Orange Fever

While I am typing this a group of young people is singing the national anthem in front of my window. Behind my house is a parking lot where they have put a barbeque, a mattress and a TV in order to spend the whole evening there. I am sure that even here in the Netherlands people who live in this street would normally frown upon their behaviour; their loudness, alcoholic drinks, and public urination. But not today. You see, today the Dutch play a football match for the World Cup and that is considered more important than Christmas.







I am amazed how important football, to me nothing more than a game, is considered here. The first match the Dutch team had to play, against Denmark, was on Monday the 14th at 13:30. This caused major problems. I have heard people say that eighty percent of the Dutch watch the World Cup series, and judging by all the orange flags and other paraphernalia on people’s houses this seems a totally justifiable estimation. This means that about thirteen and a half million people wanted to watch that game live. Most people solved this problem by taking up a free day or watching the game at work. Big screens were placed in the canteens of the army and factories, and small screens in shops, chemists, and even attached to market stalls. The shops that sell TVs were nice enough to place all the big ones facing the street, so everybody who wasn’t home could watch the match standing together in the street.

But, Monday afternoon is a regular school day for all the teenagers in the Netherlands! Protests about having to go to school started days before the actual game, and not just by my pupils, but also by my colleagues! We had received strict orders that all of the classes would go on as usual, despite the fact that some other schools had decided to give everybody the afternoon off. There were some complains, and some students played truant with their parents’ approval, but the school didn’t budge to football mania. Luckily for everybody, all the other games the Dutch team plays are either in the evening or weekend.

Granted, the Dutch are good at soccer. Or at least that’s what I hear. I have already heard the first shouts of joy, meaning that a goal has been scored. That’s how the other twenty percent of the Netherlands keeps track of what’s happening in football land: we hear a lot of “yeahs” and vuvuzelas, and sometimes a few “boohs” and count them to make up the score. So far, it’s one-nil for the Netherlands versus Cameroon.

For those of you who are not Dutch and think that all these involuntary sounds of rapture and grief are produced by men, think again! Orange fever is felt and shared by both sexes, all races, all ages and all layers of society. Everybody who is infected dresses in orange, uses orange make-up, and wears orange wigs. Although, secretly, many football fanatics are just in it for the beer and company.

Even I am fond of the World Cup series, because even though I don’t care about football, I really enjoy seeing eighty percent of my fellow Dutchmen in such a state of ecstasy!

Love,
Jonna

Foreplay in the Park

Most people associate rainy weather with England. It’s no coincidence that a stereotypical Englishman is portrayed with a big black umbrella stuck snugly under his arm. A Dutchman, on the other hand, traditionally does not have an umbrella, but instead is wearing wooden shoes, a red handkerchief around his neck and a little black cap, that will only keep the top of his head dry whenever the rain pours down on him. This doesn’t make any sense! Yes, it rains quite a lot in England, but I dare say that in the Netherlands it rains as least as much.

That is why all Dutchies go crazy whenever they get a little sunshine in their normally cold and wet country (the Dutch call the Netherlands affectionately “little frogland” for a reason). As soon as the thermometer hits 12 degrees you see people walking around in shorts, flip-flops, sunglasses, and tank tops. And on warm weekends families, students, teenagers, and everybody else spurt to the nearest park to lie down or frolic in the sun. The last weekend of April, when it was a staggering 22 degrees, was such a weekend. Everybody in Groningen went en masse to the Noorderplantsoen.

Of course I joined them. I was lying there with three close friends, reading trashy magazines, drinking cider and gossiping about everybody we know. For me this is common park behavior, but lying there made me realize just how uninhibited the Dutch can be at times. People continuously would arrive on their bikes, throw them on the ground, lay down on their towels or blankets and strip down to their bikinis and shorts. On my left a group of students tied a rope between two trees and took turns walking on it; in front of me two couples were getting hot and heavy, slowly moving from first to second base and ignoring everybody’s stares; behind me were some trees and bushes where normally dogs did their business; apart from the little dog presents I smelled the familiar wafts of marihuana and I heard lines of different songs floating in the air. Most people had brought snacks, water and alcoholic drinks, but I also detected people who had brought a full barbecue set along with their entire family (including the in-laws) to enjoy all the meat they had brought. I was right in the middle of all that action.



