Thought Picnic: Some mean streets in Europe

Hardly a chase

A snatch and a chase by three of one who could really dodge and run and so he did between vehicles round the corner and down a stretch of road long before those in pursuit came into view.

By the time they found their bearings as to where he had absconded to, he was a good 150m away standing as if to dare them to make that distance and catch him in an instant.

They stood forlorn, they had been had, the one most affected lingered but did not cuss or curse, nor did he swear under his breath, it all looked like the survival of the fittest and this one got away.

It is possible they will meet soon again, a melee will break out, probably some fists fly, an altercation as it ever was strange amongst them and evening of scores and the one-upmanship is reset for another occasion.

They were brothers, one of the ethnic minorities that brought to might that most poignant saying in Yoruba about the regret and sadness of broken relationships – be not betrayal for the betrayal of friends for brothers get away with a lot more.

Not a lady by half

The altercations are many, ladies who have lost the grace of be addressed as such by their public show of jealous rage, the man helpless and embarrassed as each attempt at pacifying her only seems to escalate the matter.

By the time he manhandles her as if the shake the devil off the screeching and shrill charade, the men in blue have arrived to book them for breaching the peace.

The neighbours know no peace neither do the shopkeepers whose late hours only leave them open to the waifs and strays whose apparently friendly but wary exchanges quickly turn into situations well out of hand needing the law.

The speed at which they arrive and almost cuff the culprits for a chat at the precinct will rival science fiction transportation systems.

It is a typical Saturday night dawning into Sunday many of those involved have not slept from the night before and the menace they are to themselves defines the mean streets of this city.

Woken by a levitating bag

Shutting eye shutting down

Sometimes, I wonder about my sleeplessness in bed but sleepfulness in anything that moves, cars, trains, buses, planes, boats; I seem to find the spirit of slumber overtaking my wakefulness quite easily.

For all the canal trips that I have been on in Amsterdam either as a tourist or a host I have hardly ever kept awake long enough to survive the hour.

The gentle rocking motion that does wonders to quieten upset babies in their perambulators appears not to have deserted me at all.

Don’t steal my sleep

However, in all that slumber is some awareness I cannot account for but am grateful to have as experienced years ago when I noticed a bag theft on a train at Amsterdam Sloterdijk and like an zombie made for the thief, grabbed his jumper and as the train doors were closing, he dropped the bag and made off.

In fact, there were 2 in that game, in the cloud of the eerie haze of sleep, I saw one man get on the coach and drop some money, as the passenger leant down to help pick up the coins the other man walked by picking up his bag of legal documents and made for the exit – it all looked so strange and hence my reaction.

Meanwhile the passenger was none the wiser about it until I returned the bag to him; I was offered a police job in Bahrain – thank you very much, but no thanks.

Drop anchor on bags

One lesson I had learnt from that episode was to put my bags on the inside where the window seat is not occupied on a train and I take the aisle seat.

If the seats have arm rests, I twist the bag strap around the arm rest as an additional protective measure; we are usually warned about pickpockets at stations but the pickpockets are usually bag snatchers.

However, I have never heard an announcement like that around the Antwerp Central Station, so you can imagine as my journey from Brussels stopped at Antwerp I was in the stupor of sleep when I suddenly woke up to see my bag levitating with the aid of strange hand.

What to lose?

Even I was surprised by my reaction because all I did in almost deadpan Englishness was ask him, “What are you doing?” He mumbled something about looking for his ticket as my bag was allowed to yield to the force of gravity to land where it once was.

As I stood up, the man made for the exit, quite a close encounter that was, in one of those instances where my bag was not as tethered to moorings of the seat as one is wont to doing. It was a different kind of train and seating arrangement compared to the usual service.

Maybe I need to find that part of my brain that triggers sleep while in motion and have it lobotomised before I come to grief, though I do know that I have never witnessed any car accidents I have been in, sleep spared me the shock of those events and denied interested parties useful commentary from an eye witness because my invariably were closed at the time.

Thankfully, I did not suffer any loss apart from the loss of sleep at the point that I believe I was dreaming.

In the shadow of Mount Fuji

A new class of coffee

A journey of sorts as one waits for the train which gives just about 90 minutes to while away the time but not enough to do anything substantial.

