Clichés rarely make good titles, except when they're completely true.
Our Lonely Planet guidebook stated that Nungwi, on Zanzibar's northern coast is a place where "old and new collide at full force". There is a narrow road in Nungwi that separates a 50-metre-wide band of coastline from the town. On the one side of this road are white sands, people to match, lots of beer, turquoise waters, and frequent offers for marijuana from enterprising locals. On the other side is an overcrowded muslim school where children learn in three shifts, their teachers teaching from sunrise till 8pm. There are also small stone houses with thatched roofs, little girls running through the streets wearing their hijabs, and small street "restaurants" selling delicious food at incredible prices. But the same striking blue sky can be seen from either side.
On Thursday we went snorkelling out on the Mnemba atoll. The choppy two-hour ride on a motorized dhow boat was nothing short of nauseating, but it was well worth it. When we got to the atoll, our captain told us we could jump out, set the anchor, and then fell asleep. The other people snorkelling with us were on an overland trip from Cape Town, South Africa, to Arusha, Tanzania. They were a rowdy bunch, but fun. They hailed from Brazil, Australia, the UK, Norway, and Canada. The reef was fantastic-- the fish were the most stunning shades of blue, red, yellow, and every other colour in between. I lost count after 34 species of fish.
In the evening, we brought our new friends into the town for some local cuisine, and then had a couple of beers while watching Spain solidly trounce Russia. I am not a vindictive person (or so I tell myself) but I did enjoy seeing Russia bite the dust. At half time, our entire group burst into a carefully orchestrated rendition of Queen's "Bohemian Rhapsody", but the very serious football crowd did not seem to appreciate our efforts to entertain them. Kyle and I noted that while everyone in the bar was white, there was standing room only at the bar's entrance-- the black locals who could not afford drinks were not allowed to enter, creating this very strange apartheid-era ambience. It felt very strange leaving the bar and then entering again past the crowd at the entrance
Friday was another beach day (although we spent a lot of time in the shade-- Wednesday was rough on the skin). And today, Kyle and I enjoyed our first foray into scuba diving.
But that story will have to wait, because I have exactly one minute and twelve seconds left of computer time.
Saturday, June 28, 2008
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
The Sands of Paradise
After we visited Amboseli National Park, our driver took us to Namanga, a Kenyan town on the border with Tanzania. We got Tanzanian visas, and then took a shared taxi down to Arusha. Our driver Joseph had called his "friend" a Tanzanian safari tout, who unfortunately met us at the border and harassed us about booking Kilimanjaro treks all the way down to Arusha. Kyle and I have had many discussions about how much we loathe being pestered in every large city by about 30 men telling to come to their office to book treks and safaris. Kenya and Tanzania would do well to ban touting, as they harass tourists without providing any legitimate service.
In Arusha, we met Rimas, a Lithuanian-American engineering grad who has spent the last three months backpacking from Cape Town, South Africa. We split a room with him, and paid 5000 Tanzanian shillings each (about $4.50) per night. We had fantastic Indian food for dinner (there is a significant Indian cultural influence in Tanzania).
The next day, we met four more travellers. Tom Garth and Imogen Evans were two students from King's College London, and Marthe Kok and Jessica van den Toorn were from the University of Utrecht. They had all been in a bus crash earlier in the day, and had bonded amongst the shards of broken glass. Buses here are crazy, and the drivers think it's perfectly okay to pass petrol tankers blind on hills. We all went out for dinner in the evening, to a Chinese restaurant that Kyle and I suggested. We partially suggested it because we knew it had nice toilets that we could steal toilet paper from (it really sucks when you have to do a number two in the middle of the night, and the squat toilet doesn't have any paper).
On Monday morning, we took the 6am bus down to Dar Es Salaam. We passed through the striking Usambura Mountains on the way down, and removed layers of clothing as the air heated up due to the drop in altitude. We spent the night in Dar at the YMCA. Dar Es Salaam has the most amenities of the cities we've been to thus far, and it didn't take us long to find a nice bookstore, and an electronics shop where I could purchase a card reader. We did, however, almost get robbed. Kyle and I hopped over a two-foot-high fence. Fifty meters down the road, someone tapped me on the shoulder and told me he needed to talk to me. His friend presented an obviously fake police ID (complete with construction paper and a pasted-in passport photo). They told me and Kyle that we needed to follow them so they could press charges. Kyle and I backed away, and he scolded us for not showing respect. I said "Sorry, it won't happen again", and started speed-walking down the road to the YMCA (it was a stone's throw away from where we were). They thankfully didn't follow us, and we heard nothing further from them. This is apparently fairly common in this part of the world, where people pretending to be cops ask naive tourists to follow them, and then mug them in dark alleys.
The next morning, Kyle and I caught the ferry to Zanzibar. The ride was supplemented with dolphin sightings, turquoise waters, and numerous old dhow fishing boats. From Stone Town, a medieval city with narrow, incredibly random streets, we took a Daladala to Nungwi, a town on the northernmost tip of the island. A Daladala is basically a truck with a roof over the truck bed and a bench running along the sides. At one point, there were twenty-two people in the truck bed, and the driver was going at about 100 kph.