My description might sound horrible to some people, but I quite enjoyed it. Being with all these people who behave as if they have no scruples makes me feel we have known each other for years. That, although I have never met them, we are all intimate friends. Aaaaaah, bless the Netherlands!

Love,
Jonna

Nothing Beats Groningen!

I am back in Groningen, the place where I was born and lived most of my life. When I was traveling through strange countries, doing and seeing things for the first time, I was never short of inspiration for a new blog. The sole reason I didn’t write a new blog daily during the past six months, is that I was too busy enjoying all those new inputs to write about them.

Back home things are slightly different. Although I think it’s great to see my friends and family again, to have more clothes to wear than the few things I had in my backpack, and to eat all the delicious things that I cook for myself, it also feels a little bit like being in a ruby marriage. Old Groningen just isn’t that exciting to me anymore.

Or so I thought. But then I didn’t. OK, I don’t learn Thai massage techniques here and don’t get to climb a volcano in Groningen, but there are a great many wonderful things that I am RE-discovering since I am back. I forgot how great the yoghurt ice-cream at Toscana tastes (Folkingestraat or Steentilstraat) and that the whole city has a layer of flowers in the months of March and April (mainly crocuses and daffodils).Vicinity is the key word of Groningen. You can cycle anywhere within half an hour. It’s great!


Dutch daffodils

You can bet that my next few posts are going to be inspired by Groningen, because I am definitely staying here. Well, at least, for the next four and a half months……

Love,
Jonna

Little Creatures

I escaped the snow and ice of the Netherlands just in time. Instead of freezing my balls off, I have been enjoying the much milder climate of Morocco. It isn’t as warm as I imagined it to be, the temperature hasn’t been over 25 degrees, but it’s still pretty nice.
I spent most of my time with Tarik’s lovely family in Agadir and Marrakesh, but I also squeezed in a little travelling. I will give you a quick tour of Morocco through all the little creatures I encountered.



The Scorpion
In my third week in Morocco me, Tarik, Tarik’s father, Aziz, and Tarik’s brother, Younes, went to Tanalt in the Anti Atlas. The family owns a house and a lot of land there. The house is enormous, it must have at least thirty rooms, and beautiful in a picturesque sort of way, but it is also really basic, it has, for example, no electricity and no shower. Tanalt is not a place where tourists normally come. There are no hotels or restaurants, and the locals do not speak English or French, or even Arabic, they speak Berber.
Tarik’s father warned me to watch out for snakes and scorpions, as they might be hidden under a stone and bite you all of a sudden. We were climbing the mountain in front of the house, which is also owned by the family. Aziz was looking for minerals on our way to the top, so he brought a hammer with him and cracked open more than a few stones. On the top of the mountain we found the remains of a house and things allegedly left behind by druids and sorcerers. Apparently the mountain is holy and every year the druids and sorcerers come together on the top of the mountain for a special celebration.
On our way down Aziz spotted the scorpion. To be honest, it was really tiny and didn’t look very dangerous. A few minutes later I almost stepped on a snake, but it ducked under a stone before I realized it, so, I had no time to take a picture or panic.





Donkeys and Mules
This specific mule took me from the house where Tarik and I stayed for a couple of days to the house of a family Tarik knows and where we had tea. We were staying with friends of Tarik’s father; their house is in the middle of nowhere, 44 kilometers north of Essaouira. The plan was to work on their land for a week, as a sort of improvised wwoof-project. The family, however, couldn’t quite grasp this plan of ours. To them we were their guests, and didn’t need to work the land. We were welcome to stay in their humble house and do whatever we wanted. They even gave us our own room (they only had a living room, kitchen en two bedrooms for six people) and prepared special food for us, while they ate something else in the kitchen. This was not what we expected or wanted, but it was difficult to refuse all their hospitality, as that might seem ungrateful for all they were doing for us. We did work on the land a little. They were growing garden peas and we helped weeding, but without instructions or proper tools there wasn’t much else we could do. In the end, we only stayed for four days, and spent our last day on the beach close by.
But to come back to the mule, I was hoisted on top of it and rode it for forty minutes straight. I have always liked donkeys and mules and thought they were really sweet. Turned out they can be quite nasty! This mule only let me ride him because his owner was walking right next to me the whole time. Had he gone, the mule wouldn’t have been so docile and would have kicked the life out of me!
I see mules and donkeys every day here in Morocco. They are a way of transport for poor people in the city or people in the countryside. They are beasts of burden and carry leather to the tanneries through the narrow streets of Fes or branches to a farm in Azrou. And you see many mules and donkeys, often together with a horse or a camel, pulling a plough.