Starbucks Coffee with a carrot cake and a blueberry muffin perhaps but the ever-friendly and helpful porter suggested the Café Royale on the 1^st floor, high ceilings, gilded gargoyles and 1830 just to tell you that it has been around for quite a while.

For location, Starbucks is a dreary, conventional template of dark colours and trendiness pretending to class, here, I get real bone china for a teacup and saucer with a silver spoon, not a mug and a wooden spatula – even the traditional does matter.

To Nippon with names

So, I collected my luggage and made for the platform, my name is sometimes mistaken for Japanese and there we were, a troop of Japanese tourists with their trunks, portmanteaus and suitcases, whatever happened to those humongous large Japanese-brand cameras, not one in sight – very strange.

The train was running late, they found out it would be 5 minutes late just 2 minutes before it arrived and then the train formation was reversed – I could not understand why an international train platform and announcement stuck to French and Flemish only – stubborn Belgian pride sometimes comes across as parochial – though I very well understood what was being said from the sound system that drowned out its original output with reverberating echoes. New station, rotten audio.

As we made for our coaches, the Japanese began genuflecting to each other, the guide as obsequious as could be sick-making, all that bowing and deference – we need to get on the train, for crying out loud.

Times have changed

You could see the hierarchies, the seniority, the juniors remaining standing until the seniors were settled, it all looked so colonial, the power-distance index showing a gulf as wide as to be unhealthy for genuine mentoring or leadership in the 21^st Century. That kind of society thrives within its own indigenous setting but one wonders about it when teleported to multicultural settings well away from home.

Then my reserved seat – a mess, just like the last time – whilst the stewardess might have been a bit miffed, it was only right for me to ask that the rubbish be cleared away just as one would expect of a table in a restaurant that was brimming with patrons.

I would suppose the Japanese are getting off at the airport having stripped Antwerp of its diamonds, well, the times of that kind of excess – the Japanese acquiring masters and valuable antiques of note – have probably gone but then this blog would be online before I find out.

Should be home in an hour, I think, as I glimpse the lives of those in whose backyard looms Mount Fuji.

Welcome to recovery

What is recovery?

Sometimes one wonders, as the global economy recovers from the banking crisis, what really constitutes the road to real recovery? The bailouts, the needed reforms and keeping the engine of growth well oiled – the former and the latter are comfortable, reform is a bitter pill.

Likewise, I look at my road to recovery and see certain new thinking and some old habits that die hard – does my full recovery include the reliving of the old or the adoption of the new but unfamiliar? And so much introspection about attitude and the ingestion of pills leads to dilemmas about lessons learnt and ones to discard, reform is not easy.

Escape velocity of a train

For the first time in over 7 months I finally escaped the gravitational pull of being in the Netherlands for a foreign trip to Belgium, Antwerp in fact, just by high-speed train now 1 hour 12 minutes away if there are no delays – this was a journey that usually was about 2 hours 6 minutes – it was my first time experiencing the force of traction at that rate on this journey.

A carefree attitude almost accompanied the booking of my tickets but for the presence of mind to book ones that are changeable, you just never know, the cheapest ticket is not necessarily the best ticket if mistakes or eventualities arise – that must be known.

The inconvenience of not now having a credit card meant transactions were done either with a debit card or with the fact that one still possessed a loyalty card for all sorts of services which had not yet expired.

The Hague is left in the haze

As we raced through the countryside it was not fields of green but greenhouses on swathes of land that imitated foreign climates and lots of tunnels, wherever we surfaced we came up beside macadamised routes for cars and bridges of concrete – indeed, there were areas of nature but not much to admire – contrast with Bohemia and we might well have our windows blacked out.

The route of the high-speed track was bold; bold in the fact that it runs from Amsterdam, through Schiphol international Airport and then to Rotterdam before it arrives in Antwerp in Belgium. The Hague, the administrative capital and seat of government is apparently, well obviously not in the route of the direct journey that runs from Amsterdam to Paris through Brussels.

In words that might sound so foreboding to the residents of The Hague when they do need to go South, they need to board a train to Rotterdam and then change trains – alternatively, they could travel on the slower Intercity train that calls at a few more stations and terminates at Brussels – as I was saying, The Hague has become provincial and almost unimportant – the facts on the track that I have put in words.

