Twelve Years a Resident, Fourteen Years Away

Memory and the Reason for Writing

Fourteen years begin to tell you how dull the memory really is. I suppose that is why we write things down, and probably why this blog exists as a journal of stories and experiences.

My visit to Amsterdam, both impromptu and incognito, was for the single purpose of maintaining the status of a loyalty scheme; one that gives benefits and privileges money might buy, but at a higher cost.

My preference was Paris, but Brian adamantly withstood me, fully expressing his concern for my safety, and only he could know why.

Returning After Many Years

I was tempted to let people I knew through my Holland odyssey, which began in May 2000 and ran for the twelve years I called the Netherlands home, in on the visit. To think I found a hotel in Hoofddorp, where I started my first job with AUCS Infonet 26 years ago, is quite something. I was charged city tax; Hoofddorp is over 10 miles as the crow flies from Amsterdam.

Back then, I lived in Amsterdam and commuted out to Hoofddorp by train each morning; now, all these years later, I was sleeping in the very town I once travelled out to. So much has changed, and yet other things remain the same.

Arriving in Amsterdam yesterday, I made for the public library that opened on the 7th of July 2007, intending to have a meal at Vapiano, not knowing they had closed their business in the Netherlands the year before.

Then I thought to walk up to my old apartment block in the Oostelijke Havengebied, the eastern docklands. The flat, which I bought in November 2001 and sold on the 1st of May 2012 when I handed the keys over to the new owner, was on the 7th floor and overlooked two stretches of water: IJhaven and Eersthaven.

These harbours separated my building from Java-eiland and KNSM-eiland, the two long, narrow islands that, together with my side, make up the regenerated docklands.

The Lessons Wasted on Youth

The funny thing is, for all the ten and a half years I lived there, I never once walked from the city centre. I took the tram, the bus, or rode my bicycle. If only I had known the benefits of walking back then, but this kind of knowledge is wasted on youth.

I did not have a flood of memories when I got there, but soon enough, a resident from way back then wheeled out from the garage. We both had a moment of recognition and greeted each other.

That was enough; my plan to attend my old church on Sunday was now under review, as I wondered whether I could handle the emotional overload of so many reunions. I honestly was not prepared for that.

A City Subtly Changed

Tram numbers had changed. What was once Tram 10, which had not yet been built when I first moved there, is now Tram 1. Tram 25 to IJburg is now Tram 26, with the terminus moved to the back of the central station, on the IJ River side.

Then another face I recognised, still looking good, not weathered by time and deserving of a compliment, which I gave liberally. The things you think you remember, only to realise that your memory is a bit jaded.

Even so, all these encounters encourage the recollections of people, events, and ideas that made those times significant in their different ways. For instance, I sent a message to an old friend whom I had once helped pick out gilets and outfits for his wedding, drawing on my familiarity with the outfitters around Amsterdam and my comfort with formal wear.

We had gone shopping together on Nieuwendijk, one of the city's oldest shopping streets, running north from Dam Square towards the Central Station.

Walking the Singel

Today, I went looking for a restaurant on the Singel, thinking it was further down the canal. I had walked all the way in the opposite direction before retracing my steps, only to find it was nearer the central station after all, and that I needn't have taken the tram in the first place.

After my breakfast, which had Danish bacon as it should be, but hash browns as something else entirely, I set out on a small adventure into the past. My first residence had been in the Jordaan, where I rented from June 2000 until November 2001, when I moved to the apartment I had bought in the eastern docklands.

The Jordaan place was a large garage converted into a one-bedroom apartment with two separate toilets, on Palmstraat. It was all unrecognisable now; even the old had been seriously gentrified.

The Indignities of Travel

You could easily be housebound in Amsterdam, as I saw no disabled toilets. The public toilets at the central station charged a hefty €1.10, which is just unforgivable, and there were no staff on hand to help out with failed automation. But that was yesterday.

There was a time when wearing glasses was considered a grave disability, so much so that once laser surgery for corrective eyesight became widespread, the Dutch were beating a path to every practitioner offering the service.

On toilet anxiety, today was worse, as I was far from any known facilities, and the accident happened. By the time I eventually found a toilet, my underwear had to be binned. We suffer in silence, hiding the shame that cannot be avoided because of nature or affliction. Yet we must live life as best we can, for that is the better story.

The Living Existence of a Life Story

I can boldly say Amsterdam is not about the lost, but the living existence of a life story; visited by adversity and failure, but blessed by the gift of life, the promise of a bright future, and undying hope that makes every travail transient.

Beyond my expectations, there was even an ocean liner at the passenger terminal. So much for reducing seafaring tourism; the reality bites harder than ideas in a council meeting with harebrained resolutions.

The old lady of green politics in the Netherlands of the days of yore is the mayor of Amsterdam. Femke Halsema, I doff my hat. Respect!

A Google NotebookLM AI Podcast on this blog

Martinair: Memories of returning to work after cancer

One man’s passing and my story

A waking moment to attend to a nature call, then a brief glance at my phone to find that J. Martin Schröder had passed on early last month at the age of 93.

The obituary I read in the Telegraph filled in many gaps in my knowledge of the man who I never met but whose company on the verge of being absorbed by another played a significant role in my life. [The Telegraph: J Martin Schröder, enterprising Dutch pilot who built Europe’s first budget airline]

In early 2010, it was a dauntingly impossible task to write a resume with a one-year gap for jobs I used to be able to cherry pick for highly remunerated contract rates. Times when I could take a month or two off work to do other things were a luxury I could no longer afford.