But it was all worth it. At first glance, Nungwi is just another poor Tanzanian town. But when you pass through the dilapidated town and reach the coast, you know why people come here. Fine white sands cover the coast, and the turquoise waters are just cool enough to be refreshing. And the sunsets--you simply have to witness them to believe their beauty.
We will be staying here for a while.
In Arusha, we met Rimas, a Lithuanian-American engineering grad who has spent the last three months backpacking from Cape Town, South Africa. We split a room with him, and paid 5000 Tanzanian shillings each (about $4.50) per night. We had fantastic Indian food for dinner (there is a significant Indian cultural influence in Tanzania).
The next day, we met four more travellers. Tom Garth and Imogen Evans were two students from King's College London, and Marthe Kok and Jessica van den Toorn were from the University of Utrecht. They had all been in a bus crash earlier in the day, and had bonded amongst the shards of broken glass. Buses here are crazy, and the drivers think it's perfectly okay to pass petrol tankers blind on hills. We all went out for dinner in the evening, to a Chinese restaurant that Kyle and I suggested. We partially suggested it because we knew it had nice toilets that we could steal toilet paper from (it really sucks when you have to do a number two in the middle of the night, and the squat toilet doesn't have any paper).
On Monday morning, we took the 6am bus down to Dar Es Salaam. We passed through the striking Usambura Mountains on the way down, and removed layers of clothing as the air heated up due to the drop in altitude. We spent the night in Dar at the YMCA. Dar Es Salaam has the most amenities of the cities we've been to thus far, and it didn't take us long to find a nice bookstore, and an electronics shop where I could purchase a card reader. We did, however, almost get robbed. Kyle and I hopped over a two-foot-high fence. Fifty meters down the road, someone tapped me on the shoulder and told me he needed to talk to me. His friend presented an obviously fake police ID (complete with construction paper and a pasted-in passport photo). They told me and Kyle that we needed to follow them so they could press charges. Kyle and I backed away, and he scolded us for not showing respect. I said "Sorry, it won't happen again", and started speed-walking down the road to the YMCA (it was a stone's throw away from where we were). They thankfully didn't follow us, and we heard nothing further from them. This is apparently fairly common in this part of the world, where people pretending to be cops ask naive tourists to follow them, and then mug them in dark alleys.
The next morning, Kyle and I caught the ferry to Zanzibar. The ride was supplemented with dolphin sightings, turquoise waters, and numerous old dhow fishing boats. From Stone Town, a medieval city with narrow, incredibly random streets, we took a Daladala to Nungwi, a town on the northernmost tip of the island. A Daladala is basically a truck with a roof over the truck bed and a bench running along the sides. At one point, there were twenty-two people in the truck bed, and the driver was going at about 100 kph.
But it was all worth it. At first glance, Nungwi is just another poor Tanzanian town. But when you pass through the dilapidated town and reach the coast, you know why people come here. Fine white sands cover the coast, and the turquoise waters are just cool enough to be refreshing. And the sunsets--you simply have to witness them to believe their beauty.
We will be staying here for a while.
Saturday, June 21, 2008
The vicissitudes of life
Vicissitudes-- those sweeping changes in our lives that inspire both trepidation and excitement. The sort of changes both of us backpackers will experience in a couple of months when we encounter new schools, new environments, and new people. But vicissitudes can wait, because we are on safari.
The first stop on our safari was Hell's Gate-- a national park with sheer rust-coloured cliffs, an abundance of wildlife, and the equatorial sun. Oh, and dust. It is currently the dry season in this part of the world, and so any movement down any non-paved road stirs up clouds of fine powder. Which has incidentally been terrible for my asthma. Our Maasai guide at Hell's Gate took us through the gorge, a massive crevice in the sandstone carved out by runoff during the wet season. Boiling-hot sulphur-laden water springs from the walls of the gorge, heated by a lava pool which is close to the surface of the earth.
In the evening, we took a boat trip through Lake Naivasha, passing within 10m of resting hippos in the water. By the time we saw w the 10th species of bird in half as many minutes, I was struck with amazement by the incredible biodiversity of Kenya. I have been more stunned every day by the sheer species richness in Kenya's national parks, a quality fostered by federally and community-funded conservationism.
I got sick in Naivasha. My lungs were congested, I got chills, and I had trouble sleeping. So, the next day, when I saw a Doctors Without Borders truck parked outside a coffeeshop and a physician having coffee outside, I took my chance. The physician's name was Radeke. She was a Czech doctor presumably serving in the Internally Displaced Persons' camp near Hell's Gate. IDP's are domestic refugees- people fleeing strife in their home towns but who do not cross national borders. IDPs typically suffer immensely because they do not receive the same level of funding or attention as trans-national refugees. I introduced myself to Radke and asked her for medical advice. She said that I could start taking ciprofloxacin to clear out my lungs if I had an infection. So I popped a cipro, 10 minutes before the bumpy, 6-hour van ride to Maasai Mara National Park. Big mistake. Anyone who has taken cipro before will agree that it's hard on the stomach-- and no one in the van was lacking in the nausea deparment to begin with.
