1995 - The UnDutchables (20 page)

On the move again (guess where?)

The younger variety are protected against their origins and fed on the heavenly dreams of their fathers. When they peel away from their paternal protection and venture out into the real world, the bubble bursts. Those who escape the strict community and become more Americanized would at times rather claim to be Zildenavian (see page 95) than to admit their Dutch background (variation on the theme of Dutch disowning the Dutch). Most second or subsequent generation Dutch tend to shed their
Michi-Dutchness
once they leave their sacred pastures.

Canadians have a similar situation with their Calvinist Dutch who retain many of the old practices and traits of their ancestors. They are rather conspicuous to outsiders through their churches:

In one small town there are five, six, or even seven such churches close to each other, and each one holds to a slightly different belief, so that they are all at odds
.

—Janny Lowensteyn (Quebec)

The rest of the New World Netherlanders have integrated to the point that they are hardly visible, although they still observe the Americans and Canadians through their original moral eyeglasses. They view their hosts as somewhat slow, ‘laid-back’ and passive, traits which the Dutch find to be irritating: ‘
They never seem to protest, but just accept most things
,’ complain the
cloggies
as they themselves abandon the protest practice.

In general, Americans are perceived to be more ‘open’ than Canadians, but not nearly as ‘open’ as Hollanders.

It is hard to get close to Canadians because they are reserved. They are always helpful in emergencies, but then they go back in their shell and want to be private. We Dutch are very open and ALWAYS ready with comments, criticism and advice. We’re not afraid to come straight out and ask, ‘How much money do you make?’ The Canadians think we are rude for this
.

Newcomers go through the usual frustration and comedy of adjusting to a new mentality and to different customs, as exemplified by one such immigrant:

The first time my wife had to go to a doctor, she was told to undress in a little room and to wait until the doctor would come. Although she noticed those gowns in the room, she did not put one on. (Nobody told her about them…) When the doctor came in, he was quite shocked that she was lying there au naturel. A friend of ours was told to put one of those gowns on, but she thought that it would be more practical for it to be open at the front instead of the back…Again, that doctor probably thought that most Dutch women are so liberated that they do not mind to walk around naked!

Those Hollanders who elect to ride Bicycles find themselves part of a Brave New World. ‘
People dress up in special outfits, helmets, etc., like they are going to the Tour de France. They are over-concerned about safety and liability
. ‘ The gear is ridiculous—and even worse, it is EXPENSIVE.

The Dutch who emigrate to the New World are relieved to find that the taxes are not nearly as high as in Holland. While enjoying the relatively low tax rates, they strongly criticize the sometimes tragic events that (in part) stem from this. One especially exciting tax break exists in British Columbia where there is no provincial sales tax on children’s (under 16) clothing.

Of course, you cannot tell if a fairly large T-shirt is for an adult or for a child. So you know what we Dutch answer when the lady at the cash register is asking that question!

—Jurrian Tjeenk Willink (British Columbia)

It is easy to track Hollanders’ progression across the United States. They deposit a town called ‘Nederland’ or ‘Holland’ wherever possible. ‘Hollands’ can be found in Massachusetts, New York, Pennsylvania, Virginia, Georgia, Kentucky, Ohio, Michigan, Illinois, Indiana, Mississippi, Arkansas, Missouri, Iowa, Minnesota, Texas and Oregon. Canada has a few, too. There are also a fair number of derivatives, such as Hollandale, New Holland, Holland Pond, Hollandtown, Holland Marsh and Hollandsburg.

The Dutch influence on California architecture…

In California, there are so many strains of lifestyle and ethnic cultural diversity (all fighting for their share of the current sensitivity and pity boom) that even the highly devout Dutch would have difficulty in raising support for Bicycle paths on freeways. Instead, they satisfy themselves by reasoning that tragedies such as the abuses of local law enforcement are none of THEIR doing—none of THEIR doing and therefore none of THEIR business. They simply go about THEIR business and occasionally spoil themselves with a personalized car licence plate or an illuminated windmill on the front lawn. Dutch-owned businesses often inject a bit of the old image into the thing, such as (the now defunct) Van De Kamp’s Bakery in Los Angeles…

Here is a lifestyle and mind-set as divorced from the original as the homespun
Vrouw Anje
is from those rights-swirling feminists and freedom-obsessed patriots, sliding raw fish and apple pie down their gullets, and pedaling to the bargain bread shop three miles up the road, stopping only for flowers and (free) coffee en route.

