The Great Re-migration

2012-02-09T22:57:00.002+01:00

Welcome to the Neighbourhood Part II

I live literally right across from Wellington hospital, which is great if I should ever get stabbed or need my stomach pumped. However, it is not the most peaceful place to live. Still, I have become used to life in a big city and have reached the point where I don't even notice sirens anymore (which defeats the purpose of a siren in the first place.)

Still, I quite like the area I'm living in. It's walking distance from the city and there's plenty to see and do in the area. The area (Newtown) is known to have a lot of foreigners and/or weirdos which is quite fun. You have senile old people, the friendly homeless beggars, Asian shops, West African headscarved ladies, hipsters and punks. The other day saw an amputee pogo-stick his way up the hill past my house and I didn't think much of it. That is until yesterday when I took a walk. On the same street I live further up the hill, I saw this building. Pay close attention to the writing on the far left of the photo.
That's right, it says "Artificial Limb Centre". This isn't odd in itself since the hospital is nearby, but all I could think of was the poor amputee trekking up the freaking hill to get his prostetic pogo-leg adjusted. Having an artificial limb centre up a steep hill is like having a gym at a pastry shop. It's just a dick thing to do. I thought New Zealanders were supposed to be nice.

Anyway, I kept walking over the hill to the sea. I love cities with hills and water, which is just one reason I'm happy to no longer be in Christchurch. Although, I also hate people who own yachts so I guess it balances out.

Vermin Update!
There have been three more captures, but unfortunately I wasn't able to take a sadistic photo of one of them. However, there were teeth marks in the mouse-trap so at least one of the mice had a very painful death.

2012-01-30T11:50:00.002+01:00

Welcome to the Neighbourhood

I've been meaning to earnestly start posting regularly again, as in 2012 I have turned over a new leaf and so many things have changed. But then I see what's on the other side of the leaf, and it's still just a stupid leaf.

So I decided to refrain from talking about moving to a new city. And I don't want to crap on about my dabblings with unemployment and the status of my job hunting at the risk of people think I'm being negative. Also, I avoided taking a photo of my new flat. This is partly because I don't yet have furniture, and partly because writing about it bores even myself. However, this morning I had a nice surprise waiting for me.

Yeah, I live amongst vermin. I actually felt bad for killing one of my own, because it was me who spotted him the day before, set the trap and respectfully tossed the lifeless Jerry into the bushes. In related news, these mouse traps are fantastic. I know they also make them in rat sizes. I just hope they don't make them any bigger because I will go to extraordinary lengths for peanut butter ("Peanut Butter: it's neck-breakingly good!"*).

Anyway, I'm not going to pretend like things are much different this year because they're really not. But who knows, soon I might just have to get the leaf blower and really blow things up.

*I'm not sure if Micky's cause of death was a snapped neck, as the clamp seemed to be a little further up on the top of his skull. It's just "Skull-crushingly good" isn't quite as catchy slogan for peanut butter.

2012-01-12T22:59:00.002+01:00

Great Wide Open

For several reasons, this year is reminding me of this Tom Petty and The Heartbreakers song.

One of the best things about living in New Zealand is that the school year coincides with the calendar year, so each year from the age of five makes so much internal sense. (I realise this is a pretty crappy thing to be one of the best things about living in New Zealand but that's another subject for debate.) So yet again in 2012, I find myself staring down a completely new year where everything will be new except for the rags I wear. I'm newly graduated/unemployed and moving to a new city with no real plans for the future. What could possibly go wrong?

Also, I'm reminded of this song because I'm a young Tom Petty doppleganger and this year is promising to be so rock 'n roll - anything in the song could happen. I could get a tattoo, a job at a nightclub, a recording contract, anything. The only thing I know for sure is that I've already got the not having a clue part down.

I'm excited because I'll choose shitty and interesting over comfortable and boring every time and this year could be one of the shittiest yet.

2011-12-13T23:39:00.005+01:00

The Highlight Reel

In order to make up for the last few months of silence, I decided to make a highlight recap, but then I realised that finding the best moments of the last few months would be like eating the tasty part of the turd. I guess that's never stopped me before. So read on with a grain of salt, or a few lumps of sugar, or anything else to help you get it down (perhaps a stiff drink).

The Pasty Chef lives!
Yes, I realise I posted this photoshop earlier this year when I was trying out my comedy in Wellington, but that led onto bigger and greater things. Well, it led onto other things, and that's something, I think.

The University of Canterbury Bandsoc (Band Society/club) had their first annual Battle of the Bands Competition, a knockout competition featuring 22 local bands. Well, they featured 21 local bands and me wearing a hat. See, I have never had a performing name, but the entry form had a space for one. So, since I had already made this photoshop, I just used that. Lazyness pays.

So, I was a solo act in a serious music competition, singing disgusting songs. I tried to get my hands on a video of my performance, but either the person who made it ripped their eyes out afterwards and is now in a mental hospital, or he is saving the video until the Pasty Chef goes global.

Afterwards, I wrote a review in the canta magazine, in which I roasted all the 12 bands who made it to the semi finals, (including myself). Have a read, here.

The highlight for me, however, was afterwards when I got hold of my actual scoring sheet from the three serious judges. (One was a producer who has worked with Stevie Wonder.) One judge, under the category of "Technical Skills" gave me a 5... out of 20. Then he added the comment "Fairly average". That's amazing, because that's exactly what I was aiming for.

Role Modelling
I'm not sure how this even happened, or if it even was legal, but I somehow ended up visiting a high school and telling the students to enrol at the University of Canterbury. As you can see in the photo, I am a huge chin and a headset-microphone away from doing a spot-on Tony Robins impersonation. Creepy eyes, and strong body language... nailed it!

Exhibition
As part of my education, we set up an on-campus exhibition. it has it's own webpage so you know it's legit. Here you can see me hard at work "supervising". Yes, this is the kind of job I want in the future.

Voting
As part of my civil duty I went to the voting booths and voted the hell out of our democratic ways despite not knowing about the parties as we don't have a TV. There wasn't much point though, since you never change leaders during a crisis (the earthquake), and apparently you don't change leaders after winning the rugy world cup either. The rugby world what? Hmm. I need to start watching more TV.

The only reason I knew that I needed to vote was because of this guy.

So this is a photo of me sporting my election ink. The odd thing is, New Zealand doesn't do election ink. I just used the felt pen to draw on my thumb. You might think I must be a hipster and I voted ironically, but that only shows that you just don't get it. Leave me alone already. Gosh!

Final Project
My final project of my university career was handed in on Monday, and I really did my best to focus on style over substance. Hence, over half the project was printed in full colour, anbd included several to scale photoshops like this one. Again, there's no real reason to show these except to get more mileage out of them. I mean, it took hours to get them just right, and then I had to do them all over again when I changed a few minor details. Photoshop is fantastic when you want to procrastinate doing your assignment, but also want to feel like you're doing something towards your assignment.

Moving
So, ever since July, our flat (The Russian House) has been on the open market. I was living in an open home. Every week, a greasy salesman (who we lovingly nicknamed "douchebag") came to our house and showed around strange people. It was so annoying, having to clean the house for him, and never would he leave behind a fruit bowl or anything more valuable than his business card. Sometimes he would come more often with only a day's notice, sometimes he would ask us odd questions in front of the potential clients like "It's really warm here in winter right?" (while winking at me). What a sack of shit. He also apparently isn't a very good salesman because the house is still unsold.

That's partly why I'm leaving Christchurch. I have finished school, and although I have nowhere to go next, that's better than staying for no reason in a house which isn't even my own. So with this, the Christchurch era has petered out early, but that's what I do best.

Lastly, with this photo of my Christmas tree contructed from a pot, a pillow, a green jacket and some fairy lights, I wish you a merry x-mas, no matter how crappy it is. I've made some crappy xmas trees in the past, but this one is possibly the worst, which somehow is promising.

Take care one and all.

2011-10-16T08:38:00.002+02:00

International Suit-up Day

It's tough being a university student at this age. All my friends are having babies and jobs where they wear suits. Some of my friends' babies are already wearing suits, while I'm still writing essays.

Every day that I go out do do my university-student-type things wearing sneans, it's a reminder of my failings. So it's nice when there is an opportunity to wear a suit. There generally are only 2 1/2 situations where I can wear suits:

Weddings
Formal dances

These are obviously quite rare occurrences. The other is for job interviews, but it only counts for half since all my interviews are done by skype and I only have to wear a suit from the waist up. Yes, down below, I'm freeballing - it helps me relax.

As it turns out, there is one extra reason to wear a suit, and that is International Suit Up Day, which is an ancient annual tradition held on October13 every year since 2009. Yes, this is a real thing - it has its own website: http://internationalsuitupday.com/
Because if it has a website it must be true.

Suit Up Day was a great day. In fact, it was far too hot to be wearing a suit - let alone for biking to uni in a suit. I'm always under the impression that if you see a cyclist in a suit, he's probably had his licence revoked for drink driving. Still, I had a great time. Giving a presentation is somehow a lot more forceful with a suit. Also, since for me it was the last day of class for the 2nd semester, it gave off a sort of graduation-feeling. That's the power of the suit.

Remember this day for next year. Or you have a job where you have to wear a suit anyway. What I'm trying to say is, hopefully this was my last International Suit Up Day.

2011-10-13T12:16:00.002+02:00

Orange Man Conspiracy

A few years back, I was in Holland, minding my own business, like I often do, when all of a sudden, I saw an orange man caught my attention. I don't actually remember the moment I am recounting wistfully, but basically, I felt like I had seen him before.
(By the way, the Dutch text says: "I sit in your bumper". Yeah.)

So I immediately went to the google-machine and dug up the following picture.
(Note the Douchebag "this guy!" pose.)

The first guy is the Dutch recycling mascot, and the second one is the New Zealand electoral office mascot. This was all getting too real for me. I had to expose this information to the rest of the world, but how? So, I bided my time, that is if "biding" means something similar to "minding your own business" , because as I've stated, I tend to do that a lot.

It took nearly two years, but with the power of the Canta Magazine franchise behind me, and in the election season in New Zealand, the time was ripe.

http://canta.co.nz/columns/advice-from-a-naked-orange-man/
(Note that in the print edition, both images were published.)

Anyway, because I take my journalistic ethics very seriously, I did not want to speculate further about how much deeper this conspiracy could go. That's what the internet is for. How about:

Oompa Lumpa. Yeah, it's a little obvious. But you can't expect to have a serious conversation about orange people without mentioning them.

Okay, this one is pretty obvious too. I watch my fair share of late night television, so a "Snooki is Orange" joke shouldn't come as much of a surprise to anyone.

Likewise, I watch The Daily Show, so a "John Boehner is Orange" joke is practically a given.

This is Roark Junior, also known as the Yellow Bastard from Sin City, who is famous for having Bruce Willis shoot him in his penis, and later having his face punched repeatedly until "After a while all I'm doing is punching wet chips of bone into the floorboards." Sure, he's not quite orange, but I think we'd all like to see the orange people featured have the same fate.

2011-09-24T09:43:00.004+02:00

What a Load (of work)

Every year of University life, the workload increases. Now I'm at postgraduate level, I don't know how I cope, you know, with all four hours of class per week. For one recent project, I had to fold around 400 pieces of origami and make it into what I called an 'origami tapestry'.

Okay, well, I didn't "have" to do specifically that. The postgraduate assignment included making a section of a group 'art making exercise' that represents myslef and my identity. Yes, it sounds like something you would do at primary school, and when my flatmate saw me busy at work with my coloured paper and safety scissors and sello-tape while listening to cheesy music, she thought it was very cute. And it was.

The point it, well, I forget the point, but I do want to show off what I made. As I say, get the mileage out of it.

So, I used what is called "modular origami', which I learnt about afterwards. Basically, it is used to create complex geometric shapes, as seen here. (Warning, if you are a nerd, make sure you have your pocket protector on - this is pretty amazing stuff.)

However, I treated my more as a flat surface, in which I created some patterns and shapes which all have some meaning to it.

On the left side we have the river Schie, which gives name to the city I was born in, Schiedam, which is represented by the orange-red dam. On either side of the river are black and white spots of the Frisian cow, from the north of Holland.

Then, on the right is a map of Nelson, with the boulder bank, Haulashore Island and Fifeshire rock. Just to give you an idea, Fifeshire Rock - the small grey box, contains five pieces of origami. So yeah, this was defintely a long-term project.

Anyway, that is the update of my life as a postgraduate student. Tune in next time when I trace my hand and draw a chicken, and learn to write my name.

2011-09-19T00:58:00.003+02:00

Validation through Insultation

I finally made it. See, when I started out this year to write for our student magazine, I had to try have an edge. Blandness and politeness just gets lost in a free student magazine. So, in every column I've written I try to insert a couple of lines that could be taken the wrong way. Of course this is done in satire, but you always hope that someone will actually get angry about it. Well, mission accomplished. This is an actual letter to the editor about a recent column I wrote:

Dear Ed

I had the misfortune of having a spare hour this dreary Wednesday morning and made a poor choice in filling it in by picking up a copy of Canta. I see nothing has changed since I last performed this pantomime of enjoying a little intelligent "literature". I am so glad that Ruben VM sees his writing for what it it really is- uninformative. I find it ironic that his "column" (I use this term loosely) attempts to take the mickey out of the less well endowed (brain wise, I mean) when he clearly cannot understand the concept of wit. I would only like to advise him that intelligence and getting a degree are two very different things. Being intelligent enough to understand a joke is clearly something he is incapable of. "Self-service with a smile" for a do-it-yourself carwash is a witty and inspired tagline. Witty and inspiring are two words I would not use to describe his writing, which smacks of the same pompous, holier-than-thou attitude of a law student.

Fuck you Ruben VM, the only stupid one is you.

Wow, I really struck a nerve there. I decided not to reply, because there is no way I could convince someone this angry that the column was actually a commentary on the apparent pride many have in the deintellectualification of society, and the permissive attitude others have towards it.
But the comment was too good not to share. I'll let you guys be the judge. This is the article that elicited the response.
http://canta.co.nz/columns/on-stupidity/

Either way, I feel I have somehow been validated as a student columnist. There are only a few more issues left this school year, so let's see if I can't do some more damage.

2011-09-03T03:10:00.003+02:00

It's all about Presentation

A few weeks back I had a 1-hour presentation. The topic I chose was to compare Mt Fuji and Mt Taranaki in art. Now, I can crap on about Japanese art for as long as I want, but the New Zealand side is sorely lacking. That's why I needed another approach. Even if the content isn't great, I can still make it look good. In this way I'm like the popstar who spends more time doing yoga and dieting than practicing singing, or the salesman who spends all of his money on teethwhitening products instead of being a greasy piece of shit. And that's the valuable lesson I have learnt at University this year.

In my slideshow, I used hundreds of images of artworks that show the two mountains, but I also made some up myself using my rudimentary photoshop skills. I spent literally hours on these, so that's why I want to get the full mileage out of them. These images are ones I used to explain the many similarities between the two mountains.

The complete nerds out there will get the reference to Street Fighter VS. It has nothing to do with the presentation, but I figure if there's an opportunity to reference an arcade game that I never actually played, you do it.

This is where I be all scientific and explain the geological formations of the two mountains. Note the explosion at the back, which was actually a nuclear bomb. I guess I was being a little overdramatic.

A simple photoshop, I know. I just love the satelite photo of the nreal perfect circle of Taranaki national park, because it's like New Zealand's Great Wall of China - except you can actually see it from space.

Clouds are great for photoshopping. That is all.

Of course, if anything is important, it will be replicated on currency.

Lastly, here's a fancy graph. Because no sleazy presentation is complete withou a fancy graph. I could have given you all the one-hour presentation, but I think the lessons learnt through these photoshops were by far the most valuable.

2011-08-31T04:53:00.002+02:00

More Snow

Sorry for the bit of an extended absence. I guess there was another write-worthy event a few weeks back, when it snowed again - even heavier this time, but I didn't want to write about it here because otherwise it will sound like I'm only ever talking about the weather. I don't do small talk. It's too depressing.

After the first bout of snow, and before the 2nd one, I wrote a Canta piece about the overreaction of NZers. Obviously my column fell on blind eyes.

Seriously, when the forecasters were talking about the oncoming snowstorm, they were sounding like doomsday conservative Christian preachers. I just wanted to tell that it's snow - not gay marriage. News reports were telling people to "prepare for the worst". I mean, "the worst" is having to stay in your own house for a couple of days. You must really hate your life if staying home is such a terrifying prospect.

I happened to go to the supermarket a few days before the 2nd snowstorm, and I had never seen so much chaos. There was a giant clog of shopping trolleys all through the shop, and the shelves were nearly empty.

I just stayed home for a few days missing out on some more classes (including a 1-hour presentation). It was fine, but nothing to write home about. But I wanted to share this at least:

http://canta.co.nz/columns/emergency-procedures/

By now though, the Winter seems to have pas... Oh shit, I'm talking about the weather again. it won't happen again.

2011-08-01T05:34:00.006+02:00

Snow Balls
Due to snowfall, Christchurch basically closed for a day and a half last week. This included 80% of my weekly classes, which I wasn't too happy about. But at least there was a snowman to be made. My flatmates woke me up with their excitement, and we went outside and got to work.

I wasn't aware, however, that my (female) flatmates had slightly different ideas. We were still making a snowman, but only a small part of him.

Unwittingly, I had made a giant snowman's left testicle. I took the obligatory photo, which now that I look at it, reminds me of the "Big Ball Dance"

However, all good things must come to an end, and luckily all bad things too. An epic amount of shrinkage on our front lawn signified the return of a normal routine.

Bonus:

Another Canta Piece. Very short. Very silly. I blame the cold.
http://canta.co.nz/columns/keeping-warm-a-students-guide/

2011-07-17T01:54:00.002+02:00

An Idle Mind is a Dangerous Mind

I could keep telling you how lame and domesticated I am, but you'd probably think I'm exaggerating for poetic effect. However, I have proof - documented , verifiable proof of how incredibly lame I am at this point in time.

See, since getting back to Christchurch, I decided to seriously study Japanese again. I had missed the 400-level course last semester due to the earthquake-induced move to Wellington, but I tought if I studied hard enough, I would be able to rejoin the class in the new semester.

My self-study programme included three parts:

Traditional Study - Reading, translating and making flashcards.

Japanese Television - Because only studying boring things isn't sustainable, I started watching a lot of movies and dramas in Japanese. Probably an average of 3 hours per day - which isn't so bad considering I haven't touched the regular TV in nearly two months.

The Nintendo DS - This is the new-ish version of the Gameboy, and there are a lot of brain-type games. I have many different games, including an electronic dictionary and games that test you on Japanese characters. According to the DS, have the Japanese ability of an 11-year old. So, it is quite appropriate that I also play some children's games. However, this is also extremely sad.

One game I have been playing is called Chibi Maruko (pictured above), and is about an eight-year old girl who has small adventures with her school friends. It's so inappropriate for a 26-year old guy, and it kind of makes me feel like a kiddy fiddler. In fact, parent have been warned that the D.S. may be used by sexual predators, as some games use a built-in wifi to connect with other players.

Yet, starved for Japanese entertainment, I keep playing it. Below is the opening screen where your teacher takes a roll-call. Below, each circle means that I played this game on that day.

Eek. yes, that is over 5 weeks without missing a day. What have I become?

However, it seems to be working, as I have started dreaming in Japanese. Luckily they aren't about Chibi Maruko, so maybe there is nothing to worry about.

