I Need to Move.

Jan 8, 2008

I need to move. Now. The South of Holland, smack on the border with Belgium, was one of the only affordable areas left with a bit of open space, which was the reason why we moved down here in the first place. Along with a lot of Dutch people, I had surmised that Belgians were generally petit, friendly people who enjoyed long lunches and a relaxed lifestyle. But after a few years of living here, I've began to notice a few flaws with this region, flaws which are only now beginning to surface...

Let me try to illustrate my point.

Point 1:

Compared to 'De Randstad', it is indeed more spacious down here, but it's practically all farmland. I've never seen so much livestock in all my life as I have in the past three years. It's gotten to the point where I can see from a distance which cow is the better lover, and I finally understand why little girls have always had such a deep fascination with horses. But I've also discovered that, in these parts, the fascination is not just reserved for little girls, oh no. I was once told by a local farmer in all earnest that the men around here really prefer to look at a woman than a horse, but I got the distinct impression that the horse comes in at a very close second. All I could think was: God, I hope he means a female horse...

It's not that I don't love living outdoors, in nature, I honestly don't think I could live anywhere else. But I grew up in a totally different kind of nature. I grew up in the Pacific Northwest of America, in the forest, on the Pacific Ocean, bordering the Cascade Mountains, where it was wild, untouched and uncultivated. As a child, my playground was the forest, where I was convinced I could talk to trees and that I was a descendant of wood nymphs. We played under waterfalls, climbed on moss-covered boulders that were left there by glaciers and saw slugs the size of your arm, no kidding. 

My point is: there's nature, and then there's nature. A region shouldn't go around saying they're nature when they're just not.

Point 2:

Even though it was wild and woodsy in the Pacific Northwest, there was never any lack of culture or ethnic diversity. I cannot say the same for the area around Dutch-Belgian border, unfortunately. Museums, art galleries, theaters and people of any ethnic race other than Caucasian are few and far between. I just don't get the impression people around here are very culturally inclined. But, I guess when there are horses to look at, who needs to go to a show, right? 

Recently, when I was out walking with my daughter, I got all excited about a man of Oriental descent walking towards us on the street. I cried out, shamelessly, (I think I even pointed), 'Look honey! A Chinese man!' A couple days later, we saw the same man, and again I cried out and pointed. 

My point is: If we remain here, I fear my daughter will grow up assuming this poor man is the one and only person of Oriental descent in her little sheltered world, and the scary thing is, he would be.

Point 3:

Belgians can't drive. Now, this is not something I would ever explicitly say to a Belgian, for fear of being run over, but it is true. Fortunately, for those of us who have licenses which weren't purchased with three coupons from a box of corn-flakes, there is way to determine which Belgian drivers one needs to steer clear of on the open road, and which ones are perhaps slightly less dangerous. The way it works in Belgium is, you get a license plate along with your driver's license, which you keep for the rest of your life. The license plate isn't linked to the car, it's linked to the driver.

According to Belgian regulation (otherwise known as one of the greatest farces of the past two centuries) locals could walk into the city hall in the 1900's and simply buy their driver's license for a mere 200.000 Belgian francs (roughly €2,50 nowadays) without passing any sort of exam. They weren't even required to demonstrate any driving skills whatsoever! Maybe it was assumed at the time that everyone had experience driving tractors since that was all anyone had to do all day. And if you can steer a tractor over an open field, well let's face it, maneuvering a car is a piece of cake. They just forgot to teach these people about pesky little things like what traffic lights are for, and why it's sometimes a good idea to look in the rear view mirror.

So, these people were given a license plate with two letters and three numbers, unlike the modern license plates, which consist of three letters and three numbers. Now, if I'm driving along and I see a brand-new BMW up ahead which is sporting a battered and faded license plate with two letters and three numbers on it, I will most likely screech to a halt (but not before checking my rear view mirror, of course) turn around (using my turn signals) and drive back home rather than risk certain peril by driving behind one of these motorists. Sudden braking, switching lanes without using turn signals, fluctuating speed and distinct swerving over the road are but a few of the exciting maneuvers I have come to expect from the Belgian motorists I am forced to share the roads with.

But if you thought substandard Belgian drivers were only the elderly ones, you'd be sorely mistaken. Belgians still aren't required to take lessons with an official driving instructor, they can opt to let a family member or neighbor teach them. Well, this is just asking for trouble, isn't it? All those bad driving habits the more 'experienced' motorists have accumulated over the years simply get passed onto the next generation, who, in addition to having a more fast-paced and stressful lifestyle than their predecessors, have also developed a taste for fast cars and tacky accessories like tinted windows and pointlessly huge exhaust pipes. So what do you get: ridiculously pimped cars operated by atrociously inept drivers all suffering from such a high level of arrogance and adrenaline that there is no convincing them they really really need to stop driving. Forever.

