Dream Job?
Monday, 8:26AM

My phone vibrates. I consider rolling over again, but somehow manage to check it. It asks me if I want to work at Heineken, in 90 minutes. I consider rolling back over. I was so tired.

Suddenly I sit up. It is a beer factory! Why would I even hesitate? Is this not what people like me dream of?



And this isn't any beer factory- it is one of the main breweries in Holland of the world's 3rd largest beer company (and largest exporter). Sure, I wasn't going to be making beer or anything; I was going to be a lunch lady again. But a lunch lady at Heineken is a pretty cool lunch lady. It sure beats catering at a university, a fertiliser company, a shipping company, a bank, an electric company or a waste-disposal company. I put on my catering clothes- which was almost exactly the same as my Michael Jackson costume from 2 days earlier (unwashed), and biked out into the Dutch weather.

After a half-hour bike-ride, I rolled up to the factory complex. It was beautiful. Nestled among the rolling green gardens was the factory with its familiar red letters. I got given a visitors card and got led down endless beer-themed offices to the lunch room.

The work itself was irrelevant- every kitchen is basically the same, and I worked just four hours, and I'll probably never go back. I must say, however, while the Tui ad about gorgeous women is an overstatement, the "ahem", talent at the beer factory was much higher than any other place I've worked at. (I guess not too many women want to work at a waste-disposal company...). The point is, I now consider myself part of the Heineken family. It feels warm.

So next time you open up a Heineken, for a moment consider that in a way, you are paying my way through school.

Carnival

The southern catholic cities in Dutchland celebrate carnival- very similar to South America, except that it is much colder. So really, there wasn't much chance of partial nudity.

Nevertheless, I decided to go along this year, to catch up on some of my missing Dutch cultural upbringing. If I were to describe it in one sentence, it would be this one: "It was a cross between St Patrick's day and a giant Halloween party where the theme was "bad music", held outdoors on a dry winter's day. Classy indeed.

Our group went to a city called Breda. It is a large-ish city with very nice, quaint stone buildings and streets, apart from this weekend, of course. There were brass bands competing with each other and street-side clubs for air-vibrations, there were floats and confetti and costumes...

There were many different costumes to be seen. Pirates, sailors, sexy pirates, sexy sailors, "furries" (people in animal costumes), sea monsters, astronauts, monks, blackface preachers, a homeless man, a sexy homeless man, a ghost buster, Mexicans, Japanese tourists, prisoners, cowboys, anerexic whores, fruit, animals, and a whole lot of people who just wore the most garish wigs, glasses and rags they could find. There was something for everyone.Yes, there were people in Black-face, without them, you-know, getting killed on the spot. The Obama costume is ridiculous. Just with an afro (which Obama doesn't even have), blackface and a homeless-man style sign, he is doing a terrible impersonation of Obama. (Although it is a great "racist douche-bag costume")

To blend in, we were also encouraged to dress up in some way. This was my opportunity to fulfil a lifelong dream. To dress up as Michael Jackson.

I know it is ridiculous. I wouldn't call myself a fan by any stretch, but I happen to think he was awesome, and I wish he had died in about 1992-93. Seriously, let's ignore the little boys for a minute and you will see that no-one will ever be able to touch him... as a performer. If he had died, noone would even dare put Elvis, or Hendrix, or Jim Morrison, or Sinatra anywhere near his level. Old age is a curse for an artistic genius.

Let my comedic idol, George Carlin sum it up for me (contains some bad words)



The point is, I didn't grow up with Halloween in New Zealand, and I missed out each year in Japan. I haven't played "dress ups" since I was Kilroy the Mouse from the book "The Eleventh hour" at a school "favourite book character" day. That was a long time ago. Seeing as my generation is the youngest possible age to remember Michael Jackson as the King of Pop, and remember wanting to go to Neverland, I feel it was almost my duty to impersonate him at such a culturally important event. I managed to scrape together a costume on the morning before leaving- a rubber hat and a white sparkly exfoliating glove, for 5.80 Euro. It was probably the highest-cheap/authentic ratio at the festival (except for possibly the homeless guy). The rest of my costume I was able to piece together from my already limited wardrobe to more or less imitate this immortal image from Bille Jean:

And below is me. Sure, I didn't have the time to be-jewel my jacket, and I took some liberty in rolling up the sleeves and wearing a surgical mask (made from tissue a white insulation tape). But everybody knew it who I was supposed to be- even an elderly couple who sat down next to me on the train.
And here is a classic street-light scene, although by this stage of the night, the white stripe on my pants had long fallen off amongst the masses of drunkards. While taking in some sights outside of the main city, we came across this alley-way that just seemed perfect for an MJ music video. I couldn't help myself as I busted out all my dance moves. (The video is 14 seconds long).