Speaking of going crazy, Uni is back in, and so in the Uninformant.
http://canta.co.nz/columns/reasoning-with-disaster/

2011-07-03T10:32:00.004+02:00

Not that I think anybody was ever going to hold me to it, but I did promise to post a photo of my origami kiwis. While on my internship, I decided to turn my daily to-do lists into kiwis, as a visual representation of how much work I did. Okay, it's not really that impressive. I don't blame you for not holding me to that promise.

However, there is this photo I took from my final flat in Wellington. It shows me looking down on the city below, watching the silly fools, small as ants, unaware of their meaningless existence.

In other non news, there is no news. I've basically been a monk since leaving Wellington. So here's two awesome pictures slightly relevant to that statement.
More updates when things happen, but no promises. It's likely, however, that the most exciting months of 2011 have already passed. I sure hope so.

2011-06-15T06:23:00.002+02:00

Snapper
I wanted to write about this for a while, but couldn't find the audio link that was needed. Until now...

See, when I went to Wellington, I was told I would need to get a snapper. After giggling for a while, I learnt that this is a serious thing. It's a card you can recharge and use as small change at convenience stores and on public transportation. Now, the reason it is funny, well, listen to this short clip by George Carlin. I don't even have to take it out of context.

http://www.themadmusicarchive.com/song_details.aspx?songid=21926

Now, hopefully you can appreciate why I giggled every single time that I got on the bus and there are signs that say

"Use your snapper!"

"Did you recharge your snapper?"

or even, "Snap on, snap off"

Snapper is also referenced in this song, which is as inappropriate as it is hilarious. You've been warned.

It just amazed me how marketing people can be so lame and out of touch. It's like when a car company tried to name a model: "the wank". Mostly I found it hilarious. Especially when I logged on to their website.
Wow.

Not just the "MySnapper", but the whole text is just comedy gold. I even love the part in blue that says: "register your snapper", "using your snapper", "Snapper FAQs", "Buy a snapper", "Where to Snapper", and "Snapper newsroom". The hilarity never stops.

I just had to write this and put it out in the open so that people understand when I laugh. Also, I am a huge fan of George Carlin and innuendo and never miss an opportunity to educate on them.

Anyway, now that I am no longer in Wellington, I have an unsused snapper lying around. If anyone is interested, let me know.

2011-06-05T03:58:00.000+02:00

2011-05-31T06:49:00.002+02:00

Those who speak to me will know that something I have been quietly working on over the last many years, is musical comedy. However, I think the only time I mentioned this on the site was way back when it all began in 2007 (link here). Since then, I had been looking to diversify a little bit, and see if what I do can work outside of an english-speaking-audience-in-Japan.

In Holland I did several singer-songwriter open-mic nights with English songs that were really quite inappropriate, and although it seemed to go well, I really longed for a comedy audience instead of anrgy/depressed/pretending-to-be-artsy musician crowds. I had been ignored by the Tokyo Comedy Club as well as the Gong Show at the Chicago Comedy Club in Amsterdam. In Christchurch there were no real comedy clubs, and if there were, they sure as hell don't exist anymore. So coming up to Wellington was a great opportunity.

There is one true comedy club here (although most of the time it is a Karaoke bar), however the open mic night was postponed the last month due to, ironically, the Wellington Comedy Festival. Luckily, I got my chance to shine last night. I was so excited about it that I set about photoshopping together some posters to advertise the event. The were on facebook, but not everyone can be lucky enough to be my facebook friend. So, here they are below.

Yes, I am parodying comedy advertisements. The formula is basically to take an embarrassing photo and add a lame or inappropriate pun.

Anyway, although my posters failed to bring in any of my facebook friends, it seeemed to go very well. It's a beautiful thing when you hear laughter at exactly the right moments. I can perform there again next week, and hopefully after then I can finally start to make things happen. It might sound like it's a sudden thing, but it has been a long-time coming, and I'm not finished yet.

2011-05-30T07:18:00.003+02:00

The Uninformant, May 25th

Here is an extremely silly piece (no pun intended) I wrote about the Earthquake Refugee experience from the perspective of my pubes.

Enjoy!

Bonus:

Below is a photo of my computer. I decided, instead of throwing away all the pieces of paper where I write my day's to-do list, to fold them into origami Kiwis. It serves as a daily reminder that I have been achieving a lot during my time here, and is a nice form of procrastination. It would make the people over at M-thru-F very proud. I think I am already quite suited to corporate life.

Note, this photo was taken more than a week ago, so already they seem to have multiplied. On completion of the internship, I will show the final result.

2011-05-28T03:28:00.004+02:00

The Home Stretch

I woke up this morning, opened the curtains and the sunlight poured into the living room. This was the view that greeted me.
It was a reminder of how great a city Wellington is, and also how lucky I was to get this flat. Until now I had been staying with the kindness of strangers, but now I have a little 2-room flat. It's sweet - it's a perfect bachelorette-pad. See, I'm house-sitting for a colleague who is overseas, and so after 6 weeks of couch-surfing/refugeeing, after 7 different houses and 11 different beds, I have my own space and can finally relax.

Unfortunately, my immune system also decided to relax. It's like how so many students get sick after exams, meaning you can't enjoy the holidays. However, I think I could use a quiet weekend, even if it is filled with phlegm. So, for example, today I have taken a walk to the waterfront to a free-wifi area to catch up on the internet.

Behind is Te Papa, where I'm interning, and you can see that it is a great day to be doing nothing. It's odd though how "nothing" has taken on a new meaning, now that I'm not living in a city that is destroyed. Because, ever single week, it's a whole new nothing. Just walking to work is exciting. One week I'm walking along the waterfront, the next week I'm walking through Central park, and then another week I'm commuting directly through The Basin Reserve, the cricket grounds.

Below is a small 'shop of the above photo with the locations I have surfed.

I do think in the last month-and-a-half I have made up for the extreme-boredom post-earthquake. I am going back home to Christchurch in a few weeks, but until then, I'm staying home in Wellington.

2011-05-17T07:09:00.002+02:00

Small Update: Interning

While the living situation is going well (i.e. I'm still alive), I have gone down a notch from being at a place with dial-up internet to a place without any internet at all.

So, there isn't much time for a thorough update, however, luckily the media has done that for me. Check out this video from the news last week. That's my boss speaking, and I was the Personal Assistant for the guy in charge of the entire ceremony. I make an appearance in the video at about the 55-second mark. So yeah, it hasn't just been a regular internship where you're basically a glorified coffee-machine who has to wear a tie and kiss ass. No, I have actually proved to be slightly useful, which is a phrase I never imagined myself writing.

Happy watching!

2011-05-04T03:15:00.003+02:00

The Uninformant Term II

Sorry the last few weeks have been quiet from my end. It turns out the place I'm staying in at the moment has a dail-up connection. Although, it is quite appropriate as the house was also built in 1890 when nobody knew about broadband.

Also, exciting news, the Uninformant has gone live on the new Canta site. This means that not only do you get to read it, but so do I as Canta does not deliver to Wellington. I'll keep linking my pieces on here though.

This about my move up to Wellington after the first week.

Also, an unusually serious bit from the last week of term 1.

2011-04-17T13:43:00.002+02:00

The Uninformant: The Cost of Allowance

There is no more simple pleasure in life than free money. That’s what makes life so great as a student eligible for a living allowance – especially when, due to the earthquake you have yet to take a single class. It’s like being on the benefit without the social shame. For those who aren’t lucky enough to be old or have really poor parents, I sincerely say to you: “Haha”. You have to pay all that money back.

I felt vindicated after finally being eligible for a student allowance. Several years ago I finished my undergraduate degree. My parents were – according to the government – rich, just like all other part-time teachers, so I had a considerable loan to pay back. I went off into the real world (i.e. overseas) with the loan growing fat, and managed to pay it all off. But now that I’m old and the money is free, I came back to study.

However, it hasn’t been all I expected it to be. Who would have thought that they would make it so difficult to claim your free money? It’s hard work, and hard work isn’t why I came back to University. I guess if they made claiming free money a pleasurable experience everyone would be doing it, and where’s the money in that?

First of all, something I am sure every student has had to deal with by now: the Studylink hotline. If you manage to even get through, you will be put on hold for at least 15 minutes. In those 15 minutes, you are pummelled with patronising recorded messages telling you to go online. This is what I call “FAQ service” (pronounced: “Fuck-you service”).

Then you are bombarded by the songs are done justice by being played on a tiny telephone receiver. Forget students, I think the Finn Brothers, Bic Runga and Dave “Kiddyfiddler” Dobbyn are probably the biggest beneficiaries from Studylink, with the royalties they must surely get from the thousands of people being put on hold every day. It took all my willpower to abstain from booing Dave Dobbyn at the Christchurch Earthquake memorial. I never liked these songs much anyway, but now every time I hear them, I just hope that there isn’t a kitten nearby, because if there is, I will strangle it. I predict that Kiwi Music Week this year will be a dark time for kittens all over the country.

Lastly, the most infuriating thing is when you finally get through to the call-centrist, they are polite and helpful, when what you really want to do is defecate into the receiver.

However, maybe there is method to Studylink’s induced madness. First of all, for the time you spend on the phone, or on their website, or posting away signed forms in duplicate, or – god forbid – standing in line, you are paid well. You end up getting stressed for no reason, and you start despising your boss. It is actually great preparation for a university student about to enter the corporate world. You will get your 200 dollars, but before you pass Go, they will make you come to a full halt.

2011-04-08T09:45:00.003+02:00

The Uninformant: Week IIII

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The Student Economy

Many students want a part-time job, but between the state of the economy and the fact that the CBD is now little more than a crater, the job market is especially tight right now. Browsing through trademe jobs, Student Job Search and the Saturday edition of The Press Classifieds is always entertaining – particularly where almost every listing invariably says: “Good communication skills essential” and “experience required.”

First of all, why are good communication skills so essential for menial jobs such as cleaning houses? All the home-owner has to do is give you a mop and point to the wet patch. Furthermore, how do you measure communication skills? It doesn’t even say which language. I suspect that “good communication skills” is simply code for “retards need not apply.”

However, even if you have an IQ of more than 70, first of all congratulations, but you still need experience if you want to earn that sweet minimum wage. Basically, this is where you have two equally valid options: tell the truth, or lie.

If you are going to tell the truth, be aware that whatever you say will have the air of desperation. It will sound something like this: “This will be my first time, and I am quite nervous about it, but I think I am ready and I will be very grateful. If given the opportunity, I will do my very best and I won’t stop or rest until you are satisfied with the job I have done.”

Telling a lie about your past experiences, on the other hand, will do you no good either. They’ll somehow know, and then halfway through the job they’ll ask you “this is your first time, isn’t it?”, and you’ll blush profusely and say something like, “No, but it was a long time ago”, and everything will just be awkward until you leave. Then she’ll never call you again.

However, there are some ways to earn money that don’t require experience. I am talking about being a human guinea pig. These have a bad reputation since the film Firestarter, which starred a 9-year old Drew Barrymore who could control fire with her mind. However, there might also be some negative effects from such clinical trials, though it’s best not to ask.

You may have been aware of the kerfuffle surrounding SJS recently for taking down an advertisement for a nude handyman. Then they were also getting criticisms for leaving up an ad for a product test to “test a brand of cigarettes and provide feedback.” Ah, SJS is always looking out for the wellbeing of students, since nudity is obviously more harmful than smoking.

There was an advertisement on campus for a psychological trial. The next line said it was for homosexual men only. I can’t say that I wasn’t a little curious, but it wasn’t enough to make me want to switch teams.

The orientation pack also contained a voucher for getting a Brazilian wax for $38. I went to bargain with them and told them I would let them wax me for $50, but they quite rudely told me to go away.

However, if you are lucky enough to own your own set of boobs, there are always ads for escorts and strippers - no experience necessary! Presumably, communication skills aren’t important either (i.e. retards are free to apply). That’s when I realised how appropriately named Trademe really is. Because to get a student job in this economy, you will on some level have to whore yourself out.

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2011-04-08T01:55:00.004+02:00

Tekapo

Last week I finally escaped Christchurch for a couple of days - the first time since January that I've left the city. Tekapo is a small touristy place famed for its lake. It is a glacial lake, and certain minerals give it the unreal-blue colour. I was sitting on a parkbench overlooking the lake while writing, and I saw the clouds trying to spill over the mountains. It was really quite magnificent, so I decided to take photos every 20 seconds or so. I put them together in the video below. The 2nd set from about the 55-second is really spectacular, as you can see the wind changes and sweeps a bright blue all the way across the lake. The song is an instrumental from my musical director. (More on this in the future)

My friend will start working tours at the observatory. Apparently, due to the mountains keeping the clouds from entering, Tekapo has the clearest skies in New Zealand. So, I spent an entire night on top of the hill under the milky way and shooting stars. It was pretty amazing.

However, it was also a time of sadness. As we were driving down a 100kmph road near Mt. Cook, there was a noise on the car bonnet. I turned around and looked through the back window to see a small black object bouncing on the road. My heart sunk because I knew exactly what it was: my camera. I had left it on the car during a lunch-break. That was a trusty camera ever since I accidentally went to England. It's the end of an era.

However, all up, the trip was very much worth it. There was also a night's camping, a beautiful walk up a hill overlooking the lake, and a wind-down in a hotspring. Who would have thought that leaving a devastated city would be such an uplifting experience?

2011-04-02T08:08:00.004+02:00

The Uninformant Week III: Veni Vedi Faece

This is an unusual column for me as there is a serious issue here (somewhere). However, it still covers one of my favourite topics of conversation - poop - so it all balances out. It came about during my volunteering for the Student Volunteer Army, and I somehow became known as the "composting toilet guy". Soon I'll write a proper posting about what I'm doing with my life (hint: not much), but until then, enjoy. (Images of the article as it appeared in Canta is reporoduced below).

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Veni, Vedi, Faece

I wish more people would ask me how I became involved with composting human faeces, because I would reply: “Oh, I just fell into it.” Last year, I read the hilariously and appropriately named The Humanure Handbook out of an unhealthy fascination with toilet humour. However while my childish sense of humour remains, it does all make a lot of sense. Especially now when many Cantabrians are using expensive portaloos, harmful chemical toilets, making long-drops and burying their crap as a kind of time-capsule, or crapping into buckets and leaving it in the red bins because the garbage-men of the world don’t have a shitty-enough job as it is. People are already pooping in less-than-optimal conditions, so they may as well learn how to do it right.

The Humanure Handbook, by Joseph Jenkins lays out a simple, cheap, non-wasteful and a sustainable way of dealing with your human waste which is not only ideal in times of need, but an alternative to regular toilets. I’m not going to give a book review, but I do encourage people to read it. You have nothing to lose. At the very worst it is worth a laugh, but otherwise it shows a new way for a more sustainable future.

I got involved with the Humanure Project Christchurch while volunteering for the Student Volunteer Army and a series of chance meetings with people who compost their own shit. Yes, at the moment it takes a certain type of person to do it – namely hippies and/or idealists. These people have big ideas to phase out all the portaloos and chemical toilets in Christchurch, and hopefully many people will see the advantages and continue to use them even after the infrastructure gets back up and running. Unfortunately, people generally aren’t too enthusiastic about big ideas, as you will know if you’ve ever been asked “Hey! What’s the big idea?” Most people seem averse to pooping in a bucket, composting it, and using it as fertiliser to make juicy tomatoes, but this is an objection based on social conditioning, not on pragmatic terms. They don’t see themselves as the kind of people who wear tie-dye shirts and list their hobbies as “climbing trees”, but there is no reason why people whose houses don’t look and smell like a fortune teller’s tent can’t also compost their own crap. That’s why we need to at least start a conversation and weighing up the pros and cons. Wilbur Wright famously said, “It is possible to fly without wings, but not with knowledge”, and this could apply with humanure.

Over the duration of a week, I had conversations about humanure with countless people (*note: apparently I can’t count much past a few hundred) till the point that my flatmates would say: “Do you mind? We’re eating.” I spoke with regular people, and non-regular people (community leaders and local politicians), and everyone who listens for long enough agrees that this is a good idea, but maybe not for them. There is something so satisfying at an animal-level about taking a dump into 12 gallons of fresh bottled-water-grade drinking water. It’s like stuffing your face full of KFC in front of a hungry Rwandan family, and you don’t even like KFC that much.

However, there are pockets of people all around the world who swear by composting toilets, and hopefully with the aid of some media coverage the concept will become less alternative, and will become considered as a viable alternative for people who simply want to save about 20% of their water usage and who want to save on buying fertiliser. If it’s true that people put their money where their mouth is, then many people will be talking shit. Not to mention that this knowledge could help out many people should another disaster hit.

Composting toilets may not be ideal for students. Landlords and R.A.s might not be too enthused about having a pile of shit in the garden, and students often won’t stay in one place long enough to benefit from the fertiliser – and probably won’t be lugging their faeces to their next flat, but nevertheless, I recommend The Humanure Handbook as a good and important read. You can read or download the ebook for free (http://www.weblife.org/humanure/), and hopefully many libraries will soon start stocking it too. For those who are converted there may even be workshops around the city later this year. At the very least, keep it in mind, and maybe one day you too will proudly say “I came, I saw, I composted”.

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2011-03-26T06:50:00.003+01:00

The Uninformant Week II

Above is the image, and below is the 2nd installment of my UNInformant column, about a day in the life of volunteering. I was honestly a little surprised that it wasn't edited, although I just noticed that the title did get changed from Involuntary Offence to Involuntary Response. Very little to complain about there, though. I just wish that it was paragraphed properly, and I should maybe have submitted a picture or photoshop to make it stand out. This is more than double the length I will usually be writing, so it was nice to be able to be a little bit more narrative. I hope you enjoy it, because if you don't enjoy it, you really won't enjoy it. That's just how I roll.

Involuntary Offence

I’ve always said that I’m not a bad person – I’m just not a very good one. Volunteering for the Student Volunteer Army is a perfect example of this. It was great because I was able to meet and help so many different people, and then I could judge them and make fun of them behind their backs. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not being malicious, but it is just the way I usually was before the earthquake, so getting back into this mind-frame showed me that life was getting back to normal. And that’s what everybody wants right now.

Friday, March the 4^th was a big day for the SVA, but it felt more like a giant PR exercise for the group photo which was planned in advance, as there were obviously not enough buses running. At least they provided a “BBQ Breakfast”, which as it turned out was pretty-much the same as a regular BBQ. Sausages don’t go so well with coffee, but in this time of need, we all have to make compromises.

My couch-surfer and I found space on the police criminal-transport bus, which led to a very deep conversation about the brilliance of the action film, Con Air. In retrospect, it more resembled The Fugitive, but that horrendous oversight must be due to ‘earthquake brain’. However, escape from this bus was disappointingly easy, as they kicked us off saying that Civil Defence has a better use for it. I imagined they had organised a criminal chain-gang to pick-axe a new tunnel to Lyttleton. Yes, I am aware that I am easily influenced by the movies.

They told us to wait at the tent until the next buses arrived, and once we arrived at the tent they told us that there would be no more buses. Damn, we fell for that one too easy. Now, it was after 10AM, this article is already 300 words long, and I hadn’t helped anyone yet (apart from contributing a few pixels in the group photo). After a few more coffees and a lot of waiting around, I was able to join a squadron consisting of a Czech Republican, her station wagon, a wheelbarrow with a monster-truck-sized wheel, my couch-surfer American and two 17-year old schoolgirls. It was a group of misfits unseen since Dad’s Army or Vince Vaughn’s team in Dodgeball.

