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Heaven

a travel blog by roel krabbendam

Bicycle trip through the Netherlands with extended family. No hills! Limited distances! Reduced butt fatigue! Not half the adventure of Africa perhaps, but at least four times the calories. Don't call it Holland, call it Heaven.

For dessert, a day in Reykjavik, Iceland watching the sun never set. Exquisite.
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Reindeer?

Boston, United States

The three of us are exhausted, school and work and house renovations taking their toll. We race separately to the airport from different directions, the girls and I, and meet at the Icelandair desk just an hour before the flight to Reykjavik. A somewhat disapproving young woman assigns us the stinky seats next to the rear toilets, but we fall asleep immediately upon settling into the plane, completely beyond caring. We feel triumphant to have made it at all.

Beautiful stewardesses sternly serve dinner, efficient but unfortunately disapproving, their bustle waking us just in time to snag a meal of reindeer stew, crab salad and a chocolate chip brownie. The reindeer is slightly odd but would have passed as unidentifiable mystery meat were it not for another passenger, who felt it was…not the best reindeer she had ever had. Polly and Mia pass me their crab salad to finish (reindeer AND crab???), Mia drapes herself over us, and we all go back to sleep. We wake up again on the approach to Reykjavik, wondering if we missed breakfast.

Note to Icelandair: Hold the reindeer.


permalink written by  roel krabbendam on May 24, 2007 from Boston, United States
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Youth

Reykjavik, Iceland

The airport is just as we remember it from previous trips: modern and inspiring. We are surrounded by tall, beautiful people speaking unintelligibly, wander through tilting stone and glass terminals to customs and passport control, and enter the European Union.
Actually, it's not the European Union but the "Wengen" group of countries, who seem to have a customs agreement. The customs security personnel look impossibly young to have any responsibility, suggesting that I’ve become impossibly old. We buy bottled water on a credit card (still have no idea what Iceland uses for currency) and board a flight to Amsterdam.

Our seats are slighly further from the toilets. We fall asleep yet again.


permalink written by  roel krabbendam on May 24, 2007 from Reykjavik, Iceland
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Schiphol

Amsterdam, Netherlands

I remember or imagine feeling the plane taking off and later touching down, but in truth registered nothing until we emerged from the gate into the terminal at Schiphol. Tulip bulbs and Dutch accents and beautiful advertising graphics and endless moving sidewalks: just as I remembered it. Not like coming home, but certainly familiar. A thousand childhood memories swamp my addled head, and we head to baggage claim and the family here to pick us up.

The baggage handling is delayed, so we sit on our carry-ons and listen to mysterious languages from tanned girls in bikini tops and small children in yellow rubber boots and men in blue suits on cell phones, flights from all over the world landing simultaneously and sharing this same luggage belt.

For Mia at eleven years old, an indelible adventure…for Polly and I, a welcome break. We pass through what used to be customs, see family ahead, and know we have arrived. Outside finally, it rains.

permalink written by  roel krabbendam on May 24, 2007 from Amsterdam, Netherlands
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Youth

Maarssen, Netherlands

Rested and ready, we drive over to show Mia the house I lived in as a child. My dad's sister lived in it for 40 years after we left Holland for America, and when she died three year ago, my mother sold the place. I remember a brown brick rowhouse, the corner unit with yard on two sides and a separate one car garage, the largest unit in the row...
The smell of freshly cut grass on handmower blades, the smell of algae on the surrounding canals, the terror of lying in bed upstairs as bats dive-bombed the windows, the peaceful majesty of sitting on the living room floor with my sister one Saturday morning as my parents slept, lighting matches because we liked the smell, the opulence of receiving not one, not two, not a few, but the entire set of Okkie learn-to-read books...all these memories sweep in.

I stare at the neighboring house, the house where my friend Wim lived, and wonder what happened to him. I had heard disapproving comments from my parents at one point years ago, Wim in trouble or drifting astray, but who knows so many years later. I am staring at the life I didn't lead. The confidence and optimism and fearlessness I had then...

