Random Thoughts on The Netherlands

Nothing earth-shattering to post at the moment, but I've been having some random thoughts about my Netherlands experience that I wanted to get out into the open:

*I had some vla today. "What's vla," you ask? Damned if I know, although it may be a dairy product. I initially came across it at the Albert Heijn grocery store whilst trying to find some decent yogurt to eat (a surprisingly difficult task, for some reason). I asked Anand about it, to which he replied, "I dunno, I never eat the stuff. How could you eat something called 'vla'?" Good question, but my curiosity got the better of me and today I grabbed a carton of vla off the shelf, right next to the equally-mysterious "quark." I am happy to report that vla seems to be edible. I would basically describe it as pudding, but in a thinner in-between phase that makes you wonder whether you should be drinking it, spooning it, or injecting it. Vla tastes pretty good overall. For a moment, I thought I might be able to make my millions by importing it to the States, where it would be voraciously consumed by legions of eager vla-fans (vlans?). This thought was promptly abandoned in light of another of Anand's observations: "I don't think vla would ever be approved by the FDA." Touché.

*From the "ha ha your language sounds funny" file: Today I saw a booth at a street carnival (in honor of Queen's Day, previously mentioned), with a brightly-lit marquee that said "Power Polyp" and "Cash Box" on alternating sides. I have no idea what this meant, especially considering the mystifying usage of the word "polyp." Since I have an overactive imagination, I decided that Power Polyp and Cash Box are a Dutch crime-fighting superhero duo. Criminals beware...or face the awesome fury of the Polyps of Power, and/or be crushed under the suffocating weight of the Cash Box!

*Yesterday I took a day-trip into Leiden. On the train ride back, I noticed some graffiti with an unmistakeable message: "DEAM." I saw it repeated several times. "DEAM DEAM DEAM DEAM." Perhaps I have a long-lost graffiti artist relative? I don't think so. Rather, I believe it was simply an expression of Dutch hospitality.

*I came across another weird sight in Leiden. Resting outside a camping/outdoors store was an exact replica of my backpack, only about five times larger. A large midget would have fit quite nicely in the main compartment. I figure a pack of this size would be useful for two types of people:

• Those who often tote midgets around on their back for work or leisure
• Lee Roth

The pack in question:

*For whatever reason, the Dutch seem to be incredibly trendy and fashion-conscious. I've never seen so many knee-high leather boots, sportcoats, and salon-quality hairstyles, and I've never felt like such a damned bum in comparison. Nobody else wears cargo pants or similar backpacker attire. Where are all the unkempt sociopaths and counterculture wierdos? I need these people to provide the suitably low standard by which my own appearance is judged.

Sensitive Euro-Man

Ah, my first post from the European mainland. I've been spending the past several days making day-trips out of Utrecht, my unofficial base of operations for The Netherlands. Major props definitely go out to my friend Anand, who is studying at Universiteit Utrecht, for providing me with shelter (against his better judgment, I'm sure). Utrecht itself is a nice place...I'm glad I'm staying here rather than in the midst of the typical Amsterdam chaos. Here are some pics I took during my explorations:

As Anand and I were walking through the center of Utrecht, he paused and said, "wait until you see what's behind that bus." As the city bus continued along its route, I was confronted with one of the most shocking visions of my life. Yes, my worst fears had been realized: the infamous "Wash U Bunny" had followed me to Utrecht:

Here we came across a small plaza where an animal rights group had set up a protest against animal testing. According to them, some unnamed American organization was performing cruel chemical tests on dogs to "prove that smoking is unhealthy." Sounds suspect, but we signed the petition anyway because we are mindless drones. Even so, I'm not sure if their protest was working, because the only message I took away from this display was, "smoking can kill you, unless you are a cute little puppy dog, in which case it makes you unspeakably cool (and photogenic)."

The cool thing about the canals in Utrecht is that they have room for sitting and walking right at the canal level, and many restaurants and cafes serve food and drinks right at the canal's edge. While we were sitting down there having a snack, we witnessed a Dutch guy come idling by in a small motorboat. After a quick cellphone call, he produced a bottle of wine and some snacks, picked up an attractive woman from the dock, and sped away with a look of smug satisfaction on his face. Damn, that guy was smooth.