We drove out to the address given to us, only to learn that the Farmy Army had cleaned up the street without letting the SVA know. Damn farmers. Sure, we appreciate the work they have put in, but they don’t seem to be very good at communicating with creatures that have less than four nipples. Unfortunately that includes most of the volunteers at the Student Volunteer Army.

The next address given to us was a beautiful house with a New Zealand flag and a Dutch flag both flying at full-mast. Being both Dutch and a Kiwi – and a full-mast kind-of guy, I felt completely at home. The 80+ year old lady home was equally badass. She even had one eye like the assassin The California Mountain Snake from Kill Bill. She, and her two ridiculously cute Maltese’s were very happy to see us. She said the only damage to her house was a broken mirror which apparently was ‘God’s way of telling her she was getting too vain’. There was only a small pile of silt that we cleared in about 15 minutes, but this is exactly why the SVA exists. She was so happy that she brought out glasses and a bottle of 7-Up, and a couple of $20 notes. I am so proud of us for not accepting it. I mean, I’m a poor student, the two foreigners on working holidays could have used money instead of working for free, and I’m sure the schoolgirls have cell phones that they’d like to bedazzle.

Next we arrived at a house on a big main road. It seemed all the houses and streets had been cleared, but this property still had a large pile of silt on the lawn. I knocked on the door in case the owners were home. Nothing. I knocked again. I heard a budgie from inside and some movement. The door opened and a couple wearing a nightgown and Pjamas stood there as I explained that were from the SVA. The house was filthy. They just repeatedly said “yeah, ok.” and closed the door in our face.

That was weird. I think they were retarded. My friend thinks they were just poor and lazy. There was no other possible explanation. But either way, that is not a good reason for why 10 days later they hadn’t even tried moving the silt. If they were retarded, they were surely the real strong kind, like Chief from One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. I felt like our volunteering was being abused a little bit. Thankfully, the monster-truck tyre of our wheelbarrow blew up before we could finish. I knocked on their door to tell them why we’d be leaving without finishing, and they were still in their Pjamas. Mind you, it was after midday which put very bad images in my head. Because whatever the truth was about them, thinking about retard sex - or poor and lazy sex – is really quite gross. And we had impressionable teenage girls around.

Our third address for the day was extremely hard to find. Luckily, we passed by a school ground where there was a free BBQ for the community and also volunteers. Basically, if you look dirty enough, they’ll feed you. This was perfect, even though it made the day a total sausage-fest, it was infinitely better that what we’d been given at the SVA. Don’t get me wrong, the donated lunch packets were glorious, but it consisted only of the snack foods kids love to find in their school lunches. I mean, they were labelled “Non-perishable”, which is definitely not a synonym for “healthy”. I think the last few days I consumed enough preservatives to last me a few lifetimes. In fact, I believe that’s how the process of mummification works. The mummy of King Tut is actually 90% muesli bar, as is Larry King.

The third address was near to where I went with the bus Battalions on the first days of the SVA. This cul-de-sac had been completely skipped over and only now was being filled with a mountain of silt. I got to talking with the home-owner and his freakishly large rugby-playing 14-year-old son. The dad was using the experience as character building for his son, and since it’s too late for my own character to be built, I chimed in with some advice that has served me well: “Stay in school, don’t get a job.”

I mean, I came back to university to escape the real world, but for the last 10 days the real world was far too close for comfort. I want to go back to pretending that the archaic feminist perspective is still valid, that I believe all cultures are equal, and that getting a C+ is an actual tragedy. I don’t believe in karma, but I have done a lot of good deeds lately, and I now feel justified at being an asshole again for quite a long time. At the end of the day, three of the comedians who were planned for the UCSA Comedy night on the 22^nd of February came by to perform for an hour, and based on their jokes and the response from the crowd, I think most people feel ready to stop being so sensitive. Things were starting to get back to normal.

2011-03-15T04:00:00.005+01:00

The UNInformant (Week 1)

One of the things I was excited about being back at Canterbury was reprising my old column, The UNInformant. In my 2nd year of University (2005) I wrote every 2nd week or so a bit of a humour/opinion column in the university magazine, Canta, which seemed to go down really well. This year, I wanted to take it more seriously and try get a decent piece up every week. In my waiting for the school year to start up, I wrote several drafts for new articles. Of course, with the earthquake striking in the first week of school, everything has been pushed back. However, this week a small post-earthquake edition was printed with some thoughts about the quake from yours truly. (unfortunately they left my real name off the article, wrongly presuming that I want to hide behind my pen-name.) It's just a collection of thoughts gathered during the first few days after the earthquake.

Hopefully things will get back up to normal soon, and I'll re-publish them here, as Canta is not a widely distributed magazine. Also, the article that wasn't published has been put up here: http://uninformant.blogspot.com/
Basically, that will be where I'll post articles which have been left on the editing room floor, which may be extras or articles which are deemed too offensive or inappropriate for a university magazine (I'll do my best). But you don't have to bookmark it or anything. If I add anything to that weblog, I'll link to it here.

2011-03-06T03:04:00.003+01:00

Update:

Anyone who knows me will know that I'm in Christchurch and doing just fine. My English-teaching friends in Japan and I used to make fun of the simple sentence structures that they teach to Japanese students. For example, they teach the weather by saying "It's" followed by the type of weather (sun/rain/wind) and adding "y". We sometimes took this to the next level and made our own sentences like "It's lightningy", "It's typhoony" and "It's earthquakey". This last one is actually quite apt for the last week and a half since the big 6.4 earthquake in Christchurch. Especially the days afterwards, the ground didn't feel solid. Apparently there were over 200 aftershocks in the first week.

University is going to be closed for at least another week as they figure out how to deal with the logistics of getting the classes up and running without 4 buildings which are not safe for use at this stage. I'm sure it will all end up working itself out, and I am very much looking forward to starting again. I'd spent about 4-5 weeks just waiting for school to start, and on the 2nd day another 3 weeks have been added to that total.

If you've seen any of the destruction on TV, you'll be pleased to know that we suffered hardly any damage. There was only really the damage as seen in the photos below. It was mainly broken glass, toppled plants and cracks in the walls (which are the landlord's problem).

Sure it took a while to clean up, but nothing compared to what I have seen lately. I've been volunteering most days for the Student Volunteer Army which sends out people to clear silt which has buried streets, backyards and in some cases even the insides of homes.

I used to complain that the University of Canterbury is not in the city centre anymore. I'm now sorry that I ever did. Sure the old university buildings are/were beautiful, but that would be the last thing on your mind if you saw it falling down on top of you.

I'm not going to resort to the stereotype of how lucky I am, because that is demeaning to the people who weren't lucky. But in a way - the Dutch way - I am lucky. Hopefully soon things will be back to what I presume normal would have been if I could have began a routine, and I'll be back to my usual condescending self.

Take care one and all.

2011-02-21T02:41:00.005+01:00

Flies Getting Caught

I have a history of putting the hurt on disgusting creatures, such as this gallery of the destroyed remnants of mosquitos I massacred in my bedroom. And now is the follow-up.

Way back in my first year of university we had a cleaning lady come by every week to 'sanitise surfaces'. Basically that meant she felt justified in telling us off if we weren't clean enough. Anyway, being summer when I arrived, the place was swarming with flies. After a while, it drove me insane. I vividly remember losing my shit, rolling up a newspaper and going on what can only be called a "rampage". Not only were there pieces of flies smeared all over the walls, I was hitting them so hard that the newspaper itself was leaving streaks all over the white walls. Sure enough the cleaning lady wrote a passive aggressive message telling me not to "crush the flies".

So there was only one thing to do: I had to up my game. Over the course of the extended summer, I honed my skills and learnt to catch them. First I crept up behind them, and was surprised when I got them, but pretty soon I was catching them with ease, and catching them directly out of the air. Sometimes I would catch two in one hand, or even one in each hand.

However, with my technique, the flies were still very much alive in my hand. I coouldn't bring myself to squeeze them to death, so instead I learnt that if I threw them against the wall, they would pretty much die. That started a whole year where I would catch flies, throw them against the fridge and then kick them underneath. I like to imagine the cleaning lady's face when at the end of the year she pulled out the fridge to see a fly-graveyard. That will teach her to cross me.

The skill has never left me. It has become a bit of a party trick. One BBQ in Japan was so swarming with flies that I spent almost the whole time catching them and putting them into a soft-drink bottle. Everyone probably thought I was weird, but I was so proud and trying to show off my "Fly Zoo". Lately in the new flat, we have a similar problem, and I decided to have fun with it. Here I present the exclusive video of Flies Getting Caught. [Note, it is based on - and uses the soundtrack of - SNL's People Getting Punched Just Before Eating. If you haven't see it, you should probably watch it first.]

Enjoy!

Related Viewing:

From the Karate Kid 3 (which is taken from the myth of Musashi)

Obama being awesome during an interview. (which hilariously angered PETA)

2011-02-19T07:56:00.002+01:00

Book Report

Since arriving in Christchurch and until Monday, I have had more than a month of unemployment, although that doesn't sound very nice. I prefer to call it PMS - "Pre-Mature Studentness".

Obviously, I had to do something to fill in my time, and since I am easily influenced by the corrupting influence of Gangster Hip Hop, I decided to read a book.

(Warning: if you weren't tipped off by the words "gangster hip hop", this video does contain a few naughty words.)

But really, for somebody who enjoys writing so much, it really is a shameful secret how little I actually read myself. So, I used this time before my student life (or, my "studentness") really begins to try and remedy that. So far I have downed a book every day and a half, and some of them don't even have pictures.

In this process, I have learned many things - mainly how awesome public libraries are in New Zealand. I mean, they have confortable seats, some have wifi, and they stock awesome books. It would be even cooler if I was younger and liked comic books and computer games, because they have them here too. Of course, I have learned some things within the books themselves too, and now I am giving my unofficial, incomplete book report, in no particular order.

1. Richard Dawkins: Unweaving the Rainbow
Richard Dawkins may be a scientist, calm mannered, proper, nerdy and weedy. But my word is he a pimp. Sure he pimp-slaps religion, as this book is before his God Delusion, but he goes on to genuinely destroy other loads of crap like Astrology, alternative medicine and anyone who uses scientific language to make themselves - or whatever they're selling - sound good. And the best part is, he manages to put poetry into science.

2. Dr. Seuss - A Double Dose of Horton
I originally wanted to get out Green Eggs and Ham for my Russians who shockingly did not know that book. However, Horton is not a bad substitute. It's strange that I've never even accidentally seen any part of the movie, but oh well. I learnt from this book that Americans can rhyme "Mayor" with "there". Eek. Either Dr. Seuss was from the deep south, or all Americans are as bad as rhyming as Kanye West.

3. Toulouse Lautrec and the fin de Siecle
A brilliantly written book - if not too long and sparse on pictures. It explained in detail about Paris at the end of the 19th Century including the real origins of Le Chat Noir and the Moulin Rouge. Especially notable was the throwaway sentence about how there was a performer in the 1890's in Paris who was a flatualist. Just like this guy.

4. Shakespeare - Othello
Wait, Othello was black?

5. Bill Bryson - Mother Tongue
Very interesting, and it made me lose my prejudice towards American English. Or, at least I thought so until I made that joke about Americans a couple of paragraps ago.

6. Dave Barry and Ridley Pearson

I was looking for Dave Barry books, because he is hilarious. It turned out this was a children's book. So, being a male in my mid 20's rummaging through the young adult section in the library, I felt like everyone was automatically judging me as a kiddy fiddler.

7. Dave Barry - Money Secrets

The classic Dave Barry I love so much. At a library! I remember 5 years ago I would go down to the bookstore every saturday to read Dave Barry books, and now I can take them home for free? Sorry Dave if you are reading this. I promise to buy all your books someday.

8. Manet: By Himself
This was a collection of letters that Manet wrote and recieved, as well as some essays and brilliant pictures. Yes, that is why I love Art History so much - it's all an excuse to look at nice pictures.

9. Clawing at the Limits of Cool
This book explored the early years of Miles Davis and John Coltraine, who I now know are important figures in the history of not only Jazz, but music, culture, and civilization as we know it. Okay, so maybe I shouldn't base all my knowledge from one (albeit convincing) book, but it definitely makes me listen to jazz differently. And there was a great quote by Coltraine who was asked by Davis why he was eating so many bananas. Coltraine replied: "Gorilla's eat banana's, and they're strong as a motherfucker."

10. Courbet
This was a collection of essays about a truly underappreciated artist. One particularly controversial but historically significant work is called "The Origin of the World", which is now hanging in the Musee d'Orsay in Paris. Now, it is basically a picture of a woman from an unusual angle. Use your imagination (or if you can't be bothered click here). Anyway, when I got to the chapter on the significance of this work, I found that the pages were stuck together. "Gross" I thought, until I realised that some lame librarian or concerned citizen had taken to it with glue to censor the book. Ah, I love when an artwork can stay controversial 150 years later. That takes talent.

12. Stephen Colbert - I am America (and so can you)

I am quite ashamed to have borrowed this book from the library, as Stephen Colbert explicitly instructs any reader to make sure that they have their own copy. (There is even a space to write your name). Nevertheless, I am very grateful that libraries are so awesome.

So that's the end of my incomplete book report. I think I have done quite well so far, so I am going to go ahead and give myself my own grade.

Anyway, since University is about to start again, don't expect another book report from quite some time. That is, unless they require me to make a book report.

2011-02-14T07:02:00.004+01:00

The Sunflower Bandit

Last time on the Great Re-Migration, I showed you around the house and all the wonderful things there are to be done. However, there is a darker side of our neighbourhood: the underbelly of crime.

The Russians have been busy over the last year tilling the fields, plowing, and lovingly tending to their crops, and this summer has a substantial harvest. There are tomatoes, cherry-tomatoes, potatoes, lettuces and freakishly-shaped courgettes that I am not sexually secure enough to describe. Here, see what I mean?

The keen observer may have noticed in earlier photos that there were also sunflowers in our garden. Well, the darker side of our neighbourhood showed itself when a distraght Russian said to me: "someone stole my sunflower."

Now, I am never quick to judge, and I always believe in the good of humanity. I mean, what kind of self-respecting person would steal a sunflower from a small front garden? Surely there is some logical explanation. Take a look at the evidence for yourself:No, it was definitely stolen. But seriously, who steals a sunflower? That's like going into the cancer ward at a children's hospital with a thumb-tac and popping all the balloons. So obviously, we live in a dark underworld where we can trust no-one.

Let us imagine a world where stealing sunflowers was okay. Actually, you don't have to imagine. I have recreated that future with the help of sophisticated image-interfacing software.

It's pretty chilling future, I know. It is a future I never hoped I hoped I would never be a part of, but now it is here.

Of course, all of this is just a way to conveniently link to a masterful and under-rated (or rather - if it were a word - "under-known") Monty Python skit, which I have always named "The Lupin Bandit." It is in fact called "Dennis Moore".

Here is Part 2

And here is Part 3.

So as a precaution, the rest of the sunflowers were harvested, not quite yet ripe. Now they are out to dry in the living room. Now if any evil neighbour wants to steal them, they'll have to deal with a home-security system. That will learn them.

2011-02-06T10:16:00.002+01:00

The Russian House

The house on Rubens Place is known as the Russian House. I am making this known now so that in future references, I may quite possibly make Russian jokes. Although if I ever make any Yakov Smirnoff jokes, you have my permission to send me to the firing squad, that is, if they don't get to me first. "They" are the Russians who I am flatting with. Yes, like any (im)migrant, it is very difficult to interact with the regular locals. I know, soon the New Zealand neighbours will be saying "Those stupid Dutch and Russians always hang out with each other and don't try to integrate into society".

As has already been made public, I have a long affinity with Russian culture, by which I mean I once bought a Red Army hat for 50 cents. It was an excellent hat which served me well for a costume party and the equally ridiculous national elections in Holland.

Furthermore, according to online computer facial recognition programs, the celebrity I most resemble is Dolph Lungdren. Okay, it is maybe a stretch to call him a celebrity, but we all know him as Ivan "The Russian" Drago from Rocky IV.

The photo below may remind you of me a little more.

Also, I enjoy doing a Natasha Fatale accent from the ancient cartoon series Rocky and Bullwinkle. For those who either don't know this series, or for those that love it, take a look and be reminded how great cartoons used to be.

Note: I have found that when doing this Natasha accent, to make perfectly clear that you are trying to sound Russian, is it best to also mime stroking an imaginary cat in the manner of a super-villain. I have yet to be drunk/brave enough to try this accent on my flatmates, but I am sure they will love it. Because everybody loves to have their accent imitated in front of them.

So, that is pretty much what goes on behind that picket fence of mine. And don't worry, I am strong-willed and will not succumb to selling state secrets.

On the other hand...

2011-02-02T03:23:00.005+01:00

Rubens Place

Rubens Place is not quite Disneyland or Willy Wonka's Chocolate factory, which are also both nice in their own ways.

The main rides at Rubens Place are the Road Bike Rally (Pictured above). If you love bicycling down flat, wide and eternally straight suburbs, this is the ride for you.

Next up is The Gauntlet (pictured below, also known as "my bedroom".)
If there was a door at the other end, this would basically be a hallway. Sadly, this room is still bigger than my last two bedrooms, so progress is always welcome, even depressingly small amounts of progress.There are two sub-rides in The Gauntlet:

The Office-Chair Roulette - It is a chair that spins around. Perfect for spinning around, should the need arise.

The Single Bed - Okay, admittedly, this ride will probably be a let-down. I can sleep on the couch when you come visit.

Next up at Rubens Place is the Mystery Ride. Whatever it is, it is happening on the other side of this very fence.

Don't be fooled by the white picket-fence. Nothing past these slats remotely resembles peaceful middle-class suburbia.

So come on down to Rubens Place, the place where excitment never had a chance to stop.

(Rubens Place: No exit)

2011-01-24T00:03:00.005+01:00

The Great Re-Migration

"Spread your wings and fly" -- pretty much every musician, poet and cliche enthusiast.

In the summer of 2006 I left New Zealand far behind, as I embarked on a spectacular series of ~~failures~~ learning experiences. I even became a non-resident for tax purposes, whatever that means, and I even managed to clear all my debts so that the New Zealand Gestapo wouldn't have a reason to hunt me down. And yet, here I find myself once again.

While the years in Japan were defined by specifically not fitting in, and the time spent in Holland was a quest to re-integrate into Dutch society, being back in New Zealand finds myself with a whole new mission statement. Now, instead of reintegrating, I am reimmigrating - or re-migrating for short. I guess the point of migrating birds is that they fly back to where they came from, otherwise they would have nowhere to migrate to. So maybe it makes more sense than I'm able to comprehend right now.

Either way, this weblog at ruvaman.blogspot.com has been going strong since the end of 2005, however, there was a space of two years before then that I hardly wrote at all. This coincided with the time I was living in Christchurch. The place didn't seem to inspire me, it's just so flat - and I'm not only talking about the landscape. So, naturally, when I decided to re-migrate, I chose Christchurch again. I must really hate myself, or love a challenge. (Hint, I don't like working too hard, or at all). At least now this time around there are earthquakes to lively up the place a little bit.

Nevertheless, I am learning that immigrating can be a very difficult process. For example, sometimes it can take months before you can even find a place to live. Granted, for me it took two days and the first place I looked at, but that shouldn't undermine the previous sentence I just wrote. No, life as an immigrant is full of hardships, like illegal immigrant labour.

