oh, the wonders of snazaroo face paints. I've used them extensively in the last week. First up was the Football match between Holland and Sweden. My Swedish heritage (despite it being rather distant) provoked me to paint my face as the swedish flag and parade around (despite my lack of interest in football) as a lone Sweden supporter amodist Seventy Dutch supporters. Oh, the fun. Unfortunately, Holland won. well, fortunately i suppose. I'm not too sure really.
Two days later i was at it again with the paints, this time colouring my hair for EXTREME crazy hair day. My morning style in this weekly event was a half pink half yellow afro (of sorts) which evolved at break to it all being swept over to one side, with a small spikey bit complete with butterfly hairclip. still yellow and pink at this stage. At lunch time i painted on black stripes to make a bumblebee effect. after dinner i washed it all out and one of the girls straightened it and i looked like sonic the hedgehog. now, not surprisingly, it feels like straw.
Tonight was part three of my face painting extravaganza. Holland were playing Portugal, so it was an orange football shirt and the dutch flag on my face. red over my forehead and halfway down my eyes. white to the bottom of my nose and blue around my mouth and chin. it's alright - i have pictures, you'll see how good it was.
It’s a bit too much like a cartoon today. The sky is blue with nice white fluffy clouds floating around. Birds are flying amidst the rays of sun. It’s lovely. Lovely, except for the small black cloud sitting above us, sporadically drenching us with torrential rain. I mean really, it’s hardly fair. Welcome back to the Crazy Dutch Summer.
I have to rewind a bit to a couple of weeks ago and attempt to fill in some of the details of all the excitement of my international life.
Five in the morning, some two weeks ago, I was driving with Paul to Rotterdam Airport to catch a stupid-o’clock flight to London. Standsted Airport is silly. It’s not really in London, it’s a trick. Once I hitched in to the city from there, which is a cheap but potentially deadly solution. The next cheapest option is $24 one way on a two hour bus ride to Victoria Station in central London. This time around, not having the time to spare, I caught the Stansted Express, a $72 return, forty-five minute train ride to Liverpool Street Station, just barely in central London. Then I had to take the tube to Brixton in South London and walk ten minutes to Matt’s house. After a cup of Turkish Apple Caj, we jumped in the car and drove to Bristol, then down towards Cornwall to Saunton Sands in Devon. It’s a vast, popular beach stretching some kilometres South. Our hotel was perched atop a beachside hill, overlooking it all. Unfortunately our “penthouse suite” wasn’t overly wonderful, and looked out over the roof towards another equally unfortunate hotel room. After a very mediocre dinner of a Marlin steak atop a Thai salad followed by a forgettable local specialty for dessert, seven of us crammed in to the room for a few hours sleep. 4am our alarms were buzzing as the tides changed and our sand canvas emerged. After two hours work at 7am we made a tough decision, based upon swampy sand and deep footprints that we had to shift some distance down the beach and start over. With a new urgency we rapidly measured out over two thousand square metres of twined grid and began the process of pedantically measuring out hundreds of intersection points and marking them with small flags. Shortly after midday, some seven hours after our team of thirteen circlemakers began, I was out in the formation with micro-rake and a soft brush touching up all the detail. The result: The most complex known 2D sand formation ever, a giant portrait of three English comedy stars; Dawn French, Del Boy and Steve Coogan. Love it.
I followed that up with two days in London before flying back Tuesday night, staying in Hoeven, and leaving again in the morning destined for France. The first leg of my journey, Roosendaal to Brussels was quite standard, however, upon arriving in Brussels, I was told that the only way I could progress on my scheduled journey was to travel First Class to Paris. She said it like I’d be upset or something. Silly Lady. Onwards then, in the hugest most comfortable reclining train seat ever, with a meal served enroute. However, I went from one extreme to the other in Paris, where I was told that there were zero available seats and I’d have to sit on a hard fold-down seat in a noisy carriage lobby. Luckily, come Rennes, the majority of the passengers left the train and I managed to relocate, after a few attempts, to a proper seat. Finally arriving in Quimper, I was met and delivered to site; L’Atlantique, Beg Meil. I knew a number of the staff, having trained them in their roles at Hoeven, so it was neat to catch up with them all. As far as campsites go, this was a flash one; loads of small quiet roads connecting clean, green hedged off emplacements. In the middle of it all lies a huge swimming pool complex and a bar. 400m down a forest trail over two Amazon-like streams lies a beautiful white sand beach. 38oC days complimented this idyllic setting, briefly. My third day there was grey, the fourth and fifth wet, and the sixth, our day off, torrential.