The tower of the Domkerk which, at just over 100m, is the highest in The Netherlands. Although Utrecht wins the award for "highest church tower," Amsterdam trumps all with its "highest citizenry" card.

City scenes from the top of the Domkerk:

The other part of the Domkerk. The tower and the main part of the church actually used to be connected (you can see evidence of that from the photo). Unfortunately, due to budget shortages, the middle section did not get the full flying buttress treatment, ultimately resulting in it being leveled in a big storm a few hundred years ago. Shoddy church construction makes baby Jesus cry!

Me on top of the Domkerk:

And now, the topic you've all been waiting for: Amsterdam! What can I say...it's one hell of a city. You have to understand, though, that I am presented with a dilemma when blogging about Amsterdam. See, this blog has been aproved for general audiences and Amsterdam, well, hasn't. But you can't visit this city and focus solely on the museums and churches...to do so would be to deny the very "uniqueness" that makes it especially compelling as a destination.

So, I've decided not to write about it. As much as I like to keep you all in the loop, I can't just go around handing out full-access passes to my life. Plus, I have keep up my brooding, mysterious persona. And that's all I have to say about that.

Anyways, I've got about 4 days left in The Netherlands, after which I'll be heading to beautiful, bustling, bombastic...Belgium! At this point it looks like I'll probably spend a night in Antwerp and two in Brussels, with a day-trip to Brugges. In the meantime, I plan on doing a couple day-trips out of Utrecht, with Rotterdam and Leiden being probable candidates. I'll be finishing things up on Friday night with the big "Queen's Night" celebration (it's a big blow-out in honor of the queen's birthday), so I should have some more material to write about in a few days. Adios!

But wait, there's more!

I realized the other day that I haven't been doing a very good job of filling my blog readership in on my long-term travel plans. It seems like a lot of you were under the impression that New Zealand was the end of the line. Take my friend Steve, for example. When I called him up and told him that I would be in town for a week before leaving for Amsterdam, he simply said, "What?!?!?" After I explained my European travel plans to him, he followed up with, "Damn, you're a bastard!"

So, for those of you who aren't in the inner sanctum of the Nate Deam Cult of Personality, I will fill you in. I am going to Europe, in about 6 hours, actually. I have a one-way ticket to Amsterdam, where I will be meeting up with my college friend Anand. All I know at this point is that I'll be hanging around Amsterdam for a little over a week. After that, who knows? When you're the Universal Traveler, you can handle that kind of ambiguity.

When you hear from me next, I'll be in The Netherlands. In the meantime, I have some minor details (such as packing) to attend to, so I'm going to have to cut this post short. Keep in touch!

The Honeymoon Is Over

Well, let's see. It's been two weeks since my last post. My bad, folks. To the many members of the Nate Dogg Cult of Personality (aka, my blog readership), I issue my sincerest apologies. However, you have to understand that this is all part of what I like to call "The Blog Lifecycle." I developed this theory through detailed observation of other blogs and, sure enough, Universal Traveler is following the same pattern. The progression of The Blog Lifecycle usually goes something like this:

• Someone thinks to him or herself, "Hey, I have a pretty interesting life. I bet my friends and family are dying to know who I saw a movie with last night, why I love tofu, what things really, really irritate me, and how I like to procrastinate when I should be studying/working instead. I should start a blog!" Said person becomes a "blogger."
• Blogger creates blog, writes an awkward, stream-of-consciousness first post about how they "can't believe they are doing this," or how they're "jumping on the bandwagon."
• After a few posts, the blogger suddenly realizes he/she has nothing important to say. The blog enters a stagnant period. Statistics indicate that 95% of all blogs are abandoned at this point (Source: The American Blogging Consortium [ABC]).
• If the blogger is part of the other 5%, he/she unleashes a flurry of posts. This stage, when the blogger gets in touch with his/her muse, is known as "The Honeymoon."
• After the initial rush of creativity subsides, the blog again begins to stagnate. The honeymoon has come to an end. During this period, bloggers may feel that "things are moving too fast," and often express a desire to "take a break" or "see other blogs."
• Eventually, blogger and blog patch up their differences, and the period of disunity ends. Blogger continues to post until he/she a) becomes bored and/or burnt out, b) realizes nobody is reading anymore, or c) meets an untimely demise in a freak accident involving a Sno-Cone machine and a dancing bear named Clarence.