Yes, I have been exploited already with heavy physical labour. For legal purposes, this paragraph is not true (even though it is on the internet). Neither can it be proved, even if it were. Thanks to the earthquake, there are many buildings waiting to be torn down. This requires menial and back-breaking labour, and that usually requires illegal immigrant labour. That's where I came in. I set my alarm for 6am, tried snoozing, and three minutes later there was a 5.1 earthquake. "Fine," I thought, "I'll get up already." At 7am I arrived at the site. I was given a hard-hat, a reflective vest and instructions that if I hurt myself that I should "go out on the road and pretend that you have nothing to do with us." Basically, it was more than 11 hours of moving piles of rubble into new piles or rubble. And then, at one stage, a pile of lumber that I had moved earlier, had to be moved along a little bit further. That was about the most exciting and unexpected thing about the entire day, other than lunch (which I prepared myself the night before). The next three days I felt so sore as if I had been beaten relentlessly with sacks of potatoes by angry lesbians.

So as you can see, the hardships of being a remigrant are brutal and eye-opening. These are the kinds of things I will endeavour to convey here on The Great Re-Migration, and who knows, some of the stories I tell may even be true. And one of these days, I might even get my feet off the ground and this will be a real-life Feivel goes West story. And that is what The Great Re-Migration is all about.

"If I had wings I'd fly away from here
But wherever I land people would think that I was weird
They'd be like why do you have wings
Did your mom have sex with a bird or something?" -- Jon Lajoie

2010-12-31T16:16:00.007+01:00

I was going to first post a small video montage of the holiday I've just come back from, but due to technical difficulties and technology-rage, that will have to come at a later date. Also, this will come as a spoiler alert, because it concerns the holiday and the fact that I was in Spain.

Update... It is an end-of-year miracle, and the video is up. Have a look, or not. It is mainly photos of the sights, and not of the many museums we went to. (It was winter, not really the best time of the year to hit the beach-clubs.)

Basically, in my last few weeks of being in Ho-Land, I would spend most of it in Spain, while the rest of Europe was buried under snow. Not a bad trade-off really. And even though you might think that it was a waste of my last moments in Holland, one of the best things about Holland is its close proximity to other countries. Yeah, that's a back-handed compliment (like dating a girl because her mother is hot), but also kind of true.

(The song used for the video was "Me Gustas Tú by French/Spanish aritist Manu Chao. The song may be familiar from the brilliant soundtrack to Once Upon a Time in Mexico.)

Stupid Observation:

So, we were situated in a small seaside town called Vilanova which is between Barcelona and a small town called Sitges. I was unfamiliar with Sitges so I googled it. This was the screen-cap:

Hmm... My suspicion was a little (a) roused.

Then I wikipedia'd it, and in the second paragraph I came across this sentence:

"Nowadays it is a popular destination for gay and lesbian travellers, as it has become one of the most gay-friendly places in the world."

Now, I've been living in Holland, which I've been told is gay-friendly. But then, people in Holland don't seem particularly friendlier than other countries. Maybe I don't seem gay enough, which is good because it's the kind of the impression I try to give off. But a town that is 'one of the most gay-friendly places in the world'? I was a little afraid to go there. But since Vilanova is manwiched between Barca and Sitges, we divided our time between the two. Why choose just one? You never know, you might like it.

It was a very pretty town, like many other Spanish towns, and not much about it seemed particularly gay to me. keep in mind that I have a finely-tuned gaydar from 5 years of all-boys eduacation.

Here are the only real clues I got to the gayness of Sitges:

The unusually high ratio of shoe stores. If Will and Grace has taught me anything (and I sincerely hope that it hasn't), it's that the gays love their shoes.
There is a street called "Calle de San Francisco."
Many of the people walking past in the street spoke French.
The quiet bar we entered had guys ordering cocktails.
The bar, which had only one (male) bartender, played a Cindi Lauper song.

But that's pretty much all I can think of. Of course, being winter, it wasn't exactly great weather for assless chaps and rollerskating in lycra. But for a place that the Wikipedia gods deemed to be 'one of the gay friendliest places in the world' I was, frankly, a little disappointed. It was a nice city, but not as fabulous as I was misled to believe. Nobody saying "yoohoo". Nobody partying as if WWII ended the day after Don't Ask Don't Tell was repealed. Nobody trying to blow me - I mean, not that I wanted to be blown by a dude, but it would have been nice to have been asked.

Anyway, that was honestly a tiny part of the holiday. A great way to spend the waning parts of the year. I hope that 2010 was a great year for all of you, and I hope that 2011 is extremely friendly to you, no matter what the preferred orientation of your genitals happens to be.

I'll leave you with a ponderance that came across me during this above holiday:

What is a holiday, but time,
Time that you try to enjoy
More than you usually do?

Be safe, be happy, be the best you can possibly be. If you can't do that, just try to copy me.

2010-12-17T01:16:00.003+01:00

Beached

Yes, this does mean that Back 'n Dutch is winding up, but I think we all knew that was coming. Never fear, it surely will be reincarnated for the new year.

2010-12-05T13:41:00.002+01:00

Training Home

I love trains. In fact, off the top of my head, I can think of three songs about trains that I love.

Also, there is this terrible J-pop song which was always hilarious to sing at Karaoke.

I probably love trains because growing up there were only two in the town I grew up in. One was a miniature train that went around a small lake - and this one wen't the furtherest. Trains are great because they just show up and you get on without having to worry about the driver. Being in Japan for all those years made me learn to expect that trains come on time. The only times I were held up was for earthquakes, suicides and extreme winds, and even then, I wasn't always pleased when they weren't on time.

However, in Holland, not only are delays almost inevitable, but there are delays so frequently that you wonder why. A few weeks ago, there was a fire in the building which deirects the trains into Utrecht, the central station in Holland. Thousands of people were stranded and had to sleep on makeshift beds for the night.

That's why I wasn't feeling too optomistic when I walked into Amsterdam central station and saw that it was full of people. Because of 'extreme weather conditions' all traffic had to be routed through Utrecht. Extreme weather conditions? Really? Because sure there was a nice layer of snow, but nothing that Holland shouldn't be accustomed to by now.
This is the official photo used to show the 'extreme weather circumstances'.

Hell, I remember a news item from Japan how a train driver had to apologise after he tried poughing through more than a metre of snow to avoid making the train arrive late, making the train derail killing 8 passengers. I mean, sucks for those 8 passengers, but I like the attitude. And in comparison, this snow in Holland was just a sprinkling.

After half an hour I was able to get on a train, however it was announced that there was no driver. We had to wait. The driver was probably stuck in traffic. Oh the irony. Another half hour later and we were off. Slowly. And then we had to wait for several other trains to drive into Utrecht because there was a traffic jam of trains.

Luckily I was able to mosh my way through the crowds at the station to make my connection just on time. My travel time was only doubled. But all that extra time has made me seriously reconsider my stance on loving trains.

2010-11-27T15:19:00.005+01:00

What happens when a douche meets an even bigger douche

Sometimes you see something that just makes you happy, and watching football last week certainly did that for me. Specifically from the moment the above photo was taken during the the recent PSV vs Ajax football match. In it we see the douchebag Ibrahim Affely dangerously tackling the other biggest douchbag in Dutch football, Uruguan Luis Surarez.

This tackle began an incredibly petty and childish sequence from two players whose entire reputations are built on pettiness and childishness A stupid tackle by Afellay led to Suarez purposefully kicking him on the way down, which led to a lame stand-off and a giant piece of flailing and flopping by Afellay. Affelay earned a yellow card for the tackle. See the entire sequence here:

Soon after, a frustrated Suarez did one of the stupidest things any sportsplayer could do and bit in another PSV player’s shoulder.

Here are some stills:

(Note also how he is pulling the middle finger behind his back. What a toss-job.)

Suarez was banned for two matches by his own club, and 7 matches by Fifa, and he gave a very vague answer as to why he did it, something about competitiveness and 'what happens on the field stays on the field'. Sure, I remember Mike Tyson said after he bit the ear of Holyfield that he was 'protecting his family'. Sure, crazy person, whatever you say. My theory is that Suarez probably mistook the PSV player for a carrot. I mean, seriously, put on some playboy bunny ears on him, and he could be a star alongside Michael Jordan in Space Jam II.

Background
It pains me to call Abraham Afellay a douchebag. I wish it were different, because he is freaking good and plays for Holland. He is just a selfish player who always goes for his own goal rather than making a good pass, flopping as soon as he gets in the box, and stupid whiney stunts like when he elbowed another player last year. He reminds me of a more unlikeable and less-skilled Christian Ronaldo. Excuse me while I throw up.
Thankfully, next year he will no longer be playing in Holland as he is going to Barcelona. On behalf of all people in Holland who don't like douche-bags, thank you. Maybe even he might learn a lesson in humility playing against better players (or even better, by not making the starting 11).

On the other hand, I have zero qualms about calling Suarez a giant sack-of-shit. First of all, he plays for Ajax. Secondly, he falls down and whines and acts like a female tennis player’s overprotective father. See the next two photos as evidence:

I saw an interview once where he said his new year’s resolution was to try cut down on flopping and his whining. He never has, as seen by the biting incident.Not that I need any more reason to hate him, but Uruguay played against Holland in the World Cup semi-finals. Like everybody else who has ever seen any Dutch football, we were expecting to see Suarez fall down more often than a drunken baby, however, in the previous match he had earned a red card against Ghana by something he hilariously dubbed ‘the hand of God’. Seriously, if God had a hand, he would use it to bitchslap him. Until I see that, I am still agnostic.

So let us cherish this magical meeting of two epically douche douchebags for what it was. Because life is too short to not enjoy special moment like this.

2010-11-18T20:35:00.002+01:00

They Reminisce Over You

For those who occasionally check by this site and wonder what happened to make me stop writing, I apologise. Unemployment kind of took my internet-writing mojo away for a while, but occasionally something happens that just makes you want to share. Last night I chanced across a video that I had originally wanted to see and show - but most of all see - in May after my puppy Yuki played dead for the last time. This video was from when I came home for the first time in three and a half years, and 5 months before she died.

Watching it made me remember that there was no better possible way to come home... "was".

The song used for the video is a classic Hip-Hop instrumental from They Reminisce Over You by Pete Rock and CL Smooth. After all of this, I kind of realised something: for me, home is where your dog is.

Anyway, thanks for letting me share. I'm sure soon there will be an announcement as to what my next big plans are, as soon as I know them myself.

2010-09-10T16:17:00.003+02:00

Dutch Safari

First off, my absence from writing here has mainly to do with the fact that I am unemployed and homeless.

This leads us neatly onto today's posting: other things that don't have homes. Wildlife. Sukkels.

Now, I know there are many words that often come after "Dutch", like "wife", "oven", "date", "brownie", "pile driver"*, etc. However, two words you don't expect to hear after "Dutch" are "safari" and "wildlife".

In fact, Holland is so deprived of authentic wildlife, that they imagine all sorts of wildlife to be living in the mushroom-filled woods.Creepy huh? Why is thhe boy with the flower in his hair humping the ground? And by the way, I really hope that guy in the background is a mushroom. And no, I cannot make it stop. Just read on.

So, just yesterday after dinner I went with the parents to a park. It was actually a hunting reserve for the royal family, but now for 9 months of the year, it is open to the public. (The other three months of the year is a "rest period" for the animals, during which they can mate, fight, and avoid being shot at by blue-bloods. Ironic, that's almost my ideal get-away too)

So, we took a nice walk along car tyre tracks. I wasn't expecting to see much more than mushrooms. (It is supposed to be a good year for "shroomers"). However, the path got smaller, and this is what we saw:

At first, I only saw its tail, and I stupidly said "Is it a donkey?". I mean, this was a Dutch Safari, which I presumed would basically be the same as a petting zoo. But no, it was a wild boar. It had obviously heard us walking, but we saw the moment that it realised we were looking at it. There were also at least three smaller baby swines (Swinelets? Anybody? No? Forget I said anything), two of which you can see to the left of the tree. After half a minute of staring at each other, they all ran away, including another adult.

We continued on, uphill... Yes, uphill. In Holland. It was so strange to finally arrive at this 180 degree view on a vast plain. We spotted a small species of deer grazing relatively close to us, but disappointingly, even with stalker-quality binoculars, there was nothing else to see. Until, this.

Through the binoculars, we clearly saw a large group of deer walking to their grazing spot, including a buck who I would be proud to have on my wall. (I decided, both sides of the wall - head on one side, and ass on the other). There was at least 13 in the main group, and also a group of swine grazing nearby too.

Okay, maybe objectively, this seems like a lame safari, but I just want to dispel some misconceptions about the Netherlands, so that I can enjoy reinforcing them again at a later stage.

Bonus:

While in the small German town of Rheine, we saw this ridiculously cute eekhoorn (squirrel). It was right behind the main chuch on the main square, and it had an acorn in its mouth. I just wanted to cuddle it. I'm not afraide of rabies - it is almost a rite of passage for the homeless.

*"Dutch pile driver" is not actually a known term. As far as I know. But don't let this stop you from thinking about it and ruining your appetite.

2010-08-20T21:45:00.004+02:00

Whoring Around

This may be the most appropriate posting I have made since the change of this weblog to "At Home in Ho-land". Okay, sure, the main definition of a "whore" is somebody that offers sex for money, but in the looser sense (no pun intended) of the word, a whore is somebody that does something that they don't want to do for money.

I have had many posts in the past about interesting places I have worked, and over the last year and a half, I have seen so much, been to very interesting places, and met some unforgettable people. In all, this was a great way to reintegrate into my native country of birth. No question. However, reintegration was my keyword of last year. I have nothing left to learn. See, the problem with being a substitute lunch-lady is that whereever you go, you are new. You are inexperienced. You need to be told what to do. Now, I have a little secret to tell you all, but don't tell any caterers this: "All professional kitchens are pretty much the same". But people who stay in the same kitchen for 10plus years love nothing better than to boss around some new person who will probably never come back again.

One year, sure. I can live with that. But now that I have worked for a good half year longer, I am so close to re-enacting this scene from the classic (ly bad) movie, Half Baked:

Honestly, I can't imagine how good that would feel, but I am close. And when you start having these types of fantasies, maybe you should get out while you still don't have a criminal record.

However, it was confirmed that I am a whore. My pimp called me yesterday and gave me a job, and I accepted. Hey, I figure that 'Whore money can buy just as much food as non-whore money.' Just ask a lawyer (they are all whores, by the way).

So, I biked more than half an hour to go the place where I would whore-out my services. It turned out to at be the European Space science centre (think of a lamer version of NASA). Now, most of the people who work here are most-likely, considerable nerds. (and emperical evidence proved that point to be correct). But they are nerds with money. And nerds with money are vengeful. This is why, I beleive, they forced this completely nerdy uniform onto me. For the first time in my catering career, I felt truly degraded. And I have picked up food after people younger than me knowingly dropped it, I have been on my knees scrubbing floors, I have had rearrange an entire walk-in freezer which took so long that my nipples wouldn't subside for days afterwards. But the shame I felt today at the Space Station, as I tried to attach a clip-on bowtie, that cannot be topped. Wait, Yes it can: they also made me wear a stupid paper hat. But i still did it, because I am a whore. And here is the evidence to prove it.

I once wore a bowtie when I was 17, when as a joke I was performing in a talent quest for over 1000 people. My talent was to juggle two tennis balls while climbing through a stringless tennis raquet. However, on the morning of the event, somebody asked me what I was going to wear. "I don't know", I replied, probably in a teenagery way. But it was suggested to me that I go to the costume store to find something ridiculous to wear for it. So I did, and the "costume" I rented for the event was a white shirt and a bowtie. I repeat: this was the most ridiculous thing I could find to wear - at a freaking costume store! So, yes, wearing this today, was so very degrading.

Now, the only other demographic that wears a bowtie are the Chippendale dancers.

So the question is, is being a stripper better than being a whore? Judging from how quickly I took off that bowtie, I think I know the answer.

2010-08-01T08:34:00.003+02:00

A Heartfelt Loss

I has been difficult to speak about it, but I should really cover this. The World Cup was a dream come true for me. Now, I am far from a football hooligan, but this was something I had been looking forward to for a long time. I was telling people when I was in New Zealand in January that the main reason I was going back to Holland was for the World Cup. (They often asked "You know it will be held in South Africa, right?" Cheeky bastards. Little do they know that the true Way-Kah party is in Holland.)

But for me, the point was, this was the best opportunity I would ever get to fulfil my 2-year-long goal of reintegrating into Dutch society. I had a golden opportunity, one that only comes every four years (We don't talk about 2002), to really be Dutch. Every goal we scored, I was happy beyond recognition. And every win Holland came away with, I recognised the magnitude of the opportunity for me. And every day during that one month period, whether watching football, or talking about it with friends or co-workers or random customers, or just looking around and seeing entire sections of city decorated in Oron-yeh like the 11th plague, I really was thankful that I was in Holland. Every win in the knockout phase seemed like a wonderful gift to me, letting the experience go on for even longer. I never imagined that we would really have a chance to win for fear of letting the World Cup turn into a disappointment, but then, we made it to the finals.

So we didn't win. I know I should not be disappointed. We did fantastically to make it this far. But once we made it to the finals, I thought about how wonderful it would be if we actually won. Just how amazing the atmosphere would be. I mean, more than 3/4 of the population watched the finals, and I am sure most of the other 1/4 would have wanted to be there, but someone has to make sure that the planes stay in the air. If we would win, I thought, maybe then I would truly know just what it means to be Dutch.

But we didn't win. And Holland has still yet to win a world cup. My only consolation is that, maybe no-one really knows what it is to be Dutch yet. And in the future, if Holland finally raises that trophy, I too will truly know how much it means to me.

These are some images of the party we had outside our place with a large flatscreen TV and a small grand-stand for the epic Holland vs. Uruguay match.

Actually, I lie. Another consolation is that my other team, New Zealand, was the only team in the entire World Cup who went through the tournament undefeated.

2010-07-03T00:07:00.004+02:00

Redemption
When I was about 9 years old, I was forced to stay home instead of going to school. My father said that I must stay home to watch the World Cup football match of Holland vs. Brazil. (Here is the summary of the game). It was an amazing gesture to be allowed to skip school since I never stayed home unless I was certifiably sick. So, we watched the game in the morning which was incredibly exciting, and we had a great time, also with my older brother staying home. Unfortunately, Holland was defeated and eliminated from the world cup. My brother and I then got dropped off at school just before lunchtime.

Now, my teacher, who was not necessarily called but something similar to "Mr. Smithson", was not impressed at my morning absence. I should note that this was New Zealand, a country that until very recently, doesn't care about football. He checked my homework, which I hadn't completely finished, and that was it. He had his reason and I was punished. I forget what the punishment exactly was, but I think it meant that during lunchtime I had to sit outside on "the spot", which was the going punishment at our school. But I was a nerd, a good boy (and maybe still am), so getting punished for watching Oranje, even when my father said it was okay was shocking to me. It was unjust, and in retrospect, this may be a case for discrimination.

Nevertheless, despite the result, this was a great experience, and a subtle way that I was able to hold onto my Dutch-ness despite being on the opposite side of the world. And every four years since, (with one notable exception that we won't talk about) it came back up.

Now, today, was the rematch with Brazil. Finally I am in a country where everyone understands the importance of Oranje. I mean, the place I often work at put up a sign that said they would close early because of "Brazillian Fever". And, in a wonderful turn of events, I took a day off work and went to my parent's place to watch the game. It was absolutely brilliant. Winning was redemption, not just for the loss 16 years ago, but for me. I have waited a long time for this moment, although I never knew that it would come.
Now, 16 years later, I finally feel that I have left "the spot".

