I amsterdam

Here is an example of a recent exchange on What’s App with a family member planning to visit me:

x : “ I’ll be in Amsterdam from 11th to the 17th” .

Me: “You mean in Oegstgeest. I don’t live in Amsterdam”.

x: “Same thing”.

X has been to visit me before and knows I don’t live in the capital city any more, but in a gezellig village in the south-westerly direction of Amsterdam. No matter how many times I try to change the equation, it always comes back to this: 4 x: Amsterdam = The Netherlands.

And I’ve begun to wonder if the responsibility for the confusion lies with the slogan I amsterdam.

I amsterdam conveys its meaning through English, not Dutch. It’s there for eyes beyond Dutch borders, and has become synonymous with tourism. A 6.5 feet high display at the back of the Rijksmuseum testifies to this. Although it’s forbidden to climb onto the letters, an average of 6000 people a day do so to make selfies. I amsterdam is the name of the travel card and of the official website for visitors.

Image result for I Amsterdam

Ten years ago, as an Amsterdammer, I shared something of that of an I amsterdam’ feeling. I belonged to Amsterdam, and it belonged to me. Amsterdam was my village. I could get anywhere within the hour on my bicycle. It was my global village, accessible on two wheels. When I heard people complain of the ‘business’ in Amsterdam, I shook my head from side to side and smiled inwardly. They needed to visit Mumbai, my previous place of residence. By these standards, Amsterdam is far from busy even today, although the number of tourists swells by the minute, and the number of locals by the day. And I amsterdam welcomes everyone.

Image result for Amsterdam streets

Image result for Amsterdam cafes

Image result for Amsterdam cafes

 

The proposition to give up the marketing miracle I amsterdam has recently become a point of discussion in the municipality. At what point does the city where your home is, where you work, and where your children grow up begin to feel like it’s not there for you? Just a couple of weeks ago, a friend who lives there said he had no reason to go into the city centre. That was for tourists. As for his 17 year old son, just finishing high school, there was every reason for him to go into the city centre. Youngsters find jobs at the drop of a hat. Doing what? Serving tourists.

The success of I amsterdam in drawing tourists by the millions has certainly spurred me to think about myself when I travel. More often than not, on the streets and cafes of Venice, or in the city centre of Copenhagen, or gazing at the Berlin Wall, I am not any different from the uncertain figure on his or her rented bicycle, enjoying the ride on the Singel in Amsterdam, while I try to make my way to work. In those exotic European cities, I am the tourist. In Amsterdam I now occupy a space that isn’t covered by I amsterdam. I’m not a resident and I don’t visit it as a tourist. Both types of I amsterdammers can stress me out when I’m on a bicycle in Amsterdam these days: the one swerving left and right uncertainly on a rented bike, or full swing with a bunch of friends in party mood on the bicycle track and totally unaware of my looming arrival on my rented bike; the other cursing and swearing while he or she whizzes by at top speed, half crashing into me – late no doubt because of all these ‘others’ on the bicycle track.

The way to do it, I’ve decided is to take the time, and cautiously make my way through this stunning city, which, I can honestly see exactly why millions would want to live in and other millions would want to visit. I’m not sure that the success of Amsterdam as a tourist paradise is to do with I amsterdam alone. That seems to be a simple way of putting the blame on two words with a strong message and incredible design.

Image result for Amsterdam cafes

Image result for Amsterdam cafes

 

 

The Shoemakers and the Elves

On a recent autumn day, while water-laden clouds and sunshine displayed behaviour as erratic as a cardiogram of a person in grave danger, I found myself following my nose. For no particular reason. And my nose led me to a place I had been to several times in the not so distant past.

I heard my heart hammer, even as the memories of hammering came back to me. Here, deserted today, on a school day, my children and their friends, then aged between seven and twelve, had built castles in the air. They’d imagined themselves to be adept at the task, and we had encouraged them in the enjoyment of their fantasies. The structures stand to this day as evidence of a particularly relaxed approach to lending out hammers and nails to young kids to have a go at building. Signs warning of loose nails and planks are around, as well as the clear message that building here is at one’s own risk.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

This is Amsterdam, and the place I am referring to has a name – ‘land of the young’. Over the years it’s been spruced up and the playground facilities have been vastly expanded, but some years ago, it had a fairly wild and untamed look and I loved going there with my children because of that. Building is just one of the many possibilities to occupy its target group. Others are swimming in open water on warm days, baking bread, shooting with bows and arrows, zip lining over water, observing farm animals, or ‘normally’ playing on swings, slides, monkey bars, climbing equipment and the like. All of this at no cost.