I think that, for Universal Traveler, the honeymoon was pretty much all of New Zealand. Now the honeymoon is over. I've spent the past two weeks soul-searching and ruminating, pondering what the future holds for my blog and me. Well, I am happy to report that this introspective period was just what I needed. My blog and I are back together and stronger than ever! From here on out, it's nothing but sunshine, lollipops, and posts by the score! Chim-chim-cheree!

Alright, now that I've met my bullshit quota, I'll briefly fill everyone in on what's been going on for the past two weeks. When I last posted, I was still in Nelson, about to fly back to Auckland for one last fling before my flight back to the States. Well, after getting to Auckland, I jumped on a bus and headed straight up to Paihia, which is a resort-ish town on the Bay of Islands, about 3.5 hours north of Auckland. I didn't have any big plans for my time here, other than to relax and enjoy my last days in the Land of the Long White Cloud.

And that's exactly what I did. On my first full day in Paihia, I went for a day-sail on the R. Tucker Thompson, a replica of a classic 19th-century tallship. We were fortunate enough to have steady winds that day, allowing us to raise all the sails and cruise around the bay in relative silence. This is in contrast to the majority of the Bay of Islands cruise operations, which zoom around in motor boats, each one making a stop at the hallowed "Hole in the Rock" (yes, it's just a big hole in an even bigger rock, but you can ride a boat through the hole, which somehow bowls people over). Anyways, it was a very relaxing way to spend an afternoon, and a good way to take a look around the bay.

Well, that first day was definitely the most ambitious of the five or six (who's counting?) I spent in Paihia. The rest of the time, I indulged in the time-honored backpacking tradition known as "hanging out." I was fortunate to meet a great group of people at my hostel, many of whom were also getting ready to fly out of New Zealand. Each morning we would wake up and tuck into the *FREE* breakfast provided by the hostel, following it up with extended periods of lounging, chatting, wandering, and card-playing. We played an obscene number of rounds of a card game called "Shithead," which seems to be popular on the NZ backpacker circuit. If anyone is curious I'd be happy to explain the rules, but at its most basic level, Shithead can be described as follows:

• In Shithead, there are no winners...only shitheads.
• MILO® is the official beverage of Shithead.

It used to be that the essence of Shithead could be distilled down to a single rule, but, for reasons to complex to describe here, I added the second one.

Anyways, I won't bore you with the details of the rest of my stay in Paihia, because not much happened. And that's exactly how I wanted it. I flew back to the States on the 13th, and honestly, not a whole lot is happening here, either, with one exception. There is a new member of the Deam family. His name is Karl, and he's a Standard Poodle puppy. Here's a pic for you to gush over:

I am an artist!

Once more, I find myself maxin' and relaxin' in the town of Nelson. Yesterday evening I got back from hiking in Abel Tasman National Park, which can be summed up in one word: beaches. They're the reason that so many people come to the park, and understandably so. Long, arcing strips of golden sand next to clear blue water...what's not to like? Here are a few pics:

Yes, the beaches were great, but the walk was actually a pretty bizarre experience, for a variety of reasons:

First, for a national park, Abel Tasman seems a little too developed for my tastes. During the walk, I came across a variety of holiday homes, lodges, and other buildings...even an airstrip! The wierdest point was when I came across the posh Awaroa Lodge and Cafe. It's right next to the track, so you can't miss it. Just to be different, I decided to have a quick snack at the cafe. So one minute I was sweating my ass off, lugging a pack through native bush, and the next minute I was lounging under a patio umbrella sipping a capuccino and nibbling on a croissant. Sure, I realize that Abel Tasman National Park is not a wilderness by any means, but this was just over the top.

