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In order to get my visa for the Netherlands I had to write a language and culture test, designed to make sure I would be able to fit in.
Part of the test involved watching a film very reminiscent of one of those new animated movies they have in aircraft these days to show you the plane’s safety procedures.
Aside from depriving air hostesses of their god-given right to stand in front of a cramped audience and go through the air-safety version of the Macarena, these films engage in horrible overacting and hyperbole to get unenthused passengers to remember the brace position. In a similar way, the film called “Coming to the Netherlands” has been, I am sure, met with equally unenthused viewers who cringe while watching an overeager “foreigner” bumble through various new and challenging social situations.
While much of the film is, thankfully, rather forgettable, there are a few vignettes that stick in the mind and one, in particular, intrigued me enormously. Dutch people, I was told do not close their curtains, as they believe it implies one has something to hide. Now, given the density of the population of the country, and how closely on top of each other everyone lives, this did seem rather strange. It does, however, explain a lot about where the idea for Big Brother (one of the latest in a long line of Dutch exports) came from.
Being vaguely WASP-ish, the thought of everyone being able to stare into my windows and know what I am having for breakfast didn’t really appeal but, thankfully, in the next breath, the narrator informed me that, while there is nothing to hide, it is considered poor form to gawk through these windows. And, it is on this space that I want to dwell for a moment.
In many respects that distance, the thickness of double glazed glass, sums up the Dutch. That dichotomy, between leaving everything clearly in the open - putting the prostitute squarely in the window, so to speak - and having the conservative restraint not to look at her is unique.
I can think of few other countries that would, for example, as Groningen is doing, think nothing of holding a Whiskey Festival in a church and, in the same breath maintain that people should not work on a Sunday.
The whole notion of the quiet Sunday is nice at one level, and definitely reminiscent of an older, slower time in the world. A world where blackberries were something you picked on a lazy Sunday drive, rather than an umbilical cord to one’s office. But, it can be rather frustrating when you are not used to it you forget to buy milk or worse, coffee on the Saturday.
Stranger still than the fact that shops aren’t open on Sundays, is the notion of a 'koopzondag', where once a month it is suddenly permitted for shops to be open and, in true Dutch spirit they are then chock-a-block. My question is this, if there is clearly such a need for shops to be open – so much so that the queue runs out the door on a Sunday afternoon just before the only supermarket opens its doors at 16h00, why not open more of them?
It seems logical right? But, then again, I am someone that often can’t help grabbing a peak through an open window.
Easter eggs in the Netherlands weren't quite what I was expecting...
Before I go any further I need to confess something.
I don’t like boiled eggs, especially when they are cold. There I said it. Whew, I’m glad to have that out of the way and, I completely understand if you care to read no further.
You see, it seems boiled eggs are rather well-loved in the Netherlands. I am sure there are some Dutch folk who perhaps aren’t great fans of the boiled egg, some that even choose not to eat them but, to show this food open disdain – well that is an altogether different matter, especially during Easter.
From my very unscientific study of the subject I have gathered that boiled eggs form rather a significant part of Dutch Easter. So much so that, when I expressed my aversion to them to a Dutch friend of mine last week she was incredulous. “But, Easter isn’t the same without boiled eggs!”
Personally I prefer my Easter eggs to be made by the good people at Lindt rather than a farm-fresh chicken but, explaining this to my girlfriend’s grandmother was an equally thankless task. Mainly, I will admit, because I was doing it in Dutch which is not yet my go-to language for trying to express cultural nuance. But also I would venture to guess because she just wouldn't hear of it. She nodded sagely, somehow managing to get the gist of what I was saying and then proceeded to tell me how wonderful they are, “such a versatile food” and that perhaps I would like them better cut up and in a salad.
Needless to say, I thanked her for her advice and then quietly avoided the topic for the rest of the afternoon, turning her attention instead to the weather, which has been rather pleasant of late.
This leads me to something about the Dutch that I really do like. When I first arrived here last August, I was told repeatedly by my girlfriend to go outside because the weather was good. And, true to form, I didn’t really listen to her until the sun started to set just after four and it was too late to enjoy the weather. Now, that spring has finished stretching and is crouching down to jump on all of us, restaurants are dusting off their outside furniture, students are dragging couches out into the road in order to sit in the sun. People all around the city are coming out of hibernation and crowding into even the smallest patch of sun, sunglasses at the ready.