But we all survived, and we arrived in the Mara region in time to see the sun set behind rolling grass hills dotted with majestic acacia trees. The next seven days, spent in Maasai Mara, Samburu, Lake Nakuru, the Mount Kenya Region, and Amboseli National Park, are best told in a series of tableaux.
The Mating Lions
A huge male lion, with a sleek tawny coat, a gorgeous mane flowing with the wind, and powerful haunches, stands beside a leafy thronbush. His mate, a strong lithe cat, lays beside him. They have left their pride in order to procreate, and will mate three times per hour until they return to the group. No wonder they look tired.
The Matriarch
The light of decades of experience in her eye, she guides the herd with strength and majesty. She is wary of the safari van and steps between it and her herd. She will not feast on the grass with her herd until the van has moved on and all mothers and babies are safe.
The Big Boss
At over one tonne, and with a huge horn built for agression, the white rhino has nothing to fear from a van full of people with cameras. But a hint of underlying insecurity causes him to stand up and shake his horn at us--a clear sign he wants us gone. We clear out, but not before getting some fantastic shots.
The Hunted Hunters
Five safari vans line up along the road, their inhabitants peering out across the plain. Two cheetahs sitting under a tree cautiously peer back at them. The female bears a confused expression, as if to say "Hun, can you go ask those people what they want?"
Stuck in the Swamp
Life kind of sucks when you're a little wildebeest. Especially when you fall in the swamp. You can't swim, you can't walk, you can only pull yourself up laboriously onto the next chunck of floating grass, only to fall into the muddy water again on the other side of it. But, on the bright side, you're almost out, and at least the lions are busy terrorizing another herd on at the other side of the park.
Constant change dominates the lives of animals in East Africa. The land dries up, food runs out, predation threatens survival. So they move-- they embrace change and live. And thus we shall do, but not until August.
_______________
P.S. Sorry there's no pictures-- this is the third internet connection I've tried for uploading pictures, but the page always times out before I can upload anything. You might all have to wait until I get back to see the pictures. Which sucks, because there's some amazing vistas that I want you all to see.
The first stop on our safari was Hell's Gate-- a national park with sheer rust-coloured cliffs, an abundance of wildlife, and the equatorial sun. Oh, and dust. It is currently the dry season in this part of the world, and so any movement down any non-paved road stirs up clouds of fine powder. Which has incidentally been terrible for my asthma. Our Maasai guide at Hell's Gate took us through the gorge, a massive crevice in the sandstone carved out by runoff during the wet season. Boiling-hot sulphur-laden water springs from the walls of the gorge, heated by a lava pool which is close to the surface of the earth.
In the evening, we took a boat trip through Lake Naivasha, passing within 10m of resting hippos in the water. By the time we saw w the 10th species of bird in half as many minutes, I was struck with amazement by the incredible biodiversity of Kenya. I have been more stunned every day by the sheer species richness in Kenya's national parks, a quality fostered by federally and community-funded conservationism.
I got sick in Naivasha. My lungs were congested, I got chills, and I had trouble sleeping. So, the next day, when I saw a Doctors Without Borders truck parked outside a coffeeshop and a physician having coffee outside, I took my chance. The physician's name was Radeke. She was a Czech doctor presumably serving in the Internally Displaced Persons' camp near Hell's Gate. IDP's are domestic refugees- people fleeing strife in their home towns but who do not cross national borders. IDPs typically suffer immensely because they do not receive the same level of funding or attention as trans-national refugees. I introduced myself to Radke and asked her for medical advice. She said that I could start taking ciprofloxacin to clear out my lungs if I had an infection. So I popped a cipro, 10 minutes before the bumpy, 6-hour van ride to Maasai Mara National Park. Big mistake. Anyone who has taken cipro before will agree that it's hard on the stomach-- and no one in the van was lacking in the nausea deparment to begin with.
But we all survived, and we arrived in the Mara region in time to see the sun set behind rolling grass hills dotted with majestic acacia trees. The next seven days, spent in Maasai Mara, Samburu, Lake Nakuru, the Mount Kenya Region, and Amboseli National Park, are best told in a series of tableaux.
The Mating Lions
A huge male lion, with a sleek tawny coat, a gorgeous mane flowing with the wind, and powerful haunches, stands beside a leafy thronbush. His mate, a strong lithe cat, lays beside him. They have left their pride in order to procreate, and will mate three times per hour until they return to the group. No wonder they look tired.
The Matriarch
The light of decades of experience in her eye, she guides the herd with strength and majesty. She is wary of the safari van and steps between it and her herd. She will not feast on the grass with her herd until the van has moved on and all mothers and babies are safe.