Turtles and tortoises
The donkey wasn’t the only animal I encountered during my semi-wwoof experience; ever so often while I was weeding a tortoise would crawl past. By the way, they aren’t as slow as you expect them to be. Many a wild tortoise lives happily in the fields and shrubs of this area.
A few weeks later, during a walk from lake Dayet Aoua to lake Sidi Mimoen, I spotted two turtles in the water. Ok, to be fair, Tarik spotted them, but I managed to take some pics before they jumped in the water. We had been lured to do the “Lake Circuit” by promises of beautiful scenery, tranquility and plenty of birdlife. After all, the lakes are in the middle of the National Park of Ifrane. Unfortunately, the real experience was nothing of the sort. Lake Dayet Aoua is surrounded by a road, which, instead of birds, attracts Moroccan families on a day out.
After Dayet Aoua we walked, next to a road, to lake Sidi Mimoen. This lake was smaller, and prettier. It was off the main road, and not accessible by car. We still didn’t see any birds, but had a lovely picnic there all the same. When we were on our way back, we saw the turtles, sitting on a rock in the water and enjoying the sun.





Storks
I never knew there were so many storks in Morocco! The first time I spotted one I got really excited and took at least fifteen pictures, thinking this was a rare opportunity to do so. I was walking in Marrakesh to the Palais el-Badi, a now ruined palace, when all of a sudden a stork flew past. I felt wonderfully content when I had taken those, not very sharp, snaps, until I reached the walls of the old Kasbah and spotted many stork families and empty nests on top of it.
Since then I have seen storks almost everywhere I went. They have built nests on the craziest locations. I have seen storks and stork nests on houses, minarets, electricity poles, street lights, chimneys, and even on top of the columns at the roman ruins of Volubilis.
I guess the storks also wanted to escape the cold weather and spent some much needed holiday-time in Morocco.





Snakes
Apart from that one snake I saw in Tanalt, I haven’t seen any snakes in the wild. I heard a lot of scary stories about snakes in Morocco though, enough to make me check every inch of earth before I sit down anywhere in rural Morocco.
The only other snakes I saw were at the Djemaa el-Fna in Marrakesh. Djemaa el-Fna is the famous square you always see in movies, it’s even on the Unesco World Heritage list. I have always thought that the snakes, especially cobras, would be waiting in a round straw basket. Then, when a guy would play some sort of special melody on a flute, the snake would come out, hypnotized. It wouldn’t be able to bite you, as it was so mesmerized by the sound of the music. It turned out that my idea was, as always, way too romantic. There are snakes, but they are just lying around on a rug. The guys play the flute, that part was right, but the snakes aren’t mesmerized in the slightest. In fact, when I asked one of the guys why he was playing the music, he responded “for the tourists”! Disillusioned I took some pictures.





Fleas
I have fleas. I think. I have been scratching myself all over for two weeks now. In Essaouira only my back itched a little, but by the time I was in Marrakesh I had a rash all over my back and stomach. Little by little the rash spread all over my body. Right now everything is itchy and red, except my head. I am not sure it is caused by fleas; it could also be an allergic reaction to food, soap or some other exotic substance. But I am a little suspicious, because the spots on my body look like tiny bites, and because they are increasing over time. I mean, I have had this rash for two weeks now, that’s a bit long for an allergic reaction to food, right?
I tried to find information online about human fleas, but because they do not exist in Europe anymore, I found almost nothing. One of the few websites on human fleas mentioned that a hot bath with lemon juice and washing liquid helps to kill fleas and their eggs. So, in Meknes I lied for a full half hour in a steaming bath tub surrounded by bubbles and bobbing lemon slices. I don’t think it helped much.
Did I mention that Tarik is perfectly fine? Apparently, fleas pick favourites. Just my luck I am one tasty chicken….