In a time when the X box, the Wii and the Play Station have pretty much conquered the hearts and minds of young and not so young alike, I begin to feel a wave of nostalgia for the land of the young. Obviously, some part of me tells me, it doesn’t have to be ‘either-or’. It can be ‘ and – and’. The Play Station and building castles in the air do not necessarily have to be mutually exclusive to each other.

Because, here in Amsterdam we can have it all.

Because here in Amsterdam, we can also pretend to be the shoemaker and go to bed, leaving the castles in the air behind. The inspectors, like the elves will appear at some point while we are at rest. They’ll get out their tools, climb and trod carefully, hammer nails here, and wrench them there, and, without messing about too much with the children’s fantasies, they’ll make sure those structures stand, and that no untoward sharp bits stick out. So that when the same little shoemakers or other ones are back, they can once more marvel at the workmanship, and choose either to improve or to build from scratch.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

In the fairy tale, the shoemaker and his wife, poor people, won the sympathy of the elves who wanted to help them get rich and they did. When Mr. and Mrs. Shoemaker secretly discovered that their benefactors had no clothes or shoes, they decided to make these as Christmas presents and hid to watch what the elves would do. The elves, now suited and booted sang and danced: “Now we are boys so fine to see, why should we longer cobblers be?” But their help was not needed by then.

And here in the land of the young, the elves keep coming and the shoemakers should never get to see them.

The elves are there for folks like me, who want their children to enjoy building castles in the air.

Link to ‘Jeugdland’ (Land of the Young)

 

As If

What will happen in the still of night?

There will still be light

When voices are out of sight

The song is sung and the sitar strung

Isn’t even present any more

The images on the walls – ‘Surface Tension’ – Sujata Majumdar’s – herself as scientist, herself as artist -have stayed in the gallery.

All the rest of us, as I said, have left.

Earlier today, I needed to run out while I was viewing Sujata’s works of photography presently at display at the Amsterdam Medical Centre. The one of a mountainside that has a velvety texture in apparent three dimension alongside a sandy texture has caught my eye. Surface Tension. A curious emotion that I can barely recognize at first overcomes me as I gaze at the images, and the temperature (cold) and the smell (spirit) and the sound (clogs) make me want to flee.

But I have been invited here to tell a story on the theme of ‘resonance’ in the gallery exhibiting Sujata’s images, and so I stay. Storyteller Krishna of Fifth Friday Sisterhood sent me the invitation: “RESONANCE can mean a number of things to different people…like the echo of sounds or musical instrument…or reverberation of sounds from surfaces…or the memory of a distant voice in the minds of a person…

Or the stories from the inner thoughts and emotions of an artist as they explore their practise, and then expose those explorations, and share that RESONANCE with others. So think on the theme…it can mean anything to each individual…”

When the ‘audience’ arrives and assembles, and it’s my turn to ‘tell a story’, they get from me a poem in the making. To be completed by us. Handwritten on recycled paper and called ‘As If’.

Each verse, incomplete, ends with ‘as if………….as if………………….’ After every ‘as if’ in the poem, they are invited to add words and write them down.

 

 

 

 

 

 

But first I read the incomplete poem.

Then ask for volunteers to write. There are more than the verses on paper.

I tell them not to think too much. To just write based on what resonates with them.

After 5 minutes, I ask who would like to read a verse. Enough volunteers again. They read aloud – taking turns with each verse in chronological order, and ending each verse with their words after ‘as if’. Accents from here there and everywhere. Voices that resonate.

While they read, the rest of us fill in our incomplete poem.

Then we all read the all the verses with the words added by the volunteers. A collaborative poem.

 

 

 

 

And here it is:

As If

Won’t step on snail

Stop, go, stop and go

Say hello

Wag of a tail

As if, as if I have a dog

 

Lead me on

Don’t got a clue

Depends on me, depends on you

Winding ways

As if, as if I followed the yellow brick road

 

Feathers fluffed

Tongue stuck out, white, white bird

Don’t say a word

Just fill up space

As if, as if the music will take you home

 

Pink cloud all dressed

Says it wants to flow

And with the water go

And I …ripple along?

As if, as if the pick up plays my song

 

Flash of light

In plastic flies

Silver wings, it tries, it tries

Now to chase

As if, as if it had a choice

 

Ah so little

So full, so sweet

Twitter, twitter, tweet

Eyes and thoughts, thumbs

As if I wasn’t here

As if I never speak

Video on Fifth Friday Sisterhood’s FB site

A castle in my neighbourhood

Long ago, a few very wealthy people luxuriated in this castle and a disproportionate number of others made sure that they did. And still others toiled to ensure continuity. In this castle, after the materially wealthy ones and the intellectually wealthy one (Descartes) had moved out, folks not unlike you and me moved in.