The Big Boss
At over one tonne, and with a huge horn built for agression, the white rhino has nothing to fear from a van full of people with cameras. But a hint of underlying insecurity causes him to stand up and shake his horn at us--a clear sign he wants us gone. We clear out, but not before getting some fantastic shots.
The Hunted Hunters
Five safari vans line up along the road, their inhabitants peering out across the plain. Two cheetahs sitting under a tree cautiously peer back at them. The female bears a confused expression, as if to say "Hun, can you go ask those people what they want?"
Stuck in the Swamp
Life kind of sucks when you're a little wildebeest. Especially when you fall in the swamp. You can't swim, you can't walk, you can only pull yourself up laboriously onto the next chunck of floating grass, only to fall into the muddy water again on the other side of it. But, on the bright side, you're almost out, and at least the lions are busy terrorizing another herd on at the other side of the park.
Constant change dominates the lives of animals in East Africa. The land dries up, food runs out, predation threatens survival. So they move-- they embrace change and live. And thus we shall do, but not until August.
_______________
P.S. Sorry there's no pictures-- this is the third internet connection I've tried for uploading pictures, but the page always times out before I can upload anything. You might all have to wait until I get back to see the pictures. Which sucks, because there's some amazing vistas that I want you all to see.
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
The Dust of Kibera
Dennis (right) and Richard (left)So we went with him. He took us downtown to a travel office, where we met with a tour operator who showed us a beautiful 10-day safari itinerary for a reasonable price. We were originally going to do our safaris in Tanzania, but then there was Dennis. So Kenyan safari it was. Apparently this new government program works.
We went downstairs to get money for the safari from an ATM, and when I came upstairs I thought I heard a familiar voice. I quickly dismissed that as nonsense, but when the girl speaking turned around, I couldn’t believe who it was. It was Jessica Liauw, traveling with Rob Ciccarelli, and a guy called Ryan. I went to school with Jess and Rob in the Health Sciences program at McMaster University, and I took a few classes with Jess. What are the chances, what with all of the cities in the world and all the tour operators in Nairobi? I still can’t quite believe it. We may even be going on safari with them tomorrow (they hadn’t decided by the time I saw them last this afternoon).
After that, we went for a traditional Kenyan lunch with Dennis and his colleague Richard. We ate ugali (a doughy, starchy roll made simply from maize flour and hot water) with chicken stew and sukuma (a local green vegetable). During lunch, we chatted with Richard, whose family was hit hard by the recent violence in the Rift Valley region of Kenya.
In Kenya, there are two major political parties—the Party of National Unity (PNU) and the Orange Democratic Movement (ODM). The last president of Kenya, Kibaki, was a member of the PNU party. From what Richard said, the people were tired of his politics, which apparently favoured the rich and ignored the poor. Thus, the majority of Kenyans voted for the ODM, led by Raila Odinga. Odinga is a 62 year old, more socially oriented politician whose parliamentary constituency includes the Kibera slum outside Nairobi, the second largest slum in Africa after Soweto in South Africa. The inhabitants of the slum are said to number upwards of one million.
Thus, when the former President Kibaki secretly and quickly had himself sworn in as President (a marked departure from the normal political procedure), the people were sure he had stolen votes. The areas most outraged by this maneuvering were the Great Rift Valley (an ODM stronghold), as well as the coast and the Western province. In the midst of the violence, Richard’s family home as well as those of several of his brothers were burned to the ground. Since the region has a primarily subsistence economy, families simply cannot afford the 35-40,000 Kenyan Shillings (around 550 USD) to rebuild homes with steel roofs and concrete foundations. In addition, many of them are too afraid to return home in the first place. Thus, thousands of people in the Rift Valley region are living in internally displaced persons’ camps, depending on non-governmental organizations and relatives working in Nairobi to survive.
Richard said that perhaps after we have completed our travels through East Africa, he and I could partner up to create a non-governmental organization to bring relief to these people. I might just take him up on it.
After our delicious lunch (eaten with our hands, “like the locals” as Dennis said), we were given several options as to what to do in the afternoon. I asked if we could see Kibera. Richard said that we could, but that we would have to hire security to accompany us on our walk through the slum. We paid Richard the requisite 7000 shillings (100USD) for him (the guide), Dennis (the driver), and the “security” (two armed guards with AK-47s). Then we left for Kibera.
I don’t know what to tell you about Kibera. There are so many things I could say. But I want it to be relevant to you, and not just inane rambling about poverty and disease.
To my friends who are educators—I challenge you to be like the smartly dressed primary school teacher we saw in Kibera who daily faces the poverty of her children. Instill in your children the confidence they need to survive, but the compassion they need to live.
To my friends who are physicians or students of medicine—I challenge you to respect the humanity of every person you meet, no matter how poor or dirty or uneducated, as the MSF staff in Kibera do every day.