Have you a job for me?

In the aftermath of the failure of my health and treatment for cancer, I had received a grace period from my creditors and despite the generous welfare payments I eventually applied for, 8 months later than I should have because I was unaware of my entitlements in the Netherlands, I was ready to get back to work even though I barely had the strength for any activity.

I had this idea to place a notice on LinkedIn explaining my situation to my network and out of it came an opening, a young colleague I worked with a few years before contacted me saying the job is not what I normally do but I could be useful for the project his recruiting outfit was getting personnel for. If only I had an enterprising business head like him, he worked on both sides of the game.

A different engagement

I attended an interview, and I cannot say it was my perspicacity that got me the role, I was a shadow of myself in many ways, but I was given the opportunity, there and then.

I got into the activity; it was an IP Renumbering project with Martinair the airline and cargo company. Their IT infrastructure had IP Address ranges that overlapped with that of KLM, all their systems needed to be reconfigured for the absorption into the broader enterprise.

My first 5 days at work totally knocked me out, I was too tired to get any rest, I was more exhausted than I had ever felt before, that it immediately dawned on me, that I was everything but superhuman, I needed to slow things down. In the process, I was able to negotiate a 4-day week with Wednesdays off.

The project was canned after 2 months and resurrected a month after to the end of the year. It gave me a big break and I am forever grateful to the many colleagues who accommodated my issues through the project. It was my last job before I left the Netherlands to return to the UK.

Grateful for the opportunity

That stint at Martinair meant I could notch up another industry in my career profile and to think I had worked so close to Amsterdam Schiphol Airport in Hoofddorp and Schiphol-Rijk for many years without being in that industry.

I however maintain my links with the Netherlands through the Flying Blue loyalty scheme as I mainly fly with Air France-KLM except where they do not serve the intended route.

I cannot think of what I would have done if Martinair, the dream and enterprise founded by J Martin Schröder, did not have a job going. So many memories and some enduring friendships too. I acknowledge them and to the great man and pioneer in the aviation industry, may his soul rest in peace.

My second census

Counted as one of us

Two weekends ago, I filled in the census forms online even though today, the 21^st of March 2021 is Census Day in England. I did not expect my circumstances or living arrangements to change between then and now.

The UK census is taken every 10 years from 1801 with the year ending in a 1, there was one census in April 1966, I am not too sure if we participated in it. The next census, where I was indeed counted, was in Jos, Nigeria, in 1973, the enumerator arrived at our house and was in a meeting with my parents for about an hour before we all had a finger inked to indicate we had been counted.

In April 1991, my living arrangements were quite fluid that I eventually did not get counted at all. The 2001 & 2011 censuses had me out in The Netherlands where for privacy reasons direct censuses are not conducted at except for from data gleaned from other sources, so, the first census in which I have been counted in the majority would be this one, and I am 55.

Who and what we are

The range of questions I had to answer covered status, occupation, nationality, ethnicity, sexual orientation, and gender identity. Whilst I would normally fall under the grouping of Black British, I do prefer to identify as Black English. I found that there was a determination to peg me down to my particular ethnic ancestry and so, I have to volunteer that my parents are Nigerian.

For the first time, we were asked what our sexual orientation was and evidently, I am Gay and for now single in the UK until I get married to Brian soon. My gender identity is male, though the need for that question indicates the change times and norms as to how we identify.

More and more, many of our civic responsibilities are performed online and we are open to sanction or fines if we do not participate in the census with a possible £1,000 fine, much as well if we do not register to vote. What appears to be voluntary is not necessarily so and because of a 100-year rule, the public will not have access to the results of this census until the year 2122.

Thought Picnic: From the midst of my considered mortality

A considered mortality

Three years ago yesterday, I boarded a plane from the Netherlands after a 147-month sojourn. I left a life completely shorn of everything but with a slight possibility, one of hope and some dignity, the little left.

Days before I left, I wrote an email to six of my closest friends, I also saw them as my pallbearers; about my plans to return to England, bruised, vulnerable and also with a dying wish, instructions given as to where I will like to be buried.

That last paragraph of that email was stark and shocking for some of my friends to read, some even thought I have completely given up. There were many reasons for giving up if I wanted to, I did not, I was 3 years after a cancer diagnosis and the long bushy tail of cancer was wagging the dog of my life. It was my considered mortality in the midst my particular reality.

Blog - Thought Picnic: When Things Don't Matter Any More

A start again

Yet, in the contemplation of an end laid the possibility of a new beginning, how that would become I had no inkling of, but leaving the Netherlands was one that was forced upon me by circumstances well beyond my control.

I arrived in the UK, got a new phone number, updated my resume and posted it to as many agencies as I could find. Within 6 days of my arrival, I had interviewed for and secured a job that was to start in 3 weeks travelling to 26 countries in Europe and North Africa. It was promising, interesting and exciting.

The team met up at London Heathrow and made for France with schedules already in place for Germany and Switzerland. In the end, we only did 4 weeks in France before the whole project was canned. It was a hard blow and it took another few months before another good opportunity came.