Update:
After some deliberation with my father, we have decided that the game which I was punished for was not a game where Holland played (however, I must also have watched the game I just referenced). Apparently, I would have only been a half-hour late to school, but the game was extended an extra half hour, and went into penalties, which added on about an extra hour, making me noticably late to school. This could only have been the final between Brazil and Italy. My father reasoned that, New Zealanders wouldn't think twice about missing school due to a rugby match, and this was the final of the way-kah! And honestly, the Dutch love their football much more than New Zealanders love rugby. (P.S. I hate rugby.)

2010-07-02T10:32:00.003+02:00

Important update:I came across this guy while cooking yesterday, and something this culturally significant must be shared with the masses.

For those playing at home, here is some further recommended reading:

http://failblog.org/tag/things-that-are-doing-it/

http://chickandfit.com/fruit-erotica-20-hottest-fruit-photos/

http://www.yurope.com/people/dushan/Botanika/

Discussion topic: A moral dillemma

Would it be a little gay if I ate the carrot?

2010-06-27T20:16:00.004+02:00

Consecrating my Dutchness

One of the privelleges of being Dutch is that once every certain amount of years, you get to make a small mark in red pencil. Last year I got to vote for the European Union and the local Elections. This year was the big one, the national elections.

Now, not to show off my ignorance, but although I have been Dutch for as long as I remember, I haven't been actively Dutch for very long. (Only two years, or three elections long). This means that I have little understanding of the political system here, although I presume that since we get to vote so frequently, that Holland has some some sort of democracy.

I have always been under the impression that Holland is a very left-leaning country - or at least a very tolerant country - and this has been a certain point of pride for me growing up overseas. Overall, this still seems to be an accurate assessment, but there is a scary amount of right-wing movement going on here. The party called the PVV, "The Party of the Freedom" grew in popularity under the general premise of "Freedom (unless you're a foreigner)"

Now, this is a very sensitive issue for me, as shown by the extremely long end-year post last year, and I still also often feel like I am a foreigner here. I mean, one of the biggest annoyances of these recent right-wingers, is that many foreigners in Holland have two passports. "Just choose one" they say. Well, if I hear one of these conversations, I chip in that I too have two passports. However, since I am very white and not from a scary religion (unless you include Atheism), this never seems to bother them.

So, going in to vote, I wanted to make a statement. I also happen to live in a very traditionallly conservative town, full of bekakked people. In I walk, with a Communist Red-Army hat (bought for a costume party) and my T-shirt which reads "Hey! Look [out]! It's a foreigner." Maybe they didn't know exactly what my point was, but they knew exactly what my point was.

Here is a better view of my hat (worn at the aforementioned costume party)

Anyway, with the making of such a ridiculous statement to noone in particular, I took that red pencil and made a very non-ridiculous vote. For politics may be a joke, but your civil duty - no matter which or how many countries you have a responsibilty to - is no joke.

2010-06-05T18:49:00.003+02:00

Hairvolution: The Update

For those who missed the Hairvolution, I suggest you take a trip down memory highway. And even if you remember, the Hairvolution video is still as awesome as when you first saw it. So, having sent my hair samples away to a charity called Locks of Love, I was concerned that my hair was slightly short of the ten inches requested by their website, but apparently it was enough. Here is a photo of the postcard they send as a thank-you. (and proof that this is a real charity that I really contributed to). I actually wrote a small note along with my hair sample saying that it was a shame that not many people know of this charity, and that there are no known equivalents closer to Holland or Europe, but that even if my hair was unuseable that they should consider it as a show of support.

Sure, they spelled my name incorrectly - and trust me, they completely mangled up my address - but it was a very nice gesture. Besides, who really expects an American to understand foreign languages? They probably think that the Dutch just misspell everything. They might-well be right.

Anyway, even though I hate kids with their dirty little hands and their questions like "are you a man or a woman?", I am very happy to have contributed to this cause. I strongly reccommend that if you have a spare 10 inches lying around, that you give it to children. Unless of course, you are a well-hung Catholic priest. Actually, that was a great part of Locks of Love, that it is a non-religious charity, which means that they do not discriminate and would help a child even if he or she is Catholic.

In related news, my hair has grown back to a more reasonable level, and almost everyone agrees that it is a huge improvement, including strangers who only vaguely knew me. So, the Hairvolution has been a gigantic success, for the self-esteem of some sick child in a society which is incredibly vain, not to mention that it was also a giant boost of my own vanity. It was a win-win, and I declare that the Hairvolution was one of the best ideas I have ever had.

2010-05-26T20:06:00.008+02:00

I am a LomographerNo, this does not (necessarily) mean that I am sexually attracted to lemmings. That would "Lemography". Those cheeky little critters. No, lomography is photography with a fish-eye lens. I was given one recently and so have been able to take a new look at this country. And since that is basically what I try to do on AtHome in Ho-Land, here are a few of the better ones, along with cheeky comments where appropriate.

We start with something very Dutch: Tulips. I have worked at the Tulip park a fair bit this season, and I am sick to death of those stupid flowers.

This is in the seaside town of Katwijk, known for its conservative Christians who frown upon neighbours who hang out laundry on Sundays and its beaches which are nice about 3 months of every year. And even during those three months, you'll be lucky to get weather like this.
This is a typical forest of East Netherlands. Tall trees evenly spaced (basically all the forests are planted by people), and easy access walking paths through them. Seriously, on this very path, we saw many cyclists, a horse-drawn carriage, and an old man on a segway. Yes, a freaking segway.
And here is a goodie. In the middle of this forest is this giant hole in the earth. Well, remember, this is Holland, which is flatter than Kelly Ripa, Kate Moss, Keira Knightley and Natalie Portman. (I am stealing this idea from Bill Simmon's 28th August 2009 mailbag of the "A-team" which is the top five hottest females with A-cups)

This place is called the Solse Gat, which was formed by a giant piece of ice that remained after the last ice-age. Or, if you prefer to believe in stupid things, this was the place where a monastry was, where all the monks sold their souls to the devil. Then, their monastry was sucked into the earth like a giant reverse anus.

A Chinese gardens near Groningen. These gardens were huge, and it was created by authentic Chinese people who were brought in as temporary workers to make these gardens. This just goes to show how much unused money Holland has, and how willing Chinese people are to get it.
This building next to the station Leiden Centraal. It has gone up very rapidly. The sheer ugliness of the building show that again, also show that we have way too much unused money.

A windmill on beautiful day with a Dutch cloud in the sky, with a carnival in front of it. Carnies: the under-scrotum of society.

This is my favourite city to walk around in Holland is Den Haag. For some reason it translated to "The Hague". I don't understand. I mean, French people don't call New York "Nouvelle York". Why can't people just mispronounce this city name just like they do with any other Dutch city?

One last note on the Lomograph, it is apparently an old communist invention, intended to be a communistic way to represent the world. That sounds about right. Expect another installment of Lomography in the future.

2010-05-05T11:46:00.003+02:00

Spot the Difference

Take a close look at these two photos and spot the difference. It may be difficult to see, but there is one major discrepancy between the two.
These photos were taken in quick succession, so what could possibly be different? I'll tell you. In the 2nd photo, I have just paid off all my student debt. ALL of it. One click, and suddenly, I had a net-worth of zero.

It felt amazing. I was suddenly worth nothing. After years and years of owing money, going back to school, accumilating debt, in one moment I absolved all of my debt.

This all happened a few weeks ago. So, how is all this working out for me?

I am blessed to be Dutch, as it made my student lifestyle much more bearable. I have always lived minimalistically. Hell, I even became mostly vegetarian. And no, it wasn't because of some morally-superior stance that most vegetarians have; I love tearing into a piece of animal flesh as much as the next carnivore. No, I became vegetarian to save money. So, since 2004 I have been living as if I was poor, just to minimise my money-lending.

If I hadn't done this, I am positive that I would be in bigger debt than Greece. However, because I was a student, I always had a safety net. I could always borrow more money if I needed to.

But now, no longer a student, and having paid off my debt, for the first time in my life, I am actually poor. I live week by week. I take the scraps of work that are offered to me, and I dread the letter in the mail containing bills. Being poor is rough!

On the other hand, I love that I am living the romantic artistic lifestyle. I now have the opportunity to become a rags-to-riches story.

The other day, I was coming home from a day of work at the dreadfully touristy flower park of Keukenhof. There was a huge line for the buses, so I decided to use the time to write something. Sure, writing while standing isn't ideal, but I can't waste 90 minutes of my life just waiting. After a while, a girl in the line started up a conversation with me:

Her: "Are you writing a book?"
Me: "No, I'm just writing a diary."
Her: "Oh, I thought you might be a writer."
Me: "Well, I want to be, one day."
Her: "So did you come here [to the flower park] for inspiration?"
Me: "No, I came here to work. Even a writer has to eat."

So, my recent brush with authentic poorness has taught me a valuable lesson. Even a writer has to eat.

Lentils, probably.

Hopefully soon I will be able to take a new "after" photo, one where the difference won't be so hard to spot.

2010-04-14T20:51:00.008+02:00

Yuki Puppy: A tribute When I was about 16 or 17, I had a nightmare. At the time, I was sleeping in the caravan. No, I am not a gypsy. The caravan was a basically spare bedroom and it was where I liked to sleep during the summer holidays and weekends, and it was right next to the dog house where my beloved Yuki slept. But in the dream, she was just lying there, lifeless. I woke up, terrified. I slowly went outside to check on Yuki dreading what I had just seen. I opened the kennel, and she came out wondering why the hell I was waking her up in the small hours of the morning. I held her and cried. I cried like a little bitch.

Now, not to be all manly, but I could remember and count all the times I have cried since then on my fingers. This may surprise you, not necessarily the fact that I can count to ten, but that I am such an emotionless shell of a human being. Yuki showed me at that moment, that inside my deceptively strong shell, I did have a heart.

There was another moment that confirmed this suspicion of mine. Some asshole in a 4wD vehicle came barrelling down the road that goes alongside our house. Yuki got scared, and didn't listen to me properly, and the car ended up going between us. As soon as the car passed and I saw that she was okay, I ran to Yuki with my hand ready in spanking position. But all I could do was hold her and say "don't ever scare me like that again".

Yuki died this week, as an 11-year old puppy after a bone tumor was discovered and she rapidly lost the use of her legs. Now that my nightmare has come true, I have to try to express how much I loved that ball of fur and happiness. Losing a beloved pet is something most of us all have to face too many times in our lives, and it sucks. But I won't be spouting a bunch of cliches about her being 'a part of the family', as true as that cliche may be. I truly believe that she made me who I am. Or at least, the good parts of my personality are because of her.

See, we got her Yuki when I was at the difficult early teenage years. I didn't have a licence yet, and I was slowly drifting away from my childhood friends whose interests were different and not always entirely legal. We got Yuki in November which is the start of New Zealand summer. This is relevant because I did not play basketball during summer (which would otherwise take up most of my time), and it was just before the long summer holidays. So instead of long days in front of the television and amiga 600 computer (with 1 Mega-byte!) I spent the entire summer playing with our new puppy. Being a border collie, which is the smartest breed of dog known to mankind, she learnt tricks faster than we could think of new ones to teach. We even emptied out the public library shelves on dog training, and Yuki was easily an A+ student. At some stage, I made the conscious decision to speak to her as I would anyone else, allowing her to listen carefully and pick out the words relevant to her, so it became very normal to just chat to her. She always listened to me, even if I had nothing to say, which even back then was most of the time. Yuki was of course very attentive to other people too (we even asked others to give her commands to teach this to her), but all this time I spent with Yuki in this first summer created a bond that still makes it feel like she was secretly my dog.

Over the years, I tried so many things with her, including creating an agility course in our own garden, which involved hammering together some jumps and other obsticles. She learned to jump them in no time, before I learnt that I had made them much higher than competition-level jumps. I started playing competitive frisbee at school, and Yuki helped me practice my forehands. I also taught her to jump off my back before I realised that her claws had torn open the skin on my back.

But the trick I loved the most was how she knew all her toys by name. I could ask for a specific toy, and she would search the entire house, or garden, until she found it. Because of this, she had more toys than I did as a child. Every Christmas I would buy her new toys. We all bought her toys when we could - as long as it could be called something different. Of course we also taught her to put her toys "in the bin". We couldn't have a messy dog in the house. She also coincided with the purchase of my Minnolta 500 SLR camera, meaning I have a surplus of photos from these early years. I wish I had access to them right now, because she was so damn photogenic.

I also like to think that we taught Yuki manners. For example, I used to purposely leave a dog treat on the coffee table and leave the room for a few minutes.Some people call me cruel, but it was a challenge for her too. What's more, when I came back and the treat was still there, she was more happy that I was happy, than actually recieving the treat.

Yes, I was strict. I never once in her life fed her food scraps. If I dropped food, I would pick it up, which is pretty amazing when you consider that I was a moody teenager. But at some stage, I started feeling bad that perhaps I had taken away some of her doggy instincts. So, I set about teaching her the most difficult trick of all: "speak". I had play with her, chase her, let her chase me, corner her, and then wait until she started barking. Then I would say "speak" and try give her a doggy treat. Once she mastered "speak" and suddenly wished she had an inside-voice, so I had to teach her to "talk". Easy. She also had an inside voice. What a fantastic dog.

However, from the beginning I sometimes turned it around to let her play the way she wanted to. I taught her how to succees and thrive in a human world, but she taught me to act more like a dog. If she wanted to chase me, I would run away, all through our garden. I must have flatted more than a few shrubs in playing this game. I'd hide and let her weak sense of smell sniff me out. (border collies are eyesight dogs.) I remember even during that first summer when she found a grasshopper. I was there for her "first kill".

A few years later, the summer before my 16th birthday, I had my restricted liscence, which meant I could drive a car as long as there were no other people in the car. My parents abused this fact, and said I could use the car, but only if i took Yuki for a walk at the beach. Those were some of the happiest moments of my youth. And as muh as I loved driving, Yuki loved going for drives more. Warm weather, windows down, reggae music up, dog in the rearview, beach ahead... I am yet to find a happier combination of circumstances, and trust me, I have tried. So at the same time I was gaining all this freedom, I also had this awesome responsibility. I had pretty much raised Yuki. She was like a daughter to me, only she had good co-ordination and was able to catch a ball.

I loved to bring her with me whenever I could. I even brought her to school when I had to work late in the school darkroom. And of course, there is no better pick-up line that "do you want to come and walk my dog?" I still have good friends who I swear only befriended me to get close to Yuki. And I am so proud of that. They weren't even dog-people.

Unfortunately, I grew up. Yuki's name almost predicted that I would end up in Japan, which is very far away. While overseas, she was the only thing I missed. Occasionally, I would find myself in front of the dog-toy section of department stores, similar to how a raging alcoholic would miraculously end up in front of the hard-liquor. Sometimes I would buy a toy to send home. At the end of the year I didn't want to leave Japan, but Yuki was the only reason I wanted to come back. My orders to my parents on my immenent arrival was "do not bring Yuki to the airport", because I wanted a proper home-welcome. The welcome was almost worth the year away. My univiersity years were 3-month stints of this, and I would always try bring back a toy for her. It now seems so obvious to me. I have been obsessing about the concept of "home" for so long. Is it a place, is it an idea? No, it was a puppy.

In 2006, after my graduation, I had one precious half-year of quality time with Yuki. Sure, coming back to live at home for 6 months was difficult, especially since I had few friends in my hometown anymore, but Yuki made me really appreciate this time. Especially since after then, I didn't see her for 3 1/2 years.

Again, being overseas, she was the only thing I truly missed. It is difficult to skype with a dog. At any opportunity I would talk about her, show photos. I even made an entire lesson for my Japanese students with using the many videos and pictures I have of her of her. An alert student even commented that she could see how much I loved that dog.

Anyway, the rest is recent history. 3 1/2 years later, Yuki hadn't changed at all. Sure, she had a little grey hair above the eyes, but she still had that puppy-fur behind the ears, and looked up at me like an intellegent 4-year-old with her whole life ahead of her. We had a great 3 weeks together. Long walks, long drives, and we even bought some new toys of which she learnt the names within minutes. I missed the dog smell, dog slobber, and the feel of warm dog poo through a plastic bag. I knew that when I left her that she was 11 years old. But I always presumed I would see her at least one more time. One more walk. One more drive. One more "welcome home".

It wasn't the way it played out. Within three weeks of the first signs of trouble, the bone tumor was too much to handle. It is cruel and unfair, but I can't complain. I got more than my fair share. She taught me so much, she let me be myself, and it was just unfortunate that 'myself' was not in the same town and country as her. The last week has been so difficult, knowing that my puppy is sick, and I can't do anything about it. I went to the beach last week, and I felt like there was no point. What is the point in walking without a dog? Why else come to a beach? The last time I saw Yuki just a few months ago, she was disappointed she couldn't come in the car with us. It cut me up thinking about this as I began the long journey back to Holland. On the plane with the in-flight entertainment, I came across the Jack Johnson song "Go On", which seemed perfect for the occasion. I listened to it so many times on the flight, on the verge of tears.

The tears never came... Until the nightmare, finally, came true.

I am sorry for leaving you. I miss you. I love you. And I am who I am because of you.

Thank you to everyone who has been even but a small part of Yuki's life. And to those who haven't but still know me, I assure you, you have Yuki to thank.

2010-04-02T16:23:00.003+02:00

Ah Ruben Day 2010

My birthday has always been a special day (although unfortuantely often not for myself). It is the first day of the Star Signs, it is the autumnal or vernal equinox (depending on which hemisphere I happen to be) so it marks the beginning of a new season, on several occasions it has even been 25 hours long due to daylight savings (summer/winter time), and it is even a public holiday in Japan. This year, however, was even more special. It was A-Ruben celebration day.

For those not in the know, Aruba is a country which sounds like a place where Captain Jack Sparrow liked to frequent. It is part of the Kingdom of the Netherlands, and yes, that is a real Kingdom, hence the link to Wikipedia. So, my birtday was also the Aruban Independance day celebrations. Ruben, Aruban... Coincidence? I don't believe in coincidences.

Okay, it is probably a coincidence, but I'll add this to the list of why my birthday is awesome.

2010-03-22T16:32:00.003+01:00

Open Application

Life as a graduate is rough, especially in times of depression. Luckily, the Leiden University provided an arbeidsmarktcongres, which ,I think has something to do with strawberries, for the Geesteswetenschappen, which I think has something to do with ghost ships. I asked around, and I found out that it was also a job market where recent graduands and graduands-to-be can inform about which fast-food restaurants they should apply at.

In principle, I am against any type of event which is advertised as a good place to "network" or "interface", because, let's face it, people who interface and network are douche-bags. It is just for people who want to make "talking to people", and "trying to get people to like me" sound important and business-like. But at this phase in my life, washing dishes when I am lucky enough to be given dishes to wash, I had to go to the job market, because if I didn't it would have been good ammunition for that guilty voice in my head.

So I signed up, costing me five Euro. However, I more than earned that 5 Euro back just in terms of pens. Why is it that at these type of events, everybody wants to give you a pen? ("People who have a pen look employable!"). There were also three D-list Dutch celebrities who came to speak to us, which would be like the hairdresser for Cher's stylist giving a speech on how to be successful. Amazingly, I who knows no Dutch celebrities, had seen one of them on TV before. I remembereed her because she was weird.

Let's face it, she wasn't speaking to us to give beauty tips.

They were actually great speakers, although there was no actual useful information, since all three of them had such crazy and incidental career paths that it's not followable. But it was nice to listen to three success stories to help soothe my unemployable miserableness. Thanks! You made me feel a lot better. There was also lunch included, and there was extra left over because there were only about 50 people out of the 5400 targeted students who came, so good feelings all-round.