In all, it was a fun day. An odd day. In fact, one of the strangest conversations I have ever been in happened. One of the many times I went to get a beer, an old guy looked me up and down.
"What are you supposed to be?", he asked. "A gynacologist?"
"No, I am Michael Jackson"
"Oh, so your costume failed then. Where are you from?"
"Leiden. I'm with a group of foreign students."
"Oh, I can hear your accent, where are you from?"
"New Zealand." I replied, the conversation was now normal and harmless, but annoying as he immediately switched to English despite this conversation having been all in Dutch up till now.

"Sho, fwatch da gaishin like in New Zheeland?" He said, in a thick Dutch accent, which I couldn't pick up straight away.
"What?" I asked.
"De gay schene"
"Huh? I ask.
"You know", he says, "Have you ever heard of the gays?" He gestures a gay gesture. (use your imagination.)
"Oh", I say, not particularly enthused.
"What's the gay scene like?" he asks again.
...
Ah, welcome to Dutchland!

As the night closed in, the crowd became visibly younger and drunker. Each bar had lines of hundreds waiting to get in, despite the god-awful music. Seriously, you could sing the same words to each song, and these words would be: "La La La"... As far as I could tell, there wasn't much difference between these songs and the Smurf's theme tune.

So in all, it was fun, but I was happy to leave this behind. After all, I'm from Rotterdam- a non catholic, non carnival city. For me, it was like admiring cultures where they put spears though their face. It's kind of cool to see, but happily, it wasn't my culture after all.

The Immigrant Labourer actually labours

Until now, most jobs I have done have been either as lunch lady, or doing random things in the cold. None of the work has been truly heavy work. I have yet "laboured".

That changed last week when the girl at the temping agency asked me if I was strong.

Come on lady! You don't ask a guy if they are strong. I wouldn't ask a girl if she was pretty! Show some tact! Ask me if I have a back problem. Ask me if I have a medical condition that prevents me from heavy lifting. Don't just come out and ask me if I'm a poofter.

Look, I know I am not the strongest-looking guy, but if I worked out a little bit, I would quickly turn into He-man. Really. (according to face-recognition technology, the celebrity I most closely resemble is Dolph Lungdren. Yes, He-man.


I know it's uncanny. So a few days later, I showed up to the address they had given me. It was a big swanky hotel, in the middle of nowhere. I mean, it was in Holland, so it is a 10 minute drive from every major Dutch city, but relatively, this was nowhere. They weren't expecting me, and the only piece of information I was able to tell the receptionist was "They asked me if I was strong".

Why was she laughing?

Eventually, I found my boss for the day- he wasn't very big, but my 3 co-workers were. Within a few minutes, one of them busted up his hand-bleeding so much that I felt dizzy- and he didn't seem to care.

The task for the day was to set up a "tribune" for a "congres". This shows either my improving Dutch or declining English, because I have no idea how to translate that. There was to be a large conference at this hotel, about experimentation in media. I don't really understand what it was about, but I couldn't help but notice this poster:If you are wondering, "met" means "with". I know, awesome.

Our team had to build a large structure for the seating- like a small grandstand. Well, "small"... We first unloaded 3 truck-trailers full of equipment. Pipes and boards and boxes, and trolleys and thingamabobs. And we began the task of putting them all together, creating a multi-leveled grandstand-type thing. There was a lot of lifting and screwing. Using tools. Lying on the ground. Sweating. Panting. Compared to the other student work I have done which was always cold, this was hot work. I must say, I quite enjoyed it. After seven hours, I was exhausted.

There were also a teams of lighting and sound technicians, and they had to keep working. The project manager, however, told everyone to take a break and come have some food. Now, my boss has signed my pay slip already, and I was supposed to go home. However, the inner student in me asked if I could join for dinner.

That was the best question I have ever asked. (It tops "Don't snow ploughs get sad when it is summer?")

We got led to the hotel restaurant, and we could order off the guest menu. (The one where the price isn't stated. Yes, awesome). We had bread rolls with dipping olive oils, multi-leaf salads, and the main course was a guinea fowl. That's like a tiny, delicious chicken- and we all got to eat a whole one each. There is nothing like eating an entire animal.

And, the best thing for after a day of labour: beers (in the plural). Sure, I would wake up the next morning feeling 40 years older, but this was a great day to be a labourer.