That other untold story

The business of settling back in the UK was not easy, you need a proof of address to open bank accounts, to secure long-term jobs, to find a home and to do much else. One was in a Catch-22 situation because there is no template or manual for resettling back in the UK. If not for all sorts of technicalities, good fortune, familial and friendly support along with the story that had become one of the defining elements of my life, I might well have gone to make clear plans for eternal repose.

I reflect today on the story, of return, of jobs, of joblessness, of plenty and of lack, of shelter and the threat of homelessness, of brothers and sisters with large bosoms of kindness and compassion, of friends who never let a hair of my head fall to the ground, of a mentor, one of my six friends who has since passed on.

Thank you for a wonderful life

It was hard and difficult, yet I cannot deny, it is also a wonderful life. Even if I am nowhere near where I once was, I am grateful for mercies great and small, triumphs to whisper and ones to shout about, for where there is life, there is hope. Even is my spirituality leaves me with more questions than I have had answers, a little voice in me still cries out with Christian ululation – To God be the glory.

Thank you for being here, near and where I have needed help, support, encouragement, vision, comfort, advice, love and fun.

Hospital: Between ancient and modern phlebotomies

Ancient and modern

I cannot say I look forward to this experience as I did when I lived in the Netherlands. Things are so different around here and it does leave a kind of psychologically negative effect on the mind.

Walk into any of the hospitals in the Netherlands and it is somewhat welcoming rather than foreboding; well-light, the open expanse of atriums, nature giving life to places where people visit to find cure or respite for their ills and sicknesses.

With note and with thanks

Our much vaunted NHS, the National Health Service, one of the largest employers in the world, probably in the top five and things are not just different, but quite noticeably different.

Now, for my expensive drugs that are covered by NHS system, I am more than grateful, I probably will not see another 3 months if I did not daily dose myself with these therapeutic and prophylactic formulations, that must be said.

However, at the point where you walk into the hospital as I did a few days ago, things are just not as they probably should seem. Asking for directions at the main reception, I could not help but notice that it was staffed by volunteers. Bless their hearts, there have been cuts everywhere that we have to depend on volunteers and charity to get around the hospital.

The charity that helps

In fact, there are many areas where charity and selfless service has been exploited at the expense of getting professionals to do the job. Yet, volunteerism allows for people to feel useful and relevant to their communities. Even the main shop serving tea and coffee with snacks was manned by volunteer pensioners too and in a way the profits from that shop might be ploughed back into helping the hospital in some little way, it is help all the same.

The directions to the phlebotomy waiting room were clear enough and I got there, Blood Room, it is called to find probably 20 people ahead of me, prey for the vampires we were, every kind of person was there from those you could look at with concern to those you caught a glimpse of and yet were afraid to take a second look and we were all there for the same thing, to get blood drawn.

Forget the comparison

The Dutch have a rather slick operation for phlebotomies, you present your form which lists the blood tests to be conducted and hence the number of vials of blood to be drawn. The nurse keys in the tests and a list of labels are spewed out of the printer with the date of birth, the number of vials, the colour coding of vials and a queuing ticket.

Within 10 minutes, you are called into a cubicle, private with the curtain screen drawn, a greeting, a verification of date of birth, maybe a conversation and then the phlebotomy.

In the UK, Florence Nightingale will not look out of place. For the billions spent on computer systems, it has not caught up with this section of the hospital establishment anywhere I have been. Things are as manual as they come and forget the privacy, we all go into an open plan room where we are just as exposed for the same thing.

Needles!

After the confirmation of name and date of birth, the tourniquet is applied to the upper arm to help bulge up a vein on lower arm and the needle, the needle, steely and vicious, attached to a syringe-like plunger is inserted into the temple of body to draw life.

This needle is usually attached to a flexible tube in the Netherlands ensuring there is no discomfort with any movement especially when changing the vials. You can read from that, that it is different in the UK, our experience here is almost as Victorian as the old buildings that host these ‘modern’ hospitals.

This time, I even looked as the needle went in and did not flinch a bit as 6 vials of blood were drawn, the needle taken out and a bulb of cotton wool applied to the puncture wound which was held in place with plain masking tape. The sort that grabs your hairs in a painful waxing feeling when you are ready to take it off.

I cannot say where the vials went after that, but I can only hope that when the results are shared in a few weeks’ time, they will be from me. It goes without saying that I miss the sense of organisation and professionalism that I found in Dutch hospitals. Yet, when in the UK, we just have to make do with what we have got in the UK. C’est la vie.

First impressions of another English hospital

Reporting for duty?

My treatment has travelled as much as I have travelled through the hands of many doctors from when I was in Amsterdam, worked in Wales, returned to London and now in Manchester.

My handlers in London’s East End of Whitechapel and I decided that trips down from Manchester for check-ups and replenishing my medications limited my options for closer monitoring of my health, that it was better for my whole treatment regime to be moved up near my new residence.

I had an invitation in December that I could not attend and my calling up to reschedule the appointment simply put me back in the queue for another appointment that came 6 weeks later.

The quality of English letter writing does shock me at times, the part where I was informed of the new appointment said I should report to the outpatient’s department. ‘Report to’ is the kind of phrase used by law enforcement, the courts, for formal arrangements or when instructed to go to see the headmaster in school if you have been in trouble. I would have thought a milder, ‘Please attend the clinic at the outpatient’s department’ would have been a more convivial use of the lingua franca.