Almost business as usual

Everything else had the feel of what I was used to and the questions I would normally ask, as to why I ended up in a twin-bed room rather than a king-size bed room, the safe locked needing opening and what not about services and expectations.

However, one part of the journey I did not fail to notice was when a passenger was told she was not entitled to some apparently free service – she considered it rude, but I thought what she meant by rude was that the steward was not reverential and obsequious – I should have pointed out to the passenger that I did not once hear her say please when she made an aggressive strike for entitlements.

Rudeness begets rudeness, even if the customer thinks they are right – on my part, is this now welcome to recovery?

Thank you.

Another Belgian Waffle

Listless and restless

I found myself in Belgium this weekend having promised myself on Friday that I would stay in the Netherlands and try to be like a resident.

In my restlessness, I had to get out of the house before I ended up spending the whole weekend cooped up like an offending prisoner in solitary confinement.

In the end, I did nothing, I stayed in Antwerp overnight without doing much but catching much needed sleep in my hotel room, as if I cannot get that kind of sleep at home.

Service and pique

I checked out early and headed for Brussels where this time I had a friendly tiller clerk at the ticket office administer to my needs. The last time I was there, I was buffeted by a pig-ignorant buffoon who I expressly told I want a 1^st Class return to Brussels and I ended up with a 2^nd Class ticket.

When I returned to change the ticket, he said, I never told him I wanted a 1^st Class ticket as well as refusing to speak in English – I was almost incensed with rage then I decided there was no point giving him the pleasure of annoying me.

Lockers open for pissing

When I got to Brussels Central Station, I can report that they have adjusted the self-service luggage lockers to take round figures of coinage rather than the €3.10 or €3.60 which I reported in April 2006.

Progress, I would say that I walked into town to be deliberately underwhelmed once again by the great pissing attraction of Manneken Pis, bedecked in one of his changing costumes and urinating through an opening in his clothes.

Lately cancelled and out-of-date

That feeling of things working in Brussels was soon dashed as I waited to get on the train to Amsterdam which was to leave at 17:19 – in fact, I was surprised that it was not displayed as running late, it is usually late.

Suffice it to say that after 8 trains left the platform I was to get the train from that the estimated 15 minute lateness, the notice board finally conceded that it could not determine when the train, one station away in Brussels Zuid where it starts the journey would arrive – a journey of 7 minutes at most.

In the end, we all decided the train was cancelled and no one had the courtesy to tell us that was the case.

Shopping for some snack, I took a bag of luxury madeleines off the shelf and had the urge to check the expiry dates, all four bags had expired, one was even almost 3 weeks out of date - I took all 4 bags to the till and told the assistant; these should not be on the shelves - I was tempted to go back and check 30 minutes later to see if they had returned to the shelves.

I love England for the fact that shops can be closed by health and safety officers for selling perishables that are out-of-date. I see too many of these infringements in supermarkets in the Netherlands too, it appears they do not take these things seriously at all.

Bunched up train crowds

At 18:19, the next scheduled train arrived just a minute late and we got on. Before we left Belgium there was only standing room the 1^st Class carriages, still some people had the gall to put part of their luggage on seats.

It was interesting to see from the crowd of about 15 people who could have demanded those seats, very few are that assertive. I found that really strange, there was a point where I felt I should ask the people to offer those seats to others.

The conductors walking through the trains should have felt duty bound to ensure those standing could sit where luggage occupied seats, but they did nothing.

For a crowded coach, it was a bit peaceful and those who had their phones going off recklessly got looks that made them behave.

In the snippet of time which was my experience – maybe Brussels doesn’t really work just yet, but things are improving.

Belgian racist murderer sentenced to life in prison

Murder fuelled by racism

It has come full circle and one can say justice has been done; however, the fallout from this event is generating some interesting commentary that leaves one a bit worried.

In May 2006, an 18-year old man with a privileged upbringing with a nominally extreme right heritage went on a shooting spree with the view of targeting people of a foreign background. [Are you Belgian Suspect – May 2006]

In the process, he shot and killed a Malian nanny, then killed the 2-year old ward who happened to be a white girl when the obviously distressed girl started to cry, he then when on to shoot a Turkish lady who survived the ordeal.