To my friends whose jobs are not much fun—I challenge you to find the blessing in what you do, be industrious, and seek to improve the lives of those around you, as the stove-makers and tool-makers of Kibera do every day. They find or purchase scraps of metal and make them into useful objects. Find passion and turn it into useful energy.
To those reading who are under the age of 10—be like the children of Kibera, who despite their poverty, keep a smile on their face, and call out “Muzungu [white person], how are you?” to the strangers wandering amongst their homes.
Kibera is poverty, but Kibera is not destitution. People survive, and they find direction, whether that be in setting up small coal shops or shelling and selling peanuts, making shoes, or teaching. Be like the people of Kibera—do not merely survive, but find direction.-Josh
For the next 10 days, Kyle and I will be on Safari. When I get back, I will try to post some pictures, if I can find a decent connection.
Farewells and Football
I will have to be brief since I'm writing from a small internet cafe in Nairobi. Kyle and I have had quite the day today, but I will write about that in a separate post-- the juxtaposition of yesterday and today is simply too harsh.
Well, we sadly had to say goodbye to Huizinge, to Groningen, and to all of our beloved relatives. To all who so generously accommodated us, namely Annemarie and Harm as well as Koos and Marijke, we sincerely thank you for the wonderful hospitality you showed us during our stay.
Well, we sadly had to say goodbye to Huizinge, to Groningen, and to all of our beloved relatives. To all who so generously accommodated us, namely Annemarie and Harm as well as Koos and Marijke, we sincerely thank you for the wonderful hospitality you showed us during our stay.
After leaving Groningen train station, we headed down to Amsterdam Centraal. We found our hostel without any trouble, and managed to check ourselves in. We then spent the day visiting the Dutch Historical Museum and the Anne Frank house, as well as wandering through the city (we did behave ourselves, Mom).
In the evening we found a bar down the street from our hostel, parked ourselves in front of the projection screen, and watched Holland beat the snot out of the former World Champions (sorry Dave, I had to say it).
It was great.
The next morning we had to wake up too early. I should really learn my lessons.
______________P.S. Sorry that there are not many photos this time-- the connection's a little slow and the picture above took me 20 minutes to upload.
Sunday, June 8, 2008
Learning
Kyle is a curious guy. Everything is interesting. I told him that if I had one euro for everytime he said the phrase "That's a big farm-- it has three barns", I would be a rich man. He asks questions about the schapen (the sheep), but half the time ends up saying the dutch word for "ships" (which, to be fair, is phonetically similar). He wants to know about tractors, cows, highways, shops, fields, soil, beer, and farm financing to name a few.
I have learned something from Kyle over the past week-- that the only way to find out about things is to not be afraid to ask questions. And over the past few days we have not had a shortage of people with answers.
On Thursday, Harm Frans had the day off work so he drove us to Emmen to visit the dierenpark (zoo). Harm, being a banker in the agricultural sector, fielded many questions relating to Western European farming on the way.
The zoo was an excellent crash course in wildlife photography for me, so hopefully by the time we get to Tanzania I will be able to take some good wildlife shots.
At the zoo, we met penguins who had learned how to escape their enclosure by following the tourists out.
We also met a baby seal (born June 1) whose mother was teaching it about the perils of the water. The baby wanted to go in the water, but its mother vehemently opposed its every attempt.
After our trip to the zoo, we drove back through Germany on the Autobahn. Yes, you can drive as fast as you like. Yes, we drove quite quickly. Yes, it was fun. But to temper our enjoyment of the Autobahn, Harm took us to a place where the lessons of speed were sorely learned-- the Emsland district of Germany, where 23 people were killed two years ago in a crash involving a magnetic levitation train. The train, which has the capability to travel at 450km/h, has been non-operational since the crash, but services are scheduled to begin again this month.
After visiting the memorial, we traveled to the German town of Papenburg, where the largest cruise ships in the world are built. We saw the massive floating hangar where the ships are kept and saw maintenance being done on an older vessel. In the town center, we visited a 17th century cathedral and had an excellent German lager-- Diebels. 
I would also like to take this opportunity to recommend a phenomenal dark beer with caramel overtones-- the Belgian "La Trappe" double dark beer. Annemarie suggested it to me, saying it was one of Harm's favourites. 
I would also like to take this opportunity to recommend a phenomenal dark beer with caramel overtones-- the Belgian "La Trappe" double dark beer. Annemarie suggested it to me, saying it was one of Harm's favourites. Back in Holland, we stopped by for an amazing meal at the Shu Fu State, a wokkery where guests can create their own meals using a buffet of raw ingredients and sauces. We ate too much, but loved every mouthful.
Our next stop was the house of Jaap-Jan and Christianna Frans, the newlyweds recently returned from their honeymoon in Italy. We saw their wedding pictures and had coffee with them. Christianna is a special education expert who diagnoses and treats children with learning and behavioural difficulties (which conveniently fits with the theme of this post), and Jaap-Jan is a web designer who educates companies on optimizing their web content.
