Summer Holidays Continued:
Trying to find the "real Scotland"

Now, after spending five days and nights in Edinburgh, I was feeling the need to leave the big city. Yes, Edinburgh is a fantastic city, and it was the best time of the year. But after five days in a big city, I needed to get away. I felt it would be insincere to visit a country and only really see the main cities. Although going to the Highlands was too far and expensive, I still wanted to see some small towns, get away from main street and meet some real folks and experience the real Scotland. I also didn't want something like this happening again.

I had no idea of where I could go, so I turned to the trusty googles. My criteria were thusly:
1. A small town, but not touristly cliche.
2. Preferably close to the sea.
3. Somewhere far away enough for the backpackers to not be filled up with tourists for Edinburgh Festival.
4. Close enough for me to get back to Edinburgh Airport for my 10pm flight on Tuesday.

However, I am not a terribly good internet researcher, so I just ended up looking on google maps, finding towns that looked small but had a train station, googled for a backpackers in the area, and I looked through the Scot-rail website to see if I could make it back on time.

This is pretty much the map I made my decision from. It was a town with the second silliest name I have ever been to: "Berwick-Upon-Tweed".
[The prestigious first prize goes to The Dutch city of Bergen-op-Zoom]

I arrived by fast train on Sunday night, which took about an hour and half, and I walked straight to the backpackers. The Australian running it had to leave the gates open past the ungodly hour of 9pm. Yes, this was a conservative, traditional town. Also, the common room had already closed. However, I was a rebel and made a cup of instant coffee, and sat down to write. Besides, there was no-one else staying there.

After a while, someone came in. It was an older guy from Glasgow, very friendly. We talked for a while, and he came to the subject of what he did that day. He said:
"I walked from here into Scotland."

My brain paused for a minute. It was about to explode with a toxic amount of logic.

'Wait a minute. If he walked into Scotland from here... then here... must not be Scotland!'

I had inadvertently crossed the border into England. I mean, if I had known this was England, I would have chosen somewhere else. I didn't want to go to England! It all makes sense now: only the English would give a town name something as lame and gay as "Berwick-Upon-Tweed." I felt such the fool. Of course, I didn't say anything to the guy, and luckily he was content to keep talking.

Now that I've take a closer look at the google map, there is a squiggly line of the border just above Berwck-Upon-Tweed. But I was here in this town, and I was going to make the most of it. That night, I slept so incredibly well. After five consecutive nights of sleeping in backpacker rooms with 8 or 12 other people on plastic matrasses, this real wooden bed with soft down duvet was like sleeping in a gay cloud filled with puppies and bunnies.

I woke up refreshed, and armed with a map, umbrella and a camera. It was a full day of relaxed walking, between fresh bouts of rain and glorious sunshine. It was such a nice town to spend the day in.

Because I took so many photos, I compiled them into a 4 minute video. The song is Big Blue Sea by Bob Schneider (not Rob Schneider). It has no real relation to the content, apart from matching my relaxed, feel-good mood of the day, and I wanted to use a song by an artist that most people probably don't know.




The reason why Berwick-Upon-Tweed is such a pretty town is due to the River Tweed and the trade it brought further north into Scotland. And then, [from Wiki]

Berwick's strategic position on the English-Scottish border during centuries of war between the two nations and its relatively great wealth led to a succession of raids, sieges and take-overs. Between 1147 and 1482 the town changed hands between England and Scotland more than 13 times, and was the location of a number of momentous events in the English-Scottish border wars.

So, there you have it. I went on a trip to find the real Scotland, and ended up in England. If you are Scottish, I'm kidding. Although, I heard and read that in the future, Berwick-Upon-Tweed might change back, and when they do, feel free to call me a visionary.

Laffin' inna rein

Last month was my big summer holiday. Of course, it didn't really feel like a summer holiday. See, most people I know in Holland escape the (usually) crap weather and go on a summer vacation to south France, Italy, Spain, Portugal, Peru, Egypt. No, instead, I went to Scotland. As Billy Connolly once said: "There is no such thing as "Bad weather", because otherwise Scotland would be fucked. There's only inappropriate clothing."