This madness was curtailed when the man got shot in the stomach by a police marksman but that was beginning of a soul-searching analysis of the effect of intolerant anti-immigration rhetoric and populism used to obtain political advantage in Belgium.

Father tries to fool us

The father of Mr. Hans Van Themsche technically disowned his son by saying the boy is sick in some way, but he cannot be exculpated for bringing up his boy in an atmosphere of right-wing and Flemish nationalist tendencies.

At one time he was once a member of the proscribed Vlaams Blok (Flemish Block), the influence of such a community cannot have been benign even though he did say at the trial of his son that they never tolerated racism or right-wing extremism at home nor did he espouse the ideas of the movement itself.

This is an interesting development, because in my write-up last year, the information I gathered showed that his father was a founding member of Vlaams Blok; that would have made him a mover of the ideas of that party – the party reincarnated as Vlaams Belang (Flemish Interest Party) and his aunt is a representative of that party in the Flemish parliament, it would be difficult for these people to feign ignorance of their influence on the young man.

Revelations at the trial

During trial of the young man, the Belgian woman of Turkish heritage and birth – Songul Koç – wondered why she was shot and it appears she is still severely traumatised by the event, one can only wish a recovery that allows her to get on with her life.

A witness to the shooting observed and said of the murderer, “He stood there for a moment to make sure he had hit her, he smiled and was clearly pleased with what he had done. Then he calmly walked on.”

In the light of the cold-blooded evil, we hear man eventually tried to apologise in what Ms Koç believes was a mechanical act, not one done from the heart in any sincerity.

Justice for the dead

And so on Wednesday, a jury found the man guilty of all counts of two murders and one of attempted murder saying he was motivated by racism and he was sentenced to life in prison making him the first Belgian to be convicted on a charge of racially motivated murder.

This is fine, but then the Former president of the Appeal Court has waded into this case and asked that the young man be given a second chance. Edwin Van Fraechem believes in the light of a double murder and attempted murder, the opportunity to return to society should be considered saying – “And we need to take this into account. We must not forget that Van Themsche is only 19. We should at least try to re-educate him.”

At a time like this, our thoughts should be with the people who suffered loss, but such crass insensitivity can only be expected when people are trying to peddle influence to subvert the course of justice for a person of privilege.

The precedent of tolerable murder

The judge goes on to recommend a tenure is a state educational facility which he believes offers a more severe regime than a prison which should not last more than 10 years, because he believes the murders were not racially motivated.

If this is not a case of twisting the facts to achieve a dishonest end, I am not sure what is, the report notes that in the 52 cases the judge presided over, he never pronounced a verdict for internment in a state educational home.

Indeed the judge is learned and versed in precedent; this might be advocating the establishment of the institutionalisation of tolerable murder as the question of racially motivated murder can never be countenanced or be of import even if the suspect clearly confesses that his acts were racially motivated.

One should resist the urge to play the race card and turn the tables to consider what would have happened if the hues of the persons involved were switched.

But one is of the mind of trawling through all the cases of this judge to see how he has upheld Belgian law in his deliberation, though one hopes this is just an unfortunate lapse in judgement.

Meanwhile, justice seems to have been done, lock those gates, I know where to put the keys.

Skype to the rescue

Scratch cards and phone cubicles

The first time I got one of those telephone scratch cards to make International calls to Nigeria, I was completely clueless about what to do, then I once walked into one of those international telephony shops in Antwerp, the system did not work for me and the support was dire.

A number of those telephony shops on the Antwerp main street in front of the Central Station now have Police Notices, one can only wonder why - the suspicion is that they might have been havens for all sorts of nefarious activities from Advanced Fee Fraud to Money Laundering.

Anyway, I have had the comfort of my landline to call anywhere I want in the world without worrying about the bill. There have been times that I have made those calls on my mobile phone if situation requires that I do.

The loss of the international telephony service from my landline is definitely not good, most of my contacts are in the UK and then I have friends all around the world including Papua New Guinea (PNG), you say Papua What? Well, he went there and I would only visit to rendezvous at Darwin in Australia - the whole thought of natives picking their teeth with my bones is not in the least endearing.

That is what happens if your knowledge of faraway lands is based on fable, folklore, generalisations and rumour.