Back home in South Africa sunshine is something you often take for granted and so it is refreshing to see people really reveling in it. And, this summer it is a practice I intend to emulate.
With the World Cup just 50 days away, I thought I should take the time to explain why the first African World Cup will be a success.
I had fully intended to make this column about the weird and wonderful world of Dutch doctors. But, since starting to write it I have been caught up in the events that have been unfolding in little old South Africa.
With the World Cup now less than three months away - I thought it better to shelve my thoughts on those practitioners of “house arts” and dedicate this column to the World Cup and the reasons I am convinced it will be a success.
Admittedly, the press South Africa has received over the last two weeks or so has been rather abysmal. The killing of the right-wing, white-supremacist leader, Eugene Terre’Blanche, was duly pounced on by local and international tabloids as the start of much worse to come, especially for those visitors who had bought tickets to the Football. And, these thoughts were exacerbated by the loose talk of the head of the ruling party’s youth wing.
But, while the international press and, in particular, the tabloids get the spelling of the names correct, they fail to capture the essence of the people that make up South Africa. Yes, the crime rates are high, there is no denying that. Yes, some of our more ridiculous public figures have big mouths but, that is an ailment that afflicts politicians the world over. On the whole the people in the country are wonderful and it’s a pity that more stories about them don’t make it into international newspapers. They are genuinely passionate about the country and want to see it succeed.
And, to prove this point I want to share with you a little Reuters piece that didn’t get that well read and that the tabloids didn’t comment on. It was all about a training exercise set up by the French experts brought to the country to help train and prepare riot police. These police officers stood sweating in the sun, running through drills, making sure they would be ready to act if the need arose. And, to make sure they were fully prepared they even enlisted the help of some fake rioters - a contingent of off-duty soldiers had volunteered to help prepare their police comrades.
These rioters got into their role so vehemently that a couple of riot shields were broken and a few helmets were cracked - They were so enthusiastic about helping to prepare for the World Cup that they managed to break riot gear! Which I am led to believe takes some doing.
This, for me, sums up why the World Cup is likely to be a success. As a country we definitely still have problems: far too many people still lack basic resources. Race is still too close to the tip of our collective tongues. But, we are passionate about the country and while we can talk poorly of it, heaven help anyone else who even thinks of doing so.
There is a desire to succeed, to make the country great, that pulls our people together when we need it most. And, come kick off, the stands will be packed, Vuvzelas ringing out, and those tabloids will be feeling a little sheepish.
Yes, it will be a somewhat different Cup, but the spirit will be bright and anyone who ventures there will come home with memories they will cherish forever.
When the Dutch public take a holiday, they do it in style.
The last week has seen not one but two, rather rare things in the Netherlands – public holidays. In South Africa there are quite a few so it is quite easy to become blasé about them, perhaps doing a bit of pottering in the garden, drinking about more than usual the night before on what is usually “a school night”.
The Dutch, however, don’t have quite so many so, when they do come along, they are done in style -albeit a rather quirky, orange-tinted one.
The fact that Koninginnedag isn’t actually on the queen’s birthday is just one of the many, slightly strange things about this holiday.
But, it is probably the easiest to explain. After all, if you can’t move your birthday to when it is most convenient for you and your subjects, what is the point of being the Queen in the first place? It is in fact the day of the Queen Mother’s birthday - the Queen generously decided to move hers to a slightly warmer part of the year.
The next thing you need to know about Koninginnedag is that it takes place – at least for most people – in two parts. Part one begins as soon as it is socially acceptable to start drinking the day before the actual holiday, and begins in earnest when the restaurants have finished stocking all the extra beer and donned their orange outfits.
This party lasts well into the actual holiday punctuated by bands, general merriment and as much orange-coloured paraphernalia as is physically possible.
Koninginnedag itself begins a little like a teen zombie movie, with unhealthily pale people wandering around the city looking decidedly worse for wear and trying to figure out where they left their bikes.
Juxtaposed to these almost-dead, orange revelers, are the bright faces of children who line the streets from about 9 am in the morning trying to convince people to buy all sorts of barely useful secondhand merchandise.