Uber and out

In any case, I was not going to be late for my appointment so, for the first time I launched my Uber app to get a taxi to the hospital in the north of Manchester. I had hardly finished when a call came in from the cab driver that he had arrived, I literally rushed out precariously crossing the street when usually I cross at zebra-crossings, traffic lights or Belisha beacons.

From the thick accent of the driver, I realised he was Nigerian. We engaged in general small talk about work, living in Europe and then after I confirmed he was Nigerian and from the east, we began on Nigerian politics. He sounded informed by the sensational rather than the researched, which meant it was better I was circumspect than talkative.

I betrayed no confidences and whilst he got me to the hospital and I tried to get him to drop me at the main entrance, he insisted he normally drops people at the entrance of Accident and Emergency – I was neither in an accident nor in need of emergency observation – I let him do what he intended and got better directions of where I was supposed to go from the A&E reception.

Open-minded to options

Strangely, the reception at the main entrance was not manned, but there were good enough signposts all around the hospital that I did not have to ask again where I had to go.

At the outpatient’s reception, I was registered with the insistence that I be addressed by my simple name rather than my full name - I dread hearing my full name call out, because it reminds me of being in trouble, especially with my mum. Since I rarely like to be pigeon-holed by ethnicity, I chose the option of 'Black – Other Background' and decidedly refused to fill in the box for religion. I will follow the best medical advice I can get for my condition than allow beliefs to deprive me of well-regarded expertise.

It means I will take blood transfusions if needed and as long as any other treatment is not detrimental to my well-being, I will be ready to consider the option, as long as I am fully briefed and informed about the options available.

Retrieving histories of hospital life

My file was empty and the papers the consultant needed to review my case were not available because his secretary was away. It looked like we were off to be bad start. They apologised and I was palmed off to a junior doctor to have a chat.

Sometimes, I am unaware of the amount of knowledge I have of my condition, dates, diagnoses, treatments, side-effects, experiences – he filled in two pages of notes by the time I had finished.

He opined that he rarely meets anyone who has as much informed of their treatment history without referring to notes. Yet, I was apologising for not bringing in more journals of the bloods and readings that I had accumulated over the years.

I then went to be weighed and have my blood pressure taken, where the banter between the nurses and I revolved around weight and how my clothes had added about 1.6kg to the reading I took at home in the morning. I offered to strip off they could provide the music, the risqué things we get up to.

More introductions and a conclusion

Returning to the doctor, he had a chat to the consultant who came round to introduce himself, offering encouragement and assurances that all issues presented will be dealt with, though after a battery of tests to help determine what course of treatment is best for me.

He gave me his card because I told him I had already dredged the Internet for information about him and found that all references to him used just his initials and surname, which made me wonder what his first name was. He told me and we laughed.

As he left, he asked what I did for a living and then said I was so well dressed, I put them all to shame. On this visit, I obtained a new prescription, the order to have some blood tests done, and some other slightly intrusive tests. Comparing this engagement with the friendly engagements I used to have with my treatment consultant in the Netherlands, I think I will be happy with this new assignation.

It was however late, so I will have to return to the hospital at a later date to do the bloods and refill my prescription. We have an appointment set for just under 3 months hence.

That matter of identity again

Returning home by Uber again, I was picked up by someone with a familiar background as myself, a third-culture kid whose parents were from Pakistan or British India as it was then known when his parents came to the United Kingdom. The familiar story of being told what your identity is supposed to be rather than who you think you are, was a constant refrain.

In the last 50 or so years, the issue of identity has become too fluid to be matched to race, religion, culture, and language, place of origin or ethnicity. Global travel has made identity become more a function of experiences rather than lineage.

People have multiple influences that become part of what is their identity and rather than repudiate one for another to identify with some subset of humanity, many of us are fully embracing every aspect of these influences and proudly identify being comfortable in all the places that have impacted our lives.

On the whole, I felt quite refreshed by both the hospital visit and the Uber taxi rides, I look forward to my next appointment.

A hospital run in the running

Here and there

The tale of the bloods that provided much excitement when I was a Netherlands resident hardly offers any such fun in the UK.

As I have noted before, the clinics are so hospital-like as to be almost in a hospital and dangerously inimical to health. But for the presence of my friend, the event would have been all the more depressing. I am so thankful for his warm company.

Rush crush

So, a month ago, having booked a day return to London, I overslept that I was in danger of missing the train I was supposed to travel on. The ticket stipulates such strict conditions and offers no refunds.

Half-running and half-halting, I made it to the station concourse and the platform appeared to be empty as I panted in agony and crestfallen pallor asking the conductor what had happened to the train.

Thankfully, it was running quite late and as she heard I was going for a hospital appointment, she cleared the way for me to get a seat on the concourse and said she will let me know when the train arrived.

Fecund refund

10 minutes behind schedule, the train arrived, passengers disembarked and then we got on, leaving 15 minutes later than planned and because of problems on the track, when we got to Nuneaton, the nuisance of Nuneaton would have crawled faster than the train and I was getting worried that the 90 minute cushion I had planned for my journey from London Euston to the hospital will leave me with little time to make it.

We arrived some 40 later than the usual journey duration and I had forewarned my friend to bring in his Oyster card because in my rush to leave home, I had forgotten mine.

Being over 30 minutes late, triggered a 50% refund of my outward ticket.