Skype, it is

So, I have got me Skype - Internet Telephony, the whole works - ability to call landlines - €0.017 per minute - over most of the globe, call forwarding to my mobile, private phone number in the UK such that with Skype Pro all national calls are free and a Sitecom Skype-compatible USB handset.

Since, I always travel with my laptop and I always try to get online anyhow, Skype is an added capability that means, I do not have to pay exorbitant hotel phone bills or outrageously rip-off mobile roaming charges.

I think I have adopted this technology at the right time; for those who really do need to have completely free calls, get on Skype and get your friends on Skype too, that way, you create networks of free communication for as long as you want.

The design of the birdcage trolley

My hotel in Antwerp

In many ways, I have taken a liking for Antwerp, not for any particular reason than the fact that it is easy to get to and a generally nice place to be.

It has also become one of my pet luxuries to stay only at the Astrid Park Plaza Hotel which is directly in front of the Central Station, in fact, if I cannot get a room in this hotel, I strike Antwerp off my list.

I have also noticed that the staff might have cottoned on me being a regular such that I now always get a 7th-floor room overlooking some part of Antwerp, some spectacular others so dreary.

So, as I arrived at the hotel on Friday night and tried to negotiate the 10 or so steps that looked like I was about to walk up the steps of the Basilica of Sacré Coeur – two bags, cane and all – I have not mastered the art of travelling light; the bellboy came to my rescue and I was parted from the luggage as I checked in at reception.

Once that was done, the bellboy, hardly a boy really; helped me up to my room as I wondered aloud why a bellboy’s trolley was designed the way it was, a bit camp, a bit overstated and almost impossible to reason out.

But when I saw how he manoeuvred the trolley, taking advantage of the 4-wheel drive, the horizontal bars, the possible holds and the cage structure that allows for heaped baggage without the danger of spilling the luggage, it began to make sense.

Then I found out, it is not called a bellboy’s trolley, but a birdcage trolley – sometimes, these names are just as camp as Christmas – feast your eyes.

© Legend Hotel Supplies

easySailing on easyCruise

Docked in obscurity

I finally visited one end of Antwerp I had never been to before, the docks, in fact this part of the docks is the tail end that is closer to the centre of town and has berths for yachts and other small boats.

As walked down the pier, I could not help but notice that distinctive "easy" Orange sign on a boat that looked like a water-wheel contraption out of Tom Sawyer or the set of a typical Agatha Christie murder mystery on the Nile - only without the water-wheel.

Now, the easy business model has been built of cutting out the frills, the thrills, the bells and the whistles to make things affordable to the common man.

This race to the lowest common denominator has arrested the quality of other competitors' services, like, I could remember just under 10 years ago, I got a full silver service on the 45 minute flight between London and Amsterdam, now I get a dry sandwich passed to me with a slice of cheese, the thing is so dry it is like a desiccant as it touches your tongue and the diuretic properties are such that you do not have to pass anything to feel completely dehydrated - and this is KLM/Air France.

Since my laptop suffered a fate worse than death in 2000 by the hands of the almost too careful baggage handlers, I have given easyJet the widest berth I could get.

Now, there has been every kind of easy brand created, however, this no frills cruise thing which is hardly a liner, one might be tempted to dare call it a ship, but it does really make one wonder if cheap is really fun.

For anyone who cares, you can book a cruise on easyCruiseTwo, by my reckoning, cheap flights are fine, and this, I say without prejudice is utterly dire.

Of service in Nigerian businesses

The old Wazobia

At times, I have the opportunity to avail myself of services of Nigerian businesses, though more because they offer a service; I can rarely find anywhere else.

I however worry about the possibility of those businesses turning a success with the lax attitudes and poor professionalism that exemplifies the owners of those outfits.

Finding myself in Antwerp this weekend, I left my executive suite and traipsed past the exquisite restaurant to a dinghy Nigerian restaurant (New Wazobia) or rather “buka” two streets away to have goat meat pepper soup and possibly some pounded yam and spinach.

For the lack other places to go for Nigerian fare, I have frequented this place with a prayer and great risk to my health; I have doggedly returned despite at least two attributable cases for food poisoning.