Admittedly, Belgian drivers haven't been blessed with the best of conditions to drive in. Most of the roads around are so poor, you feel like you're driving a rally in Dakar.  Not only are they bumpier than most roads in uncharted Africa, they are often also layered with mud and littered with vegetables. Around here, when you cross the border into Belgium from Holland, you're sure the shocks of your car have just fallen off. But the condition of the roads is not just a problem in rural areas - you also have to watch out for open potholes and gaping crevices in the middle of the freeway as well, not to mention various obstacles and debris like shredded bits of blown tire and overturned trucks.

My point is: Holland, be warned - if you thought the worst drivers of Europe are restricted to the Mediterranean area, know now, the danger is a lot closer to home...

Point 4:

Belgians aren't sexy. In fact, they are not erotic in any way...unless you find yourself at a Tupperware party. Then it's no holes barred. Recently I was invited to a Tupperware party hosted by my daughter's daycare supervisor, a plump Belgian woman called Sofie.

I suppose when you spend every day with screaming and urinating kids, you try to find any means of release for your sexual drive, and Sofie had certainly found her calling in Tupperware. It wasn't her sales technique that impressed me though, it was her intense knowledge of the products and how she handled each individual piece of merchandise with the sort of expertise I'd only seen in porn movies that really blew me away. 

Of course, the other guests at this particular Tupperware party were in a similar state of ecstasy when they were finally unleashed upon the table of goods and started flexing the candy-colored silicone containers and fondling the latex baking forms. I wondered if they were imagining the delightful things they were going to bake as they handled the products, or whether they had other intentions in mind. 

My point is: women of Belgium,Tupperware isn't the only way to boost your libido.

Point 5:

The country itself is a mess. First of all, there's the tri-lingual problem. Some Belgians only speak French, some only speak Dutch, and there are even some who only speak German. Those who speak French generally refuse to speak Dutch, those who speak Dutch generally try to speak a little French, albeit insultingly inadequate according to most French-speaking Belgians. Those who speak German probably aren't even aware that anyone in their country speaks either French or Dutch. Who knew that Belgium was suffering from such blatant apartheid, for hundreds of years no less? 

Geographically, the country is a mess as well. The top part doesn't want anything to do with the bottom part, and vice versa. The bottom part wishes France would welcome them with open arms into its arrogant borders, which will never happen, and the top part has to live with the fact that they're neither French nor Dutch, and have just one crappy freeway that leads from the coast to Antwerp without any exits or a single gas station on it. 

Then there's the government. Well, why pour salt and lemon juice over an already gaping open wound? 

My point is: if you find yourself on the freeway to Antwerp, you'd better have a cup handy to pee in, I guess.

Point 6:

Belgians are depressed. I once read that Belgium has the greatest number of anti-depressant users in all of Western Europe, a fact that, after three years of living with its inhabitants, doesn't surprise me. What with all the industry pumping out tons fine dust on a daily basis and a huge amount of shoddy cars polluting the overcrowded roads, the atmosphere has sort of a constant grayish quality. Often, there's a mysterious odor hanging in the air that can induce a splitting headache and nausea in seconds.

But besides the miserable climate, the overabundance of industry, the well-endowed livestock (that local women have to compete with), the lack of culture, the atrocious drivers, the sexual appeal of Tupperware (the women's response to the well-endowed livestock, no doubt) and the country itself, what on earth do Belgians have to be depressed about...? 

My point is: I need to move. Now.

Greetings From GanjaLand, Wish You Were Here

I live on the border of Holland and Belgium, which is a dodgy place to live for many reasons (see my previous rant). It's a place where cultures meet, and often clash, in pursuit of adventure, insight or in this particular area, pot.

There is one main road that leads from Belgium into the first major city of Holland, Terneuzen, where the infamous coffeeshop Checkpoint is located. Whomever founded Checkpoint is one clever hombre, because it's not only the only coffeeshop anywhere near the border, it's waterfront property, and located right smack in front of the city's one and only concert hall. This must be advantageous to certain parties besides Checkpoint's regular crowd of stoners; surely jazz musicians performing in the concert hall must see it as an added bonus that they only need to follow their noses from the artist entrance to Checkpoint's front door.

I once participated in a local radio debate about Terneuzen and it wasn't long before the issue of Checkpoint, its unfavorable location, its objectionable clientele and its overal shoddy appearence came up. This was a few years ago, when Checkpoint was a seedy, dilapidated building surrounded by pieces of asphalt which could only be assumed to be a parking lot. At one point, for reasons we will never know, the owner thought that he could elevate the esteem of the place by painting the building fluorescent green. By the looks of the paint-job he'd administered, it was obvious no one had told him beforehand he needed to use paint intended for outdoor use instead of finger-paint, which was evidently what he opted for. Undoubtedly a more cost-effective decision in the long run.