Here are some photos of our trip to Sterling (the place where the great battle against the English was, not where the silver comes from). We visited the William Wallace memorial, or at least that's what they told us it was. We couldn't really see it.


Luckily, I packed my umbrella. Thanks Billy Connolly! Obviously, I wasn't going for the weather; I was going for a cultural holiday, and mainly to catch up with some old friends (i.e. They are both older than me). Besides, even though the weather sucks- apparently it rains every 2 out of 3 days- there is no better time to go to Scotland than August. Imagine how miserable it must be in winter. However August is the best time to go not only due to the weather. There is also a little something called the Edinburgh Festival. The timing of this was incidental as my two old(er) friends were at the mercy of their Japanese holiday schedules, so this was a giant bonus, especially with my love for comedy. Despite never having gone to a live stand-up show before. That was about to change.

One of those friends is also a New Zealander, and this one week's holiday was the most New Zealand-ish I have ever felt. Besides hanging out with him for an entire week,a list of the stand-up comedians should explain this New Zealandishness.

1. There was some NZ comedian who lives in London (don't they all?). He also played some musical comedy. He was good at talking to individual members in the audience and grilling them and apparently his cute New Zealand accent allowed him to get away with insulting people. The only thing is, he was completely overdoing his accent, to the point of putting on a Maori accent. The more awkward a silence was, he stronger his fake accent. After the show when I gave him a donation, I asked where he was from. He said "Blenheim."

Now, I don't expect many people to know this, as this is a small town about an hour from where I grew up, but if you come from Blenheim and are white, you should not be talking like he did. I lost respect for him instantly. (However, to be fair, I would have lost respect anybody who comes from Blenheim, regardless of their accent.)

Raybon Kan:

This is New Zealand's greatest humour columnist. In fact, he might be the only one. I always read his articles, to the point where when I was living overseas, my father would cut out his columns from the Sunday paper and send them to me. I had seen him on a few TV shows, but I was very pleasantly surprised to see how good (and controversial) he could be as a standup comedian. It must have been difficult for him too, as the tiny room he played in (half-filled with compatriates) had no air-flow. After 45 minutes, I don't know whether I was exhausted from laughter or heat-stroke. Either way, it was a good night.

He didn't use this bit, but it seems appropriate for this post.


Rhys Derby:

The manager from the HBO show Flight of the Conchords. I cannot tell you how much I love these guys. I lived in Japan for a year, and in the first year, every time I mentioned where I was from, the automatic response was: "Ooh, Lord of the Rings!". Man, I thought the book was okay, and the movies a little lame, but they ruined New Zealand's image. I'm not talking about it being a beautiful country; that hasn't changed. But the impression now is that New Zealand is filled up with Lord of the Rings nerds. And you know what, that isn't too far from the truth. For sauronssakes, during the premiere of the films, they renamed Wellington, our capitol city... they renamed it to "Middle Earth"!!! I was so ashamed.

However, after the first year in Japan, something wonderful started happening. Some people, instead of immediately talking to me as if I some kind of geek that goes to conventions dressed up as Legolas, they would ask me about The Flight of the Conchords. (Besides, we all know I would make a better Arwen.) The Conchords are funny, talented and not lame. So, going to Ryhs Derby's show was probably the high-point in my life of my relationship with New Zealand. Here is a clip of a bit he did in the show we saw.



And so a holiday to Scotland wasn't terribly holiday-like. There were no sunset beaches and palm trees, or there wasn't any adventure tourism. It was, in a way, an unexpected reconnection with the old country, which is nice because Scotland is so much closer.

Tales From A Holiday Not My Own.

So, I had three friends visiting at the end of the summer holidays, and I had to do my best impression of a local guide. Basically, I don't really know much of Holland to show around, but I wanted them to have a very Dutch experience. From this time, I got to see the country from a very different perspective: that of an American tourist. Despite this, it was a fun time and there are some stories I otherwise wouldn't have experience. For example, waking up at 5AM in Eindhoven. Well, they weren't all fun times. I don't like to narrate, but I love telling anecdotes.
Just be warned: I don't do transitional material... anyway...