Many a time, I have had to ask for a glass rather than drink through a straw and the food is served so unnaturally hot because the stuff gets tossed in a microwave oven and one is at risk of scalding from the food rather than the plates, as one would have with Western type dishes.

Waiting for no waiter

Anyway, I was there this evening took a seat was acknowledged by the regular crowd and nigh on 15 minutes, there was no sign of a waiter and I was done with waiting.

So, I took my coat, hat, scarf and umbrella and left without event.

As I returned to my hotel, the bellboy who was all over like a rash came forward to retrieve the umbrella he offered me on my way out, and I took the opportunity to ask about the restaurant.

I got details of all that was on offer and he offered to get me a reservation whilst I returned to my room to get into something less stuffy. A table at the window, fine red wine, my steak – half-bleeding – utterly succulent, an inspired menu creation that was set on a bed of spinach and bedecked with a slab of foie gras, smiling and helpful staff, live music to boot.

Then I think to myself, why suffer for a taste of home if the service is so atrocious, I would consider it utterly unacceptable in any other place.

World Cup to rotten dump

My experience of Nigerian businesses does not end there, during the Paris World Cup, my cousin arranged that we could watch Nigeria – Bulgaria in Paris, I paid just a few pounds short of a thousand to get the two of us out to Paris on a bus with other Nigerians, a place in the stadium to watch my team and a night in Paris.

As it transpired, we arrived just in time to hear the last chords of the Bulgarian National Anthem, the Nigerian one having gone first, then we finally got our seats.

For excitement, electricity and good times, this was one I really enjoyed, I probably never saw the ball as it passed round the field but in the end, I had no voice with which to speak for hours.

We then gathered back in the bus for our next rendezvous which was on the outskirts of Paris, it took two hours to find which happened to be a Formule 1 Hotel – I could not believe it – it had bunk beds, the shower was literally above the toilet, if you could squeeze into that bath-toi-room-let.

What could have been, amongst our company was a man who had traveled all the way from Nigeria along with quite a few well-to-do career people – the desire to make maximum profit spoilt an otherwise beautiful day.

We did not quibble, we just took a taxi back into the town centre and got ourselves rooms in suitable hotels – if I can get better arrangements elsewhere, Nigerian-owned businesses have a lot of work to do to gain my custom – they just cannot compete if they exude such greed or lack of attention to customer relationships.

Are you Belgian-Suspect?

Not the kind of news to hear

Being a regular visitor to Antwerp, I was quite surprised that I missed a rather harrowing but evident piece of news about the murders of 2 people and one left seriously injured [1].

It transpired that the perpetrator had bunked off boarding school (privilege) being on the verge of being suspended for smoking and drinking the day before.

The young man had been planning to commit an act of terminal self-harm but felt he would even serve society better if just before he committed the ultimate, he randomly kills a few immigrants who he referred to in the most derogatory terms.

If I were to dabble into profiling, we are given the impression that a person who in Europe has the privilege of a boarding school education, has the best opportunities for education, can be assertive, self-assured, confident and probably get by on his own cognisance, something ordinary people would probably need a police check and references for.

Classed as Belgian-suspect

So, he bunks off school and walks into a shop and buys a gun, gets the ammunition and declares open season on fellow human-beings who have the unfortunate distinction of having an appearance that is Belgian-suspect.

Belgian-suspect? Indeed, but that is part of the wave of right-wing populism that I have tried to ignore not only in Belgium, but in France and recently in the UK when the British National Party took a few seats in the local government elections.

The whole principle and premise that a certain group of people indigenously belong somewhere and they are being deprived of their rights because immigrants, foreigners or citizens of foreign progeny are getting priority in jobs, welfare and other “so-called” benefits.

This tripe, as ideology gets fed to the populace and finds resonance; that the broad church of democracy can allow sinners against liberty and tolerance to worship at the altar of universal franchise.

Caught in the stomach

The young man in event got shot in the stomach by a police marksman but not before he had shot and grievously wounded a Turkish woman, then killed an au-pair black woman with her ward, a 2-year old Caucasian child.

In his words, she was in the wrong place, at the wrong time.

That is what bothers me, any up-bringing, education, experience or tutelage that allows for a situation where a 2-year old cannot walk safe in the streets is in need of obliteration at source.

Where be the faults?