I was onsite to work as a Base Courier, organising activities for Teenagers. However, there was a blatant lack of teenagers (meaning: none.), subsequently leaving me with not a lot in the way of work to do. I spent some time setting up the service and implementing some efficiency systems for the new Base Courier when she arrived. I talked to loads of customers, and spent a lot of time with the little tiny kiddies in Mini Fun Station, building train tracks, playing in the sand pit, and getting covered in glitter glue. I did a load of face painting, played some silly games and generally entertained myself more than the children I presume. Meh. Monday was occupied by an impromptu training session for the new girl, Sarah.
Tuesday. Tuesday was our day off. Not just any ordinary day off though, it was our EXTREME day off. Oh yes. The local beach resort town of Benodet lies only ten kilometres from us by main road, and about half that by trail. After a morning of rain, we set out about 1pm on rickety bikes towards the trail. At some point we got a bit confused and missed a turnoff, leaving us heading out along a thin peninsula separating the sea from a marshy estuary. By the time we realised it was a bit late and we decided that perhaps this was a special peninsula that somehow joined at the other end as well. Yeah, right. Confronted by a hundred metres of estuary mouth we decided there was no option but to roll up our jeans and wade across. Our two female companions were unwilling to carry their bikes, which meant four thigh-deep crossings for Dan and myself, made worse by a fresh batch of heavy rain. Soaked to the bone when we eventually arrived in Benodet, we struggled to find anything that was open. Moments before giving up and heading home, we discovered a little café positioned down on the waterfront in the port so we stopped for a round of hot chocolates and tarte tatin. Paradise found, paradise lost; we had to be home by seven. Still wet, but warm on the inside we opted for the back road option that would, through a myriad of small interconnected back village roads have us home in about six kilometres, assuming we didn’t lose ourselves. Never has a hot shower felt so good (except for the last time I got caught out in the rain and came home soaking wet…) but boy did I feel stupid when I realised after my shower that all I had with me were my cold wet clothes.
A long trip home, a rough sleep with stupid frustrated dreams, waking to nothing much for breakfast, doing stupid petty jobs all day at work, watching black clouds roll by, rain falling, lightning striking, blue skies. Driving the van round to the field, jumping the irrigation channel, flying a huge kite-surfing kite, getting pulled over and dragged along the ground, not wanting to fly it anymore. Stupid kite.
England lost the football against Portugal tonight. Apparently it was quite important. They played thirty minutes of overtime and it was still a draw, so they started doing penalty kick thingies. England lost. People got angry, and sad. Stupid football.
Oh, and Paul Allen’s spaceship went to space. Maybe they’re trying to fly away from English football fans and stupid kites...
yes, it's official, i'm going to france. Wednesday morning I depart from Roosendaal and head for Paris, then over to Quimper, western Brittany. Not sure on specifics just yet, there are a number of campsites out there that I could be on. I'll be working with teenagers doing a large amount of sports coaching and outings to local attractions. love it. watch this space...
it's alive! | jun 07 2004, 20:55 The buildings were flying by alongside me; the wind rushing through my hair…me, a bike and Amsterdam. What a concept.
Several places in Europe I’ve opted to visit simply because someone offered me a ride. Not necessarily because I specifically wanted to see the place, just because I could. Good reasoning that. Yes. And so it was that a few weekends ago, when everyone was going to Amsterdam, I decided to go along as well.
