Dirty Dutch!

So we're in Amsterdam at the moment. You could do worse than trying to think of this city as the mega mall version of Kings X - with all your sex shopping needs. It kicks it on Kings X for the wildest and dirtiest of parties, but it's a fluffy city. By that i mean it doesn't have any real industry. Well none that easily comes to the surface out of the seedy canals that surround both the city and its reputation. I like my cities to have stressed out civil servants, tired business people commuting, and all those other people that come with major cities. The population of Amsterdam is about one and half million, but there seems to be zillions lonely accountants on weekend breaks, lads on stag parties, and IT boys who´ve come to gawk at the real thing. The place is packed with foreigners. Where are the Dutch?

So as Sandy and I are attempting to go a little further into understanding the culture here and hopefully get a few stories out of it, if not beers. We've decided to focus on the things that are the hardest to access - prostitution, marijuana cafes, and punk rock music.

But we wanna hear it from the Dutch. We decided to kill a bunch of birds with the single bullet, so to speak, to try to get an inroad into the culture. We've taken up the crazy road of Couch Surfing Dot Com. It's a global service for people, like us, who want to stay somewhere for free and possibly return the favour in the future, that is have someone else crash on your couch in your home. There's a whole bunch of websites similar to it, globalfreeloader.com, hospitalityclub...

The friend who put us onto it, Owen, went through the whole of Europe without paying for accommodation.

At first the idea grinded against my conceptions of how you should travel. I couldn't really put my finger on why, except that maybe it was because we'd be hanging out in a complete stranger´s house which all those Hollywood horror movies tell you not to do. I told my brain to stop being a sissy and quit screaming, "But they might be psychos!" The up-side of the service, and why we chose to ignore our fears, is that it'll provide us with quick inroads into communities which might've taken us much longer to access. Things like music scenes, off-beat travel ideas and the general culture of the city we'll be all much closer at hand because we'll be meeting the locals.

That's the theory.

Sandy organised our first place to stay. It was with an old Jewish dude called Sallo who lives in the south of Amsterdam. He didn't have enough room for two, so because we had a van he said we should stay in that and feel free to use his amenities, like to wash our clothes and other boring stuff like that.


Sallo lives in a square apartment block with all the flats facing each other and some basic shops underneath. If you can imagine that the Italian forum in Leichhart was by built by socialists, being functional, no frills, a little bleak, but too not bad either then you might have picture.

I have to admit that as we were walking up the four flights of stairs to his apartment for the first time, images of Clockwork Orange flashed through my mind. I was happy I was Alex in this fantasy, not the victim. But this helped me understand the risk Sallo was taking by letting complete strangers into his home. We might be psychos!

We met him at the door, shook hands and sat on his couch. For a while we all sat looking at each other. None of us were really sure of what to do next. It was Sallo's first time too.

He finally broke the silence and asked, 'What is it you want from me?'

I'd heard the Dutch had a directness, but this was my first encounter with it. 'Ummm...' I mumbled.

Sandy jumped in, being the diplomatic one, she explained everything we were doing in Amsterdam, in our life, and in his house.

'Okay,' He stood up. 'To practical things. I will show you how the shower works.'

We followed him into the bathroom. He turned a couple a taps. Sandy and I smiled politely, wondering what to say. It was a shower. I wanted ask if he knew Australia had showers too, but it was too early in our relationship.

He was nice enough, if a little odd, and we felt safe. Even if his ideas and our ideas clashed on several things though. First, we thought we´d be sleeping in our van out the front of his flat, but he'd already made up his mind on this. ´I will show you your place to sleep.´

Outside, he jumped in his car, us in ours, and after passing a series of turns and round-abouts, an authentic Dutch windmill and though some paddocks, we were well and truly out of town. He pulled up next to us. ´You will stay here tonight.´

We looked at the cows. Birds were chirping. A gentle breeze blew the grass and trees. it was extremely picturesque, but not exactly what i had in mind - this is Amsterdam! On the plus though, it was extremely quiet. The night before we'd camped north of the city - near a free pedestrian ferry crossing into the centre of town and we'd woken to morning peak hour. Think Circular Quay with cyclists.

The paddock was a winner.

I don't think Sallo liked us much in the end though, we'd only visited him a few more times before it came to its natural end. You see, Sandy and I suffer from a little problem of being late. We never do it on purpose, it just happens. The Dutch however have an impeccable talent and reputation for being on time. It´s almost perverse.

On Sunday we were at a punk rock gig and a Dutch bloke we'd been chatting with said, 'Oh my god! The band is five minutes late. That is so rock n roll.' According to the Lonely Planet 15 minutes is the maximum allowed for lateness. I'd just read this before we'd arrive late at Sallo´s. We just over half an hour last and it would be our last time.