On Friday, I bought a little pot in Middelstum. Actually, it turned out to be far too big for the spot where it was supposed to go on Annemarie's windowsill. It was meant to replace the one that had crashed to the ground when I clumsily opened the window while Annemarie was at work. Annemarie liked it all the same, and so I was off the hook.
Kyle and I also biked to Warffum, where we visited a museum-town representing life in Northern Holland circa 1900. We then visited the home/museum of Henk Helmantel in Westeremden. Henk Helmantel is an amazing painter (I took a no-flash picture of one of his most famous works), but his unassuming appearance meant that we mistook him for the museum gardener and so we missed out on an opportunity to talk with him about his work.
On Friday evening, Annemarie's brother Koos picked us up from Huizinge, and we went to stay at his home in Uithuizen for a couple of days. We met his two sons, Ferdinand and Jasper, who are both heavily involved in farming. Despite the fact that we know no Dutch, and Ferdinand and Jasper know a limited amount of English, Kyle and Jasper managed to talk about tractors for well over an hour. Jasper has a collection of miniature tractors that greatly impressed Kyle.
Have you ever wondered how potatoes are grown? What kind of soil they need? What sort of processing is involved in getting them to your supermarket? We had all of these questions answered on Saturday morning. We first visited the Bennema farm, where an (apparently modest) 1.7 million kilos of potatoes are grown every year. The Bennema farm was huge. It had three barns (four, if you count the double barn twice).
Next, we visited a company called Land Juweel (Land Jewel), a potato processing facility dealing with 15-20 varieties of potatoes and producing one third of the Netherlands' supply of packaged potatoes. Here, the potatoes are washed, sorted, selected, and automatically packed into 1, 2, 5, 10, or 20 kilo packages. Each night the massive warehouse is emptied onto trucks and carted off to supermarkets all across the country. They gave us free T-shirts.
A dairy farm in Kantens was having a huge open house, complete with cow-related works of art. We toured the production facility and admired the automatic milker (which the cows can enter at will). The cows can feel when their udders are full, and they politely line up outside the milker and wait their turn. 
In the afternoon, we had a wonderful family barbecue-- all of the de Jonge family came out, and we had beautiful weather, that is until the storm blew in. It rained for half an hour, and in the evening we saw a gorgeous sunset. 
So many of our relatives spoke perfect English, and they took the time to include us in their conversation, so we felt truly welcomed. I also understood a suprising amount of what they said in Dutch, no doubt an artifact of the time I spent with my grandparents as a child. Jaap-Jan received a call from a friend in Bosnia in the evening, congratulating him on his marriage. Of course, he had to speak German to his friend, which he said was a challenge after speaking English all afternoon. The Dutch have really inspired me with their amazing command of language. Marije, Annemarie's daughter, is studying Russian at the University of Groningen, and once she has completed her studies, she will be able to speak fluent Dutch, German, English, and Russian. It gives me confidence that I will be able to figure out French within the next four years. 
So many of our relatives spoke perfect English, and they took the time to include us in their conversation, so we felt truly welcomed. I also understood a suprising amount of what they said in Dutch, no doubt an artifact of the time I spent with my grandparents as a child. Jaap-Jan received a call from a friend in Bosnia in the evening, congratulating him on his marriage. Of course, he had to speak German to his friend, which he said was a challenge after speaking English all afternoon. The Dutch have really inspired me with their amazing command of language. Marije, Annemarie's daughter, is studying Russian at the University of Groningen, and once she has completed her studies, she will be able to speak fluent Dutch, German, English, and Russian. It gives me confidence that I will be able to figure out French within the next four years. And that brings us to Sunday, Zondag, church-day, where we were this morning. I sang in Dutch. I have no idea what I sang, but I sang it with my heart. We celebrated holy supper (for my non-Christian friends reading this, holy supper is a celebration of the death and resurrection of Jesus Christ). It felt remarkably like church at home, and so, spiritually nourished, we are ready for the next leg of our journey. But not before a day in Amsterdam with some crazy football fever.
-Josh
P.S. I will try to write every 3 days or so. I've had lots of internet access in Holland, but when we get to Africa it's anyone's guess. Thanks for reading everyone, and if I don't respond to your comments it's because I have limited time-- but I do read the comments and I appreciate them a lot.
Wednesday, June 4, 2008
Roots
We all grow up with the weight of history on us. Our ancestors dwell in the attics of our brains as they do in the spiraling chains of knowledge hidden in every cell of our bodies. ~Shirley Abbott
This is my first time in Europe. Having explored most of Asia, I am fairly well in touch with my Asian heritage. When someone asks me "Where are you from?" I proudly say "Canada", but that answer has always been accompanied by an undertone of curiosity. What about my Dutch roots?
My curiosity has been largely satisfied by the events of the last three days.
After exploring the village where my grandmother played in the street as a child on Sunday, we visited the Stad, the city of Groningen, on Monday. Since Groningen is the only major city in Northern Holland, city-going people merely say they are headed to "Stad" and are well understood.