Monkeys
Right now I am in a little mountain village called Azrou. It’s quite cold today, and will be for the rest of the week, so, I am heading south tomorrow. But yesterday the weather was lovely, and I went to the forest around Cèdre Gouraud, the tallest tree of North Africa. I hiked for four hours and didn’t see a soul, apart from the first ten minutes. It is dangerous to make generalizations, but so far it seems to me that Moroccans do not like hiking. They like nature, but prefer to watch it in their cars. If they do step out of their beloved vehicle, it is to have a picnic or to take a quick look (and some pictures).Bless them, for it improves a hike immensely if there are no other people around.
The forest does not only boast the giant tree, it is also a famous place to see Barbary apes. Because people feed the monkeys bananas, biscuits and nuts, there are plenty of apes roaming about the outskirt of the forest. That’s quite special, because the Barbary ape is normally really shy. Two funny facts about Barbary apes: first that the Barbary ape is not an ape, but a monkey, and second that their group hierarchy is determined by an alpha female, instead of the usual alpha male (the lonely planet informs me).
The monkeys were really cute, although it was a bit of a turndown that they weren’t the least interested in the nuts I had bought for them. I also saw two baby monkeys; they raced each other in a tree. But as soon as I went deeper into the forest, the monkeys didn’t show themselves anymore. Not even when I temptingly held out some nuts…..

Now I am heading south, so the next “little creature” I’ll get to know up close and personal will surely be the camel!

Bssssslema!
Jonna

A farewell to Pusa

Pusa had been my faithful and loyal friend ever since he and I met in China. At first his name wasn’t Pusa, just an unoriginal ‘Buddha’. I know you are not supposed to buy you own Buddha, but I did.. The man who sold him to me did a little trick in the shop, to prove to me that Buddha was made of real jade. He asked me for a hair, which he wound around Buddha, and then he set the hair on fire! Buddha wasn’t harmed, which proved his genuineness.

Shortly after, I went traveling through China with my friend Hannah. I don’t remember if Hannah already had her own little Buddha pendant, or if she bought one after she saw mine (I suspect the latter), but we ended up both wearing the same necklace. During our first trip together we went to the Giant Buddha in Leshan and found out that ‘Pusa’ is ‘Buddha’ in Chinese. As Pusa is much funnier than Buddha it got stuck.

Travelling in China wasn’t always easy, that was part of the fun, but not always. Sometimes we were just fed up with not knowing when our bus would leave, being scared because the bus we were on was falling apart, not knowing where the bus we were on was going, people throwing up on our bags, or people asking us inappropriate questions. At times like these we would rub the bellies of our Pusas, while chanting ‘trust the Pusa’ to each other.

I don’t recall when this practice first started, but I know we used it a lot during the trips we made when we both had our holidays. Whenever one of us would feel down, the other would remind her to ‘trust the Pusa’, meaning it would all be alright because of our lucky charm. I don’t know if it ever really helped us (after all jade is said to harmonize and balance a person, so it could have), but it made me feel better regardless.

I remember, for example, one time when we were in Beijing. We were walking through old Chinese alleys, looking at the types of houses and listening to the talking Hill Myna (a kind of bird). They were already kind of eerie, saying things like “ni hao” (hello) or “wo ai ni” (I love you) to us. It sounded like they had tiny recorders stuck in their throats. We didn’t see any people, only the birds in the cages that were talking to us. And then, all of a sudden, the sky became dark. We looked up and saw at least a hundred birds. The black birds began to fly in a circle, and made a terrible sound. The sound was similar to the sound you hear when you rub a wet finger on the top edges of an empty glass. It was really freaky, so we looked at each other, rubbed our Pusas’ bellies and started walking to an opening in the Chinese alley-maze. The freaky birds followed us, and worse, more birds joined their scary circle, so we ran to a rickshaw and were quickly taken away from the scene. At times like these, it’s good to have a Pusa.