´I see you don´t have a watch.´ Sallo standing in the door.
´No, I´ve got a phone.´ I smiled, hoping it would wash over.

He proceeded to lecture us, and almost quoted the Lonely Planet verbatim by saying only up-to 15 minutes lateness is acceptable! I wondered if those authors had been caught too.

Sallo wasn´t a bad guy though and we´re now open to the whole idea of couch surfing. We were the bad ones, but he has since written back to us and everything is alright. I'll happily do it again.

So apart from bumming it, we've been doing some filming too. On Sunday we interviewed a punk band called the Stilettos. Tomorrow we're interviewing some pot cafe owners about their business with questions like, 'Has anyone ever died in your cafe?' and 'Is this fair-trade hooch?' We'll also be talking to the sex workers union with questions like, 'Is there an award wage?' and 'Do you offer a career guidance program for girls in Dutch high-schools?'

On a side note, if you're travelling to Amsterdam looking for some indie rock, there's not a massive live scene here, but some venues worth checking out are:

The Paradiso (major internationals),
Melweg (major + local),
Patronaat (major + local),
Heineken Music Hall (major internationls),

Click here for a full listing...



P.S - we've been cruising on the wrong side of the road for at least a week and its been fine. Only three times have we nearly collided with trucks. I was driving, Sandy screamed.

Smokers and Scammers

Buying a van in London – Part 2

London’s gone non-smoking crazy! Apparently you’re not allowed to smoke in your van. Not that I do, but how do they enforce that? It states this on the DVLA website (think motor registry) because we’ve trying to register our new van. But Australia will soon go non-smoking as well, won’t it? Or has that change already come into effect?

Anyway the night the smoking laws happened, about two weeks ago, millions of smoking parties were happening all around the city, in pubs, clubs, everywhere. London might have to buy a few Kyoto carbon points to make up for that night because everyone was chugging them down like it was their last time. It’s mental how many people smoke over here.

But it’s hard to know whether it will have any long term effects like making people give up though. My mate Chris says it has only stopped him going to the pub, but I reckon that’s open for debate because he told me in the pub. Others say pubs will lose their culture because you need a smoky environment to create an atmosphere, or you can’t drink without smoking, or it’s a general sign of the decline of our society, the usual arguments. The fact is though, (and I will say I’m biased being a non-smoker.) it used to be you’d have to wait until your fork was under nose before you could smell the food through the haze. Now you can smell your friend’s fart from under the table. Yes, there are some good things and bad things.

Anyway, the good news is we’ve got a van! And it’s one sexy mother of an asset too. In fact, it’s our first asset Sandy and I have bought together. I wanna name it Gerald.

We did take the easy option of RHD, even though very soon, it’ll feel like we’re driving on the wrong side of the road. Oh well, it’s always nice to trade in your old problems for a whole new set, isn’t it?

Buying it though was an eye opener into London society. Sandy found an ad for an ex-postal van, they sort of look like the old Bedfords, think the A-Team. The best thing though, it has all our requirements and is well under our budget.

Quick!! Call ‘em up,’ Sandy said.

A very proper dude with very proper queen’s English accent answer the phone.

‘Yes Hello,’ he said and told me that the first person who sees it will buy it. ‘You have to understand,’ he said, ‘I just must have it gone by the end of the day.’

It sounded like a massive inconvenience for him, for us it was perfect. We arranged to meet at Kew Gardens station. We hadn’t been to the gardens before, so it was a good plan B if things didn’t work out because we’ve heard they’re meant to be impressive. On a side note, the Kew Gardens area is a ‘proper posh’ neighbourhood.

Now I wouldn’t consider myself a snob, but at the station I was expecting someone who would be a little more dressed up. And I guess I like my people who are snobs to look and dress like they’re cashed up, you know, like they’re posh. This guy had a shaggy unshaven beard and wearing tracksuit pants.

'Hi.’ I shook his hand.

‘Yes,’ he said, ‘My chauffeur was too drunk to drive.’

Sandy and I looked at each other with raised eyebrows. ‘Was he joking?’

‘Did he say he was drunk?’

As were walking to the car, he stopped to talk to a few people we passed on the street. ‘Hello, how are you doing today?’ or ‘Shall I’ll catch back here in a few minutes?’ Or to guy standing in front of a café smoking, ‘Oh, its terrible, isn’t it? How we’re being pushed outside.’