Mia sees a duck on the street outside, naming him and photographing him within minutes, the duck finally choosing algae in the canal over a movie role. My dad and I once skated on that very canal, following it to a larger canal and then finally out on an adjoining lake...or did that adventure sneak into the panorama of actual memories from my imagination one day, imagination now indistinguishable from reality?

The house looks impossibly small. The new owners have transformed a meager lawn and garden into an opulent terrace paved in brick and surrounded by a wall of ivy. Inside, kitchen and living room are now one room, a wall removed. The garage is transformed into living space, home to an older child. There is no smell of cut grass. I have not lived here in a very, very long time.


permalink written by  roel krabbendam on May 30, 2007 from Maarssen, Netherlands
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We begin our bike trip

Amsterdam, Netherlands

The horizon is a straight line, the land a mere smudge, and the sky immense. You grow self assured here, I imagine, or feel very inconsequential under a sky this large, a clue perhaps to the Dutch character. It keeps dumping rain on us, then plays gray, then teases us with blue sky. In the afternoons it clears and the wind dies and the sun and stillness last until 10:30pm. We go to bed feeling like we really accomplished something just to have experienced a day like this.
We take the boat out of Amsterdam up to Hoorn, loosely following the coast north. The Ijsselmeer is flecked with sailboats of every vintage fluttering about like moths under a dark sky. Wind turbines stand in the water in vast arrays, dutiful and beautiful. The objections to a wind farm of the coast of Massachusetts are proven ridiculous.
We are aboard the Stijlebank, a cement freighter converted to passenger use, and it will be our home base for a week as we ride a big circle around the Ijsselmeer on our bikes. The basic form of the boat is quite fluid and beautiful, though it is somewhat cluttered by the passenger use: I imagine it was exceedingly handsome as a freighter.
The boat is captained by Albert, and his wife Anina will cook for us. A young Danish guy named Soren is studying to be a sea captain for Maersk in Copenhagen, and is spending the week helping Albert. Bram is our bicycle tour guide. There are 16 of us: all one Dutch and American family.

permalink written by  roel krabbendam on May 30, 2007 from Amsterdam, Netherlands
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Clouds

Hoorn, Netherlands

We arrive in Hoorn in late afternoon, eat dinner on the boat, and then take our bikes out for a 15 km. trial run.
The sky clears a bit, and becomes a spectacle, and we stop just to bear witness as if this were some religious event.
Possibly it is.
The bikes and the kids perform wonderfully.


It is the 650 year anniversary of the town of Hoorn, and we take a walk into town to listen to some music when we get back. The town is dense and historic and quaint, a real tourist draw. A five piece band sings and plays in the town center, and the cafes are open, and a crowd is drinking beer on the street. We all fall asleep before midnight.

permalink written by  roel krabbendam on May 30, 2007 from Hoorn, Netherlands
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Ouch

Hoorn, Netherlands

It is raining when we wake up, it rains through breakfast, and it is raining as we finally start out on our bicycles. We wind out of town behind Bram, most of us on 7 speed upright bicycles of a rather classical Dutch style, the kids on 3 speed models, and the youngest on a 1 speeder. Bram has his own racing bike, a model doubtlessly bursting with gear options, but in truth it is not necessary: we are in flat country with the wind at our backs.
The Ijsselmeer is gray and flecked with whitecaps, the sky is grey and flecked with white clouds, and the land is an intense green: we follow the coast north.
Modern wind turbines stake both the land and the water here and there. We travel in a loose line, the teenagers eager to stay in the lead, the youngsters happy to chat and putter along, the adults chatting among themselves or with the kids or enjoying some solitude. It rains, it stops, it rains again.
The wind helps us when we turn due north, and challenges us otherwise. We are pilgrims under a capricious sky.
In early afternoon Polly finds a house she wants me to photograph, chases after me at full speed, and flips here bike on the edge of the pavement. She lands hard on her head, scraping ankle, thigh, elbow, shoulder and face as well. We are aghast at the damage, and loathe to show it. Nic goes for ice from a nearby farmhouse and Wil pulls out antibiotics and bandages, keeping Polly warm and low against shock. She does not lose consciousness. A tremendous lump grows beneath the wound on her head, incredibly half as large as a baseball within minutes, but the ice from the farmhouse begins to reduce the swelling.

