1995 - The UnDutchables (13 page)

Nedlanderthal Man

These magnificent machines are used in many roles: as personal limousine, goods vehicle, freight wagon and taxi, thanks mainly to a twisted tubular steel accessory—the carrier. The carrier carries crates, kids, cats and canines alike (special child seats can be installed at the front and rear of the frame, for larger families). In the absence of these household items, it provides a rear seat for one or more passengers (traditionally the girlfriend, boyfriend, wife, husband, friend, house plant—or any combination of these). Heavier cargo (pianos, cupboards, etc.) require the borrowing/rental/purchase of a
bakfiets
, a sturdy
fiets
modified to incorporate a large wooden box or platform at the front.

Recent advances in
cloggy
cycle-ogy include:

• a rear picnic chair (you can either unfold the chair while still attached to the rear carrier, or detach it and use its telescopic legs)
  
• battery-free lights that operate for up to four minutes after riding
  
• high-tech bells that ring longer than the traditional variety.
  

Predictably, the criminal element has not been blind to the possibilities of an attractive income from the resale of rustled rigs. The cream of Dutch technologists are busily engaged in protecting the freedom of this threatened species. The rate of 900,000 stolen specimens per year (1991) is expected to diminish with the phased introduction of uniformed
fiets
-patrol teams and video cameras in special stalls.

The future of safe-cycling is assured by a generous
HFL
200-million governmental programme which extends to ‘bunkers’ consisting of revolving lockers which can only be accessed electronically (first introduced in Eindhoven), and roofing over
fietspad
(cycle paths). Even the Dutch railway service has joined the game with promises of the BIKESHELTER OF THE FUTURE -a ./fete-lovers’ paradise where old machines can be laid to rest inexpensively and expensive racing types can be stored in a private vault. Magnetic cards can be used to access them using PIN codes for owner identification purposes. Robot cranes may be employed in a form of valet parking service…

Now, if only it were possible to generate this amount of enthusiasm towards combating other forms of crime.

The Dutch have been building dikes, dams, ducts and ditches for about 800 years—and they still need more. They’ve been seriously messin’ about with water for longer—and they’ve still got plenty left. They’ve tried to blow it away with windmills, pump it away with windmills, convert it to paper and flour with windmills; and have created a tourist industry in the process. The product of their labours is called the Dutch ‘landscape’: a subaqueous plain, or (almost) dried-up seabed, which would completely disappear if the sea level rose by 60 feet (20 metres).

A typical
cloggy
stands some 18 hands high, the equivalent of 6 feet 2 inches or 1.88 metre—noticeably taller than the global average. In the event of a natural disaster, these lanky lowlanders can act as human periscopes and view their country as it was before man despoiled it.

Perhaps due to their inability to tame the raging waters, they have become experts and innovators of waterways and bridges. They have partitioned an area of the North Sea, formerly known as the Zuiderzee, into a freshwater lake and are currently reclaiming large areas of this. A motorway runs across the lengthy partition (
Afsluitdijk
). The southern delta region (prone to periodic flooding) has been harnessed by a series of hydraulic dams. None of this could have been achieved without serious protest, debate, demonstrations and compromise.

In 1958, Parliament made positive moves to protect the country against flood disasters as a response to public disquiet following the devastating floods of 1953. In the late 1960’s, protests were voiced about the project. The completion date of the last and most complicated part of the project was set for 1978. This was delayed due to protest and debate focusing on the barriers being ‘normally open’ (to maintain the natural environment) or ‘normally closed’ (to ensure the safety of the population at all times). In other words: plankton vs. people. Complete closure, for which contracts had already been awarded, was out of the question. The compromise called for the barrier to be kept open in normal circumstances, but to be closed during heavy storms. All-in-all, the project was delayed some eight years and cost 30% more than estimated, with HM Queen Beatrix officially opening the storm surge barrier in October 1986. The
New York Times
acknowledged the feat with the following quote from Louis van Qestern:

This will end the mythology of the dumb little Dutch boy with his stupid finger in the dike to save his country
.

Ever eager to profit from their talents, the Dutch have exported H²O control technology to the extent of creating picturesque coastal landscapes in countries where a barren interface previously existed.

Back on the domestic front, the remaining water does have its uses. A primary mode of industrial transportation is the canal. Barges are more commonplace than articulated vehicles. In mid-wintertime, when the water becomes ice for a few weeks, nothing is wasted. Ice skates are donned by all from 2 to 102 years of age for a season of free travel—for leisure, business, sports and fitness.