The guy at the café laughed and puffed. I started to think perhaps I was being too judgemental. Maybe the clothes don’t make the man. Loads of London’s rich and famous probably get around in tracky-daks. It was easy to imagine old dancing Madonna popping down to the off-license in them. Keith Richards probably can’t function in anything else after all his big nights out on the town. I admit I might have been too quick to pigeon hole him.

Besides, in the ad for the van it said a video production company was selling it. This was also one of the reasons why we were so keen to come. So I quickly accepted he was odd and started to pick his brains on his business to see if we could learn something. How long have you been doing it? What gigs have you done in the past? Where and when did you start?

‘What’s with all the questions?’ he snapped.

We’re starting a video production company too.

‘Well,’ he said, ‘This van was initially bought for a music video. See, we don’t need it anymore. It’s too small in the shot.’

‘What band?’

‘Oh God, I can’t remember. Maybe Kylie Minogue.’

At this stage we were looking over the van. It appeared to be okay, well it had a little rust but as far as that meant anything to us, it looked like a van. Neither of us are very mechanical minded, nor have we ever owned a car, so we knew we’d be a little out of our depth so we’d been madly researching and devised a check list of things to look out for.

‘Can we take it for a drive?’ I asked

‘Sure, hope in.’ He jumped in the driver’s seat and I’m thinking, ‘shouldn’t I be driving?’ It was all happening so quick. But we all jumped in, with him driving. Then he starts telling us how Australia’s immigration policy is excellent and the English should adopt the same methodology.

‘Show me your papers?’ I said.

‘Oh God! They’re down there somewhere.’ He pointed at a pile of crumpled papers. ‘I do hope nobody see me driving this van. I usually drive a Rolls, you know?’

Mate, I’m thinking, I’d be more worried about someone seeing me in those pants.

‘Did you know this mirror’s broken?’ Sandy pointed at the passenger side.

‘Oh, that’s nothing, just six pounds at Halfords to replace.’

At this point, as Sandy looked across to check the other mirror a truck zoomed close. A clash of steal and glass sounded as the two vehicles connected. The driver’s mirror vanished.

‘As I said.’ Our seller kept driving. ‘Six pounds at Halfords.’

‘Um….” I looked at him in disbelief. ‘Is that standard practice? If your mirror gets wiped out, you don’t stop! You just keep going?’

He sighs, shaking his head like I’m a very difficult child, one with slow problems. ‘Well you tell me, whose fault is it?’

I looked at the mirror and back at the paperwork. ‘Who’s Dr Gavins?’ I asked

‘He’s the guy who owned it before us?’

‘Where’s the name of your company?’

‘Give it here.’ He snatches the papers from me. ‘It’s written on here.’

‘Can we stop to have another look at the van?’ Sandy asked.

‘You’ve had a look.’

‘What?’ Sandy looks at me. ‘He can’t be serious.’

I take the papers back of him, saying, ‘We’d like to have another look. Pull over.’

‘I don’t have much time.’

‘We do.’

He sighs, huffs, and pulls over. We jump out. At this stage I hate this guy. I know some people just aren’t meant to get along. And perhaps I am a tracksuit pants bigot, but the car is cheap.

‘So what’s the name of your company?’ Sandy asks.

He mumbled something.

‘Sorry?’

He mumbled it again.

‘Um…. What did you say?’

‘Oh, for God’s sake! It’s written on the papers. You can read, can’t you?’’

‘No, it’s not.’ I said. ‘It’s not written anywhere.’

He snatches the paper work again, re-reading. ‘You don’t need to have your name on the paperwork. Barry buys lots of cars all the time. If he didn’t fill it out that was up to him. Call the motor registry.’ He pointed to a number on the papers. ‘They will tell you.’

So we went back to the café where we started and I called them.

‘I don’t understand. What is the matter with you people? This is only a thousand pounds. I get the feeling you don’t trust me.’

I was getting that feeling too. We didn’t even know his name. But the people at the motor registry said he was right, he didn’t have his name on the papers to sell the car.

‘Okay’ I said, ‘We’ll buy it.’

He smiled.

‘But I wanna copy down your ID.

‘No, that’s it. I’m offended. I’m not showing you my I.D. its personal to me. I used to sign autographs you know.

‘Okay. Let’s go,’ Sandy said. ‘This guy sucks.’

We didn’t see the gardens either that day. Later we worked out it had all the markings of a good grift or con. It was the bargain that’s just too good to be true, it was in a pleasant area where you wouldn’t expect to be conned and he ‘supposedly’ knew lots of people, plus there was no fixed address because he was selling it off the street, and we had no way of later identifying him. We supposed if we bought it he’d walk away with our money and when we went back to the van it’d be gone and so would he.

