4 hours. It's not ideal, but I am hardly in a position to be bargaining.

The very first day, I showed up for 2 1/2 hours of work, and they showed me where the washing kitchen was. I had to pretend to know what I was doing. So, I washed dishes for 350 people - enough for an entire year for myself- presuming that you ate only one meal per day and used a lunch-tray. My point is, that is a lot of dishes.

Other times, I am a lunch lady. I make sandwiches, toasted sandwiches, make orange juice, work the deep fryer, mop, wipe and generally look pretty in an apron.

It is amazing how many different lunchrooms there are in Rotterdam. I had no idea. I have worked at a shipping company, a powerplant, a fertiliser company, a high-rise office building lunchroom, a bank. I never thought that bankers ate food. I just presumed that they got enough nutrition from other people's suffering. I was wrong. Also, I worked at some university campuses.

My word, kids are spoiled in Holland. I was making sandwiches at the time, specifically "Broodjes Gezond", which means "Healthy sandwich". I was shocked at how fussy these kids are. "Can you make one with white bread?... and no tomato... And no lettuce..."

I wanted to reply to them: "How about I inject it with chocolate, deepfry it and ram it in your throat before it cools?"

Maybe I am being tormented by my childhood, having to prepare my own sandwiches for school lunch since I was old enough to wield a bread knife. I did have my lunch made for me once, I remember it clearly because that was for my 17th birthday. I never even once bought lunch when I was at university. Why? Because I was a student! They're supposed to be poor! You are supposed to sit outside on the grass eating from a can of tuna with your fingers!

So, this is how the privelleged half of society live then? Or maybe all students in Holland are in the upper half. In that case, I certainly hope so since I will be joining them soon. "Hippo"-what?

As I mentioned, I am not the only immigrant labourer working in the catering. It really is quite interesting, and a great way to get used to the many different accents in Holland. Most people quickly pick up on the fact that I am not from around here, although it's encouraging that sometimes they don't. (Or possibly they don't care since I am only working there for a few hours.)

The best part about this job though, is that we have to throw away so much food. You know, those pesky things called "health regulations". Yes, even Holland has them too. So, although I only work short hours, I almost always leave well-fed. Brilliant. Left-overs truly are my favourite food, and it tastes even better when it is free. Because sometimes, immigrants need to eat too.

The Many Missteps of an Immigrant Labourer.
Part IIIII (That's romanic writing for "4")

5 Kilometres (as the crow flies) of Missteps, to be exact. "How exactly did it come to this?" I wondered as I was walking around the city of Rotterdam for more than an hour, well after midnight- And I hadn't been drinking at all.

It all began the day before when I agreed to work a day at a football stadium as a Verkeer Regulaator. This is a traffic regulator. These are necessary because Europeans are raving lunatics when they see 22 grown men running after a single ball. Especially in Rotterdam, where the Feyenoord fans are famous for being certified dimwits. Therefore, I had to sign several disclaimers in case, you know, I get killed. So, doing medical experiments to benefit sick people was too dangerous, but I can make an exception for a game.

Okay, I am not being completely fair. Football is one of my favourite sports to watch, and probably 95% of the Feyenoord fans are regular people like me- only they can afford insanely expensive tickets to watch the games live. I had to work.

I arrived early, which was not a good thing considering it was possibly the coldest day of the year so far. I bought some potato fries with mayonnaise while I waited. The guy overcharged me 50eurocent.

I was let into the complex, and had to wait a while longer with maybe 100 other people doing similar jobs as me. I was given an oversized purple Fila jacket and a snazzy orange vest, and was sent to a briefing room. It is all about the uniform...Traffic Regulator, or stripper dessed up as a Traffic regulator? It's hard to tell sometimes.

A man from a security company gave an instructional slideshow. I started now to comprehend the scale of the exercise, for today's match, and other large events. For the entire evening, all the roads in the area were to be strategically cut off to keep the traffic flowing. We were working in association with the police, which meant that we had some of the responsibitities of being in a position of power (Such as "not being seen taking a piss in public") without the advantages ("a prepared dinner"). There was a radio-HQ, people manning security camera's, cops on horses, a van of hard-core riot police, and 47500 spectators at a sold-out match vs. AZ, the current leader of the Dutch Competetion. Feyenoord, traditionally in the top 3 clubs in terms of winning record and spending, is languishing at 11th place.

As a semi-authority- in terms of not being able to pee publicly- we were warned that we might be a target for some hard-core fans, who I like to call "fuck-heads". Mostly though, my partner and I were human-road blocks. We had barricaded a road off, and we had to send the cars back, and give them directions. There were two kind of reactions from drivers. The first was a very cordial one. The driver was very sympathetic and understanding of the unusual circumstances, and politely thanked us for being here.

The second reaction was annoyed sarcasm, teary lies, or borderline rage.