His aunt is a Member of Parliament representative of the Flemish Interest Party which was birthed at the demise of the similarly extreme right Flemish Block that the parliament proscribed a few years ago.

His father was a founding a member of the Flemish Block, and though the party spokespeople deny the young man is a member of their party, there are enough role models to influence, if not indoctrinate the child in abhorrent ideology.

The young man intimated to friends that he would commit terminal self-harm and take 10 immigrants with him and privileged few did nothing with that information thinking it was an empty threat.

The head of the school came across a suicide note and did not cotton on the possible gravity of the situation; rather school discipline through a suspension would have made the problem go away. Whatever acts he then committed would have absolved the school from culpability.

I have my doubts about that being the best kind of school to send impressionable people, if students can be subject to opprobrium and authorities can be in such dereliction of duty and responsibility.

A matrix of skinhead amity

Then he walks into what might be a gun store and gets a high-calibre rifle, no questions asked, and then walks up a street in Antwerp seeking his quarry dressed like a character out of the Matrix.

Surreal as this may seem, there does not seem to be one intelligent initiative from all these people who could have affected and avoided the situation

+ Parents associated with fear-purveying anti-immigrant movements;

+ Schoolmates learning to be farm-hands in a boarding school but having no sense of the consequence that can be adduced from information they are privy to;

+ School authorities who think a suicide note is better dealt with by suspension or expulsion;

+ A gun shop owner in dalliance with the money, ignoring the common-sense need to ascertain, verify, enquire and consequently deny.

They know not the effects of their rhetoric

Auntie then speaks, he grew up in an atmosphere of anti-violence – I think NOT!

The rhetoric of the extreme-right is anything but the gospel of peace to all mankind; that atmosphere is enough to create the self-loathing to commit suicide and the warped sense of duty to society leading to killing innocent immigrants.

Where the party has rejected the young man, having been caught; there are others who in their clandestine ceremonies who would be offering the proverbial pat on the back for speaking up for the working man of Dutch-speaking Belgium.

References

[1] Woman, child murdered in 'racist' Antwerp shooting

[2] 'Teen killer' deliberately targeted random foreigners

[3] Racist shooting rampage shocks Antwerp

General information about the school, translated from Flemish.

The boarding school - Vrij Agro- en Biotechnisch Instituut – (Free Agricultural and Biotechnical Institute)

A school with a past and a future

The school was established in 1922, and has more than 7000 alumni. A modern infrastructure guarantees a safe future.

A school with a heart

The VABI offers a student-centred educational curriculum offering practical tuition beyond just knowledge transfer.

A school in a “green lung” (Green in the context of environment)

The VABI is situated in splendid green surroundings within the grounds of a small seminary.

The boarding school has a totally new kitchen and a restaurant that caters for healthy meals, with accommodation adapted for study and entertainment.

Most students graduate to further education in various related fields in university.

Our diploma offers great opportunities for employment and other career enhancing prospects.

Parachuting into Antwerp

Diamonds are for mugs

My most recent escape from the Netherlands in the light of the over-subscribed Queen's day celebrations had me hop over to Antwerp, in Belgium.

Antwerp is considered the diamond capital of the world in terms of the commercial and processing activity.

However, if you ever have the good fortune of having your relations in tow, they would like magpies be attracted to the glitter of fool's gold that adorns the shopping windows of the jewellery shops that make up the neighbourhood of Antwerp Central Station.

Besides, work is at hand converting the cul de sac Central Station into a conduit station so that visitor do not agonise about the possibility of getting lost when the train they have boarded goes in one way and reverses out in continuation of the same journey.

Could it be the stench of diamonds?

That work which has been going on for about 3 years has created a London moment in an area that could be 4 kilometres square as the digging has definitely ruptured the sewage systems that no hotel has the blessing of good breathable air to which the residents are already accustomed.

That London moment refers to the 19th Century parliamentary contract to clean up the Thames which had an unbearable stench that the lawmakers just could abide; it would however take more than a parliament in Antwerp to find the source of those odorifiers. More so, I am amazed that the good citizens of Antwerp have not yet had their fill of the situation to demand appropriate action.

Then, as I walked down a street, I came upon an advertisement in Flemish - Dutch spoken in the Belgians - this on translation would read in context.