Clinic times

As I got to the clinic, I asked for the bloods to be taken for tests, then my blood pressure and finally, I was weighed, the numbers always lead to the covering of eyes, I am not succeeding in losing weight as fast as I will like to.

The consultation was brief, not many options to consider but a possible referral to another consultant. I left with 4 months’ supply of pills and we went into town.

We discovered there is now a third Vapiano restaurant in London, in Soho and went for a late lunch, a quick trip to Fortnum and Mason's to stock up on tea and then I wended my way back home.

And again

Once again, the train journey was over 30 minutes longer than scheduled, this triggered another 50% refund on the cost of the return ticket.

Applying for my refunds was easy on the Virgin Trains website and within a week I received vouchers covering the refunds.

Now that I reside in the UK, I am getting fed up of comparing the quality of healthcare between the Netherlands and the UK, but it is beyond doubt that there is room for great improvement on the UK side of things.

Communication, interaction and ease are essential to one's well-being, the absence of such comforts of concern, compassion and understanding at times makes the whole hospital an excursion of trepidation rather than hope. Yet, where I can, I tried to find the hope that helps me feel better.

World Cup 2014: I am supporting Holland

That Nigerian star of old

For as long as I can remember, probably the earliest was in 1985, the inaugural FIFA U-16 World Championship where out of nowhere Nigeria came tops to take the cup in China.

A very unlike prospect that came second in the group stages and then we took out Hungary, Guinea and West Germany to unexpectedly claim the championship.

This love for Nigerian soccer prowess was rewarded when the 1996 Summer Olympics in Atlanta we took the gold beating Argentina to it – Karma, I say.

On the wane

When the World Cup came to France in 1998, I was going to avail myself of the opportunity and after beating Spain 3 – 2 in Nantes, I was on the coach to Parc des Princes in Paris to was the tension-filled Nigeria v Bulgaria game which we took 1 – 0, only to lose 3 – 1 to Paraguay in Toulouse.

I cannot say I once saw the ball in the stadium on the 19^th of June 1998 but at the end of the match, I had no voice, I had shouted myself hoarse. Much as I would have loved to watch another game, it was an experience of a lifetime ruined by the Nigerian arrangers who for profit treated us too shabbily for words.

Our run in 1998 ended with a 4 – 1 trashing by Denmark in the Srade de France, I don’t think we’ve gotten too far since.

No hope in sight

By 2002, it was Korea/Japan, I was living in the Netherlands, but they were not in it, so I split my allegiances between Nigeria and England, Nigeria did not make it out of the group stage coming last, their best performance being a goalless draw with England. Argentina also came third in that group but England lost to Brazil in the Quarter finals.

The World Cup returned to Europe in 2006, Nigeria did not make to Germany and the Netherlands was out to Portugal in the round of 16 with England losing to Portugal in the Quarter finals that I was left with vacillating opinions in two blogs, both written whilst on holiday in France, the first lamenting our misfortune and the second celebrating the run of the French to the final.

Blog - The World Cup now bores me

Blog - The World Cup now excites me

All Orange, that’s my colour

I donned the Orange strip of the Netherlands when the World Cup came to Africa in 2010, on work days, it was an orange scarf and tie, whilst on other days I had the shirt and face baseball cap. After 10 years of living in the Netherlands and all I had experienced, there was no doubt where I had my football allegiances.

As we danced to Waka Waka (This Time for Africa), none of my thoughts were with Nigeria that came last in their group or England that expired in the round of 16.

I was in Gran Canaria, Spain for holidays when the Quarter finals started and on the 11^th of July, 2010, I found a bar with Dutch supporters and we watched as the game descended in almost farce and in the process Spain won the World Cup.

Dejected and forlorn, I walked back to my hotel unable to acknowledge the celebratory noise of the Spaniards, it was a horrible feeling. But Hey!

Hup! Hup! Holland!

For Brazil 2014, Nigeria of parental descent, England of birth and the Netherlands of experiences are out there doing their stuff. I had already told my friends that the Netherlands would have my support because I believed they would get far and not dash my expectations as Nigeria and England are wont to do.

The Netherlands has already taken the “S” out of Spain with a 5 – 1 bruising defeat of Spain, even I did not expect that pummelling from Holland. England has suffered a defeat from Italy and Nigeria might yet perform against Iran, Bosnia & Herzegovina and Argentina but I am not holding my breath whilst I wish them luck.

For World Cup 2014 it is Hup! Hup! Holland, all the way. That is my team.

Opinion: How Zwarte Piet is a Subject of Culture, History, but Rarely Race

Some quaint traditions

A number of exchanges on Facebook regarding the Sinterklaas tradition which is the Low Countries' equivalent though contrived of Santa Claus had me rummaging through the memories of my almost 13 year sojourn in the Netherlands.

The topic concerned the helpers of Sinterklaas called Zwarte Piet (Black Pete). These are usually Caucasians with blackened faces in clothes of flamboyant contrasting colours somewhat modelled on the Moors as Sinterklaas is said to visit the Netherlands from Spain.

Much as I understand that the blackening of faces might present a culture shock to foreigners observing this tradition for the first time, it does not remotely pertain to outright racism apart from the general idea of a master-servant relationship between Sinterklaas and Zwarte Piet.

Know your history

What bothers me is the tendency for certain people to arrogate to themselves either real or imagined histories of figures and traditions they have no affinity with and in the process they begin to personify the victim complex of those cultures.