Browsing through the market, we saw everything from well-thumbed copies of Barbie teaches swimming to cassette tape copies of ABBA; ancient computer monitors and printers to stuffed animals. Of course, where there is a possibility of making a quick buck by getting rid of some of the stuff that takes up valuable space that could be used for newer, shinier junk, adults get in on the act too, selling all sorts of things from old fashioned hot chocolate makers to boxes of second hand porn magazines.
From around midday most of the shops are opened and all sorts of goods can be bought, even Hema got cashed in selling a special Koninginnedag dessert decorated with radioactive orange icing. A voice in the store proclaiming loudly that Koninginnedag just would not be the same without the orange-topped concoction.
Bevrijdingsdag, the second public holiday, celebrates the end of the Second World War. Which, while an enormously worthy celebration, is one that flies a little over the heads, I would hazard to guess, of most of the people who attended the music festival in its honour.
Most of the people were way too young to have fought in the war, many too young to have had parents who had defended their nation during the War and, I couldn’t help thinking that, that in itself was cause for celebration.
I don’t think any of us revel in our freedom nearly enough. I know I don’t wake up in the morning and take the time to marvel at the fact that should I wish to speak my mind I can, that I can and have got an education, that I can choose to sleep with whomever I want. Usually I am to busy getting on with my day working and living.
I just hope that at least some of the people happily dancing to the music at a festival put on for them, for which they didn’t have to pay, took a little bit more time that morning to savour the moment and realize just how lucky they are to have this public holiday.
The concept is cool, but what is with all the singing?
I went to my first Dutch wedding last week and, I am happy to report, a grand time was had by all. But, there were a few things I found a little strange.
The first thing that struck me about this wedding and, indeed it is something that can be seen at lots of important Dutch social gatherings is the habit of breaking into song whenever possible.
While I admit that a few graduations and a wedding are hardly a statistically sound sample, at every one I have attended, I have seen grown men and women, gathering together to sing what can only be described as a tribute to the person or people at the centre of the event.
Usually, these ditties are loosely based on a popular song, whose lyrics have been altered with varying degrees of success. And, while they still make me cringe a little, I can’t deny that it would probably be rather nice to be on the receiving end of one. I mean, who doesn’t secretly want a song written about them. Granted, most people probably don’t want a Britney Spears song but, something by the Beatles wouldn't go amiss.
The second thing that struck me about the wedding is a little more serious but, bear with me.
As I listened intently (my Dutch is not yet good enough to do anything else while translating furiously in my head) to the person tending to the proceedings, I couldn’t help but notice that there was, once again, a dichotomy at play - a dichotomy that results from the irrepressibly practical nature of the people.
At its basest form, marriage today is an enormously practical thing to do. It is not a requirement for co-habitation, but it helps facilitate taxes, makes travelling easier and generally makes it pretty simple to prove that the two people involved are together.
But, at the same time, because it is not required, the concept of it changes completely. One can argue that the union of marriage no longer has the moral imperatives it once had in most of the Western world. But, I would argue that the Dutch have a much more fully developed sense of this change than much of the rest of the world. Carnal knowledge of a woman, for example can be found after a very brief bit of strategic window shopping.
As proof of this thesis, I would point out that, for most people the Stadshuis, is the venue of choice, as opposed to a church. And, thus, more practical matters are at the centre of the union than perhaps the approval of religious leaders and neighbours alike.
However, some may argue, there is also the registered partnership to consider, this is a legally binding contract in the Netherlands, that provides many of the same logistical and legal conveniences that a marriage does.
So, to take that extra step, to get married, in front of your closest friends and family becomes a much more powerful evocation of love perhaps than a marriage where there are no other choices easily available.
And, I can see why someone would want to sing a song about that.
As the World Cup fast approaches and Groningen becomes increasingly orange, I thought I would take this opportunity to talk a little bit about an issue that has lit a hornets’ nest of controversy - the lowly, plastic Vuvuzela.
In case you have absolutely no idea what I am talking about a Vuvuzela is one those plastic horns that are beginning to pop up everywhere in preparation for the World Cup.