Groningen's pride and joy is the Martinitoren, a gorgeous 97-meter high tower built in the 1400s. In the 16th century, the citizens of Groningen defeated invading Spanish and Belgian troops, and to celebrate, they made a huge fire on top of their tower. Unfortunately, this caused the collapse of the top of the tower- the top was later rebuilt but remains 25 meters shorter than the original. Kyle and I climbed the tower, up a narrow stone staircase, and took pictures of the city from the top. 
After the climb, we had a couple of Amstels near the base of the tower and were joined by Sander Frans, Annemarie and Harm's son.
We then took a ride in a boat through the canals and learned about Groningen's early history as one of the most well-fortified towns in Western Europe. 
In the evening, Harm Frans, Kyle, and I drove up to Middelstum. As we were walking along the road in Middlestum, Harm pointed towards a building which Kyle immediately recognized as his father's childhood home-- he had seen it in pictures. While we were standing in the street looking at the house, the neighbour across the road introduced himself to us and told us that the owner, Henk Aikema, was tending to his horses and would return soon. He directed us to the house of Martje Aikema, Henk's mother, at the other side of town. Once we met Martje, an elderly Dutch woman who spoke "echt grunnegers", the real northern dialect, she immediately recognized us and informed us that she knew we were in the area. She then informed Kyle that she had heard that his parents were going on a cruise to Alaska in a few weeks-- she had just heard that from a friend at lunchtime. News travels fast in small towns, I suppose.
We then returned to Henk's house. Henk was standing in his driveway and required no introduction. He was obviously the Aikema we were looking for (see picture below). We met him, his wife, and three daughters. We sat on his back porch and admired his pigeons (a hobby inherited from his grandfather-- the original Gerhardus Aikema). Henk had the same fidgety mannerisms as both Gary and Kyle.
On Tuesday, it rained. Which was okay, since it was our driving day. We drove to Delfzijl, a port city on the Northeast coast. Delfzijl has a floodwall-- and whoever suggested the floodwall should definitely be the town's hero. In November 2006, the water level reached 2/3 of the way up the wall, and would have inundated the town with about 15 feet of water.
After visiting Delfzijl (and having coffee in a charming hotel on the water), we went up to Eemshaven. At Eemshaven there is a huge wind farm, with windmills as far as the eye can see. The old windmill, dubbed "Goliath" now plays the role of a very small David.
Noordpolderzijl (try saying that five times fast), our next destination, is a large swath of reclaimed land pumped dry in 1811. One one side of the dike is a marshy wetland, on the other, huge plots of farmland.
One gets hungry after such a whirlwind day of exploring, and so we went to the grocery store to buy food for dinner. Many of my friends will be pleased to hear that you can buy a full case of 24 Amstel beers over here for a mere 10 euros ($16 CAD)! Kyle also received a wearable Dutch flag and orange horns with his purchase.
In the evening, we went to Koos and Marijke de Jonge's house, where we had coffee, and then Koos took us to a turkey farm to watch the turkeys being caught. It was hilarious to go into the dark barn and make noises at the turkeys-- it would inspire a wave of gobbling that swept quickly from end of the barn to the other.
On Wednesday, we biked. We explored the graveyard in Middelstum (the hometown of the Aikema clan), and the town of Toornwerd (the Kamstra's homestead). Toornwerd is unique for its lone tower without a church-- the church burned down, but the tower remains at the center of an old graveyard. I felt pensive and introspective as we explored the grounds my grandfather called home for the first 25 years of his life. This is where I am from.
Our next stop was Uithuizen, where we visited the Menkemaborg, the castle of a Dutch aristocratic family built originally in the 1400s. To a Canadian eye, it was amusing to see that a "restoration" of the building was undertaken in the 1600s. In the 1600s, Canada didn't even have any buildings, let alone those that needed restoration! Kyle and I went through the maze-- it was a very good maze that left us hitting innumerable dead ends and creating just enough frustration to make it fun. We met in the middle, and then worked together to figure out how to get out.
We then meandered home on the fiedspads (bike trails) along canals, past windmills and quaint Dutch towns (including Doodstil, a town called "Dead quiet". Kyle regretted not bringing his air horn).
The light drizzle on the return trip reminded us that we were actually in the Netherlands. It still feels surreal sometimes. But it feels like home.
Sunday, June 1, 2008
New York and Huizinge
"Good Morning, Ladies and Gentlemen, Northwest Airlines flight 64 is now ready to begin descent into Amsterdam, where the temperature is 13 degrees Celcius and the local time is 5:15am thus Sunday, June 1".One might think that this journey began by descending into Schipol International in Amsterdam, but it most certainly did not. It began nearly 17 hours earlier with a mild headache and a rude awakening. You might think that I would be so excited to leave on this trip that I would not have slept and would be laying in bed awaiting the justification for rising that an alarm would provide. However, I had been up rather late on Friday, and was thus exhausted at 6am on Saturday. Oops.