On the broader issue of our humanity, we do recognise that we all have a responsibility to seek the institution and enforcement of broad human rights for freedoms and the pursuit of happiness.

However, it is also important that we recognise our core identities such that we do not appear to race ahead of the discussion that pertains to the rights of others in groups that we do not essentially belong due to many factors beyond race and residence.

Too diverse for colour to matter

My view of the black race is that it is just as diverse as any other race. Though we might have shared histories of oppression and indignities suffered through centuries, it is important that we recognise the differences in our history within the compendium of many histories in Africa, in the Caribbean, in North America, in South America and now recently in Europe.

Whilst centuries ago, Africans might have shared in the broader cruel history of slavery towards either the Middle East or the Americas, each destination developed a divergent history where the commonality of race is the only affinity between us after which we are all very different people.

In Africa, Blacks might people the Anglophone, Francophone, and Lusophone parts of Africa, but within those countries that make up these groupings, we are radically different in culture, tribe, tradition and histories that the artificially cobbled-together nations we belong to are mostly geographical expressions that we have learnt to live with.

How to join a struggle

We can identify with and join a struggle for the liberation of other oppressed members of our race, but we must be careful that in our identifying with a cause we do not lose our identity and history to complete assimilation, uprooted from the ancestry and moorings of who we are.

Other Africans joined together to fight Apartheid, but we fought as free people seeking the freedom of our brothers and sisters; we did not become South African and put ourselves under the influence of Apartheid to stand in the face of the shootings in Soweto.

Quite heterogeneous

In Britain, the tendency to see the black race as homogenous is dangerous. The majority Caucasian indigenous and growing foreign population though white, rarely identify that strongly along racial lines as Africans, African Americans, Caribbean or similar people of colour do.

They have their languages, culture, histories and strong identities linked to regions, customs, traditions and many other common traits that sets each grouping out as unique.

I sometimes fear that we coalesce and school together like fish on issues where we are essentially birds of a completely different feather.

Zwarte Piet is hardly the problem

It is why I could not countenance the apparent righteous indignation bordering on apoplectic rage, of African residents of England to Zwarte Piet. The debate is ongoing in the Netherlands about cultural and politically correct elements of retaining that aspect of the Sinterklaas culture.

It is healthy, interesting and robust, but it is nowhere near the zest for insurrection demonstrated by racial impostors from abroad, who might have found another roller coaster bandwagon to hitch a ride on.

We indeed must have debates about racism, racial equality, race relations, race history and probably revisit history for understanding, appreciation, recognition and reparation of wrongs of the past and present – I do not think that debate can be had with wrestling Zwarte Piet to the ground in either horseplay or mortal combat.

The fight for dignity is paramount beyond race, but we lose focus when we decide to take more offence on issues where our affinity with the people we presume are not liberated is tenuous at best.

Thought Picnic: Disengaged Indecisive Convenience

Unsure decisions

We met again on a day that started too dull to have been the follow on from a brilliant day, the day before and I was hardly dressed for it.

It was time to consider whether it was prudent to convey my clinical needs over here in terms of many things I have enjoyed with the treatment, the professionalism and the consideration that had served me so well over the last 4 years in the Netherlands.

Not as absorbed

Usually, I am seen within 15 minutes of arrival, but it was 30 minutes before I was called in, though I occupied myself with the New Statesman magazine that I took with me not sure of what to envisage.

When we got talking, we ticked off the issues; more questions came than I had answers for though I had enough information to help determine a particular course of treatment along with the need to contact my medical consultant in the Netherlands for additional information having signed some forms.

The news was not entirely good, the basic organ functions were fine but some readings were not an improvement on my last tests that a new battery of tests was needed.

The atmosphere was nothing like the conviviality I was accustomed to and once the doctor had disappeared, I saw nothing of her again before I left – it was rather disconcerting but for the expediency and immediacy of monitoring and treatment close to where I currently work.

A feast for long fangs

Soon, I submitted myself to the phlebotomy of needy vampires and I could have swooned for the life that was drained from my veins into six vials.

In two weeks, we will meet again and one wonders what will be in store though there is enough to bother me if I were to care so much for that fact that certain readings are not going in the direction one would have wanted.

Thought Picnic: Living without an identity for 4 hours

I’m impressed

Despite the sometimes negative reports about tardy and inefficient passport processing activities at the government establishment that has gone through too many name changes for me to be bothered anymore, my three visits to the Home Office – Identity & Passport Service (IPS) have left me with no reason to complain.

In fact, the first was not a visit but it was when I changed my Nigerian passport for a British passport decades ago.

Time and cost

I decided against getting a British passport in Nigeria because the waiting time was 18 months though it would have cost me less than a fifth of what it costs to get the Entitlement to the Right of Abode (ERA) in my Nigerian passport but a waiting time of 3 weeks – I was planning on leaving Nigerian in 4 weeks.

For a few years, I got by with using my Nigerian passport in the UK until when returning from a visit to the Netherlands, the two of us Nigerian ERA passports became vectors of abuse because at the French customs held onto our passports for 90 minutes whilst they wondered if we were British enough to return home or not – that did it for me.

Quick and efficient

After a bit of procrastination, I filled in the forms and posted all the documents required on a Tuesday in London, by Saturday the letter dropped through my letterbox with a British passport – no interviews, no delays just efficiency – I was both shocked and surprised whilst glad I did not have to visit every embassy on God’s own earth to travel.

