Pt3 - 6

THE NETHERLANDS

13^th – 15^th July

 

It began happily enough, but our time in the Netherlands was cut short by a rookie lapse in concentration with consequences which would ripple through the rest of the trip.

We crossed the border on the A1. From here it was all of two and a half hours to Amsterdam, during which we didn’t see a single wild windmill. What we did see were miles of flat, featureless green pastures and soggy looking waterways. It was love at first sight with Dutch road signs: Let Op  Drempels looks endearingly like it was tapped out blindly by a kid pretending to be a really fast typist. The weather was warm and pleasant enough for camping so we dedicated ourselves to finding somewhere on the public transport network not too far from the city.

We signed in to Gaasperplas, a campground just off the A9 on the south-east fringe of Amsterdam. Night would reveal the rich ironies of the name, but in the meantime we pitched the tent and got our bearings. The campground backed on to an extensive botanical garden called Gaasperpark which ran down to a large lake busy with bird life. In the background loomed rows of soulless, grime-streaked high rise apartment blocks with washing strung up on the tiny balconies. This was a marginal district populated mainly by migrants from former Dutch colonies in Africa. Ordinarily this would be of only passing interest; we were soon to wish it were even less interesting.

As night closed in the smell of dope among the tents became heavier and a cirrus of smoke streaked the still air. Gaasperplas by name, gasper place by nature. The babel of languages suggested people came from all over the world to twist up joints here. There were hippies with flowers in their hair, Rastas with dreadies stuffed into rainbow beanies, yoga swamis doing the downward dog pissing, and aging Timothy Leary types who looked like they were hoping to reach nirvana with a hot young disciple or two. The later it got, the more hysterical the giggling until eventually it was a descant of cackling which kept us awake well into the wee smalls. In the morning, a man with a garbage bag and a go-go-gadget picker-upperer wandered around harvesting the roaches. If he’d scooped them into a pile it’d be the closest thing to a mountain in this pancake flat country.

We stepped off the bus right outside Mellow Yellow. No prizes for guessing the house specialty; the menu read like a night from my well-spent youth, except for the tea:

HASH:

·         Maroc  2g    25 guilder

·         Citra     2g    25 guilder

·         Afghan 3g    25 guilder

GRASS:

·         Sins (Jamaica)  2g  25 guilder

·         Thai                  2g  25 guilder

·         Nigerian           3g  25 guilder

TEA: 5 guilder

A pleasant stroll beside canals and over bridges dodging bicycles in a streetscape from the Middle Ages brought us eventually to Anne Frank’s house. Needless to say, it’s one of the most visited places in the city and the traffic was heavy as we queued in the street outside, though I was relieved to see most drivers letting their drempels op. Inside, I was surprised to find the annexe unfurnished though I shouldn’t have been. The Nazis cleaned the place out after the arrest and Otto Frank requested it remain empty when he was consulted in 1962. Out of scale models tried to convey a sense of how the spaces were arranged during the hiding and some of her film star pin-ups still adorn the wall above where Anne’s desk stood. All in all, a poignant memorial well supported with biographical material and thoughtful displays.

Not sure if there’s a Dutch national dish, but they could do worse than the pancakes we had for lunch at the bakery down the way from Anne’s house on Prinsengracht, and they’d represent the landscape too.

We treated ourselves to a canal tour around Amsterdam for a good look at the unique gabled houses from a different angle. We learned that at one point there was a tax on the width of house frontages which forced the inevitable response; builders went narrow and compensated for the space by going high and deep. Those distinctive neck and step gables brought flair to what would otherwise have looked pretty mundane. Add the winching derrick on every roof and the net effect is long rows of semi-detached doll’s houses.

It’s a purely personal observation, but I reckon Amsterdam is the only city where ordinary domestic architecture is far more engaging than its public buildings. Admittedly we’ve come to the city with a headful of Rome and Vienna and Prague, but the cathedral barely rates a mention and the Royal Palace is downright dull. We decided to call it a day, head back to camp, take a long leisurely evening walk through the park and plan tomorrow’s assault on the Heineken Brewery and the Van Gogh Gallery.

The warmth of the day lingered in the lazy twilight. Young and old, family groups, couples and solo walkers wandered idly through the peaceful maze of pathways lacing Gaasperpark. The lush gardens ran right down to the shoreline of the lake where the surface of polished steel reflected a dishwater sky scribbled with contrails. It was altogether enchanting. Lost in our thoughts and without the need for words we detoured in to the rosarium to admire the kaleidoscope of colour and enjoy the palette of subtle scents.

As we turned to leave three black youths appeared from nowhere and blocked our path. I suddenly realised the rosarium was cloistered from the main gardens by a high hedge and that we were alone within it. A stratospherically stupid security blunder.

The tallest of the three, perhaps 17 or 18 and dressed in blue, grabbed me by the shirt and pushed his face into mine. “There’s somethin’ I want to ask you man…where’s your fuckin’ money!” Even though just centimetres separated our heads he couldn’t look me in the eye.

The adrenalin kicked in. I grabbed blue boy by the shirt and held on. “Run!” I yelled at Tess, who instantly bolted with her backpack containing all our cards, traveller’s cheques, passports and licenses. This was the plan we’d agreed on in the event we ever found ourselves in just this situation. The second kid jumped behind me and grabbed me round the neck. The third, and youngest – maybe 13 or 14 – took off after Tess. I can’t recount the scuffle blow for blow, it all happened inside a minute, two at the most, but I kept the guys on me busy. Blue boy ripped the pockets out of my shorts in frustration at not finding any cash. One of them tore the camera off my wrist and then they were gone. I became aware of Tess screaming like a banshee; she was quite close by. I raced around the corner of the hedge to see the three guys melting into the trees and Tess hunched beside the path clutching the backpack to her chest for dear life.

I got her up and checked she was ok. She wasn’t. Apart from skinned knees she was unharmed physically and she’d fought off the kid without surrendering any of the valuables, but there was a manic look in her eyes. She was clearly traumatised.

I led her back to the tent past onlookers who pretended not to notice my ripped shorts and Tess’s distress. Not one offered to help. At the camp we realised her sunglasses and watch were gone. I went to the camp office and rang the cops. They sent a car to pick us up.

At the station they were efficient, professional and courteous. Even though this was small potatoes for a precinct more used to dealing with shootings, stabbings and rapes they patiently followed procedure, taking our statements and handing me volumes of mugshots to leaf through. It was hopeless of course, there were reams and reams of young black faces who all looked the same after a while. They provided us with a report for the insurance company and drove us back to Gaasperplas.

We took stock. Despite the shock of it all it was actually a remarkably cheap lesson. The camera was on its way out anyway and we'd only lost one shot on a new roll of film, so small win there. Fortunately, the video camera was safely locked up in the bullet. The rest could be easily replaced and most importantly, thanks to Tess’s ferocity, we still had all our documents, cards and traveller’s cheques.

Physically, we’d come off very lightly too. It was only now, as we sat in the tent with a couple of beers, did I consider how differently things might have gone if blue boy had pulled a knife or the kid who chased Tess had been ten years older and stronger. The psychological impact, especially on Tess, would take much longer to measure.

The next day we loaded up the bullet and made for Brugge.

Coming up: Recovering in Brugge and Vincent in a day...