Uncle Gary Aikema drove Kyle and I to Buffalo. Largely uneventful. Except for the fact that I remembered that I had forgotten to email my relatives in Holland to ask them for their phone number-- a problem, since I had told them I would call them as soon as we arrived in Groningen. Another oops.
After a short flight, we arrived in JFK airport (west of Manhattan Island, New York) at 11:15 am, retreived our bags, and contemplated how we would get to Newark Airport (in New Jersey, which is apparently a different state). This was something I had sort of neglected to plan. We were presented with the option of taking an Airport Shuttle bus at $24US per person. I found this too expensive.
Therefore, we (meaning, I, foolish Joshua) thought we had plenty of time to take the subway to Grand Central Station in downtown Manhattan, chill for an hour, and then take a shuttle to Newark. We thus boarded the "Airtrain" which promised to deliver us from the airport to the nearest subway station (Howard Beach Station). However, we boarded the train which takes passengers in circles around the airport instead of the one that leaves the airport. (Is a pattern emerging for anyone?)
Well, we eventually got on the subway (at a steep $7 per person). And this is where the fun began. A third of the way to Grand Central, three kids (about 6, 12, and 14) boarded our train car. One shouted "What time is it?" and the others answered "Show time!" They placed a boom box on the floor and started belting the tunes. Their timing was rather poor, though, and just as they started to break dance, the train came to a stop at a station and people rudely but understandably walked in and out of their dance floor.
After the train began to go again, they had better luck. These kids were ridiculously skilled, and Kyle and I (as well as most of the black people on the train car) showed our appreciation. The youngest kid did a one-armed handstand and maintained his balance even as the car came to a rather abrupt stop. When the show was over, the kids asked for donations. I had a $1 bill in my pocket, and gave it to them.
How should that event have made me feel? Who were these kids and where was their money going? I appreciated their industry but hated that they needed to be so industrious at such a young age. Was someone directing them and taking their money? What was the (visibly unimpressed) black woman sitting across from me thinking about the whole scenario?
I didn't have enough time to process all this, because we were finally on Manhattan Island and ready to get off our train. By this time it was 1:30 and our flight to Amsterdam was scheduled to leave at 4:15pm. We were nowhere near Newark.
Kyle suggested that we go to the surface and take a taxi. There was one waiting for us (or at least I like to think it was waiting for us) when we ascended the escalator. He popped his trunk, we got in, said "Newark Airport-- Northwest Airlines" and we were off.
It was Kyle's first time in a taxi (I know, I couldn't believe it either) and he loved it. We saw New York City like we couldn't have seen it from the subway or from a shuttle bus. Our driver's name was Bartzos Christos, a former professional pool player from Greece who had been living in New York for 40 years since the age of 17. We drove past the former site of the World Trade Centers (see below), past Central Park, and then through the Holland tunnel (see picture above) to New Jersey.
We got to Newark at 2:05, paid the ($60!!) taxi fare, and checked our luggage with the unfortunate, terribly beleaguered Northwest Airlines staff, a process which took approximately forever and a half. Our seats had not been properly assigned, so Kyle and I had no official seats until we were told where we were sitting by boarding officials at the gate.
Kyle sat in 24C, with two noisy, newspaper-shuffling, bright light-requiring journalists. I sat in 39C, at the back of the aircraft right near the bathrooms with an engineering consultant and his wife, who spilled a small bottle of red wine down her white pants midway through dinner (for Rosalie and Lee, it was a Chilean cab sauv-- Dona Dominga, I do believe?). She was frustrated that no one on board had scissors, because she was embarrassed and wanted to cut her pinkish pant legs off to make shorts.
It was a long flight, and Kyle and I got about an hour of sleep apiece.
When we landed in Schiphol, we immediately collected our luggage and I proceeded to freak out about trying to contact Annemarie and Harm Frans. The phone number I had retrieved from inside sources was a little off. I found an internet cafe where I bought 15 minutes of internet access for 3 Euros. I emailed our relatives, bought four danishes from a grocery store, and ran down an escalator to meet back up with Kyle and board the train to Groningen.
On the train ride, we saw sheep.
Harm & Annemarie Frans & family
Groningen is beautiful. Our relatives are wonderful. They were waiting for us at the train station and drove us through the gorgeous countryside to their quaint house in the tiny village of Huizinge. After settling in, we walked through the village. We saw a striking brick church built in the 12th century. I saw the very house where my grandmother grew up. We saw fields with endless rows of potatoes, learned to say a quick "Moi" (pronounced "moy") when neighbours passed us on their bicycles, and generally enjoyed the historic beauty of small-town Northern Holland.
I saw the place where my great grandparents were buried.
This place completely filled me with peace. If God can turn my disorganization into a blessing on our trip, if His eye is on the sparrow, if he sent us his Holy Lamb, then he can bless those three kids performing on New York City subways.
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