10 years later, I was living in the Netherlands and we are supposed to carry some form of identification with us at all times, though in the almost 13 years that I lived in the Netherlands, I never once was stopped in the streets to show my papers.

In fact, after 5 years of living in the Netherlands, you do have the option to chuck in whatever passport you have for a Dutch one. In my case, having a British passport does get you into more countries by default than any other passport.

Away from home

Again, I filled in the forms, visited the consular office in Amsterdam and was advised to return to pick up the new passport in 3 days despite the fact that old one had expired for weeks.

The only difference with this passport was that it had a Dutch issuing office but that seemed to faze one Dutch immigration clerk and I was left aghast at his ignorance.

In any case, my passport was to expire in November, but because of my travels, certain visas require I have at least 6 months left to run on my passport.

Time and cost again

I thought it best to consider renewing my passport before the summer holiday season when the passport office seems to be swamped with applications from travellers who have left it too late to get a passport with their holidays at the risk of being forfeited – I cannot live with that kind of stress.

The passport office offers a number of services for passport renewal, Premium 1-day service (4-hour turn-around), the Fast Track 1-week service or the normal service which could take up to 3 weeks or more.

You can trust that I weighed the consequences of time and cost like I did decades ago in Nigeria and I went for the Premium 1-day, which came to a fraction less than the cost of the normal service.

Village photographs on city forms

Whereas the normal service can be done through the post with some post offices offering and check-and-send service, the other two services require you visit a regional Identity & Passport Service office – working in North Wales, the nearest for my convenience was Liverpool.

What surprised me was my local post office in North Wales did not stock the passport forms, I had to visit a major city to pick up the forms, the first of which I made a mistake on, the second was wrongly guillotined and I finally decided on getting two forms and filling them separately at different times to minimise error.

Then for regulation photographs to go with my passport, the Chinese photographer who took the first set of pictures had me looking the palest shade of sick, I needed to try another photographer; that set was more vibrant in colour and after getting a few opinions, I decided on that set.

The essence of presence

I booked an appointment for a week in advance for 10:00AM in Liverpool and made sure my hotel was as close to the office as I could get.

We were not to arrive at the IPS office earlier than 10 minutes to the appointed time, I was there on-time, passed through security, checked-in at the reception and my ticket was called with 5 minutes – the checks took less than 5 minutes, I paid for the service and was asked to return in 4 hours for the new passport.

The collection time as set as 14:05 from the counter and that was to coincide with 4 hours from the moment payment was made.

New passport

I did return at a few minutes past 2:00PM and the security personnel observed that I had changed from a red tie to a white-speckled black day cravat – my passport was ready.

I was only without an identity document for 4 hours, it makes you wish other agencies like this for other countries were just as efficient, maybe I should resist the temptation of mentioning Nigeria – Sorry, I did.

I forgot to mention, the months left to run on my old passport were added to my new 10-year passport, you are allowed up to 9 months.

Thought Picnic: A sense of space

Riding is ingrained

When I visited Germany for the first time in November 1995, I went to visit an old friend of mine who had returned to Germany and was living in what was then a changing East Berlin.

The strangest thing we did was to get on bicycles at night and ride for hours considering I had not ridden a bike for at least 9 years and that was just for an evening, before which I was probably just a teenager when I did have a functioning bicycle.

A sense of space

I was amazed not so much about the buildings that looked grey or brown as if they were time capsules of sepia that reminded you of a bygone age but the sense of space, the public spaces as in roads, parks, public buildings and the grandiloquent monuments usually exemplified in statues dotted all around the place.

I formed a theory in my mind that the leadership of closed societies where expression is not free had perfected a form of social engineering where this sense of space appeared to offer a kind of freedom by repressing dissent but opening up spaces as if that availability of space is the substitute for openness of the mind.

A town boy in the country

Now, I have always been a city dweller most of my adult life to compensate for my inability to drive and sometimes to cater for my single status – the former makes sense because public transport has quite catered for my needs but the latter has simply confirmed a truism; you can both be alone and lonely even in a crowd.

When I left Amsterdam for Almere and then a week in Breukelen is when I realised that space did exist in the Netherlands, lots of it, especially in Almere which had been planned out to such detail to have lakes, farms, bicycle paths, parks, greens and much else.

The conurbations could look busy but the layout in general seemed to make you want to breathe and feel that you could be at one with nature just outside your door.

Much space in France

Now, in France and just about 30 kilometres east of Paris at Bussy-Saint-Georges I also find this sense of space, it is obvious from the roads that seem to be long wide stretch into a vanishing point, real avenues and by that, I mean roads lined by trees and these roads are central main roads with less busy parallel roads that feed the offices and houses.

The love for space suggests that between 1999 and 2006 there was a year on year 30% increase in population  and not only have I noticed lots of Far-East Asian tourists at my hotel, there are quite a few restaurants and businesses run by them suggesting there is a sizeable population of that ethnicity here too.

Nature is given a chance to show up with parks and lakes dotted about that place, it is commuter-belt country, just 30 minutes by train into Paris and two train stops on before Paris Disneyland.

In all the time I have visited Paris, I have never really had a good look at the outskirts to see if there was life outside of Paris – there is and not every place is caught up in the stereotype of the restless and riotous banlieues.

I hope to upload pictures soon.