ANOTHER BRICK IN THE WAAL

The landscape is adversely affected by a tall, straight dike
.

—Frits Bolkestein, Dutch politician (VVD) and philosopher, 1992.

It is ridiculous that we have to spend so much time talking about the struggle against water in this modern country
.

—Pieter Jan Biesheuvel, Dutch politician (CDA) and dike specialist, 1995.

Every state has its ultimate, unthinkable disaster waiting to happen, natural or otherwise. In California, it is the ‘
big’un
’ earthquake that will plop half of the place into the Pacific Ocean (arguably, to the benefit of the rest of the world). In the United Kingdom, it is the destruction of the monarchy (more likely through the spread of sexually-transmitted diseases than through revolution). In Germany, it is the resurgence of Naziism. In France, it is the extinction of certain species of vegetation: the onion, the garlic clove and the grape. In Holland, it is
The Atlantis Effect
: the reclaiming of land BY water.

In 1995, it nearly happened—again. In a Maginot-line scenario, the threat appeared not from the raging North Sea, but from rivers feeding the Netherlands from its neighbours: the Rhine to the east and the Maas to the south. Never before had the water in Dutch rivers been so high. A quarter of a million people were evacuated, the largest upheaval since the 1953 flood. A million cows, pigs, sheep and fowl were evacuated, as were countless Bicycles, plants, flowers and secret money stashes. A university psychologist psycho-babbled about Dutch solidarity, ‘…
the element of lack of control, the feeling of the strength of nature creates a kind of solidarity
.’ More like plain old survival, banding together in the face of danger.

The
cloggiesque
essence of this whole event brings to mind the story of ‘The Hero of Haarlem,’ a quaint vignette included in a children’s book
Hans Brinker
, by Mary Mapes Dodge, first published in the late 1800
s
. The ‘hero’ is the eight-year-old son of a Haarlem sluicer. According to preposterous foreign folklore, this boy saved the entire country of Holland by plugging a dike with his little finger until help arrived the following morning, the moral of the story being that, ‘
Not a leak can show itself anywhere, either in its politics, honor, or public safety, that a million fingers are not ready to stop it, at any cost
. ‘ The story is neither popular nor widely known in Holland. This, then, is our updated version, which takes place in the south of the country in modern times, and incorporates real-life events from the 1995 disaster.

In 1995, there lived in the Land of Maas and Waal a sunny-haired boy, Hans Verdrinker, whose father was a farmer by profession and a ‘black’
dike-kijker
on the side. That is, he kept a watchful eye on the water levels and the condition of the double and triple river-dikes, many of which had fallen into disrepair over the years.

February 2
nd
was a typical day of torrential rain, and the boy put on his rain gear in order to take some space cakes to a gay couple who lived in the countryside. After spending an hour with his grateful friends, the boy started on his homeward trek. Trudging stoutly along the river, he pondered how German, French and Belgian canalisation, melting snow in the faraway Alps, and prolonged rainfall throughout northern Europe had swollen the waters. Towns in Belgium, France, Germany and Holland had been flooded. He thought about the recent voluntary evacuations from Limburg and Bommelerwaard and all the fuss and bother in his own village.

It had been painful to move the Verdrinker furniture and carpets upstairs. They had to shove and carry everything up the typical winding, narrow staircase. And his visiting
oma
made a huge fuss about saving the
vitrage
and ugly, dusty orange blinds since she had paid for them as a young wife and didn’t want her fond memories washed away in a flood, although a good washing was certainly what they needed.

Hans remembered how his
opa
had bossed everyone around while having a good time doing nothing himself.

‘
Is there a wave coming? If only it could be a heat wave
, ‘ he joked to one of his older friends. ‘
I don’t want to live here anymore. I got seasick from all the water
,’ his friend had joked back. And the pair knocked back some bottles of beer and smoked cigars while bragging about how hard life had been in their youth.