"Oh, the football is REALLY important." (A nerd wanting to go to a movie)

"You're going to make me be late for a meeting" (As if she really had a meeting at 7pm)

"Fack man, dit is Facking Facked-up Man!" (This is a direct quote)

I can understand the frustration. Driving in a big city is never much fun, and if you have to make a huge detour into the heavy traffic, then rage-away if you need to. Luckily no-one was enraged enough to try and run me over. As it became later, the wind picked up, and the -2 degree temperature was piercing my snazzy outfit. I regretted wearing only one pair of socks, and I regretted listening to the instructions that I wasn't allowed to wear a hat. It was like being cryogenically frozen, except you remain conscious and time slows down. One time I tried giving directions, and I couldn't feel my face. It frozen and numb. I must have sounded like a Dutch-foreign Sylvester Stallone.

20 minutes after the game had begun, we could sit inside and chat while drinking coffee until just before the game ended. The coffee tasted so good, but whiskey would have at least kept me warm after going back outside. I bought more fries with mayo. My word, they truly do "drown it in that shit". I ate it all, including the cardboard container which had turned clear from the mayo-fat, in the hope I could build up an emergency layer of blubber.

Back outside, we heard the bad news. The game had ended in a 1-0 loss. We were hoping for a draw, so the fuckheads wouldn't be too angry and would go home to their mud-huts. But no, thousands of soccer fans- whose team had just lost- flooded out of the stadium, right past me, my partner and one police officer, swarming the road. The officer said "this is what 50000 people looks like". That was such an impressive and odd sight, and very intimidating after hearing some stories.

Everyone was reasonably well-behaved, except for the fuckheads who exited the stadium on the other side. Disappointed in their team's performance, they tried to remedy it by tearing up a round-a-bout garden, and walk down to the police station to wreck a police car. Can you imagine the conversation that would lead to that? I can. It goes like this:

Fuckhead A: "Üghhh"

Fuckhead B: "Argh! Ghummm"

Fuckhead A: "Üghmm Agh!"

Sorry for the profanity, but although they did not come our way, they held up the entire operation and were a big inconvenience to me. You see, we weren't allowed to leave our post until the police gave the all-clear. This came at much later at midnight, causing me to miss the last tram back home. Great. I was alone, and stuck in a metropolis after midnight on a freezing cold night. Well, not entirely stuck. The metro had already stopped, but I was pretty sure there would be night-trains. However, the smaller stations were closed, and Central Station was quite a walk away. Here is a map.

You could imagine that I was pissed off, and you would be wrong. Honestly, I really have nothing better to do that wander about. And I had never walked across the Erasmus Bridge, the "Swan". Magnificent isn't she?

I walked until my feet warmed up enough for me to feel them. They were sore. Just under an hour later, I arrived. There were trains that went my way every hour, only they didn't stop at my stop. I could technically waited until 6:30 AM, but not even I could wait that long. Great... So I had to cut my losses and caught a taxi.

So in conclusion, I worked about 7 hours in the freezing cold, and got home at 2:30, and 2 hours of my earnings went towards getting home. That is a lot of misstepping.

The Continued Missteps of an Immigrant Labourer. Part IIII

I have spent the last 3 days disguised as an Enqueteur. Fighting for freedom, justice and the gorgeous women that are, unfortunately, an integral part of the job description. Traveling to the ends of the city, with unrestricted freedom of passage, greeted as liberators, and most importantly, wearing the yellow jacket, which can only be described by one word: "Snazzy".

I have to come clean a little bit, I may have sexied up the job description a tad. "Enqueteur" is actually French for 'Somebody Who Accosts Strangers And Asks Them To Fill In A Survey". But that was only a small part of the job. The other parts of the job was handing out pencils to willing participants, and counting passengers. [The counting was mostly performed by a small contraption called a "counter".]

Day One: The First Day.

I got briefed, or de-briefed, whichever one means that stuff was explained to me. This was an independent survey of the public transportation by the Ministry of Traffic, which was outsourced to a data/survey company, which was outsourced to the student temping agency where I am signed in. I truly am the algae which the plankton feed on. Me and my partner Enqueteer were given a list of buses to ride, and a bag of equipment.

To get to the first bus stop, we had to take the metro to the end of the line. Halfway there, we realised that we had not been given the counter. Because they couldn't entrust us to count passengers by traditional methods (on my fingers), we had to go back to get the counter.

Once we got there, we had to wait for an hour until the first bus. Getting paid for waiting: That's a profession? Apparently so. However, it is also a cold December, and there are hardly any places to sit inside at the ends of a metropolis. So we rode buses for the rest of the day, and had to wait for a long time between each bus. Sometimes it rained. Sometimes we could wait in a bus shelter. Those two things were mutually exclusive.

It was a very easy day of work, but my partner Enquetuer became irritated and grumpy at the crappy job. It was clear that one of us had too much dignity to work one more day of this. As luck would have it, all the buses were on time, except for the very last one. And, once the bus came and we got on, it broke down. The bus driver called on me to fix it. She must have mistaken me in my snazzy jacket for a bus-repairman. I had to press the emergency stop button, which seemingly fixed it. Who knew? I guess it it like the Ctrl Alt Del on your computer. [wouldn't it be cool to have a giant red emergency button on a computer instead? No, it wouldn't be cool at all.]Unfortunately, we did not get to ride one of these super-awesome driverless buses. I guess you have to have some ambition left.