The afternoon had a few more speakers, one of which was about translation agencies in Holland. Now, I don't want to be mean, because I really appreciated such an excellent opportunity to recieve a big lunch, but I have a bone to pick with the event. Below is the image from the website.
Now, there might not be a lot of career opportunity in Holland for me as a translator because my written Dutch is probably at the level of a 9 year-old, but I think I found a niche: an English ant-fucker. Dutch people are proud to have a high level of English especially compared to other countries, but it is still a 2nd language. They wrote this slogan in English probably to try and be cool, but if they had employed someone like me, they would see that they are, in fact, not cool at all.

First off, "upto"? Really? I sincerely hope that by omitting a space they were trying to make fun of Chinese people's poor English, even as ironic as this might be.

Secondly... This is an incorrect usage of "up to". It is only ever used in common English in a question format, or in vague situations ("I was up to no good"). Let me give you a conversation format of what the above fortune cookie appears to be saying:

A: "What are you up to?"
B: "Not much, just a job with talent"
A: "Oh, you have a job already? Never mind."

Moreover, the job appears to have talent, upstaging the candidate. Burn!

Although the entire day and the speeches were conducted in Dutch, there was a link to a page for "foreign students". Since I used to be an English teacher, I took out my virtual red pen and made some corrections. With just a few changes (per line), this paragraph actually starts to resemble authentic English.

So once the depression is over, if any people need an English ant fucker, I should be able to find some time between doing dishes.

2010-02-26T16:03:00.002+01:00

The Hairvolution

Over the last 15 months, I have changed. And then, a few weeks ago, all of that changed, and I went for a change. I got a haircut.

In November 2008 I wrote this passage:
"I have a terminal fear of hairdressers, and ever since an older boy with blond hair in a pony tail at the bus stop used to punch me, I am terrified of blond men with pony tails. I could never become that guy, and I love mirrors too much. I also hate paying money for hairdressers, but I would never allow someone I know to cut my hair. I consider the fee I pay as the right to hate that person who de-faced my hair until it (my hair) grows back."

That was the last haircut I got, and since then, I successfully avoided the salon experince. I figured I would fully immerse myself into the student lifestyle and tried to capture the look of a Dutch hippy carefree student. I wonder if anyone noticed. Then one day, I was approached at the train station by some idealistic young kid who asked me to give monthly donations to his charity so he could go to some poor African country and build a school.

Great. I am not going to sponsor some hippy douchebag to go to Africa to lay a few bricks, and go on a few safaris. If he thinks it is such a great cause, surely he could get a normal job and send his money himself, instead of guilt tripping poor students like me. He argued that a few cups of coffee is all that it costs per month, but I have a caffienne addiction - not the poor African school children. Besides, aid doesn't work. Still, I am not a completely heartless person. In fact, I have a freezer-full of human hearts in my fridge. But I thought, I am not going to give my caffienne allocation to charity, but I will give them something they have to use: my silky golden locks.

I decided to set myself a goal: to donate my hair to charity. For that, it would need to be a minimum of ten inches long. In the metric system that would be equivalent to two middle fingers (America is never going to go metric.) This served me two purposes. Firstly, it gave me a reason to grow out my hair, and secondly, it would give me a reason to cut it. This way, I would overcome my dual fears of blonde men with pony tails, and my barberphobia.

It was an amazing experience having long hair. Here is a bullet-list of events that I never thought I would ever have.

Non-Japanese people thought I looked like David Beckham. I still think I looked more like Gwyneth Paltrow.
My girl flatmates, and girl neighbours asked ME for a hair elastic! "Ouch" said my dwindling masculinity.
I would spend more than a few minutes brushing my hair. Seriously, I felt like a hot Hawaiian girl sitting next to a waterfall.
My sunglasses - which I often used as a more manly versio (but not by much) of a hair clip - became so entagled in my hair that I needed assistance to cut me loose.
I started - shock - tucking my hair behind my ears. It was official. I looked ridiculous.

I badly wanted my hair to be long enough, but my hair was growing so slowly! I know there are other ways of finding this out, but for me, this is how I realised that ten inches is really quite long. So, I truly rocked a pony-tail for an extended period of time, mostly against my will. Hey, but at least it was for charity, right? So I didn't look like a complete douchebag.

Everyone I told about my charitable goal had never heard of such a thing, but it does exist. It is called Locks of Love, and makes wigs for children with diseases that cause hair loss. Not even the hairdresser had heard of such a charity. He then had to explain it to his boss (in ... Turkish?), and then he gave me over to another hairdresser and explained it to her (in... Belgsch?). And bam, the pony tails came off.

I was actually about one inch short of the 10 inch goal. So, if they even end up using it, it will be to sell it to help offset the production costs. It doesn't seem like much hair either. It is a little disappointing. It's like the sample you give to the doctor, it never seems like very much.

Below I have made a video compilation, a video montage of the last 15 months. Sorry to everyone who had to witness my pony tail or tucked-behind-the-ear-ness. I promise that I won't change, at least not for a long time.

2010-02-13T15:42:00.002+01:00

My Bul is Got

Almost exactly a year ago I was completely lost. I had been accepted and apparently become a student at Leiden University, but I had no idea what classes I would take, what classes I needed to take, or even what classes were available. It took several meetings with different people to figure it all out. It all seemed rather unorganised.

Fast forward to yesterday, standing in the old university building of Leiden, waiting for my graduation ceremony (the "bul"). I had no idea what to expect or what the general ceremony would be like. All I knew beforehand was the address, the time, and that I could bring a "limited amount of people".

It turns out, it was my own private ceremony. I was part of the Graduation Class of Me. Every day that I wake up will be like a reunion! Man, I felt like the total attention-whore. I had invited four people to a party just for me. It was like my own super sweet 16 party, except without a video message from Puff Daddy.

But it all finished, and as all masters graduates at Leiden University do, I got to write my name on the wall in a certain room called the "zweetkamertje". This is a tradition going back four hundred years. So now my name is among lots of famous people that I have never heard of.

And with that surprise, the year of study is all over. I feel like somehow I cheated the system by studying something I actually like, and that I don't feel like I deserve this diploma. But I have already buried it somewhere so they can never take that away from me.

2010-02-07T18:51:00.004+01:00

At Home in Ho-land

As promised, I will be continuing here at ruvaman.blogspot.com for the more narrative stories such as me working as a lunch lady, stupid observations at concerts, bad haircuts (foreshadowing active), visiting towns which don't warrant visiting, and stories of my general misfortunes. However, as you will see in the banner, I have changed the title to At Home in Ho-Land. Last year was an adventure in my re-integration into Holland, and as I wrote in my last post of last year, I don't think it was ever a realistic goal. This was confirmed on the Victory Tour (some stories and photos are still to come too). So, I am following the old saying "Home is were your stuff is". Right now it's Holland, and as long as it is, I'm loving every moment of it.

Bring on the Gazelle

I have also just started a pet project for the year, writing a different weblog. It will be more impersonal, but if you have followed my writing for any length of time, you will probably be able recognise that it is me. It's called The Weekly Gazelle, and unlike this weblog, I will update at least every week for the rest of the year, without fail.

The address is http://theweeklygazelle.blogspot.com/

But you should probably start on the first posting:
http://theweeklygazelle.blogspot.com/2010/02/gazelle.html

2010-02-03T10:52:00.003+01:00

Back in Dutch, Again

I have something special coming soon about the Victory Tour, but until then, sorry for the absence. I just want to note a few things about the last month.

My dog, who I hadn't seen for 3 1/2 years, remembered the crap out of me and gave me the best home-welcome you could imagine. It was like old times.

The same with all the friends who I hadn't seen in as long.

I went to the dentist, after a much longer absence than the 1 recommended year. He said to me : "With teeth like those, you'll put me out of a job".

Driving a car again after 18 months, just felt right.

I played tennis, which is something I unfortunately only seem to do in New Zealand. I picked up that racquet, and within moments, I was back to my old self.

I had hardly used any Japanese since leaving, and thought I would be rubbish again. But I went for entire-whole days speaking only Japanese like old times.

The thing I learnt about this holiday was that, "although you may leave, some things never leave you."

2009-12-26T23:42:00.003+01:00

Anecdotes of Identity

“Many a man travels the world to find happiness, and return home to find it.”

“Home is where the heart is.”
It sounds simple enough: Go back to the country of your birth and discover yourself in a whole new light. But as the legendary Dutch footballer once said: "Voetballen is simpel, maar het moeilijkste wat er is, is simpel voetballen." [playing football is simple, but the most difficult thing that there is, is playing simple football]. In other words, nothing is simple.

Last August I was in Edinburgh during the comedy festival. Me and my New Zealand friend went to a free show, and one of the comedians, an American started picking on the crowd. He says: “You with the hat, where are you from?”

I was wearing the hat. Damn it. I was on the spot. I didn’t know. What should I answer? Unwilling to try and explain my unique situation, probably under the influence of my friend, I said “…uh… New Zealand”. Now, the comedian picked up on my hesitancy. That’s what comedians do.

“You didn’t sound too sure yourself.” he said. Truer words have never been said to me. In reality, if I had of tried to explain my situation, I would have had to have said everything that I have written in this entry. That would really have killed the comedy.

It has been almost 1 1/2 years since I came back to Holland, and the question I get asked a lot where I’ll end up next (often it is asked by that annoying voice in my head, when he isn’t telling me to kill hobos). I still don’t have an answer. In fact, I am going back to New Zealand for the first time in 3 1/2 years, and I have lost hope that it will give me any answers. because I am starting to wonder if the question isn’t fundamentally wrong.

Now, I don’t think I am by any means unique. There are generations of immigrants, refuges, 2nd and 3rd generation-naturalised citizens all over the world. It is just my annoyingly over-analytical mind which has caused me trouble. See, I was born in Holland, lived in New Zealand between 4 1/2 and 21, excluding a one-year exchange. For most people, they would think that I was young enough to grow up as a normal New Zealand kid. And for the most part I was (well... except for the ‘normal’ part). The only difference was, at home I had to speak Dutch. I am still so thankful I was forced to speak Dutch, often against my will, often on the verge of tears of frustration, often to the point where I feared going out in public because at any moment, my father could tell me off in Dutch. In retrospect, it was a very good parenting technique. It really kept me in line, and you could tell off your kids anything, anytime and no-one would ever understand. So, Dutch is the language of my youth at home. It still sounds childish to me. That is why I cannot take Dutch pornography seriously. It would be like seeing Minnie Mouse giving a lap dance. (actually, I think they have websites for that.)

As a four-year old, I assimilated almost instantly, but as soon as I went to regular school at age five, I completely shut down. I wouldn't talk to anyone, apart from two classmates who came to school on the same day. This went on for a long time, enough to make my parents and teachers extremely worried. However, almost everyone thought that my English wasn't good enough. People tried to trick me into speaking to them. They asked me to whisper. They asked me if I wanted to read aloud while behind the bookshelf. I hid under a pile of bags during break time. People teased me, and rightfully so: I was the wierd foreign kid. One day, it was decided that I would go to the special reading class. It was called "Rainbow Readers"... yes, it was for "special" students. I was comfortable around that lady, and she gave me a book to read to her, I guess to test my reading ability. It was a book of Spot.

Man, I read that book so fast that I remember the lady being surprised at me being in the special reading class. Then, after the first summer holidays, I was moved up a class and made a conscious decision to just start talking. It surprised everyone at first, but soon nobody was to think of me as 'the weird foreign kid' ever again. Even as a young teenager, I was pretty normal although I liked to stand out in small ways. I wasn’t an attention-whore by any means, but complete assimilation wasn’t for me. For example, I would leave my shoelaces untied to buck the system of school uniforms. Later, I even painted brown shoes to the regulation black and wore them to school, letting the shoe polish wear off to give the shoes a rusted-look. It was a ga me to see how bro wn they could get before a teacher pointed them out. I know, it’s petty. It’s kind-of douchey. Shut up, I was a kid… Also, I always thought it was a bit of a shame that I didn’t have a slight Dutch accent. I now am SOOOO glad that I don’t. Seriously, a badly preformed Dutch accent makes me wonder if it possible to laugh and throw up at the same time. I was at Starbucks recently, and a Dutch woman sat at a nearby table. She was speaking to some other lady in English, forcing me to take out my MP3 player. Anyway, I grew up in New Zealand without an unusual accent. Of course, maybe now my English accent has changed – that’s one of the things I am looking forward to finding out when I go back.

I also had an unnatural attraction to orange clothes. I owned three different Dutch football shirts, and several other orange clothes, or items with orange in them. I still do, although in Holland I don’t like to wear it as much because people might think I am a hooligan. I also liked the red-white-blue combination (which is NOT an American thing) The most ridiculous example is that I once bought a cheap rug – you know the ones made up out of strips of old clothing? Well, I based my decision on choosing which one to buy from the pile because on one, all that was visible in the fold was red, white and blue.

So privately, I probably always thought myself as Dutch, although no-one else did. For me, I think the defining moment in my youth that prevented me from accepting New Zealand as my homeland was when I was 16. See, basketball was the most important thing in my life. It was something I became pretty good at, thanks to several top-class coaches, talented friends, brother, rivals, and at times, practices five times a week. I always represented our city in regional and national tournaments and even got selected for an unofficial under-16 representative team that traveled to Australia. My eventual goal was to play for the College (high school) A-team, and for several years I was close to making the team. I always thought that once I became a senior, I would be on the team. I felt it was my right of passage. Well, I did make the team, however, there was a little rule in the New Zealand inter-college rulebook stating that each team was allowed to have only one import. Since I only had a Dutch nationality and passport, I was legally classified as an import. It’s true, I was not a New Zealander; I was a permanent resident. There was a senior at our school from Alaska also on the team, so I was dropped from the competition team. It was as ridiculous as it was frustrating. The rules of citizenship at the time was that Holland did not allow citizens to have a double passport, meaning that if I were to become a New Zealander, I would lose my Dutch one. There are no other repercussions for permanent residents, and I wasn’t going to give up my EU passport, so that was the end of the story.

I felt like I had basically been told by the New Zealand government that I could not play the sport I loved for my own school. That hurt. Miraculously, the next year Holland relaxed its rules, to giving its citizens the choice of a dual-nationality as long as they gained the 2nd nationality before they turned 18. So, with nothing to lose, I became a citizen a few months before I turned 17, among a group of young Cambodians, and some older English people. Slightly cheekily, I wore my bright orange Dutch football shirt at the ceremony, as I stood in front of the Mayor and recited the pledge of allegiance to the Queen of England. Here is the physical evidence of that event.

I was able to join the A-team the next year, and anti-climactically nothing really came of it (this is another story). Nevertheless, I still felt I had been slighted. In a way I still do. At the least, I became sensitive to the issue of what I was, and the arbitrary definitions of nationality.

Choosing Your Own Nationality

Since graduating high school, I spent one year in Japan before starting my 3-year bachelor’s degree. I was so eager to leave New Zealand that I finished my degree in two years. Sure, I wanted to go to Japan again, but I was actually bored with New Zealand. Not that I didn’t enjoy those two years, I really did, but I was just… bored. The two years in rural Japan really heightened my unawareness of what I was. The only thing was, I hated it when Japanese would speak English to me, so to combat that, my general policy was to tell people that I was Dutch. That way, if they spoke English to me, I could call them a dumbass because the Dutch have their own language. Technically, I came to Japan as New Zealand on my New Zealand passport (because you need to be from a native English speaking country). I was really starting to blur the boundaries.

I always imagined that I would come back to Holland one day. All my non-direct family is here, I still speak the language (somewhat), and it just seems right to come back and see what my home country is like. I am so lucky that I stumbled on the course which I am about to complete. Legally, as a Dutch student, I got 260 Euro per month, and free travel on weekends. I am so glad to be Dutch sometimes. However, I sometimes act like an international student. See, my English is far better than my Dutch (which is no where near academic standards), and more importantly, my English is far better than my lecturers’ English. It is my policy to speak and write English to them, because it puts me in a position of authority.

Okay, so here is a quick summary of my nationality in different situations.

1. I am a New Zealander in order to go to Japan
2. I am Dutch while in Japan
3. I am Dutch in Holland when claiming student-related perks
4. I am a New Zealander as an academic

Is it fair to choose my nationality like this? Yes. Absolutely it is. However, others can absolutely not choose it for you. Here is a story which illustrates this point from my yet-unused manuscript I wrote while in Japan:

“May I please interview you on your thoughts about Japan?”, a pretty Japanese girl asked in well-practiced English. “It will take only five minutes.” We went outside the international youth hostel, along with a cameraman and another man managing to look busy as only the Japanese can do, holding a clipboard. They started rolling as she asked me some standard questions. “Where are you from?” “Toyama.” I replied. Maybe I was trying to be difficult, but I wanted to let them know that I wasn’t an overseas tourist. “I’m a teacher in Toyama, and I’ve come for the weekend to Tokyo.” She translated to the clipboard guy, and exchanged disappointed grunts. She knew she was going to have to try a little bit harder. “What country are you from?” she asked, emphasising the word country. “Holland”, I replied. This time, I was not trying to be difficult. Yes, while it is true that I grew up in New Zealand, have a New Zealand education and a New Zealand accent, came to Japan on my New Zealand passport and all my friends consider me a New Zealander, I am Dutch. I was born there, all of my family is there, and I speak fluent Dutch with them, albeit childishly. I only became a New Zealander when I was seventeen. In fact, I couldn’t play for my high school basketball team because I was technically classified as an import. I even own much more orange than black clothing. It isn’t a simple justification, and certainly not one I need to make to a stranger, but I am Dutch. “But”, the intervieweress started again, “Why do you speak English?” This interview was getting off to a slow start. I quickly told her the story that my immediate family immigrated to New Zealand when I was four and a half years old. She listened carefully, nodded vigorously, and translated for the clipboard guy. “Ah!” he exclaimed, his world suddenly making sense again. I then watched in horror as he scribbled out “ORANDA-jin” [Dutch] and wrote “NYŪJIRANDO-jin.[New Zealander]”

For many people, the question of what you are is simple, and look at me and try to answer the question for me. But for me, it is not black and white: It's some strange mix of black and orange.

Blood

Okay, admittedly I look very stereotypically Dutch – comically Dutch even. Tall, thin, blonde, blue eyes. I am absolutely a “Nederlander” in the ethnographic sense. Of course, there are millions of Dutch people who don’t look like me. Last year, I was working at the Feyenoord Stadium in Rotterdam on Christmas. It is a giant stadium and a big operation every single game. A group of four of us temporary workers were assigned to a car park, directing cars to the available spaces. The leader of our group, a bitter, old Dutch man with a filthy moustache said he needed one person to stand at the entrance and stop cars to ask them for their parking card, or direct them to where they needed to go. This was the job that involved conversing with the drivers. The old guy looked at us four. One guy was black. The girl was black. The other guy was probably Moroccan or Turkish (Forgive my ignorance). Guess who got chosen to stop the cars? Yeah. I was chosen despite my Dutch surely being the worst of us four.

Still, my bloodlines are 3/4 pure Dutch, of which 1/4 is Frisian (yes, like the cow), and my other grandmother was originally born in Austria. Still, Austria isn't so much different really, and besides, 75% is pretty high. I’ll take those odds. Since New Zealand is also a predominantly European nation and basically only an immigrant nation, this has never been much of an issue, but it surely should play a large part.

Name

An email from a lecturer a few weeks back said it very well. I had asked her a question, and she replied a quick email asking if she can reply in Dutch. She wrote back “OK, yes, your Dutch name made me expect a Dutch nationality". Exactly.