We wore out Pusas every day in China, and I continued doing so when I came back to the Netherlands. But when I was back in the Netherlands in the beginning of December something terrible happened: I lost the Pusa! Because I had worn him for about six and a half years straight, the cord of the necklace had become worse for wear. I had had it replaced in Singapore, but the man who had repaired it had added some tiger’s eye gemstones at the end. These gems had given me neck cramps, so I had removed them. This had made the construction of the cord weak, and then one day between a job interview and, literally, standing in a jewellers to have the cord repaired, I had lost my Pusa.


me and Pusa in happier times.....


I didn’t respond the way I had imagined I would respond. I only cried a little. Of course I did feel really really sad, because Pusa had been my most cherished possession for years, but I surprised myself by being able to fly to Morocco and being able to deal with the hardships here without the help of Pusa!

Love,
Jonna

A journey

I am back in Thailand. I sure have to get used to people not understanding English after having been in New Zealand and Australia for more than a month. Yesterday I tried to go to ‘the rose garden’, a place 10 kilometers outside Bangkok where they perform traditional dances and such. After having caught a bus to the Southern terminal, I got stranded. Nobody, not even information, spoke English and so nobody could tell me which bus to take from there. After twenty minutes I realized I was really stuck. I called my hostel and asked them to tell someone from information in Thai where I wanted to go to. I was then told which bus I needed to take, but nobody accompanied me to the bus, so as soon as I got on the bus the same thing happened. I tried to explain I wanted to go to ‘the rose garden’, mimicking smelling roses and all, and I thought they had understood. Well they clearly hadn’t, as one hour later I was about 60 kilometers outside Bangkok and kicked out of the bus, as it was the terminal, unceremoniously.

Whilst I sat on that bus for sixty minutes I started thinking about how I had learned English. My earliest memory of me trying to speak English is when I am about eight years old and playing ‘Batman and Robin’ with my brother. The Batman and Robin we watched on tv spoke English, therefore, we needed to speak English. The problem was that apart from ‘yes’ and ’no’ we didn’t know any English words. Our solution was to speak Dutch with an English accent and to use the words ‘yes’ and ‘no’ A LOT.

During primary school I didn’t have any English lessons. When I was twelve our teacher did show us a video that was supposed to teach us English. He himself left the room. The video was called ‘the lost druid’. I remember the title clearly, as we were made to watch it at least five times. I didn’t mind, as I liked ‘the lost druid’, although it failed to teach me any English. At the end of that year, which was my final year of primary school, the teacher bought a new video. I don’t know what that one was called as I only watched it once, but it was about aliens coming to earth. This video taught me the English alphabet though, as the aliens kept singing it and I am very good at remembering songs.

English was obligatory all the way through secondary school. Although I later studied English at university, it wasn’t love at first sight. I really hated the subject in the beginning. My English teacher, from Indonesia, kept speaking very fast in a language I didn’t understand and expected me to keep up. Apart from the alphabet and ‘yes’ and ‘no’, I didn’t understand what she was on about. I really couldn’t keep up and always failed my tests miserably. I was so bad that my teacher actually advised me to concentrate on my other subjects as English clearly wasn’t for me.

So, I struggled on, because I had to do the final exam. I didn’t enjoy it one bit until I passed the ‘MAVO’ and started the ‘HAVO’ (the Dutch educational system is too complicated to explain here to people who are unfamiliar with it, but I was 16 and began a higher level of secondary education after passing that exam). I got a different teacher and he introduced me to English literature. Now, I had always enjoyed reading, but up to that point all the books I had read were either Dutch or English, German or French books that were written in baby language and therefore not a pleasure to read, to put it mildly. This teacher, however, introduced me to Jane Austen, the Bronte sisters and many other wonderful writers. I loved reading these books. The style of them was so different from the Dutch books I had read up till then. But, I needed to build up my vocabulary and my English in general in order to understand them. I started making lists while I was reading, I translated my favorite songs, and I also, and this is a bit embarrassing, started to have fake conversations out loud in English with myself! It did work though, because my English classes were finally starting to make sense and my grades went up. When I finished secondary school my average for English had gone up to an eight (out of ten).