The Awaroa Lodge and Cafe:

Second, since a) the Abel Tasman Coastal Track is a Great Walk and b) I am a cheap bastard, I decided to camp rather than stay in the overpriced huts, which led to some interesting encounters. The first night I camped at the Bark Bay campsite, which was actually quite nice. I arrived right as it was getting dark, so I quickly pitched my tent, cooked dinner, and got ready to turn in for the night. See, right now in NZ the sun goes down around 8:00, and since most campers don't have campfires or lanterns to provide light in lieu of the sun, they just go to bed when it gets dark. So it's almost like regressing to childhood, when bedtime was at 9:00. Anyways, there was a nearby group of garrulous English kayakers that decided to make their presence known to the entire campsite long after sundown. Apparently they were all keen on spotting a possum (though I'm not sure why...there are reportedly 70 million of the buggers in NZ), and when they did, they all squealed with delight and made quite a commotion. But that wasn't the end of it. They were the only group in the campground that decided to have a campfire, and they were determined to keep it going long into the evening. However, rather than collecting all the firewood they'd need before dark, they made periodic excursions to the wood pile (right next to my tent) to chop wood as needed. The last time they woke me up with their chopping was around 11:30 PM...WAY too late to be making all that noise. And it wasn't just one guy doing the chopping, either. They'd go over in groups of three or four: one to chop the wood, and a few extra to provide moral support. So you'd hear the WHACK of the axe, followed loudly by, "Whoooo! Bloody good chop, mate!" and "That's the ticket!" and "You've almost split it! Give it one more good blow!" Bloody poms!

On the second night, I camped at Mutton Cove, which was far less rowdy: there was only one other tent at the site, occupied by a relatively sedate Dutch couple. But this night, as it turns out, it would be Mother Nature giving me problems rather than other people. It started right after dark when I was snuggling into my sleeping bag. I was trying to fall asleep when I heard a faint rustle outside my tent. I ignored it at first, but the noise just got more and more persistent. Finally, I grabbed my headlamp and shined it around, just in time to catch the sight of a tiny mouse darting into the darkness. "Alright," I thought, "just a little mouse. I'll just make a lot of noise and scare him away." So I flailed around for a bit, slapping the ground and shaking the tent. Satisfied that I had given him a good fright, I settled back into bed. But 30 seconds later, he was back. I repeated the noise-making ritual a few times, but each time the mouse came back. Finally, I decided that I needed to get some sleep, so I would just forget about the mouse, let him do his thing, and go to bed, which I did. When I woke up in the morning, the first thing I did was look around the tent for evidence of the mouse. I didn't see any holes, and all my food was sitting right where I left it. "Ha," I thought, "looks like you gave up, Mr. Mouse. I win!" I realized I had spoken too soon when I reached for my bag of instant oatmeal, only to dump most of it in my lap through a hole in the bag. Turns out that the mouse had crawled under the tent, directly below my oatmeal, chewed a hole up through the groundcloth and into the bag, and stuffed himself on what would have been my breakfast. I couldn't believe it. I had set my food about one foot away from my head. Thinking that the mouse would be at the periphery of my tent, I had been swatting around at the edges, when in actuallity, he was right next to me...practically UNDER me! This mouse had some serious chutzpah. Actually, if he happens to be reading this post, I have a message for him: To the Mouse of Mutton Cove--You just made the mistake of your life. You messed with the wrong camper, buddy. Enjoy your victory while it lasts, because while you may have won the battle, the war is FAR from over. One day I will return, and when I do, I will destroy you. Consider yourself marked for death.

Ahem.