Golden Ticket
Don't let the fact that I am forced to take philosophy and literature courses fool you, I am still technically an Art History student. Two of the best reasons for studying in Holland for me are:
1) Holland really looks after their students
2) There is much art to be seen, and little space between them.

As a Dutch student, to top off the generous study "gifts", I was entitled to an OV kaart- where I can travel for free, on any mode of transportation from Friday afternoon till Sunday night. (many other students who live at home can choose to travel for free during the week).

And I splashed out for a museum year-card (equivalent to about four individual museum visits), which gives free access to 400 musea in Holland. These two cards together... It's epic. It's beyond my mere words to describe...

It's like the five rings that create captain planet... (funnier in German)
"DU HAST DIE MACHT!"

So yes, I am an art nerd, planning to travel this tiny country, seeking out different musea every weekend. It's good to be a student here.

I Stand Before Thee!!!
The Reoccurring Mishaps of an Immigrant Labourer

The start of the year is a rough time for temporary workers, especially in the post-crisis era. So, I have had a quiet start to the year, work-wise. Which meant that I had a lot of catch-up to do. 16 hours last weekend at 125% pay will do the trick!

Last weekend was the very first day that the Metro in Rotterdam completely switched over to a rechargeable-card instead of the old stamp-ticket system. The machines have been available for people to switch over for about three years, and there have been mass campaigns to get people to switch over early, but only 35% of metro users have done so. The other 65% of people... That's where I stand.

I was given this classy vest, which says "I stand ready for you", along with a reported 600 other temporary workers like me, and I had to help people use the Metro. I do realise that wearing this vest is as nerdy, and has the same sex appeal as one that says "free hugs".

It was complete chaos in Rotterdam, including the company I was contracted to. I got taken on-site before I even got a briefing. I had no idea how the new ticketing system worked either. At the main station, Beurs, there must have been more than 20 white vests, and many permanent security workers. I went ahead to Centraal Station, slightly smaller, and I had to learn on the job.

What I quickly (re) learnt was that people are generally pretty stupid. I could understand foreigners or old people having some difficulty with it, but this was just ridiculous. People were acting surprised that the system had changed.

Also now, it is much more difficult for people to "ride black", i.e. without a ticket, which must have pissed a lot of people off. Which is why we had security guards. I was so glad they were there. A colleague was politely explaining the new system to a young-ish man, who obviously wasn't listening to anything other than "you cannot use your old ticket". He started getting aggressive, and soon was surrounded by four large, typically dutch men with moustaches and pot bellies, and this only angered him more. They literally dragged him out. Apparently random acts of violence are frequently directed at Metro employees. I stand ready for you!

After a couple of hours of on-the-job-training, I was asked to go to a different metro station. This was just a platform, standing outside in the dry, windy cold with one other white vest. Yes, it was freezing cold. Five hours on a cold platform, helping old ladies use a recharging vending machine, and smiling politely at the people who strolled confidently past us- the infamous Black Riders. I would do nothing other than be very polite to criminals...

But the day was no about fear, or the cold. It was about the interesting characters I met along the way...

Like the guy who came up to us with tears welling up in his eyes, saying that he had just went to his car to find all four of his tyres had been slashed, like all the other cars on that street. He was now very late to his appointment, and he couldn't buy a Metro ticket on this side of the platform because he only had coins, so I had to take him to the other side of the platform where he started spilling his sad story, and then he bought his (overpriced) ticket, and came back just to miss his trin and needed to wait another 15 minutes. I feel like I only added to his worst-day of his life.

And then there was the recent homeless looking guy who saw my geeky vest as an invitation to complain about the new system. He looked at his throwaway ticket and said, "3.50E? That's far too expensive..." I politely said something, probably slightly wrong, and he started talking in English. "I'm half German and half Norwiegan. I'm sure I can recharge this card. You can see it has a thing... I'm going to try it."
I politely asked him why he didn't have a rechargeable card, and where he lived.
"Well, I have a house in Utrecht, one in England, one in Switzerland..." He trailed off.
So, he was complaining about the price of one ticket, while he has multiple home-ownership.

What I did not mention about this first day is, that I needed to wake up at 6:30am to make it on time. And that the night before I was at a bar until 3:30am. I was completely wrecked from this 8 hours of work, and I had to repeat it again the next morning...

This time, I was much more prepared, wearing all my snowboarding gear, right down to the uni-sex purple and black striped thermal leggings. I swear, they are unisex!!! I also brought along a giant tub of leftover pasta.

This time, it was so cold that it was snowing. Really, all temporary work that I have done is cold, and is always on the coldest days. It hasn't snowed in weeks. I was also lucky that it was a slightly larger station with a hot drinks machine for the employees.