"Hey, did you hear the one about the Cube Houses?"

My friends were staying at the famous cube houses for a few nights. Yes, right above the very location, the sacred ground where Jackie Chan once fought. This also earned him a square on Rotterdam's Walk of Fame. Yes, we have a walk of fame. Deal with it.

It turns out there is a very reasonably priced hostel in one of the cube houses. The only other way to take a look inside would be to break into someone who lives there, or go to the "cube hostel lookhouse". But for the price of looking thrice, you may as well stay a night (with breakfast). Because my friends had booked together, they had a 4-bed room to themselves. Not bad for some prime real estate, especially for the price they were paying.

However on the 2nd night, we came back late after some doners, walked in the room. There was a guy. An Icelandic guy.
"Hi!" He said.

Luckily he wasn't too weird. He was very enthusiastic about showing some of his culture to us. He opens a tiny bottle of Icelandic vodka, volcanic rock purified. It was very nice. Then he shows us a tin.

"It's tobacco", he says. "...for your nose."
We looked at him funny. "You mean, it's chewing tobacco."
"No, it's nose tobacco."
We looked at each other funny.
"Do you want to try?" He asked. "No? Okay, I'll show you."

As he was putting a small row on the back of his hand he tells us that he doesn't use it himself. We reassured him that he didn't have to show us. I mean, I wouldn't ask a Cuban man to smoke a cigar. But he wasn't listening, or wasn't understanding us, and he snorted two nostril-fuls of tobacco.

He starts coughing.
"I hate it." He says.
"It is burning me behind my eyes!"


Soon he was coughing and sneezing in the bathroom and blowing his nose directly into the toilet. Isn't cultural exchange fun?

I wasn't sure if I should feel bad or if I should laugh. So, I did both. The point is, going on holiday should be about meeting other people, wherever they may be from, and making fun of them.


"So, are any of you guys from Vondelpark?"

Vondelpark is the big park in Amsterdam, which I possibly falsely tell everyone that is the park in Amsterdam where nudity is allowed. I am too lazy to check if this is factually true, and besides, I like not knowing. Ig'nince is fun!

Anyway, although the weather wasn't perfect, we had a bit of a picnic, and there were some other groups of people there too. At one point, one of us says: "Those two girls behind you are making out." Indeed they were. Wow, open holland. They weren't nude, but maybe my "fact" could actually be quite close to the truth. After a while of "canoodling", two more girls joined them. And I mean, they weren't just all sitting together, they were all canoodling together. And only 1 1/2 of them weren't at least reasonably good-looking. I was impressed at myself for showing my friends the true Holland.

As an appendage to this anecdote (and to be fair, this anecdote does desperately need an appendage), here is a photo I found of Vondelpark on the 2nd page of Google Image search. Apparently this wasn't an isolated incident.

"Don't you hate it when strangers ask you to touch their snake? What's the deal with that?"So, we were walking past the Homo Monument in Amsterdam. I mean, not on purpose. I mean, not that there's anything wrong with that. It just happened to be on our way to where-ever we were going next. In all fairness, it is also very near the Anne Frank house. Besides, do you know how hard it would be to avoid the gays in Amsterdam?

Anyway. There was a guy stopped on a bicycle on the side of the road. It was a mountain bike and he had a backpack on. He calls out to me in a very trashy English accent:
"Could y' pick up the snayke on mi bag?"
I thought this was a reasonable request. I mean, I thought it was a Camel Pack. You know, a backback with a bladder of water in it that pretend sporty yuppie douche-bags like to use when they bike to work. By the look of it, these Camel Packs could be quite annoying when on a bike, so I went to hand him the nozzle.