Anyways, to sum up Abel Tasman National Park: beautiful beaches, lots of wierdness. I thought that the wierdness would be over once I hopped on the bus and got back to Nelson, but I was seriously mistaken. I went back to the Tramper's Rest hostel, where I had a couple more nights booked. The crowd there was pretty much the same, except for the addition of a new guest, a German guy named Marcus. I could tell right away that there was something about him that was a little, well, "off." He was sitting at the kitchen table with the phone, having a heating argument with his mother (whom he referred to as "mama"). I found out later that he had been hogging the phone (the only line in the house, and the same one that Alan, the owner, uses to take bookings) for well over an hour. Alan kept telling him to wrap things up, and he would just nod and keep talking. When he finally hung up, Alan had to lecture him about not taking advantage of his hospitality and so on. Perhaps as a form of apology, Marcus offered to sleep outside on the patio (???). So I figured that he was just rude at first, maybe a little socially awkward. But then I overheard him having a conversation with Simon, one of the other guests. He was saying stuff like "I can see from your hands that you are reading my mind," and "some people say I am crazy, but I'm not crazy...just wierd." Uh, okay. I went to bed and had an uneventful sleep, due to the fact that I had earplugs in all night. When I took them out in the morning, the first thing I heard was a bizarre grunting/screaming combination. I could tell that it was Marcus. At first, I thought that maybe he was still sleeping and having a nightmare. Then Alan opened the door and said to me and Simon, "you'd better get dressed, the police are on their way." Apparently Marcus was going bat-shit crazy. When I peeked out into the hallway, I saw him in the kitchen, in some sort of kung fu pose, shouting and glancing around suspiciously. Clearly, the Marcus situation was getting out of hand. I got dressed and went out to the front porch, where I could make a quick getaway if needed. Marcus had cornered Alan in the kitchen and was doing his grunting/screaming theatrics. When the police finally arrived, they tried talking to Marcus, but he was still going on with his kung fu shit and acting generally crazy, so they ended up tackling him, cuffing his hands, and zip-tying his ankles. By this point he was saying some seriously bizarre shit: "Alan, you are not my father. I am your father and you are my son." "Do you want to see me do my haka? Go away, you haka! Go away!" And he kept on saying, "I am an artist! I am red! I am an artist!" Every once in a while he seemed to have a moment of clarity, saying stuff like, "Okay, stop. I am just Marcus." But these moments were short-lived, and he'd go right back to shouting incomprehensibly and writhing around on the ground. Eventually the police hauled him out to their squad car and drove away.

After that debacle, Alan gave us all a little back story on the "Marcus situation." Apparently, he had been to Tramper's Rest a few months before, with his girlfriend, and was relatively normal at the time. Alan learned that he had some sort of mental illness and was taking medication for it. A week or so ago, Alan received an email saying that Marcus had "gone missing" and stopped taking his medication, and that he was supposed to be brought back to the care of a family friend in Christchurch. So when Marcus showed up yesterday night, Alan figured he would try to get him back to Christchurch without involving the authorities. And it appeared that everything would work out, until Marcus started his grunting/shouting routine at about 2 AM (which I didn't hear, since I was wearing earplugs). Apparently he was in the bathroom taking a shower and doing a lot of yelling. One of the other guests knocked on the door to see if he was okay, at which point Marcus opened the door (buck naked), handed the soap to the guest, closed the door again, and did some more kung fu posing. So it was clear at that point that it would not be a normal night. I guess Alan stayed up with Marcus all night long, trying to keep him under control, until he realized that things were getting out of hand and the police had to be called.

Whew. So, that was the wierdness that was. I am expecting the next few days to be low-key, though. Tomorrow I am flying from Nelson to Auckland, where I will catch a bus up to the Bay of Islands, my last major destination in New Zealand. Since I have less than a week left here, I think I'll save my next update for after I get home to the States. See you all later!

WEST SIIIIIIDE!!!

At the moment, I'm relaxing in Nelson after finishing my trip up the South Island's remote West Coast region. It was a bittersweet journey...the scenery, as you would expect, was beautiful, but it was also my first major trip without Blue Steel. It took some adjustment to get used to bus travel, but it's still pretty easy in the end.

Initially, though, I thought I'd try to circumvent the whole bus process entirely and travel on the cheap by hitching. The idea was sound in theory, but it was a different story in practice. The West Coast, I found out, is notorious for poor hitching conditions, mainly because so little car traffic goes through there. The road wasn't even completed until the 1960s! On top of that, I was trying to hitch from Wanaka to Makarora on Easter Sunday, and I don't think the holiday influence helped any. I was able to get a lift about 15 minutes north to Lake Hawea, where I thought I might be able to thumb a ride further north. Unfortunately, it seemed that just about every northbound car on that road was headed for Lake Hawea...most of them had boats in tow. After standing by the side of the road for a few hours, I gave up and walked about 15 km back to Wanaka to regroup and buy a bus ticket. It turned out to be a nice walk, though. It's amazing what you miss when you speed by places in a car...unique and quirky homes, scenes of families enjoying the holiday together and whatnot.