Day 2 Metro Enquetteering

Rotterdam is a small metropolis. The actual city has about 600 000 people, with around 1 million in the greater city area. The greater city area is connected not just by buses, but also by a Metro. This was to be my enquetteering assignment, counting people on the underground, and asking them to fill in surveys.

Now, this is a picture of the inside of the metro. They are always lovingly adorned with graffiti. Although this is probably one of the cleaner ones I saw. I understand that graffiti is a form of art and expression, I just don't understand why the only three things they like to express are "West Side", or "Niggaz" or "Edwin Loves Sara".

Originally, we were supposed to survey the metro's with a team of four. That meant that each carriage could have a person counting, and another person irritating the passengers. However, two people called in sick, and we had to power-on nonetheless, alone in the carriage. It was a mixture of furiously pressing the counter- guessing how many people were coming in the 6 doors, and passengers avoiding me when I wanted to ask them. I mean, I completely understand: I wouldn't fill in a survey either. But maybe I am just an asshole.

The atmosphere on the metro is understandably cold. It's mostly underground. You can't look outside. It's dirty and smells funny. Most people listen to walkmans (which is like a portable ghettoblaster) or read books, or avoid eye contact by playing on their telephones. Many people ride the metro illegally as there are few ticket checks, and then there are strange people wearing yellow jackets, and they could be police or something.

On the whole, under 5% of the passengers filled out surveys for me. These were mostly old ladies- the demographic I apparently appeal to the most. The day drew on, going back and forth on the same metro line. Outside it began snowing, and the people became even colder. So much for Christmas spirit. Again, my new partner vowed never to do this kind of work again... This is a classic case of 'Only the weak-willed survive'.

Day Three, Tramming.

Aside from the bus and the metro, there is an extensive tram system in Rotterdam. This too needed to be surveyed. I traveled out to the end of the tram-line to start at 8:30, which required a criminally early wake-up. Again, two of the 4-man team called in sick. It was again just me and a new partner.

A tram is like a shitty train that has to obey road rules. The atmosphere is better, but the lines we were surveying went right through the heart of the city. Most people don't stay on the tram long enough to fill in a stupid survey. I mean really it was stupid, the first question is:

"was it easy to find a seat when you got on?"

Well, I'm not going to ask people who don't have a seat to fill in a survey, am I?

There were also long breaks between rides. However, the end of the metro lines are generally not the most exciting parts of town. Luckily for us, each tram always has a conductor and a driver on board. Most of them need to occasionally urinate, excrete and hydrate, and at the end of the line there is a purpose built tea-room for tram employees.

A wise person once told me: "You can go anywhere in life, as long as you carry a clipboard."

It's true. We had no right to be there, but me and my snazzy yellow be-jacketed partner just walked in, drank their coffee, sat in their seats, abused their toilets and had some colourful conversation. This was the routine for the entire day. Until 8pm. Yes, we rode the trams for an entire day, until we got sea-legs, and had heard every excuse and seen every stereotype. I came across all kinds of people. A deaf Moroccan kid, an old lady swearing at the driver, a Polish exchange student who got caught without a ticket, a gangsta guy playing music so loudly that the conductor was too afraid to tell him to shut up, a boy who scoffed when I approached him "What, are you a drug counselor?", a cheesy American who hit on the female conductor who flirted back with the subtlety of a soft-core porn actress, a guy who just wanted to complain to me as if I actually cared, a pair of drunken 16-year old girls...

The girls at the temping agency told me that I was their "Topper of the Month", after working only 2 days. I laughed at them, as it was only the 2nd day that I had worked for them. Did everyone else hate this job so incredibly much? From the high attrition rate, and the cancellation rate, I'd say yes. But to me, everything is still new to me. It was the first bus I had ridden in Rotterdam. I had never been to the where the trams went. I have never been the kind of person to talk to strangers, let alone ask them to do something. All the people I meet and the things I learn. Like, while young white kids who are trying to look cool will usually fill in a survey, cool-looking minorities won't. And the opposite is mostly true too. Girls in their 20's and guys in their 30's are good to ask. Old ladies often don't have glasses, but want to complain anyway. And elderly minorities just look at me funny. Now I have been part of the system, I will never trust statistics and polls again. It is so obvious that not all types of people respond in the same proportions.

What's happening is, I am learning about the dynamics of Dutch society and the nuances of Dutch language interaction far faster than I could have hoped. I thought that this might be the true value of my research work. Well, that and 9.45 Euro per hour. I am working another 8 1/2 hours tomorrow. No job is below me, especially for a price. I'm just along for the ride.Enquetuer, or stripper dressed up as an enquetuer? Either way, I have something for you to look at...