Just as I was about to pick it up, this is what I saw:

"Oh shit, it's a real snake!", I might have accidentally said aloud. To me it was like when some wizard turns Harry Potter's wand into a snake. (Not that I have seen more than this happen in the one Harry Potter movie I was forced to watch, but I can confidently say that this has happened at least once.)

Anyway, I was stunned at a real live snake, and jumped back. The English guy says Englishly:
"It's only a yellow python, it doesn't bite. It doesn't have teef." (mind you, neither did the English guy himself. Don't you love a fulfilled stereotype?). My friend ended up helping the guy by carefully taking the bag off of his back. By this time, I was standing far away. But in my defence, I am a giant wuss.

As we walked away, my friend proudly stated that in Amsterdam, a guy asked us to touch his snake, near the Homo Monument. And you can't get a more Dutch experience than that.

"Anyway, you guys have been a great crowd."

Mosquito Massacre

Now, I have mentioned that I live in an asylum centre, but what I didn't mention is, that the entire complex is built in a swamp. As we all know, in swamps live dastartly creatures...


... like mosquitos. About 2 months ago, I thought I could kill the mosquitos in my room before going to bed. I lasted a few days, going through restless nights of sleep, culminating in a night where they drove me to insanity. I would hear them when the lights went out, and I'd turn it back on and try to find it. When I could find it and swat it, I thought "that's the last of them", and try go to sleep...

"zzz"....

This pattern continued the entire night, until I was trying to swat the mosquitos in the darkness- sometimes trying to swat them against my face. I tried hiding under the covers, but it was too hot. Eventually, I would fall asleep with the lights on for a few minutes until I heard the mosquio noise. Insane.

I didn't want it to come to this. People had told me to get a "klamboe", which is a mosquito net. Here, I'll show you the problem:
Apart from effectively keeping insects out, it also is super-effective at making your bedroom a whole lot gayer. Actually, I had the impression of it turning your bed into a cot. My line of reasoning was this: If I start sleeping in a cot, the next thing I know, I'll be wearing a diaper, pooping myself and getting a paid nurse-actress to clean up after me. But after that awful night's sleep, pooping myself seemed to be a reasonable price to pay. So, I bought a klamboe. It has ribbons. Why don't they make them for adult, heterosexual males? I'd even buy one with dinosaurs on it. But ribbons? Whatever.

So, it did help, although I discovered that it is not 100% effective. You see, every night I would still wake up and find a few mosquitos inside the klamboe. But they were easy to find and kill, and I then I would be able to go back to sleep, my bloodlust satisfied. Also, I learned to sleep inside my duvet cover. That way, my feet won't stick out. Still, I would always wake up with some bites. Only last week was the first morning I can remember here where I haven't had at least one itchy bite.

Now, I know that anyone who does not live in this asylum centre will think I am exaggggerating, but no. This place is literally infested with them. Recently, I have been killing upwards of 20 per day. As proof, I present to you the Mosquito Massacre Gallery- all taken in my bedroom. It also satisfies my need to vent my sadistic hatred for these miserable creatures.


I call this one the "instant fossilisation", because when I hit them, I hit them extra hard. To make sure, and to my myself feel better.


This one was splattered a while ago, but you can see that it was full of my blood.


I managed to hit this one so hard that it left a dirty smear all across the ceiling.

This picture is intended to show the density or carnage of some areas of my room.

When I hit them with my hand, they often stay relatively intact, and leaves wonderful reminders on the walls.

I also love it when you can't actually recognise any part of the insect.

This guy died very theatrically.
This is one of the bastards that found its way into the klamboe. It has the sea-turtle-in-fishing-net look going on. I think it works.

This guy must have been flattened between the net and the wall.
Usually, however, the mosquitos inside the net are already full of my blood. What happens is, I hit them against the wall, and the wall behind gets splattered red. This is the messy remains in the net.
Another fine specimen of the "instant fossilisation" type.

Such wonderful textures.

This one seems to be hairy. Or mouldy. Both ways, it's gross.

While I was shooting this gallery, another one buzzed by. These are the remains of it on my hand.
I don't know what that blob is, but I like to think this one got decapitated. It also has a very nice wing impression.