I decided to skip Makarora and head straight up to the glaciers. NZ has two major glaciers: Fox and Franz Josef. I chose to check out Franz Josef, mainly because it had a more developed village (based almost entirely on tourism) to entertain me if the weather was bad. Luckily, the weather, while not perfect, was good enough for me to do a full day guided glacier hike. I was debating whether or not to go out on the glacier at all...how much fun can walking around on a huge hunk of ice be in the first place?

Quite a lot, it turns out. Dayle, our guide, was able to take us about halfway up the front face of the glacier, which was full of impressive ice formations. I was amazed at his skill with the ice axe: occasionally we'd end up in a crevice that I thought looked totally unnavigable, but, with a few swings of the axe, he'd carve a set of expertly-placed steps to get us into the next gully. Here are a few pics from the expedition:

Looking down into the valley carved by Franz Josef glacier:

Sneaking through an ice tunnel:

Dayle carving his way through a hallway of ice:

Another shot of Dayle to provide a sense of scale...these were some big ice formations!:

Peering out through a hole in the ice:

Throughout the glacier walk, a recurring thought kept popping into my head: "There is no way these trips could ever happen in the USA." While we were never in mortal danger, we were often in pretty precarious situations where a false step could lead to a sprained ankle, twisted knee, or broken wrist. Dayle mentioned that the guiding company has to do several medevac trips each month. And, in a particularly sobering reminder of the danger lurking in the glaciers, someone on an ice climbing tour had died on the glacier about two weeks earlier. Apparently he got tangled up in his crampon straps and fell into a deep, narrow crevice. Not good. Of course, all this adds up to paint a legally infeasible picture that would prevent a company from ever offering such trips in the overly litigious USA.

Anyways, after "doing" Franz Josef glacier, I hopped on the bus and headed up to Punakaiki, home of the famous "pancake rocks," which are stratified and eroded in such a way as to make them appear somewhat like stacks of flapjacks:

I wasn't really in Punakaiki to see the pancake rocks, though. My main reason for going there was to hike the Inland Pack Track, which used to be a route used by gold miners in the 1860s to avoid the rugged coast. The highlight of the hike was the section through the Dilemma Creek gorge, where the track and the creek become one. I hiked along the creekbed, surrounded by towering limestone cliffs and exotic-looking native vegetation. To avoid deep pools, I had to ford the creek about 40 times and I got totally soaked from the knee down. No big deal, though. I suppose that's the nice thing about having mucked around on Stewart Island previously: all other discomforts seem tame in comparison to that kind of bog-bashing.

The other nice thing about the track is that you get to camp out under a massive limestone overhang called "The Ballroom," which is 20 meters high at its highest point:

When I first showed up, I had the place all to myself, and it stayed like that for several hours. Later on, though, I heard some rustling sounds in the bush and saw someone emerge into the clearing. "Oh well," I thought, "there's plenty of space under here for two." But then another hiker appeared. And another. And another. It turns out that certain hiking tour companies like to take groups to The Ballroom because it seems adventurous (even though it's only a two-hour hike from the highway). So I shared the spot with 10 other hikers and their guide. It was actually pretty nice to hang out with the group. I spent a while talking to an English guy who surprised my by his knowledge of Garrison Keillor...I had no idea that he had appeal outside of the Midwest, much less the entire country! I don't think the Englishman was fully able to appreciate the Minnesotan/Lutheran/Norwegian humor, though.

The next day I hiked out to the parking lot, where I had arranged for the bus to Nelson to pick me up. It was over an hour late, though, and on top of that, there were sandflies all over the place. So I spent a good hour or so wandering around the parking lot, pacing back and forth to keep the sandflies off. I'm sure I must have appeared completely insane to the other tourists who came by.

Which brings me to Nelson. I've been staying at a great little hostel called "Tramper's Rest," which seemed appropriate for me because, well, I'm a tramper and I could use some rest. Tomorrow I plan on starting the Abel Tasman Coastal Track, which will probably be my last hike in NZ. Kinda sad, but it should be beautiful, at least. Look for an update in a few days when I get back to Nelson.