People on bicycles, or perhaps in cars arrived and parked between the splendid green lawns and the castle walls. They went in, hung up their coats, placed their wet umbrellas in a bucket, greeted their colleagues to then sit behind desks in tapestry-covered rooms. Workers with a regular 9 to 5 job, they got down to administrative work, typewriters and later computers tick tick- a ticking. The castle’s maintenance, and that of the buildings around it, the salaries of the administrative staff, and the upkeep of 80,000 meters of land were paid for by folks – not unlike you and me.

 

 

 

 

But that too changed, and the castle’s doors were closed to all. I had wandered around it sometimes and around the buildings skirting the luminous green grass and into the forested patches that separated them. I never saw any people.  But they live in those buildings that surround the castle, even to this day. They are autistic and mentally challenged people. And the administrators who have now left were the ones who had worked for the care of these people, from inside the castle’s walls.

And the toil that had made this possible was of folks – not unlike you and me.

And today the castle doors are open again.

For folks not unlike you and me.

 

 

 

In the ‘Descartes Hall’ of the castle, stories come alive. There was a time when the property was fenced and there was a time when psychiatric patients left the grounds, sometimes accompanied by a chaperone, to go shopping in the vicinity. They made music, had pets, and worked in the garden. They played games and had parties. They went for walks, and felt, like I do today, the sun filtering through the trees. They saw the artworks that nature makes, and breathed the air of changing seasons.

 

 

 

Tomorrow the castle’s doors will be closed again. It’s been sold by the state to a property developer, who has hired architects. The architects say that the developer has great respect for monuments. Once a castle, always a castle. And it, and the buildings and the grounds around it will only grow in status as a ‘medical-social-park’: a magnet for innovation as homes for living ‘vitally, independently -in-care’,  and protected homes for those re-integrating after hospitalization will flourish on its grounds. There will also be homes for the elderly in close proximity to health care, and for those who believe in holistic living. There is no special mention of the autistic and the mentally challenged in the plans presented.

And perhaps folks, not unlike you and me, will arrive on bicycles and in cars and park between a splendid green lawn and the castle walls and go in, hang up their coats, place their wet umbrellas in a bucket, greet their colleagues to then sit in rooms with tapestry covered walls and tick tick tick away.

And perhaps all this will be made possible through the toil of folks – not unlike you and me.

This is the story of Endegeest, a castle in my neighbourhood.

 

 

 

 

 

 

We…on the road (must have a code)

When I give an intercultural training to people born and brought up in the Netherlands who are going to India to work or live, I begin with this slide. I found it on the internet. It’s even more pixelated when projected, but I haven’t yet managed to take myself one that conveys what I want to say better.

 

 

 

 

 

I point to the car with its rear end sticking out as it makes a horizontal line attempting to get into another lane, where it can; to some people crossing the road, where they can and a creature with four legs moving, when it can.

I often hear guffaws.

I tell them about how big is power, (the bus) and has right of way anyway, and small (the car) does what it can, and what it can get away with when it can. And loud is not enough, you have to be louder, loudest (everything) and a cow may criss-cross a road like any (one) else.

I tell them that soon after they land in India, they are quite likely to find themselves on a comparable road. Sometimes for what feels like eternity. To then, not tear their hair out, or cry, or try to escape (they can’t anyway) but to stay sitting and to gaze. Just gaze. Because much of what they will see and experience in the days to come can be learnt from those first experiences of gazing, and asking themselves some what, where, who, how, why questions.

For instance, “how is it that the pedestrians who are about to be run over by the car I am sitting in are still alive”?

The driver swerved an inch away from the pedestrians. Some people like to call it getting the job done at the last minute, others call it ‘jugaad’ and still others call it SHIT management (SomeHowInTime management)

Or… why does it feel like everything that moves (and doesn’t) is not following the rules?

They might learn that the rules can have a nasty habit of rules that change with time and place. What is a rule for one, is a rule by another name for another. Like big has the right of way. And roads are for four wheels, four legs and two wheels and two legs. Besides, rules may be more about relationships and less about rules.

“Why, even if the light turns green, does my driver look left and right before he moves on”?

Well – because of the other two above.

And so on.

And then I mention all the signs, straight and curved lines, the colours and stripes and arrows, the speed limits announced and (mostly) adhered to and the lack of four legged creatures here in their neatly ordered universe of land, water and polders.

Of course, they’re already missing it, as they are transported to a road in India.