Not that the people of Terneuzen has ever really considered Checkpoint to be any sort of blemish on the face of its fine city. I guess when the traffic signs pointing the way to a coffeeshop are bigger and more prominent than those pointing to a cultural institution of any kind, you know that city has a problem deep down, they just don't want to admit it. Apparently, the city of Terneuzen could live with Checkpoint's appearance, but it was still situated so prominently in the wrong spot, even the city's rat population was beginning to get a little embarrassed. Something had to be done.

So what did the city of Terneuzen do to solve the problem? Did they tear the run-down building down and build a glorious monument to honour war heros in its place? No. Did they level the unsightly thing to make room for a handicap entrance to the concert hall? No. Did they demolish the repulsive piece of architecture in order to construct anything at all, like a playground? A sidewalk? A bus-stop?! No. Checkpoint was simply moved 50 meters to the right and the owner was even given permission to renovate and even add a story to an already recurring nightmare.

One can only conclude: trade is holy. The number of Drugs Tourists that enter Terneuzen on a daily basis must be staggering, so the amount of money they spend at McDonald's must be staggering as well. I bet the mayor of Terneuzen probably remembers from his wild youth that Mary Jane gives you the munchies so bad, you'd sell your gold fillings for a bag of nachos. Terneuzen could do with that kind of tourism.

As I drive to and from Terneuzen, I often see shabby cars with license plates from Belgium and France swerving over the road, usually containing three young males in baseball caps and emitting a fragrant blueish smoke from its cracked windows. If they're driving towards the city, all three of them will be sitting upright, looking about them frantically and probably listening to Limp Bizkit. If they're driving back towards the border, it's likely they will be slumped low in their seats, passing a fat blunt from the front to the back seat and listening to Bob Marley. You see, regardless of their origin, Drug Tourists are cliché.

It's a mystery to my why Drug Tourists risk traveling such great distances for a little bit of dope in such amazingly unreliable vehicles! More often than not, I see yet another broken-down Honda Civic along the side of the road with smoke still gushing out from under the hood. A couple of young men in baseball caps will be lingering around the car looking glum as a third desperately tries to get through to someone on his mobile. Maybe he's trying to call Checkpoint, to make sure they won't sell all the weed before they get there. I always wonder if they will end up walking the rest of the way to the coffeeshop, their own personal Walhalla. Distance is then no longer an issue, I guess, when there's pot to be scored. It's a 'no turning back now' scenario...

Not only is there the relatively harmless Drug Tourist I have to contend with on the open road, there's also a more professional, highbrow Drug Commuter. They tend to drive in a slightly newer version of the Honda Civic with real tinted windows and flames along the side that they didn't paint on themselves. These are the 'big guys', the 'head honchos', or at least they like to think they are. In all likelihood they're nothing more than a runner for the Drug Baron, who in turn is probably on some other big guy's payroll as a lowly go-between, and so on and so forth til you end up in Columbia where they don't really give a shit about dope anyway.

The Drug Commuters probably buy a couple kilos of marijuana and take all the B-roads back over the border, a long and tedious route for them, to be sure. Unfortunately, my route home just happens to be on one of these B-roads where I often find myself in front of a souped-up Civic with frenzied occupants behind tinted glass, unquestionably loaded up with cannabis on their way home from a hard day's work. At times like that, I'd give anything to be behind this crazed motorist, whose back seat is probably littered with a couple kilos of skunk and assorted used McDonald's wrappings. They're probably cursing their luck as well at being stuck behind a law-abiding citizen like me in a family sized Toyota when the odds of sharing the road with a co-Commuter are actually much higher.

It's common knowledge that the Drug Commuter wants to get across the border a.s.a.p, and although the B-roads are the safer route, they're certainly not the quickest. A run-in with the law on the main road, which is under frequent supervision, would give a whole new meaning to the concept of 'a bad trip', something the Drug Commuter will do just about anything to avoid.

So what other option do they have than to cling onto my bumper like it was a long-lost college roommate and force me to get a move on. Seeing as I usually like to return home after grocery shopping in one piece and without any dents in my car, I tend to just pull over and let the Drug Commuter pass me. Sometimes I try to see if they give me a little 'thank-you' wave from behind those dark windows, but they drive past me at a speed comparable to Warp 2, so it's doubtful they would have time to.

To this day, Checkpoint is alive and well and flourishing in Terneuzen, and it will most likely never ever go away. And the youth of France and Belgium can, based on the reliability of their vehicles, commute freely to and from its newly renovated structure without that pesky concert hall getting in their way. The big guys can do their jobs, collect their goods and still make it through the drive-thru and onto a safe B-road before the cops even know they've been in town.

Business as ususal.

Viva la Ganja.