You know, of all the work I have done in Holland (Or any work I have ever done, for that matter), this was probably the work which I feel was the most productive. Sure, many people are too lazy to sort things out for themselves, but it I was actually helping people. Especially the second day, with my extensive experience. I could explain everying clearly, there were old people, people with random questions, foreign tourists completely confused, maintenance staff repairing the machines, black riders barging through the gates, security guards chasing them, drug dealers in the elevators, and a dove that shat on my face. I swear, a dove, sitting above me on a beam, let one drop and took a shit on my face. Luckily, a girl colleage was standing next to me and got some in her hair. So it wasn't just me.

Anyway, it was a good experience, and slice of society, and I was glad to help them.
And glad to get the money.

A Good-looking Ride

I have a habit of naming material objects. Perhaps it is a residual habit from my forgotten naughtical past, perhaps it is because I always buy pieces of crap and by giving these objects names, it humanises them, gives them personality, and most importantly, sentimentality after they are gone. It began with my first car, a Nissan California. I called her "Kelly". My next car looked like the pope-mobile, so it became "Popey". I have a Nintendo DS, which I call "Dissy", a NeC (brand) laptop computer called "Neccie", I had a fake toy pot plant with solar-powered flapping leaves called "Flappy", and I had two fluffy cushions called "Fluff" and "Muffy".

I wonder where those two are now. Oh yeah, my brother has Fluff and Muff. Anyway, my point is, I give inanimate things names. I know, it's lame, but that's how I roll. So when I got my bike a few weeks ago, being my only form of transport, I knew it would need a name. It would need a good name. See, but these things name themselves. Luckily, the name was practically written on the side: Gazelle.

No, there aren't actually gazelles in Holland, but neither are the national animal, the lion. Holland is almost as bad as Japan who claim Panda's and Koala bears as their own.

So, my point is, meet Giselle. No, wrong picture! How did that get in there?That's better. I promise that did not name my bike after one of the world's hottest super models so I can say that I ride Giselle every day. Or that I love to feel the power of Giselle between my legs. Or that I sit on Giselle. Or that I 'ring Giselle's bell'. That would be immature.

Already, in our short time together, we have been through a lot. The other day I rode Giselle, and something felt odd. It felt like I was biking up-hill, which is of course ridiculous. There aren't any hills in Holland. Turns out, the brakes were jammed. I had bought Giselle from a 2nd hand bike shop, where apparently they use the "Microsoft Business Model". By which I mean, two weeks later, you need to take it back to the shop to be repaired. They told me to come back in 5 hours. So I had to kill a lot of time, walking around the town, aimlessly. It wasn't so bad, but I wasn't prepared to be quite so aimless. Five hours later, I went back and they told me they needed to fix it tomorrow. But I could bike home tonight and bring it back in the morning. So yes, I actually biked both ways up-hill.

I had to kill another four hours the next day, and I asked the guy how much it would cost. "Nothing", he said.

Oh, I felt like a douche for saying that thing about Microsoft...

According to the 'Board of Statistics That I Have Once Heard But Can't Remember Where', 1/3 of bikes in holland get stolen. I would need a good lock. Unfortunately, I figured that if someone really wanted to steal my bike, a good padlock won't stop them. I just wouldn't leave my bike in public places overnight, and thought I could save some money by buying a cheap lock at the market. Tip: if you are buying things from a tent, it should be edible.

The other day, I took Giselle to the hardware store. Yeah, the ideal place to take a date. I locked her up outside, and went inside to buy a few things. I finished, and went to unlock her. This is the last time I buy a cheap lock. This lock was so cheap, after two weeks the keyhole had disintegrated while the key was still fine. The bike was still locked.

This is a good example of my type of luck: With my bike locked-up with a broken keyhole, I was already at a hardware store! I simply went to the help-desk, and the lady gladly got out a circular saw and sawed through the chain, sparks flying, no questions asked! I could have been using her to steal a bike. I then went back into the hardware store to buy an expensive chain, in stylish bulldozer-yellow.

So, with fixed brakes and a fancy new lock, I decided to give Giselle a make-over. Yeah, Giselle got pimped. Paint was too expensive, so I used coloured insulation tape (the best type of tape after duct). Although that ran out pretty quickly. So it wasn't a complete makeover, but I gave her some fancy racing stripes. A red-hot yellow and flame! And the best accessory is, as always a fancy bag. Here she is, modeling in my bedroom.

Note from the author: I apologise, for this is the steamiest piece I have ever written, and I think you'll agree that I should probably avoid writing romance. Or, in any way, shape or form, avoid being involved in romance. A view from the rear.