Hans thought of how his father had screamed at the evacuation authorities, ‘
I have hundreds of cows and pigs. I am staying put. You don’t get me out!
’ Yes, Hans felt he was indeed lucky to be part of such a cosy family. While humming his favourite street-organ medley, the boy thought of his father’s moonlighting activities: ‘
If the dikes break, where would father and mother be? Where would the zwart geld be?
’

It was growing dark and he was still some distance from home. With a beating heart, he quickened his footsteps in the pouring rain. To lessen his fear, he began practicing the Dutch art of finger-pointing that had been passed down through the ages. First he rehearsed the vertical-and-oscil-lating manoeuvre, where the index finger points directly upwards and the forearm swings back-and-forth (to emphasise a philosophical ideal or point of view). Next he practiced the horizontal-poking manoeuvre (traditionally used during arguments). Just as he was bracing himself for a subtle manoeuvre-change, he heard the sound of trickling water. Looking up, he saw a small hole in the dike. A tiny stream was flowing through the barrier. The small hole would soon be a large one and a terrible flood would result.

When Hans leant forward to inspect the leak, his foot slipped on a damp, dank dome of dog dung. As he fell forward, his outstretched finger rammed into the hole of the failing dike, effectively sealing it. His finger was stuck solidly and the flow of water stopped. ‘
Zo!
’ he thought, ‘
Another use for the eternally pointing finger of the Dutchman. And Holland will not be drowned while I am here!
’

He thought about the 100,000 people who had been evacuated from Tiel and Culemborg a few days ago and wished they could see him now. Images of metre-high inundations in Borgharen and Itteren haunted him. He was determined not to let his town be flooded (not that he had much choice in the matter).

He smiled as he thought about the prison in Maastricht that had been evacuated. The guards feared that ground-water would short circuit a computer located, of all places, in the cellar. The computer controlled the locks on cell doors and a Maas escape of prisoners was anticipated.

He was proud that his little lowland country was back in the world news, even if it was because of a disaster—‘
We count again!
’ seemed to be the general gist. Most local reports were about the solidarity, bravery and generosity of the Dutch. Indeed,
HFL
33 million had been collected by the
Nationaal Rampenfonds
in just one night—big money for such a small country. But a Belgian newspaper,
De Morgen
, pointed out,…
The horror is high in the land that always thinks itself to be safe among the tulips and hashish. Proud of their dikes and their mastery over water, the illusion has now been washed away
.

Hans was determined to disprove this Flemish flotsom! And then there was that British journalist who mistranslated
kwelwater
into ‘torture water’—the Brits never were very skilled when it came to foreign languages, but Hans was beginning to think that this wasn’t such a bad term after all.

The boy looked up and down the dike for rescue and spotted a gaggle of his contemporaries pedalling their way down the dike. He called frantically for help. ‘
Kijk es! It’s Hans. Why are you leaning on the wall, Hans? We are escaping from the evacuation. The army is chasing us. See you!
’ was the reply. And with that, they disappeared to the clatter of multiple rusty Bike chains.

This plunged him into a gloomy mood and soon he was thinking of stories his
opa
told him about the horrible 1953 floods that had claimed 1835 lives. Dikes in 400 locations had broken during a storm, exactly 42 years ago to the day. Hans was proud to have his finger in the dike and wished his Queen could see him.

He frowned as he thought about vandals kicking in some of the emergency dikes, resulting in all-night patrols by beefy farm women armed with baseball bats in some areas. Or how about the poor saps who heard a prank radio broadcast telling them to evacuate, only to later discover their homes had been plundered during their absence.

Night fell rapidly. Our little hero shouted loudly, but no one came to his rescue. He shouted again, ‘
Shit! Will no one come? Mama! Mama!
’ But, alas, his mother worried not about her son—she respected the young boy’s right to privacy. Then he called on God to consider possibly helping him, if the angelic flock agreed and there would be no
borgsom
involved. The answer came, through a holy resolution, ‘
When I am rescued, I will charge the Rijkswaterstaat a dike-kijker ‘s fee, plus a
HFL
500- bonus for temporary repairs!
’ And with that, he fell into an uncomfortable sleep leaning against the rain-soaked dike.