To the untrained ear, they can seem a little tuneless and well annoying but, they are the South African sports fan’s instrument of choice. (If you want a demonstration of its power and, how it should be used click on: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SrYb9qtO8OQ.)
And, because of the sheer number of untrained ears at last year’s Confederations Cup, there was a danger that not only would South Africans have to go without local beer (Budweiser is the official beer of choice) but there was a danger that they would not be allowed to blow their own trumpets.
Thankfully demands from international commentators to have them banned fell on deaf ears and were dismissed by Sepp Blatter, who said it was a part of African football and this was an African World Cup.
And, while purists the world over may think it is obnoxiously loud and annoying, marketers know that its true beauty lies in the power it gives to the fans to really make their presence felt – a power they knew instantly they could charge for.
And so, the lowly Vuvuzela has gone from a quirky sideshow, an ugly plastic duckling, to being a star. At the vendors in South Africa you can get all sorts of ones – you can even dress them up in team colours – but, more importantly you can even buy them in Groningen, which makes me more than a little proud, I must admit. And, when I see one or hear one blown excitedly in the street, I can’t help but get a little homesick.
And, while most of the vuvuzelas in Groningen are orange, there is one, sitting in a window quietly, all dressed up in South African colours just waiting for that first kick off and, a South African goal.
Distance is a strange animal but does it really explain why we need four Albert Heijn stores so close together?
Distance is a funny thing. While objectively it is a constant, a metre is always the same length, one's perception of it changes drastically, especially in Groningen.
When I first arrived in town almost a year ago, it struck me as insane that there were four Albert Heijn stores less than a kilometer apart, two of them, clearly visible to each other.
Surely there is no need for all four stores and, especially not for two on the same street a few hundred metres apart?
What possible reason could there be for someone to pick one over the other, it couldn’t be a convenience factor, they are almost next door, it had to be something else.
But, after a while, I stopped noticing it. It took a visit from a friend from the States to notice again the absurdity of it all. And, I began to realize that I almost never went to the AHs slightly further away. The extra few hundred metres were a bridge too far.
In South Africa, on the other hand I would regularly drive for 15 minutes to get to the closest mall to go shopping and think absolutely nothing of it. Yet here, I was unconsciously boycotting stores for having the temerity to locate themselves a few hundred metres farther away than is convenient for me.
Now, the concept of driving for 15 minutes to get to a grocery store is unthinkable, not only because it would entail hiring a car (which seems a lot of work for milk and bread) but also because a 15 minute car trip is a serious, planned journey here. Not something done on a whim for a bag of muesli.
Proof of this is that all the AH stores are busy and have clearly been in business for more than a year. Evidently, there are enough people in Groningen to justify all four stores and, I can’t help but turn my thoughts to the poor townspeople who lived here before the other three opened. I can imagine the tales of hardship they have to tell of having to walk those extra metres, muscles straining against shopping bags; precariously balanced beer crates on their bicycles.
Indeed, the more I live here, the more my sense of distance shifts, something brought home to me by two of the games in the World Cup. The first was the South Africa, Uruguay game, the other the Dutch versus Japan.
Watching South Africa lose is never a fun experience but, sitting in the Bar Pacific, surrounded by other South Africans, I have never felt both so far away and so close to my country at the same time. True, I wasn’t in the stadium for what was a momentous occasion for South Africa but, in my bright yellow shirt, surrounded by other people who have an attachment to the land, my voice singing the national anthem just a little more fervently than usual, I was all South African.
The second game was a happier experience, largely because the Dutch won and I got to share in the orange-coloured celebration but, I couldn’t help but wonder about the Dutch fans in South Africa who are following the team around the country. Granted most are flying, which is definitely the quicker option, but for those in cars or caravans, a six hour drive from Johannesburg (where they played against Denmark) will get you as far as Durban, where they beat Japan, and another eighteen hours or so will get you from there to the Cape where they are to face Cameroon.
From Groningen, a 18 hour drive will get you through not just a province but the whole country and, through a few other countries as well.
Indeed, in Groningen terms (judging by the number of Albert Heijns) following the Dutch team from Johannesburg, through Durban to play and then on to the Cape is an epic journey. Here's hoping that it is just the start of a journey that ends back where it started for the final.