But what we did like was his type of van. So we checked out a bunch of others and finally settled on one which was the same make, an ex-royal post van and it did cost us a little more than the dodgy guy’s but it is a newer model and in much very better condition and has very low mileage. Plus it’s bright red!

So we leave the UK tomorrow. First stop IKEA at Antwerpen, Belgium. We gotta buy a bed for the van and they’re way cheaper there than in the UK. Weird, but true.

Write again soon.

Tom

Car Bombs And Car Buying –

Buying a Van in london - Part 1

So we're in sunny London again and as you know there's some serious bomb threats. I'm sure we're all feeling a massive sense of deja vu. People here are glaring at each other on the tube again. Everyone is suspicious, but still it's London and the people are also relaxed. You got have a good time here. After all it's London, innut?

Last time we were here it was around 7/7 two years ago, then we were in Delhi for their bombings and now were back here t rekindling those thoughts we used to have on the train.... 'is this the moment? What about that guy? I mean can you spot someone who's homicidal/suicidal? And what if they do look a little dodgy? Would you say something like - 'um excuse me. You look a little bit suss, mate. Are you thinking about, you know, doing us all in? - or do you just watch and wait for your moment to prove to yourself that you too can be just like Bruce Willis and save the day. I think of myself as more of a Dustin Hoffman reluctant hero type.

So yeah, the failed car bombs are all over the newspapers, TV, everywhere. And you can't help thinking of that failed suicide guy at Glasgow who tipped petrol all over himself and received 90% burns. Silly bastard. He's not dead, but in a highly guarded hospital with none of those virgins he was promised he'd receive in heaven for his service. I bet he's feeling ugly.

And I'm guessing it won't look too good on his CV either, failed suicide bomber. You can imagine the interviewer asking, 'So tell about how you left your last job? Why did you leave?' or if he manages to get to another party and there's the usual small talk, like some girl asking him, 'So tell men, what do you do?'

Anyway enough of that. We're about to start our euro road road trip while we make a bunch of documentaries. And the question on our lips isn't whether or not that failed suicide dude will make it to our next party, but s whether we buy a left hand or right hand drive van?

Buying a van in another country is mental. The rules are different, the locals use funny lingo, the words you'd expect to be used aren’t. For example in Australia you pay for your registration (a.k.a. your ‘Rego’) and get your rego sticker, so naturally what I asked when I called up about a van was, ‘Has it got registration?’

‘Course it has,’ came the reply, ‘Registered with DVLA ten years ago, in it?’

‘So it’s okay to drive then?

‘No, can’t you read the ad? It got no tax.’

I hang up feeling like I’m wearing a glowing neon beacon that says 'I’m foreign, I don't understand, so slap me or scam me.'

It reminds me of the first time we were here. The English say flip-flops instead of thongs, because over here a thong is a g-string. I guess a g-string over here is just something you use on a guitar. Anyway, one day we were sitting around the table with a bunch of English lads drinking and Sandy said, ‘Gee, these thongs my mum gave me are giving me some blisters.’

So we've been hunting for 2 weeks and my knowledge is growing. Tax is equivalent to our Rego sticker. Our plan has been to buy a left hand drive (LHD) vehicle because our goal is road tripping through Europe. LHD is ideal because you don't stick out. So we scoured the net, newspapers, trader mags for cheap vehicles, and you’d think with the UK being right next the Euro continent there’d be loads of LHDs for sale. Not the case. Of course if you got the cash you can buy anything. We don’t, we’re lucky enough to have a budget.

Enter plan B, we’ll just skip across the English Channel, buy something cheap and appropriate, and be on our way. This idea sounds easy but the reality of it is murky. How do you register it? What French address are we going to put on the forms? What forms do you need to fill in to transfer it into your name? What else do you need to buy a car in France?

‘Ummm… Pardon? Parlez-vous l'anglais ?

We’ve got a mate who lives in France. When she moved there she had a hell of a time trying to buy a car and she’s half French. She had to carry all her proof of identity around with her for months proving who she was for everything she needed to do. Things like buy a car, rent a house, open a bank account, change her underwear, you get the idea, until she got some official French looking papers. But she did say we were welcome to say we lived at her address even though she didn’t think we had the slightest chance of succeeding.

It was becoming painfully obvious to us too. Not having extreme proof of a French fixed address seemed to be a major obstacle, which is similar to the UK but we had an ace. We already have a UK address.

Plan C, we import a van from France back to the UK. Register it there before travelling back on the ferry to Europe.

‘Ummm....’ Sandy looked at me. ‘I don’t think so.

Plan D, we buy a van in England. Right hand drive – We deal with it!

Part 2 coming soon.