With true originality, the national flag is the French
tri-colore
turned sideways, that is, blue under white under red. It is displayed at every excuse by the patriotic. Some will argue that the Dutch flag pre-dates the French one by some 200 years, but the fact of the matter is that it took four centuries of debate and demonstration (until 1937) for the Dutch to officially agree on the complex design and colour scheme.

The post World War II period saw the Dutch in the forefront of the drive for a unified Europe. During this phase, patriotism declined and fewer flags flew. With the goal of unity a supposed reality, Dutch fervour has refocused on the fear of losing their national identity. Flag manufacturers are predicting record sales for the rest of the 20
th
century. If homeland sales start to flag, they can always cut ‘em in half, turn ‘em around and sell ‘em in Paris on Bastille Day.

National events with royal connections are denoted by the introduction of a long, fraying strip of toilet paper or ribbon, stained orange, and known affectionately as ‘
oranje wimpel
to its foster parents. This streamer is intended to flap and fly freely above the horizontal
tricolore
, but given the Dutch climate, it tends to wrap both itself and its partner around the flagpole in one soggy, saturated wad.

Holland is one of the few European countries which still retains a monarchy as a figurehead—adored and well loved, despite the obligatory scandals and obscene levels of personal wealth. (The Dutch royal family is among the most wealthy in the world.) One of the Orange-Nassau family’s claims to fame involved Prince Bernhard, husband of the retired royal favourite, Queen Juliana. Not content to live in luxury courtesy of the Dutch purse, he enjoyed the fruits of favour ‘donated’ by American defence firms in order to enhance the quality of their products. As a result of this scandal, the ever popular Queen Juliana, in true Dutch fashion, threatened instant abdication if her husband were subjected to the embarrassment of a public trial. After an ‘investigation,’ the Government agreed to drop the matter, providing that Bernhard van Lockheed resign from all official duties.

Not wishing to be outdone in the protest stakes, the Current Couple set the scene for their inauguration by establishing a link with the German Nazi era through associations with the
Hitlerjugend
and the
Wehrmacht
. Love prevailed, and Claus von Amsberg became the prince consort of the Netherlands. At the regal betrothal (1966), some 1,000
cloggies
violently demonstrated, shouting, ‘
Claus, raus!
’ (Claus, get out!). It took 17 years for the Dutch to accept this latest Teutonic invasion, and then only so after the following:

• By Royal Decree and marriage, Claus von Ams-burg was renamed HRH Claus George Willem Otto Frederik Geert, Prince of the Netherlands, Jonkheer van Amsberg.
  
• Willem-Alexander, the Crown Prince of the Netherlands was born—the first male heir to the Dutch throne in more than 100 years.
  
• HRH suffered and recovered from a mental breakdown and severe bouts of depression (necessitating frequent travels to Italy to play golf).
  
• HRH was diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease.
  

The process has now turned completely around, with the general public displaying much sympathy and (as close as they can get to) compassion for THEIR Claus.

The fact that the vast majority of the Dutch love to own a Royal Family may at first seem out of character for obviou$ reasons. As one royal supporter explains, ‘
As long as the royals are not too pretentious and talk sense, we don’t mind supporting them. A president wouldn’t be much cheaper—we have already calculated this!
’ The Queen is well respected for most of her activities, including an occasional mingle with the masses by riding her Bike to the street market or even (on at least one occasion) through the Red Light district of Amsterdam. Her popularity has remained at about 90% in the polls, with only 4% opposed to her. Most citizens are also supportive of Crown Prince Willem-Alexander and feel he will be well prepared to become King by the turn of the century.

As a further indication of Dutch latent belief in the divine rights of royalty, all goods deposited on the streets are officially the property of the Crown. If on royal-rubbish collection day your neatly bundled waste has not been removed but stands solitary at the entrance to your abode, the reason must be that either:

• Their Majesties have sufficient stocks of rotting kitchen waste, etc., to last until next collection day.
  
• You have been officially honoured by the Crown, who have decreed that you may keep that week’s tribute as a royal bequest.
  