And here we can even see the intact blood-sucking appendage. I like how this one appears to be hanging on the wall like a trophy.

I hope now that the mosquitos take this as a warning sign. I am not to be messed with. Living in asylum has made me bloodthirsty for the creatures taking my own blood.

The Count

So I was cleaning my room yesterday, and I came across my ties. I said to myself very matter-of-factly: "I have four ties. How did this happen?"

Today, depending on your time zone, was also exactly one year since I was Back 'n Dutch, and I wish to commemorate this in a special way. In the spirit of how I rediscovered my yuppie past, what follows is a series of statistics. All of these statistics are absolutely true. Come count with me.



1 -- One year since I arrived in Holland.

9 -- Nights outside spent outside of Holland. This involves 2 nights in Belgium, and a week in Scotland (Some stories of which are still to come in a future post.)

3 -- Different countries. (or, in the case of you being Scottish, 4. Please don't hurt me!)

3 -- Essays I have had to write so far.

52 -- Hours of class I have had to attend

13 -- Hours of those classes which were wasted for arriving late and taking a shit at halftime.

8 -- The only grade I have received so far for any essay and class. Now, you are probably thinking what I was thinking the first time I got a grade. I asked my flatmate: "I got an 8, is that good?"... She called me an asshole because she thought I was bragging. I seriously think that my teachers don't know any other numbers. I mean, they teach the Arts, not the Maths...

3 -- Times coming home after 8AM.

0 -- Pairs of shoes lost. I think I am keeping my partying under control.

4 -- Books read. Seriously. And one of those books was a children's book. It's not that I don't like reading, it's just that when I have time, I'd rather write. I know, it's a deeply rooted irony. By the way, the books I read were:
De Kleine Prins: The Dutch version of "The Little Prince", which is originally French anyway. If you haven't read this, if there was one piece of advice I could give you, reading this would be it.
To The Lighthouse: a Virginia Woolfe novel. If there was another piece of advice I could give you, it would be to not read this. You WILL thank me for it.
The God Delusion: A great read. As Bill Maher put it, "I hope one day this book will be in every hotel room across the country".
Het lotgeval van een geluksvogel: The Dutch Version of Slumdog Millionaire. I read it to test my Dutch, and to make me sleepy. At the time, I thought, "This would make a good movie." I haven't seen it yet.

4 -- New pairs of underwear. I hate shopping for clothes and There's nothing I hate more than shopping for underwear. That's what mothers are for. Although it is always nice to have a nice new pair of ball-huggers.

1 -- Haircut.

1 -- Time I nearly released my bowels into a barber's chair out of fear that I would have a mullet.

3 -- Bottles of "Douche Gel" I have gone through. Seriously, Shower Gel is called "Douche gel" in Holland. I laugh every time I use it, because it is just so appropriate.

7 -- Years since I played volleyball seriously. I played last week and am thinking of joining a volleyball team here. But seven years! I feel so old!

2 -- Goldfish adopted.

0 -- Goldfish-related deaths.

324 -- Sent emails. Although, to be fair, this doesn't include emails to people I replied to more than once.

49 -- Cities I've visited. This sounds like a lot, but I have been keeping track via this facebook application. Because as long as I'm a student, I can travel for free on the weekends, whenever I have a day off, I try to go somewhere new. When there, I try visit a museum and see the city centre a bit. But to be fair, some places I probably didn't experience to the fullest. For example, Eindhoven.

675 -- Seconds for my computer to turn on until I can view my emails. Yes, I must be the world's most patient man, that I have to wait almost ten minutes for my computer to load up, and yet it doesn't have a hole in the screen yet. Yet... As I always say, they don't make computers like they used to.

2078.08 -- Euro I have received from the government so far. Ah the joys of being a student in Holland.

45, 364 -- The wordcount on Back 'n Dutch in the last year, including this post.

18,000 -- How many words I need for my end of year thesis. Easy!

Thanks everyone, and here's to accumulating more numbers in the next year!

Ruben