Thought Picnic: Returnee Woes

This is pain

There is an interesting aspect of being a returnee that is quite uncomfortable and disconcerting. When you return home from another country after so many years away, the only thing you probably have is your identity and not much else.

The process of reintegration is being fraught by rules that do not seem to have exceptions. Resettlement is not easy and planning it depends on how you are able to leave where you were to where you want to be and the attendant responsibilities that come with it.

Soul destroyers

In my case, I am caught in a Catch-22 situation that is growing ridiculous by the day. Normally, on arrival in the UK one is to register as looking for work. My experience of the literally soul-destroying concept of being told you are not doing enough to find work that you are matched to jobs that demand nothing of you than to demean and depress you from over 20 years ago was job not what I needed at this time.

Recently, I read of the experience of a PhD holder expected to do menial jobs and not considered to be utilising his job-searching time productively if he was researching and preparing for interviews belying an inferior and pedestrian system in the UK whereas in the Netherlands they fully appreciated your skills and offered help and advice to job-seekers to help them flourish in what they really do know how to do.

Hitting the ground running

I arrived on a Friday and took temporary accommodation with a relation, by Sunday, I had obtained a mobile phone SIM and a new phone number that allowed me to update my CV with an address and number – enough to give it some freshness.

On Monday, I was getting calls and by Tuesday the inquiries were gaining traction that I landed an interview on Thursday after which I was offered a job, what had to follow were mere formalities – terms, contract and other essential personal details.

Proving an improbable

No one on entering a country within days is able to provide a proof of address in that country without exceptional circumstances to that effect. The social services will only consider a returnee habitually resident in the UK only after 3 months of arrival, before which that have no obligations though asylum seekers in dire need seem to get prompt attention.

I could not open a bank account without a proof of address and the company that was supposed to handle my payroll then said they will not release payments for my work until I could prove where I lived, however, I cannot claim many of the official documents like utility bills, job centre correspondence or government agency letters when I am in temporary residence still trying to find my feet.

Exceptionally unique circumstances

In essence, even though I am ready, able and engaged to contribute my bit to society, I am being treated like a homeless man, my independent streak to just get up and do not appreciated and there does not seem to be some exception to cater for people with my kind of unique circumstances.

The unintended consequence of anti-money laundering laws are hitting on honest and innocent persons ready to earn a living but frustrated by the system. Meanwhile, we read of looters of African treasuries washing their ill-gotten wealth through British banks with amazingly breath-taking ease.

Do something

I have put the onus back on my employer and Payroll Company, having offered my identification and met with their personnel, they know what I will be earning and it is unlikely that with the contracts I have signed with both, I can at the same time be an agent of money laundering at their behest.

What is required is a bit of common sense and intuitiveness on their part to validate my existence and facilitate my reintegration.

When I moved to the Netherlands over a decade ago, my employer stood as surety guaranteeing the necessity I had for opening a bank account and consequently securing rental property – that is what I am asking of them – the emails will go back and forth until I have gotten them to stand and stand tall on my behalf. I should not be agonising about these things, I want to concentrate on my new job and perform excellently in what I know to do.

Hospital: Bloody routines

Bloods for viewing

It was the ritual of bloods again today which presages my second appointment with my consultant this year. The meetings now seem to have stretched from quarterly to almost every 4 to 5 months though this was to allow for my consultant taking his holiday this year in July rather than August as he did last year.

This might well be my last major medical appointment in the Netherlands before I leave the country for a somewhat uncertain future to places yet undefined but I have lived dangerously enough to be sure that things will turn out fine and my outlook as I sort out the confusion from the direction will lead to a presently invisible but definitely better end.

Handled with efficiency

As I made for the hospital allowing for just under 3 weeks for the bloods to be tested, I found myself at the end of a queue over 20 deep but handled with the efficiency you will not find in the poorly managed supermarkets we ply in the Netherlands.

They had opened an extra registration desk and had all the 6 blood-letting temporary wards fully staffed even though when I saw I was being served unsupervised by a trainee, I held my breath long enough not to panic at the possibility of a mishap.

I only had two forms listing the blood tests that needed to be done requiring 7 vials of blood and it almost made me faint when the man next to me had what numbered like 6 forms, I did not bother to think of whether he’ll need a transfusion after giving blood.

Don’t stop flowing now

For the first time, I watched the needle go under my skin and after the second vial, the blood ceased to flow, in my mind I prayed I will not have to suffer another puncture wound for blood as she deftly manipulated the needle till the vial seemed to fill up with great reluctance.

At the seventh vial, without it getting to a quarter full, the flow stopped and nothing could be done to take any more blood from that puncture, after surveying the vial, she decided there was enough for the tests as she removed the needle and covering the prick incision with cotton wool then labelled the vials before sealing my arm with tape.

As I am wont to do, I walked round to the chapel office to see if the catholic pastor was in, unfortunately, he wasn’t and I really have not seen him for nigh on a year.

Appreciation

In three weeks, the tale of the bloods will be revealed and maybe, just maybe I will know unto whom my medical records will have to be transferred when I leave the Netherlands.

If anything, the quality of medical care I have received in the Netherlands has been sterling and amazing, I would not know if I can been assured of this standard of care in any other country and it is a primary concern that has featured in considerations of going to Africa – the honest truth is I do not expect to see anything near the quality I have grown accustomed to here.