I remember I went to Scotland that summer. I was eighteen and it was the first time I really went abroad alone. I quickly found out that the English I had learned in the classroom was nothing like the English spoken by native speakers. Everybody spoke very fast and, even worse, they pronounced words in such a strange way. I immediately felt like the thirteen year old listening to her Indonesian teacher talking about something incompressible all over again. For example. I was working as a volunteer for the RSPB (Royal Society Protection of Birds) at the time on a little island called Isle of Islay. I mainly looked after the cattle. One day I was working with a local guy, I don’t recall his name, when the cows started running towards me and the open gate I was standing next to. It was quite a nerve-wracking sight and I asked the guy, who was standing a few meters away, unsurely if I should close the gate. “Aye” he answered, which I took for “I”. You see, my teachers had definitely never used the word “Aye” while teaching, so I had no clue what it meant. So, I looked at him dumbfounded and repeated my question, “Should I close the gate?”. “Aye” he answered again this time more pressing. “I what?”, I said, and at the same time all the cows ran past us.

Anyway, in the end I got the right bus to ‘the rose garden’ where I watched a cultural show. It sucked big time. Getting back to Bangkok was much easier, as the words ‘Bangkok’ and ‘Kao San Road’ were understood by all.

Love and Peace,
Jonna

wwoof

The first time I heard of wwoofing was in San Diego. I was talking to a girl who worked in the hostel I was staying in and she told me her dream was to go to Hawaii. She was trying to save money so she could go there, but kept spending her money on clothes and other stuff she bought impulsively. Her new plan was to save enough for a ticket and then wwoof there. She enthusiastically told me “you only have to work in the morning, you get the afternoon and weekends off so you can go surfing, and you get free accommodation and food”. I googled wwoof as soon as I got home and got very enthusiastic myself.

Wwoofing stands for either “Willing Workers on Organic Farms” or “World Wide Opportunities on Organic Farms”. This holiday I’ve joined the organization, which costs 40 dollars. Unfortunately, you only join the wwoof organization of one country, in my case wwoof New Zealand. The way the program works is that you get access to different wwoof hosts as soon as you have become a member. You then e-mail a host that appeals to you and ask if you can work for him/here/them during a certain time. I was going to work for one week for an organic yoga retreat close to Taupo. I was really looking forward to work in their organic vegan/vegetarian kitchen and in the organic garden, but, alas, the day before I was to work there they told me that they didn’t need me anymore as a group cancelled.

The next morning during breakfast I was sulking when a Dutch girl came and sat opposite of me. We started talking and I apologized to her for not being in the best of moods. I explained to her that I had expected to start woofing that day and that I was bitterly disappointed that it had fallen through. Then something very Celestine Prophecy happened. She told me she was going wwoofing that day in Whangarei, and that the host had said that there was enough room for two people. She asked me if I wanted to join her and called the host. So, I ended up wwoofing in the garden of a Dutch/Kiwi girl called Anna, and I am glad I did! I had a really good time, and though the original plan was we would stay only three days, we stayed a full week. During that time we got rid of all the weed in the back garden, sorted out the compost, cleared the hallway of nails, ordered fresh earth and, on my last day, planted all kinds of vegetables. But apart from the work, I just had a great time staying at Anna’s lovely house, meeting some of her friends, playing with Anna’s cat, picnicking at the black beach, going canoeing with the other volunteers, and just in general enjoying the hospitality.














The weird thing is that even though I had never heard of wwoofing before last year, everybody I meet here seems to be doing it. I don’t know if it is just very popular in New Zealand, or if it is one of those cases where as soon as you heard of something new you come across it way more often.

I know for sure that it isn’t very popular in Morocco, where I am going in December and where I also wanted to wwoof. There are just two wwoof addresses! Which is a shame because I am really interested in working on a citrus fruit farm and they are bound to be in Morocco. But, I am not worrying about it, because I might just meet a girl there while I am having breakfast who will start wwoofing at a citrus fruit farm that day and will ask me to join her!

A grateful Jonna