Legally

I have a dual citizenship, but the fact remains that I only got the New Zealand one out of convenience, and even that was a stroke of luck that made it possible. Of course, I can’t be faulted for taking up both citizenships, because it made me going to Japan as a teacher possible. However, now that I think about it, had I never been able to get the New Zealand citizenship, this entire question of what I am wouldn’t even be an issue. At this point in history, Holland is having issues with immigration, and this has led to particularly some anti-Moroccan sentiment. On more than a few occasions, I have heard Dutch people complaining about Moroccan kids in Holland who keep their Moroccan citizenship; they think that these kids should just choose one and stick with it. When one old guy I was working with said this, I told him I have two passports. “Do you have a problem with that?”

It turns out that he didn’t. He reasoning was that I was born in Holland and have Dutch family. I think he meant to say that I wasn’t brown, or Muslim. I guess what this means to me is that re-assimilation is much more attainable for me.

Language

So, my English as mentioned earlier is native New Zealand. I am a big believer in the language ego (your own conception of your identity is inextricably linked with and formed in the language you think in). But Any New Zealander will claim me as one of them. My Dutch, on the other hand, although fully conversable, is still awkward, and to most Dutch people, I am "the New Zealander" (or Australian, if they are stupid. They often are).

I finally have that accent I always wanted! However, the accent causes me great pains sometimes. In daily life, I don’t want to be foreign. See, in Japan people would always use me as an English language target practice. It is the phenomenon I call the English Backtalker. It was such a buzz-kill to me when a stranger said something like “thank you” to me. Even if they mean well, the implication will always be “You don’t belong here”. So, when the same thing happens in Holland, it is just as bad, if not worse. I might be a dick about this, but at least I am a consistent dick.

A big F-you goes out to:

* The fat, slobby cashier lady at a supermarket replied to me in English when I forgot to put the stickers on the bananas I was buying.
* The bike repair-man I mentioned last year out in bumble-fuck who replied in English when I made a cute mistake of saying I have a “leaky-tyre” instead of a “flat-tyre”.
* The rare customer at work who replies in English. I mean, I am employed in Holland among other Dutch people. Wouldn’t it occur to you that although what I said might have sounded a bit funny, I do understand Dutch?
* The kindly old lady who helped me with directions when I was lost on my bike and it was raining.

The reason I think it is worse in Holland is, while in Japan this phenomenon is based on (probably) innocent racial profiling, in Holland, it is pure arrogance. They like to prove how good their English is. See, if I wanted to, I could probably learn to put on a thick Rotterdam accent, but I want to speak how I do. As Jackie Chan said “I speak Jackie Chan English”. Because I might pronounce a word with an English-language accent, or not have the proper elocution that might be typified by an English speaker, the English Backtalker in Holland thinks they are smarter than me. And because probably 95% of the time I understand Dutch better than they speak English, it gets to me. It just destroys your confidence in your own ability. What have I done wrong? Nothing. The problem lies with them. See, if I had a weird accent but was brown, I think this would happen a lot less often, because many people get annoyed at brown people (or people wearing head-scarves) who can't speak Dutch. But since I look like I could be an Englishman or American, to them, my accent is an opportunity to them to claim superiority and/or try to look cool. I especially hate it when they speak with a forced American or English accent. The general accent is bad enough…

However, this is one aspect which I have direct control over. My Dutch is improving, through social interaction at work mainly, and I intend to study Dutch much more intensively next year. I won’t force an accent, but I can surely improve enough to make it okay.

Cultural Knowledge
One thing I have noticed between me and the Dutch is the disparity of pop-cultural familiarity, which is often the basis for a lot of humour and even friendships. I am now on a volleyball team and for the begin-year party, every team made a presentation. Our team decided to do a rendition of this as our performance (don't watch it all because it is really lame):

It was an old kid’s program that probably every Dutch person over 20 grew up with. The team was loving the idea, laughing at every suggestion. But for me, this was the gayest shit ever. I mean. Come on. Still, I joined in, but I maintain that I didn’t enjoy it.

The only time this year that I have truly, truly laughed until I was spent was when my New Zealand friend was here. He kept making jokes about the Drink Driving government-paid warnings on TV. If you can watch this ad without laughing, you are not a NZer.

It was so refreshingly funny to have someone who shares a communal nostalgia. You can’t equal that, you really can’t.

This seems to be the reason I don’t really get along very well with many Dutch people. Even my volleyball teammates, who are all nice people, I just don’t watch the same TV programs – the basis for all true friendships. (Admittedly, this could also be the vast cultural gap between volleyball players and me, who is still ideologically a basketball player.) I don’t get along at all with other non-Dutch northern Europeans who I always seem to piss off. But I’m always instantly able to have fun with Americans, as I seem to have a pretty good knowledge of enough quality American TV.

Music
I was bar-hopping with some friends in Leiden. The law is that after 1pm (on most nights) the bar is not allowed to let new people in. It was already a bit late, but one bar is known to flaunt this rule, and we briskly walked in before the lax bouncer could block us. We got some drinks, and the music was… Terrible. It was playing a popular song, a techno song, and then it would play a Dutch Pop song (known as “Neder-Pop” or “crap music”). Seriously, every Neder-Pop song sounds like the Smurf song. It was so frustrating. But the thing is, drunk Dutch people love this music. They know all the words, and sing them loudly. Hard to believe, but the song ends up sounding even worse. However, at one stage one of these songs came on. As I was leaving the dance-floor, a girl came out of nowhere, flung her arms around me and started dancing with me while singing along loudly. Even better, she was dressed in an anime costume of Link, from the Legend of Zelda. Like this:

Now, I am no gamer, but I know hot when I see it. She was dressed as a Wood Nymph! I decided there and then that I would stay on the dance-floor. Very brave of me.

Judging by how loud she was singing, this girl was enjoying the song a lot (i.e. she was drunk). I looked over to my friends, and mouthed “I don’t know this song”. I must have looked very confused. The girl then looked at me accusingly, so I started singing something. (“La la la-la-la-la”) She did a double-take. She stopped dancing. She looked at me to check if I actually was singing the song. It was obvious that I wasn't. She hit me in my chest with the palm of her hand and said in Dutch: “You don’t even know this song!” And with that, the dance was finished, and she began dancing with some douche-bag who did know the lyrics and was enjoying the song very much (he was also very drunk).

I felt a little depressed after that. In theory, that should have been the easiest close ever. But my lack of knowledge of truly awful Dutch music cock-blocked me. It seemed to me then, that I wasn’t Dutch enough. My friend reassured me by saying “If the definition of being Dutch is knowing that music, you don’t want to be Dutch, do you?” Tough call…

Other People's Opinion of my Nationality
However, there is no question that almost everyone I know considers me to be a New Zealander. It just isn't that simple, as this long post has shown. I even had a random thought of a method how other people might come to consider me as Dutch: Join the army. (Holland has an army? Yeah, they do. I was as surprised as you are.) This was a completely honest thought that I had. My hippy up-bringing and my naturally rebellious-to-arbitrary authority notwithstanding, this would unquestionably make me Dutch. I mean, serving the country... But, the only thing I will ever serve is food and tennis/volley balls. I mentioned the Moroccans earlier, and many of the youths are said to be causing trouble and committing crime because they aren't considered Dutch here, and aren't considered Moroccan when they go back to Morocco. I don't see how crime and vandalism can help solve this problem, but maybe I should try it some time. It can't hurt (apart from myself, and society)

Some people ask me, what do you "feel"? I still don't have an answer. I love supporting Dutch football, and New Zealand Basketball. (if the Dutch football team and the New Zealand basketball team ever played against each other, I would incredibly confused...) I just hope the Queen of England and the Queen of Holland never get into a fist-fight (well, I imagine if they fought, it would probably involve them glove-slapping each other, or hitting each other with bunches of flowers, like on Jerry Springer. I mean, I would only NEED to make a decision of my nationality if there was a war between the two countries, and then I would probably be thought of as a spy.

I think, in the end, I think I prefer to slip between the two. And this sensitivity to nationality has become an obsession of mine, inspiring a complete manuscript, and being a huge portion of my master's thesis. In a way I envy those who have a conception that you must be ONE nationality. This general conception is that nationality is a like a giant bubble, in which the rest of your identity resides. But for me, it is a small part of the whole. I don't want to say I am a universalist, because that isn't true either. The closest description I have ever heard is this one by my hero George Carlin:

I truly am happy that I am both Dutch and a New Zealander, and the perspective and amazing opportunities it has given me. While the idea of an ultimate place to call "home" and going "back to my roots" may be a beautiful and poetic one, and one that I sometimes wish I had, in reality it does not mean anything to me. And I think, this realisation and resolution is what I have learned during these last 1 1/2 years on Back 'n Dutch.

Bonus Videos on the topic
So Dutch

The chorus of this song by Mos Def and Q-Tip is perfect in its simplicity

On a final note, this is the conclusion for Back 'n Dutch. I will continue for the next month as 'The Victory Tour 2010', and then as something new. Thanks for your patience, especially for this post - if you got this far. And thanks for sharing in this, ultimately pointless journey into my being back 'n Dutch. It's been great.

2009-12-24T22:27:00.003+01:00

Christmas Spirit

Spare yourself the barrage of crappy Christmas movies. I think I found your Christmas spirit right here. It was a week before Christmas, and still our apartment didn't have a tree, or anything red or green. (Although, to be fair, I didn't look under the fridge or the couch. Noone ever does.) I once, accidentally set up a Christmas tree within the home of a Jehova's witness family, so no way in hell I was going to go without in my one student home. So after getting my day's study done, I gathered up everything green I could find, and what the flatmates gave, and I gathered as much potentially useful stuff that I could.

It took a few hours (finishing at 2am) with the help of flatmates, but wow. I looked up and thought: it's beautiful. It really is.
Okay, Okayy, objectively, I do realise that it looks like a piece of crap, so much so, that I couldn't be bothered to rotate this image. Actually, the bottom of the tree fell out a few days ago, but I had to make emergency repairs every morning, as it wasn't so structurally sound. We created it from a broom, on which we taped carboard, on which we taped the plastic portion of 5 shopping bags, and other random pieces of green. I did splash out to get some lights, but it was totally worth it. I know, you're thinking:

A) Does that mean that since your broom is now a Christmas tree, there won't be any sweeping done at your place? And,

B) This piece of crap took you 3 hours to make?

A), cleaning? In a student house? and B), it may be a piece of crap, but it's a BIG piece of crap! And look at the detailing.

Observe the cardboard apple-box, the barcode on the shopping bag (the Dutch make you pay for plastic bags!), the McDonald's Christmas ball, and the card from the below neighbours.

Because I learned something through this experience. The true meaning of Christmas is about the little things, and about turning pieces of crap into BIG pieces of crap.

Merry Crapmas to you all!

(see, wasn't this much more painless than sitting through a 90 minute Christmas special?)

2009-12-12T18:23:00.002+01:00

The Countdown
Officially, my deadline to finish university is January 31st, however, that has been moved up significantly to before Christmas... By choice... My own choice... My own studip choice... To go on the Victory Tour in January.

So until then, every day I'm writing, editing, thinking... And more editing. Sometimes the only thing keeping me going is the thought being back in New Zealand, in the summertime (and away from the fireworks), seeing my dog, the holiday in Japan. And at the end of every day of writing and editing, I open up another window on my Christmas Countdown Chocolate Calendar. The thought that I am one day closer to finishing thesis AND going on holiday... All I can say is, nothing, nothing tastes as sweet. Nothing.

2009-12-06T17:27:00.003+01:00

V-Ball

Lately, I have been busy on three fronts:

Finishing my masters thesis and paper
Working 3 days a week - totaling about 15-20 hours
Playing and practicing volleyball.

I have been largely silent about all three of these aspects, the first two because they are sort of boring. The third, because it's sort of embarrassing.

See, we suck. We have been playing since October, and it took until our eighth game to procure our first win. And let me tell you, it was not pretty. One set, we lost 25-1. In the new system of scoring! You know, even a missed serve for them would be a point for us. It was ridiculous, embarrassing, shocking. At the end of the set, when teams need only one point to win, they often chant "1!, 1!, 1!". In this situation, I wasn't sure if they were chanting for themselves, or making a complete mockery of us. Mind you, the week before, we played so badly that a teammate said "at least it can't get any worse than this"...

But now, with our first win, I can break my vow of silence. Here is the table, as it stands now. Our team is SKC. Notice that we are not last anymore, and this is a huge victory for us.

Now, I joined club SKC at the start of the semester. I had no idea what SKC stood for. A few weeks ago, I heard that a long time ago, it did stand for something, but now it doesn't - kind of like how KFC doesn't stand for Kentucky Fried Chicken anymore. Basically, it is a big volleyball club which has 6 men's teams and 11 women's teams, and it is based at the University Sports Centre. I am in the 4th men's team.

See, I used to play volleyball on school teams every winter from when I was 12 till 17-ish. I wasn't great, but I could play to a reasonable standard. So, in an effort to be more socially active in Holland, I decided to play either basketball or volleyball. The basketball club was full of douchebags, so I decided to play volleyball. When I started playing, I realised that it had been seven years since I last played. For the first time in my life I felt old. And for the first time in my life, I experienced losing like I never thought possible. Until our first win, I was regretting the decision. See, I still think I am a basketball player. I have the shoes, but I mean, philosophically, I am a basketball player. Especially when we are losing so badly at volleyball.

But we are slowly getting better, and while my front-court play could use a lot of improvement, I have my mojo in the backcourt. Observe the brilliance of this pass. I should set it up a little bit. See, this was the first set in our last game, but the opposition was up. In fact, they were on a set-point right here. If I didn't complete this pass, we would have lost the first set, and then maybe the entire game, and my vow of silence would still be going. I didn't. The pass, with only my left hand, was perfect, right on top of the setter's head. Glorious. I feel like we can only go up from here... (I am the guy with the headband and the long hair on the green team.)

But with this, I feel happy to have finally revealed my dirty secret.

My name is Ruben, and I am a volleyball player.

2009-11-22T19:07:00.003+01:00

Winner!

I am not a winner. I never win anything. Actually, that's not exactly true. Once when I was about 1o years old, I was at a fundraiser for the SPCA, and there was a raffle. There was a huge jar of jelly-beans, and every entry would let you guess how many jellybeans there were inside. My mother, being a teacher, showed me a very logical method for figuring it out. (no, not opening the jar and counting them! Not that logical.) She counted how many there were on the bottom of the jar, and then counted how high they went, and then she did something in her head (I think it was magic), and came up with a number. I don't remember what number that was, but it ended in 20. If I were to take a guess, I think she said 320. Yeah, that sounds about right. Anyway, I thought to myself: "Sure, that fancy magic may get you an actual figure, but that can't be exactly right". I was much smarter than that, even back then. So, I decided to not make it an even number, and I wrote down "316". I felt pretty good about my chances, and sure enough the next day I got a phone-call. Yes, me, a 10-year old got a phone call. It was exciting. It was the SPCA, and they told me that I had won! I was a winner! She told me that my guess was the closest to the actual amount of jellybeans in the jar - 320.

For a while, I wondered what my prize would be. Perhaps a new bike, I thought. Well, no. When I got my prize - the same jar of jellybeans - it sudddenly didn't seem like such a "huge" jar anymore. So that is about the extent of me winning anything, and even then, it was my mother's magical powers that made it happen. She was kind enough to let me keep the jellybeans.

That is why, last week, I was very surprised to get an email saying I had won tickets to see Yellowman. Now, I often enter into a draw for free tickets to concerts through a reggae website in Holland, without much regard to who is playing. But Yellowman I knew through the curse of the compilation CD. Basically, I knew who he was, what type of music he plays, and one or two songs. I am more a reggae kind-of-guy, and Yellowman is one of the legends of dancehall.
Here is one of the more reggae songs from the set he played:

In fact, I won two tickets, and so I posted this message on the facial-books to see if anybody would want to join me:
"Any Elephant Man fans out there willing and able to go to his concert on Saturday in Eindhoven? I won two tickets, is all. Oh wait, I should write this message in cool dance-hall lingo... Big up dem massive! boo-yaka sha! Me dem ere getty dem tickats two ta si Elephant Man! Giv tanks an prase! Holla mi bak."

Did anybody notice something strange here? Yes, dancehall is so far out of my musical range that I got Yellowman mixed up with Elephant man. Silly me, mixing up an albino dancehall star with one who has elephantisis.

Okay, Elephant man does not have elephantisis as far as I know (which obviously isn't a lot), but seriously, Yellowman is an albino. One of his songs, and I'm not making this up, is called "Mi Yellow like Cheese". I have never seen such a wierd looking man. Google image this guy with precaution. He looks like Grendel from Beowulf. As Stewie Griffin once said "I feel bad for looking without paying." And since I won the ticket, I felt bad for looking.

But me going on about his looks is pretty immature and a dick thing to do of me. After all, he is also a cancer survivor. Besides, he has done immense good for our type: albinos. And since he is thought to be one of the most sexist recording artists of all time, I think he is perfectly comfortable with who he is.

So, since I had him confused with Elephant man the week before the concert, I had been refreshing myself with the wrong music, and when I arrived, I was pleasantly surprised at the reggae-ness of the band. See, early dancehall is still very reggae. In fact, such as in the above song, they often use the same song to sing over. I prefer reggae, but dancehall does sound so much better live. And I loved the effort of a 53-year old cancer survivor, with the biggest pelvic thrusts I've ever seen. His 4-piece band was tight, they played a good range of classic reggae (including covers) and dancehall, and even a cover of Fats Domino's Blueberry Hill. It was the best free night's entertainment I've had in a long time. Unfortunately, the concert was in Eindhoven, which was the villian in the story when I fell asleep on the night train. It was a 2-hour train-ride home, and I wasn't going to risk being stuck at a station at night. I left the small concert hall regretfully, as Yellowman was still going strong after 90 minutes on stage. At one stage he said "Yellowman guarantees satisfaction, satisfaction guaranteed" and "The reason I was put on this earth is to make sure you all have a good time." After what I saw, I believe that he believes that.

So while it wasn't exacly my thing, I saw a living legend in the Jamaican music scene and had a genuinely good time, and I learned that perhaps albinos can be winners after all.

2009-11-08T23:09:00.002+01:00

Walk a Sham

As you may recall, for those of you playing at home, my bike was stolen from the station a few weeks ago. I thought some drunk person and/or homeless person had stolen it in a random incident, but now I think there may be a conspiracy against me. Someone -or something- is dearly against me riding a bicycle. I am not a superstitious man, but consider these cold hard facts of the last few weeks.

These last few weeks- and until the end of the year, I am working incredibly hard- working hard beyond recognition. (i.e. it is very unlike me to work this hard.) I go to school every day to write my thesis, and do my homework for my other class. I also still work 12 hours per week earning actual money, as university "credit" doesn't actually get you anything except disdain from people with actual full-time jobs.

Be aware that every single day that I don't have a bike, I have to walk a half hour to town, and from there another 10 or so to school. There is a bus, but it often comes only once an hour, and sometimes it comes early, so on top of the 7 minutes it takes to walk there, you have to be 10 minutes early, and then, it might come very late. It is often worthwhile to just walk. On the way home, I usually took the bus.

My bike was stolen on a Wednesday. I waited until after the weekend to get a new one.

The Tuesday after my bike was stolen, I went to the bike store and asked what 2nd hand bikes were available. I found one that I maybe wanted, but decided to think about it for a day, and maybe compare prices.