We stopped along the way at one of our campsites, Duinrell, just north of Den Hague at Wassanaar. It’s always nice to stop in and have a look at a campsite, to broaden my knowledge of campsite goings on, it does help with training it and all. But shortly after we arrived we jumped back in the car and headed for the city. We dropped Suzy off at her too-expensive-for-me hotel, and wandered off to a market. Then came the challenge of trying to find a hostel for the night. Sadly, they were all booked out except for one, who was asking sixty new Zealand dollars a night to stay in a twelve bed dorm. I laughed. They were serious. Stupidly, I’d left my Passport at home, so I couldn’t check in anyways… So, I called Sam, the bar girl from work who lives north of Amsterdam, and asked if I could crash at her place…no worries.
I spent some hours walking around the streets of ‘dam, exploring all the shops and architectural wonders. There’s every kind of shop you can imagine, except for, as I discovered, anything with nice clothes. I suspect I was in the wrong part of town for that, but every time I tried a new part of town, I found the same kind of shops, and decided that perhaps the good clothes shops were hidden. Secret clothes shops. Drat them. So I didn’t get any new clothes in Amsterdam. I walked to a restaurant on Orange Straat to meet Paul and Laura for some dinner. Later I rode a bike precariously through the streets of ‘dam to catch a bus (unable to catch a train due to the huge train crash that night in central station) to Zaandam. Sam and I went out and danced until the wee hours.
Went back to ‘dam and wandered some more in the rain, still trying to find some vaguely interesting shirts. Soon, we all met up and jumped in the car to drive home. That was my trip to Amsterdam. It wasn’t a wonderful experience. I doubt I’ll be back there any time soon.
A few weeks back Amy was supposed to come see me for a picnic. Amy and Aaron missed their plane. So, they came to Holland a week or two later than planned, which just so happened to coincide with Cam’s visit to the area. This resulted in seven Kiwi’s sitting in a garden having a BBQ, listening to some good Kiwi music and reminiscing on good memories. We had many shared travel experiences, photos to share, stories to tell. They’d both been to Egypt, and loved every moment of it. With my budget being one third the size of Cam’s, it was “amusing” to discuss the differences in our travels. Come almost eleven, they all drove off leaving me with just that English lot again.
I have a wicked tan. Oh yes I do. Bring on the European summer.
Another few-weeks-ago-incident was the Breda Jazz Festival. We bee-bopped our way on in to Breda dressed to the nines, boo-boppin and tee-toppin our way around the streets, nodding approvingly at the fine jazz sounds humming through the little squares. I must note the Dixie princesses; three little tiny Japanese girls, one with a trombone, one with a trumpet, and the other, wait for it, with, yes, that’s right, a banjo. Oh, were we in fits of giggles. But my my did they make a fine little jazz triptet. The Black Cats were our pick of the bunch though. An American band from New Orleans. With big-band-style brass jazz accompanied by a big ol’ fat man playin’ a piano, their renditions of old favourites kept us smilin well into the night.
In recent news, Paul and I lay on the local airstrip last night at three in the morning discussing the more interesting parts of our lives to date. Earlier we were found in the kitchen sitting at the dining table, wearing our head-torches set to strobe mode, eating chocolate, carefully planning our adventure to Seppe airport. Upon our arrival home we enjoyed a fine fresh baked baguette with brie. Ah, bliss.
In future news, I’m flying to London on Friday for a special mission to a beach in Devon. Then I’m flying back to Rotterdam. Possibly, though not yet confirmed, I’ll be heading out to do some onsite training or, *insert horror movie music* some real work with children.
In upcoming news, my not-so-little-anymore niece turns five next week. I turn twenty three next month, and Mr Claus is coming in December.
My list of desired countries to visit currently stands as such: Egypt, India, South East Asia, Western Australia, Tonga, Samoa, and Argentina. Some of these may well be incorporated into my journey home. Intended dates for this journey are still undecided. It is possible that I’ll be working in France for August and some of September, and possibly again on a Ski Resort over the winter season.
Finding Nemo is the DVD of choice this evening, starting in twelve minutes. Doei.
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