From New Zealand to Old Zeeland

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I really don’t like Heathrow. I have a complaint for every time I have been there. Of course I have managed to arrive there twice and not be chucked out of the country like my friend Adriane was. Nevertheless after waiting at least half an hour in the never ending queue of riffraff who didn’t have English or EU passports (an Indian guy behind Brooke and I was genuinely surprised that we didn’t have our own commonwealth queue) I still was treated suspiciously by customs, and I thought we New Zealanders had a reputation for being a good sort - maybe I have Adriane to blame for this? Or maybe the English think we are still sore that they ruined our dairy trade decades ago and will reap our revenge from inside. Either way the woman in front of us had received big smiles and welcomes whilst from the same customs official we received a stony glare. But as you will notice I am not in your living rooms commiserating over a glass of red wine (I am assuming only my friends actually read this) so I was successful in making my way into the country where I remained for exactly one night before I made my way back to Heathrow to depart for Belgium. Upon checking in for my flight I was told that the backpack I was carrying was far to strappy for the check in conveyor belts and I would have to take it through a maze of airport shops to a dark alleyway somewhere past the Heathrow red-light district and across three separate sets of tarmac so that they could put it on the plane. Misinterpreting these instructions I went straight through International passport control, received my first frisking and came out the other side not having any idea what the hell I was supposed to do with my bag which was now disintegrating my poor frail shoulders. I spotted the BMI customer services counter for my airline and went to go ask them but no one was there. I stared with envy at the British Airways counter which was manned with more staff the enquirers and had many more staff frolicking about the place. For over 30 minutes the BMI counter was desolate and just to keep you on your toes - they also don’t announce the gate for the flight until it is ready to board. Great. Finally a steward came along and told me I could check my bag in at the gate and it would be fine. Problem solved.

At Brussels Airport I stupidly chose the slow customs queue and was met with more suspicion - by this time I am starting to feel like a criminal - and then made my way to meet Benjamin who is the brother of my little brother who I was in Belgium to visit as a surprise…

To clarify: GJ - who is from Belgium - came on an exchange to New Zealand a couple of years ago and stayed in Keri Keri with my Aunty Janice who then went back to live in Australia. GJ was then passed onto a stuffy old woman who made him miserable and then asked my parents if he could come live with them in sunny Paihia. They said “Absolutely” and everyone became a very close knit family and cried when he left - even my brother Scott - although that may mean nothing to some of you reading this, but I digress, GJ was meant to be going to Arizona when I was going to be in Europe (which is in a couple of weeks) and I decided to buy a cheap airline ticket and go visit him for a few days as a surprise. The whole thing was very well orchestrated and everyone in his family knew except him. Now let us continue….

After forgetting that they drove on the other side of the road in Belgium and nearly getting into the drivers seat - Benjamin and I set of in the big family Volvo complete with navigation system to a family reunion off the Dutch coast in Holland. The navigation system promptly took us to a toll bridge, which did not impress Benjamin, and I had my first taste of driving over the border to another country, it seemed all to easy - no passports, no water crossing, I mean to get to the other half of our country we have to cross a body of water that has caused at least one natural disaster, but not here in Europe. Go figure.

The location for the family reunion was a place I can only describe as a castle. These places are owned by the police and then rented out cheaply to policemen as holiday homes just like the Navy have in NZ. So I get out of the car and walk over with Benjamin to where GJ and his other brother Florian and sister Ailine are playing football. I give a wave, GJ after a moment says “Oh my god!” and then hobbles over (he sprained his ankle playing rugby and has a cast) to give me a hug - very cinematic. After an initial 10 minutes where he is too shocked to actually say anything coherent we have a big catch up and then I am introduced to at least 30 of his family members who all speak Dutch, I however don’t. But it was a great weekend anyway - we drank a lot, I managed to find food that wasn’t meat, people endlessly lost the football in the lake - turns out you don’t need to talk to have fun, but If I am invited back, I would definitely want to have a bit of Flemish under my belt - shame I only speak English and coffee ordering Italian.

The highlight of that weekend without a doubt would have had to have been Boerengolf. Translated into English this means “Farmers Golf” and is played in a paddock with a small football and a wooden stick with a clog on the end of it as a golf club, V. Dutch, complete with a golf marshal dressed as a cow with a banged up old cow painted Ford sporting the flag of Holland. As for the game itself it turns out it is a lot easier to putt with a clog on a stick but you need to be fitter to drive it long distances. I had to putt up the only mound in the whole course and as an aside mentioned that this must be the only hill in Holland. One of GJ's cousins was slightly offended by that remark but stereotypes aside it would take a fair few slag heaps to make Holland mountainous. At the end of the game there was live musical entertainment featuring a guy singing kareoke to a muzak backing track - he certainly was something - all the ladies of the family were quite happy to dance to it however. A stranger seated at the table next to me offered me some food - at least thats what I think he said.

On Monday which was a rainy public holiday and we made our way back to GJ’s hometown Tessenderlo and spent the day watching DVDs and playing Monopoly 98 Football World Cup edition. Here I met GJ’s oldest brother Krijin (It’s a large family) who is an accomplished runner.

The day before I left we went to the hospital and got GJs cast off - super fast too, we only waited for 5 minutes, in NZ we would have been waiting an hour - and then took the train to Brussels. Brussels for me was like stepping back in time to the set of an old movie - primarily because there is nothing that looks like it in New Zealand. The gothic architecture is intricate and very beautiful and all the restaurants and bars look - well - very European! Outside the central station was a fenced off area filled with bouquets of flowers, this was a memorial for a boy who had died two weeks ago as a result of two polish boys stabbing him when he refused to give them his MP3 player, nobody did anything about it and the crime was initially blamed on a black person. The perpetrators escaped back to Poland and the Polish government will not hand them back over to Belgium to be prosecuted there. This has caused Belgians to protest in the streets - the whole nation has been affected by it.

We did a short tour of the touristy things (which I will take photos of and describe in more detail when I go back there in a couple of weeks with Tan and Brooke) and then set about the important business of drinking beer. As the night went on we ended up at Benjamin’s apartment where Pizza, Gin, Poker, 50’s Jazz and a pipe of Turkish apple tobacco (nothing illegal mother) were thrown into the mix ending 3 hours and 55 minutes before I had to be at the airport the next morning which we somehow managed to get up for. GJ having been to pilot school and having a security pass for the airport was able to walk me all the way to the gate to see me off - as we were looking for a gate with a BMI plane (BMI and their surprise surprise gates) we bumped into an airport worker next to a barrier who before we could figure out what was going on, promptly asked us for our boarding passes. I handed her mine, she turned to GJ and asked for his, he said he didn’t have one, she said “what is your destination?”, he said that he wasn’t going anywhere that he was just seeing my off - exasperated that this boy wearing rolled up jeans and looked like he had just gotten out of bed had gotten past security she spat out “Are you allowed to be here?!!?” and he showed her his security card. She then turned to me and said “Where are you going!?!” I said “London” she said “This is an American gate only!” so we apologised and walked off giggling.

After a goodbye for now (I will be back in two weeks) I got on the plane and headed back to London. But not after a bumpy landing and some more suspicion.

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Comments

[Preston]

I only coment on posts with images
dammit!