"Your mind is like a parachute, it works better when open"

Too true, the function of a parachute is to harness the invisible but tangible properties of air to ensure a gradual and safe landing or to stop a high velocity vehicle.

The parachute of the mind

The use of parachutes requires knowledge, preparation, application, timing, deployment and poise as the exercise comes to a halt.

So, also, the mind, free of the ignorance that is coloured by generalisations, prejudice, hypocrisy, stubbornness, rumour, gossip and every perpetuating influence that keeps truth from having precedence, is open to assess information, objectively, meditatively, contemplatively and ruminatively to arrive at decisions, if necessary.

We have however been caught up in situations where the mind is not open, just as the parachute should open.

Jumping to conclusions

In an exchange between a parachute instructor and a pupil in a class as the airplane reached jumping height, this ensued.

Instructor: Class, I have taught you all you need to know about parachuting.

Pupil: Sir, what if the parachute does not open?

Instructor: Then, my friend, you will be jumping to a conclusion. [1]

Many a time we have jumped to conclusions, but thankfully, not as conclusively as a hapless and unlucky parachutist.

It concerns me though that the Iranian Nuclear Crisis already has a conclusion of regime change - Iraq, comes to mind. Its resolution could probably be more about how the Americans allow their parachute to open than how the Iranians decide whether or not to use a parachute.

[1] (Recalled from an article I read in the Reader's Digest years ago)

I had to run for the train

Got to get out

My itchy feet get the better of me every now and then. The emotion and reaction can be so rash, well more determined, I’ll say, the planning and execution sometimes leaves me enough time to end up in disappointment.

Luckily, that has never really been the case, but my fuse gets shorter and my awareness is heightened and intuition sharpened.

Too alert for my liking

I miss nothing in context and occasion; it has not helped a developing but annoying side of me that I see as aggressive, intemperate, impatient and grumpy all as a result of some of these issues.

For instance, I really cannot afford to get angry because it has a horrible physiological effect on me; I begin to shake, my voice rises into a falsetto and it is suddenly lost, not helping my coherence – now, that is anger management as an evolutionary enhancement to my makeup.

I note that this rarely happens in company of friends, their contributions, interjections or conversation generally offers palliative respite in times of dire human frailty.

Tram 26 again

So, I decided, I would be off to Antwerp for the night. Having decided to catch the last train from the Amsterdam Central Station, I had 25 minutes to spare and the wretched Tram 26 was to arrive in 5 minutes, with a 6 minute ride to the station, I should have 14 minutes to get a ticket and get on the train. All planned down to a T.

Tram 26 came on time and we only have 2 stops before the Central Station and so everyone gets on and we proceed according to plan.

We reach the next stop and a crowd of young ones gets on, the conductor and driver both check tickets or collect fares on entry at any of the 2 entrance doors.

However, some of those adolescents used one of the exit doors and got on, which is fine if you then walk up to either the driver or conductor to confirm your fare.

Conductor misconduct

Some did not, so the conductor announces that the tram would not leave till everyone who got on has been checked.

Nothing happens; I have a train to catch and it is looking like my 14 minute leeway is cut in half and swiftly moving to a quarter.

Wait a minute! I have a season ticket, I have pre-paid for my travel as many season ticket holders have done and then we are denied the service we paid for because some “black riders” - as fare dodgers are called in the Netherlands – got on the tram.

I ran for the train

I am getting exasperated, the conductor could easily have walked through the tram and checked, but no, the protection of the cage and the need to do obeisance at that temple had me literally running for the train, one big leap as a cheetah catching prey, I am on, but panting in the most unsightly way.

Now, I remember, I once had a ride on a cabriolet [1] – not a car, but horse-drawn – (Philistines) as I gracefully got on and looked rather majestic in full African garb, well, as if one looks any less on a bad day.

http://www.museudoscoches-ipmuseus.pt/en/img/coleccao/carrinhos2.jpg

Courtesy of the Museu Nacional dos Coches, Lisboa

Running except for when one is on a cross-trainer is just not the done thing, but that is how well-laid out plans get messed up because others are in being utterly inconsiderate.

My journey to Antwerp is another episode.

References

[1] The National Coach Museum, Lisbon, you should consider visiting in person, like I did in June 2005.