Thursday. I was going to go to the bike store to buy it. Only, the shop had a small sign on the window saying his daughter was sick at the hospital, so he was closed all day. It would be a dick-move to complain about this. So I won't.

Friday. I went back, and told him which bike I wanted. He needed to fix it up a little beforehand, and he couldn't make it ready for me today. Also, since he is closed on Mondays, I told him begrudgingly I would pick it up on Tuesday.

After a whole week without wheels, I was getting pretty sick of walking.

Week 2
Monday. The bike store is closed.

Tuesday. There was another sign on the door that said he was closed from 2pm. It was 3pm.

Wednesday. I finally could pick up my bike. Wow, this time I have an old racing bike, and damn it goes fast. I was so happy, that feeling felt like it would last forever.

Thursday. I finished all my study and errands in record time, and I had energy when I got home. I made plans to get up early and do it again the next day.

Friday. As I was about to leave for a jam-packed day of study, I noticed that my front tyre was flat. Shit! After some swearwords, I put out my left foot and took the familiar walk back to town.

Week 3

Tuesday. I wanted to let him fix the tyre properly while it was still under moral-warranty. I was expecting this to be the last time I had to walk to town. So I walked to town with my bike, and went back to the bike shop (because he is closed on Mondays). He was sick again. Fuck. So I locked up my bike outside his shop and left, knowing that I would have to walk to town again tomorrow.

Wednesday. There was a sign on the door saying he was out picking up new bikes until midday. I had work at 2pm. There was no way he would be able to fix up my bike within the first hour of his working week, so I told him I could pick it up the next day at 5pm- at his closing time, and the time my class finishes.

Thursday. I had to wake up very early, and it was raining very hard. Unfortunately, the bus was early and I saw it fly by before I got to the bus stop. So I walked. In the drenching rain. At the end of the day when class finished I walked as quickly as I could to the bike store, arriving at 5:05. I saw him, busy putting all the bikes on the street into the tiny store. He saw me and said, "I'm sorry, your bike is right at the back of the store, I am not going to get it out now."

As he said that, a part of me died inside. Truly. My feet were dead tired, and my mind destroyed. I mean, I had been working so hard these last few weeks, and this let down was almost my breaking point. I loped back to the bus stop...

Friday. Finally, my bike. He didn't charge me for it, which is nice. I mean, I like the guy, but circumstances have been so against me lately, it brought me to the edge of despair.

I will not take my bike for granted. Because there is one thing I have learned from these last three weeks: Even though it is man's primary form of locomotion, I fucking hate walking.

2009-11-02T00:44:00.006+01:00

Updated!

2009-11-01T23:56:00.003+01:00

Victory Tour 2010

Whoops. Never mind the part where it says 2009. That was a Freudian penis. I meant, of course, 2010. It just slipped out.

The countdown has begun...

2009-10-30T21:31:00.003+01:00

The Best Week of Music

Four months ago, I wrote this glowing review about seeing my favourite band play live. It was Groundation's first performance in The Netherlands, and only four months later, I was able to see them for their second Dutch performance. This time, in Den Haag. It was in a small-ish music hall, or as optomistic musicians who can't sell out big concerts like to call it "an intimate audience". Among the spectators was my own father. Awesome. I was converting my dad to a Groundation faithful. On the one hand, I feel lucky to see this band before they make it big, but on the other hand, it is such a shame that such good reggae music goes on largely unnoticed, while only four days later in Amsterdam, a giant reggae festival is going to have thousands of fans.

Of course, I will be among these thousands of fans. Are you kidding me? Let's give you a quick run-down of this line-up.

Shabba Ranks: Not exactly my style, but he is a classic voice in the early reggae-Dance hall transition.

Jah Cure: A cult-figure in reggae, and justifiably with a voice like this.

Serani: I didn't know him before, but this track is pretty sweet.

Tanya Stephens: A big up and comer, with an original sound and as reggae people call it "conscious sound". I am not exaclty sure what that means, but I pretty sure this song has it.

Richie Spice: In March, I went to what I then thought was a big reggae concert, and Richie Spice was the headline act. I thought the concert was then worth it, and this time, he is the 4th act I want to see. Although in March he was a bit of a let-down. I mean, he couln't even hit many of his own high notes. Maybe he wasn't entirely conscious. So I am hoping he sing his boots off and earn back my respect, because his songs deserve them.

Maikel X: I saw him before at Park Pop while I was dressed as MJ, and being a locally based-artist, he is the the weak link in this line-up. But good for him.

Duane Stephenson: Another new-up-and-comer singing true roots reggae. I have been listening to him a lot recently, so this is exciting. He also appears to be "conscious" in this song:

The ony problem is, with such a huge line-up, and a huge night ahead, I hope I can be conscious myself for the entire night. If I can, it will easily have been the biggest week of music of my life.

2009-10-19T22:18:00.004+02:00

Farewell Giselle

Giselle

Feb 2009 - 15 October 2009

It's never easy when you lose something important to you. But at the same time, you try your best to deal with it, knowing that good things are supposed to end. I always knew this time would come, but it is still difficult when it is taken from you. It doesn't seem fair, when it really nothing could be more fair. It happens to everybody.

My bike, beloved Giselle, was stolen from me after I locked it up at the station last Thursday morning. Bikes in Holland are very frequently stolen; they are more contagious than an STI. I kind of expected it to get stolen this year, which is why I got a cheap bike, but I was still careful to always lock her up. It is sad to lose my bike. Of course, I am not really talking about my bike.

But let's talk about my bike. This was our last adventure together.

Okay, it was Saturday night after 3am, and I was... No, let's phrase this more carefully: I had been drinking. It was a party in town. I was coming home by bike, and I was needing to cross through to the other side of the station. For the purposes of a visual aid to the story, I will include a map.

View Larger Map
Starting from the bottom of the map, I was biking up towards the station (the large white building at the top-left.) However, as I entered the map, a sporty white car came out of the side street from the right. Giselle no longer has a working light, but then, in Holland almost everyone's light is broken, and this was a well-lit and relatively busy street, even at this early morning hour. However, the car didn't stop for me, and I had right-of-way. However, as I say, "right-of-way means very little when you are in hospital." I swerved to the left, and avoided driving straight into the driver's door. But my pedal hit and scraped against the front bumper of the car. Yes, I had officially been in a car-to-bike crash. I didn't fall off, and Giselle had suffered no damage, but I was pretty pissed-off.

Maybe in retrospect, I was acting. Maybe I was just relieved to have avoided a potentially bad crash. And I probably shouldn't have tried to be so tough. But in the moment, I was pretty pissed-off and I gave that driver of the car an earful. It probably contained many words of an offensive nature. It was also in free-flowing angry English, which I'd like to think sounds much more threatening to a Dutch person who would understand most of it, but be unable to reply.

Feeling better, I continued to bike on up the road toward the station. That's when I observed the same car coming up behind me with the lights on full. Shit. About where the "Paviljoenshof" is on the map, I ducked through a small gap onto the footpath to get out of the car's way and let it pass. I biked slowly to let the car go by, but it drove up further onto the pedestrian crossing and onto the wide pedestrian area in front of the station. The car was facing me. It was staring me down.

Shit.

I had pissed the guy off. And let's, for a moment, consider what kind of person drives around the city centre in a flashy car after 3am in the morning. I won't draw any conclusions, but surely you know of similar people in your home town.

This is where all my years of movie-watching paid off. I tore off a chapter from the Bourne Identity, and started biking towards the car, swerved to its left, over the pedestrian crossing and back onto the road. The car was turning around like a slow dinosaur, unable to keep up with my agility. I then quickly turned back towards the station entrance, through the sliding doors and inside. I knew there are cameras there, and also security guards late at night, especially on weekends. I was safe... Also, the station has a back entrance where it is difficult for cars to get to. I simply biked through to the other side and biked home.

I doubt the guy (and I vaguely remember there maybe being a girl in the passenger seat) was actually going to try run me over (because cyclists make dents), but he may have wanted to get out of the car and fight me with more than just words. I say this because I heard a similar story where a car driver got out and ran to try and fight a cyclist he almost hit.

It was a close call, because let's be honest, I couldn't fight my way out of a roomful of newborn puppies. But I am grateful that Giselle was there for me in my time of need, and did everything asked of her. And I will always have stories like this to remember her by. And that is something that noone can take from me.

2009-10-05T21:26:00.005+02:00

Happy Leidse Omzet!

This last weekend was the biggest festival day in Leiden, celebrating the hard-won independence from Spain. However, after the last "biggest event of the year" was spoilt after me getting prematurely excited about it, this time I had no expectations. And when you don't have expectations, you should expect great things.

So, on Friday the 2nd of October- the biggest party night, I was busy not expecting anything when my flatmate said- "Hey Ruben, you like cooking, it's the 2nd of October, do you want to make "Hutspot" for us... for 6...8 people?"
I said "Sure... What's hutspot?"

It's basically just mashed potato with onion and carrot. There were some crates of beer, and so, the night organically grew into a great night out. After eating (and drinking) in, we headed into town, which had transformed into a giant carnival and festival with rides, games, outdoor beer vendors, thousands upon thousands of people (sometimes literally), drinking on the streets and in the canals on boats, and outdoor DJs. One of the DJ events we went to was on a small barge in the water, from which many people peed off. Again, I will not divulge whether I partook in this ages-old Leidse tradition, but I will say that it was awesome. The whole night was.

I was in such a good mood that it felt like New Years. But instead of saying "Happy New Year" to all the strangers, I adapted the saying to "Happy Leidse Omzet!" I now know that it is actually "ontzet", but I don't think it mattered much. Most people didn't understand what they were supposed to say back to me. So, after some trial and error and persistence, I adapted it to "Happy Leidse Omzet, WOO!", which got a more-or-less desired result ("Woo").

Actually, after a getting home and spending a full day hung over, we all finished the beer and had another night out in town. Rinse and repeat. The two nights melted into one weekend of pure awesomeness.

I know, this post isn't really leading to a point, but I promise it is leading to something much better: a compromising photograph of myself as a visual representation of how great the weekend was. It was at 4:30 AM after the first night. I had gotten home, and had finished chatting and sobering up with the others who had made it home. This photo shows where I took a rest at the halfway point between my living room couch to my bedroom. I wasn't actually sleeping; I was more "doing a David Hasselhof".

In all fairness, the photo probably looks worse than it is... Anyway, here you are.
Happy Leidse Omzet everyone!

...

Woo!

2009-09-24T21:32:00.005+02:00

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.

2009-09-18T18:46:00.003+02:00

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.

2009-09-11T20:12:00.002+02:00

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."

2009-09-09T23:19:00.006+02:00

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.

2009-09-06T19:48:00.004+02:00

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

2009-08-30T14:19:00.002+02:00

Eind of the Line

I often say the great thing about Holland is how small the country it is, and how easy it is to get to other places. Even when you don't want to.

See, I was out in Amsterdam on Friday night because I had some friends visiting. They were staying at a hotel in the city, but I had planned to go home. If you live in the main cities, there are night trains running every hour. I am lucky enough to live near Leiden Central Station, and it is always good to know that I can get home at any time. Amsterdam is only two stops away, and by now I was looking forward to being home in my bed by 3:30. That would give me about 7 hours sleep before meeting up with my friends in Amsterdam again.

I got on the 2:45 night train and started on my trip home. Like I had been looking forward to, I had a brilliant, restful, deep sleep. However, I woke up at 5am... In Eindhoven. I had overslept. Bigtime. To let you understand the magnitude of this fuck-up, here is a map.

(my stop, Leiden, in just above Den Haag) I had traveled basically to south Netherlands while in a sweet sweet dreamlike state. I was already worried what my friends and family would think, as I have a history of sleeping in unfortunate places. (At least this time, I still had my shoes).

Now it was 5am, and I had more than 1 1/2 hours before the next train would depart. See, it was too late in the morning for the night trains, and I had to wait for the first regular train... I thought that since I was already in Eindhoven, maybe I can take a look around the city centre. That way, I can pin it on the map, making this trip not a complete pointless excercise.

So, I took a walk. It was that point in the morning where it gets even darker before it gets light. Within a minute, a friendly local on an old bicylce spots me from across the street. He calls out to me and bikes my way.

Him: "You want to buy a bike? 15 Euro"

Me: "No."

Him: "10 Euro?"

Me: "No."

Him "Seven Euro?"

Me: "No, I don't even want to be in Eindhoven!"

He biked away, and I realised what a stupid idea this walk was- in the dark hours of the morning walking around by myself in a big city with a blatant criminal element. I mean, he was obviously trying to sell a stolen bike. So, I went back into the station where they have security cameras and tried finding a place to sit.

I found a seat in a passport photo booth. It even had a curtain! So, I set my alarm for 7am incase I fell asleep again, and tried relaxing a bit.

That's when I heard the unmistakeable sound of the footsteps of a dirty homeless man with heavy, floppy feet. The nerve of the guy- he opened up the curtain of my booth and asked me for 5 Euro. For what? Does he need to buy a bike? Because I happen to know a guy. I mumbled my way into boring the homeless guy into leaving. But he was either a complete asshole, or completely off his face on drugs because he came back to interrupt me twice more. Man he pissed me off. The nerve! (Sorry, I but now is not the time to ask how anyone could possibly be homeless living in socialist Holland.)

So anyhow, the time passed so slowly, and I eventually caught the train home- although this time, I did not sleep very deeply. When I studied in Japan, I learnt the ancient art of the train power nap. I never once missed my stop, although if I had of, I would have ended up in downtown Tokyo. I think I need to retrain myself before I consider sitting down when I am tired (drunk) on a night train.

I got home at 9:30, and instead of getting some proper sleep before going back to Amsterdam, I decided to have a nice breakfast and a nice hot shower. And so it was when I learnt that perhaps Holland isn't such a small country after all.

2009-08-25T19:24:00.002+02:00

Festival Season Part IIII
Lowlights of LowlandsWhat do these next bands have in common?

ARCTIC MONKEYS
BASEMENT JAXX
THE PRODIGY
SNOOP DOGGY DOGG

They all played last weekend at one of the most famous music festivals in Holland, Lowlands, I was there the whole 3 days of festival, and I saw none of them. Bad luck? Sort of. I was at lowlands not as a spectator, but as an employee.

I signed up to work here almost a month ago because it was a good full weekend of work, and I hoped I would be able to at least see some bands play.

Things were complicated soon after I signed up, as I realised that during that time, my friend and his friend would be coming from overseas to stay with me. I figured I could both work, and meet him for dinner or something.

Then I got my schedule: 10am-11pm all three days. And the festival terrain was very close to the official worst city in the world. I spent the next few weeks trying to make contact with them to change my schedule around a little bit. See, most employees were camping at the festival, as were the 55,000 visitors, but under the circumstances, it wasn't appropriate for me. I couldn't make contact, so I had to tell them in person on my first day.

I thought this would be a 2 hour trip, but on the first day, I was an hour and a half late. Shit... When I arrived, my bosses were very pissy at me, and that did not get any less when I told them I needed to leave a few hours earlier in order to make the last train home. I was off to a great start...

I got signed in, and led to my workplace: a TexMex restaurant. A bald guy with a sleazy goatee called a group of 7 of us together. His name, and I am being completely serious, was Carlos. I mean, how perfect is that? He said to us, you guys are in the Burrito Department, as if it was an extremely important department. He continued: "Burrito Burrito Burrito Burrito Burrito Burrito Burrito Burrito". From the sounds of things, I was going to be working with burritos.

My responsibility was to look after burritos in their 3 most vital stages of their life-cycle.

1. taking the raw burritos and gently placing them on a rack. (The young stage)
2. putting the burritos in the oven at 200 degrees for 10 minutes. (The gestation period)
3. putting the cooked burritos on the warming plate (The adult stage)

Other people were making them, and others were serving them to the customers. Sure, this is a very simple account of my responsibilities, but it is an accurate representation of how menial it felt.

Incredibly, as specific as this job was, it got incredibly busy at times, despite the burritos costing nearly 10 euros- an astronomical price. I found this even more amazing because most of the spectators are hippies, and we all know that hippies have no money. I guess, when they actually do have money, they are so reckless with it. Maybe that is why they have no money: they spend it all at music festivals.

At the very real risk of being sexist, I have to say that I don't enjoy working for under-30 female bosses. In my experience, I think they are so self conscious about their authority while still wanting to be cute, that they come across as complete bitches. They strictly enforced all the rules, and liberally dispensed condescending advice. I mean, I am working in the Burrito department- I think I have about hit rock-bottom already...

When I finished that evening, I had to leave early. They did not take to this well. In fact, one guy looked at my schedule and said "you are working until 11pm. Grab a t-shirt." I loved my reaction to this complete tosser. He was trying to pull his autority. I just told him, look, I am not going to work. Stubbornness is fantastic sometimes. He was quickly defeated and said, fine go home.

Three hours later I was home...

The next two days of work just blurred together. The next day, I was 2 1/2 late the next day because I met my friend at the airport beforehand. However, I was much smarter this time. I pulled the classic "go ask your mother" strategy. I told the temping agency that I had arranged this with the TexMex boss, and reversed it to the TexMex boss. It's all about people skills.

I usually love mexican food. If I had a choice of food when I was living at home, I would always choose something mexican. But now, I won't touch a burrito for at least 6 months. Thank you Lowlands for curing my love of mexican food...

On the 2nd day as I walked in, a bunch of people were laughing at me. Why? They didn't know me? I checked that my fly was up, and began working. Then a guy asked me if I was actually David Beckham. See, my hair is too long for me to working in the catering without having to tie my hair back. This was the Beckham from about 5 years ago when I was in Japan and everyone thought I looked like him. But when non-Japanese people say it, it might actually be true... I say, fair enough. I mean, he is a good-looking guy, but it's just a shame when he opens his mouth because he sounds as manly as a cockney Michael Jackson. To help break the monotony of the job, I began praciticing a little trick. Because I was using the oven a lot, I had to use these big oven mitts. Soon I began throwing the mitts high into the air, and literally throwing my hands into them, in one smooth motion. Man it was cool. It reminded me of this- but way cooler.

On the 2nd day on the way home, the quiet train stopped, and suddenly it was full of drunk, noisy, singing kids. They had just come back from a beach party. They held up the train enough for me to miss my connection. I got home at 1:30, and had to leave home again at 7am. To save time for sleeping, I abstained from showering. I figured that I don't really need to be clean since I am only handling food all day. Besides, all the hippies eating the burritos will be used to eating unsanitary food.

I usually love mexican food. If I had a choice of food when I was living at home, I would always choose something mexican. But now, I won't touch a burrito for at least 6 months. Thank you Lowlands for curing my love of mexican food... Our employers actually had 17 different food tents across the festival terrain. We were allowed to buy 3 euro tickets for "luxury food", or we could take free sandwiches. On the third day, I couldn't even contemplate eating another burrito, and the only thing that sounded good to me was a simple sandwich. I guess "luxury" is all about perspective. That tuna sandwich and the cheese spread sandwich were about the best thing I have ever tasted.

On the last day, the TexMex bosses had become more relaxed. Near the end, the main boss spotted me throwing some boxes into the giant dumpster. She yelled "You're supposed to fold them first! Now you are going to have to jump in and flatten them." Soon, a bunch of the bosses and others were sitting outside, and me and 6 or 7 others were jumping into the dumpster. Then the bosses said- "do flips!", as they took a video with their cellphone. So yes, I finished my weekend of work with doing flips into a giant pile of rubbish as if it were a swimming pool.

So instead of watching famous bands and up-and-comers play at one of the best festivals in Holland, I will remember Lowlands for disgusting burritos and doing tricks with oven mitts and jumping into a pile of trash.