However, you have some possibilities concerning the immediate problem…

1. Leave the rubbish where it is.
   City authorities will not notice your rubbish amongst the scattered heaps of monarchial mess.
   The neighbours, however, will. They will probably write you a nasty note or come to your home and complain about their Queen’s garbage YOG left on the street. Children, dogs, cats, birds and vermin will rip the sack open and spread the contents about (reaction from neighbours as above). Rural authorities will notice your rubbish and will most likely take action against you.
   
2. Remove the rubbish to a skip, a rubbish heap or another street where the palace has yet to make its collection.
   

    
   

   In cities, no one will care in the least. However, it is only fair to warn you that in the country, civil servants are a bored species and will inevitably search through the container(s), looking for clues of ownership. If the bag contains any items which include your name and address, you can expect to receive a photocopy of the evidence, along with a warning (
   waarschuwing
   ). After a second warning, you’ll be reported to the police and/or fined, presumably for stockpiling stolen goods.
   

Oversize rubbish can be abandoned on city streets on collection day and will be collected by a special service. Oversize-rubbish-eve and -day provide a fascinating view of Holland as many streets are decorated with items such as refrigerators, stoves, washing machines, pianos and furniture. Understandably, many of these reusable items disappear from the street before the official collection service arrives.

In towns or villages, the local authorities are far more respectful of their Queen’s property. You can make an appointment to have oversize rubbish collected once a fortnight. Bear this in mind on the day you buy your Christmas tree, as you should, on the same day, make an appointment to have it hauled away a few weeks later.

No discussion on rubbish collection can be complete without a mention of the Rampant Recycling Rage. The Dutch have long given up on using household refuse as a means of elevating their ground level and have embraced recycling with vigour—perhaps it was a misinterpretation of the term re-cycle-ing that started ‘em off. Villages, towns and cities alike have embarked on various complex schemes in an attempt to out-recycle the rest.

Peter Spinks, a writer for
New Scientist
magazine, summed up the situation admirably in his expose of the recycling effort in his adopted town of Egmond:

This first appeared in New Scientist, London, the weekly review of science and technology.

Each household has a set of green and grey bins with black plastic wheels. They are emptied at bin stations, on alternate weeks, by a hulk of a yellow and red refuse truck with flashing lights and an automated bin lift. By the time the truck arrives the refuse has, in theory at least, been separated into recyclable parts. Vegetable peelings, uneaten food, plants and garden debris go in the green bin; plastics, metal, hardboard and the like go in the grey one. Glass bottles, which are not deposit-refundable, must be taken to the communal glass dumps. Newspapers and magazines are collected monthly, with luck, by schools; string, ribbon and old clothes are collected twice a year by the Salvation Army. For a start, paper collection, a dire necessity for newspaper-accumulating journalists like myself, requires the patience of Job and the logistics of a Stormin’ Norman-style strategist. The schools, which regard paper collection as less a profession than a charitable hobby, make their collections the first Wednesday of the month, unless that is a public holiday, in which case they collect on the second Wednesday. Neither advance warning nor a calendar of collections is given to households, who need to keep track of ‘paper days.’

The bins, too, require constant attention. In winter, to loosen garbage frozen to the sides, householders are advised to place bins in the sun, if and when it shines. Come summer, the decomposing-contents of the green bins should be emptied, with noses pegged, into the grey bins, thus rubbishing the whole idea of separating refuse. Not that the separation process itself is exactly straightforward. Take the supposedly simple tea-bag, for example. To be religious about it, as the largely Calvinist Dutch are about most things, the wet tea leaves should be removed from their filter-paper bag and deposited in the green bin. The bag, once ironed dry, should be put aside for the infamous paper collection, along with the tea label (after removing the metal staple, which goes in the grey bin) and the piece of string, which is rolled up for the Salvation Army.

To keep separators on their toes, compliance is monitored by a petty-minded bank of bin inspectors, who police the streets armed with indelible red pens. Their brief is unenviable but clear: to ferret around, elbow-deep, in bins whose owners can be identified by prominently displayed numerals indicating house numbers. The bins of first-time offenders are marked with warning crosses; those of second offenders, horror of horrors, are not emptied.

Transgressions are easier to detect in green bins. Therefore the rule of thumb is: when in doubt, go grey rather than green. This is what many Egmon-ders now do, even when not in doubt. The practice explains why fewer and fewer bins appear on ‘green weeks’ and why grey bins invariably overflow, leaving a smelly mixture of rubbish strewn across the once-spotless streets.