We are less than 10 km. out of Enkhuizen. There is no traffic or ready transport, so when Polly says after some time that she wants to continue we are inclined to let her. She keeps up a steady pace, she and I continuing ahead when the rest of the group is stalled by other bicycle problems. The boat should be waiting for us: we focus on that.


permalink written by  roel krabbendam on May 30, 2007 from Hoorn, Netherlands
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Hospital

Enkhuizen, Netherlands

By the time we get to Enkhuizen, Polly is feeling nauseous and we need another plan. I'm kicking myself that I let her continue biking, plant her in a café and go looking for the boat without success. It is about 45 minutes since the accident, raining now. I ask for a doctor, but find there is none. There is only a medical post in the town we left this morning. I ask for a taxi, but there is only one and timing is uncertain. We abandon our bikes at the café and I walk Polly across the street to the train station. I fumble with change at the automatic ticket machine, a train employee warning me the train is about to leave. Seeing Polly and recognizing the urgency, she kindly gives me the 10 cents I’m short, then helps me get Polly on the train with moments to spare. It is only 25 minutes to Hoorn, an excruciating 25 minutes. The hospital is just over a pedestrian bridge from the station.

Polly sits down on the platform, unable to continue.

I leave her sitting on the train platform and sprint for a wheelchair, finding one in the hospital and hauling it up and down the pedestrian bridge stairs to pick her up. There are no elevators, and Polly barely manages to pull herself up and down the stairs. We careen across brick plazas, every bump telegraphed to Polly’s head, her moans mortifying. Arriving at the hospital, we are directed to the medical post in an adjacent building. More bricks, more moaning. We are asked to pay 101.50 euro and then directed to a waiting room. There are 9 people waiting. I return to the desk and explain that Polly can’t wait. We are directed into an examination room where she can lie down. I turn off the lights and hold her hand. She says nothing.

A young doctor arrives within 5 or 10 minutes. He is young and relaxed and direct, jeans, sneakers, polo shirt, asking Polly questions in English about the accident, and about the contusions. A nurse begins to wrap the scrapes. He feels around the lump on her head and decides there are no fractures, Polly having hit one of the thicker parts of her skull. She did not lose consciousness, nor is she at all disoriented. He discounts a concussion. The nausea results from blood pressure fluctuations and shock, and it ultimately comes down to a prescription for pain and a prescription for nausea.

I pick up the drugs at the hospital pharmacy, and after 90 minutes of rest we are somewhat abruptly kicked out of the clinic: the room may be required if someone has a heart attack for example. “Maybe” trumps misery it appears, and we are slightly miffed as we head back to the train. Bricks again…and pedestrian bridge stairs, and finding the right track and waiting for the train. I call ahead to finally advise the group on events, the 650 year anniversary celebrations around us loud and irritating, almost drowning out the call.

Enough was understood that Nic is waiting for us when we get back to Enkhuizen, and a taxi is arranged to take us to the boat. Finally, 5 hours after the accident, Polly is able to sleep. The café owner where we had abandoned our bicycles that morning had communicated with the group, they had reclaimed our bikes, and everything is already loaded on the boat. Albert, the captain, is concerned about crossing the Ijsselmeer and decides to leave immediately for our next port. Mercifully, the crossing is uneventful, and we finally finish our day on the northern shore of the Ijsselmeer, in the port of Lemmer.


Headache

Polly will be OK...she's always been slightly unusual, in a good way.

permalink written by  roel krabbendam on May 30, 2007 from Enkhuizen, Netherlands
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Junket for Junkies

Lemmer, Netherlands

We were directed to wake Polly every 2 hours during the night, the possibility of bleeding inside her skull of some concern to the doctor. After 2 uneventful wakings however, I set the alarm on my cell phone incorrectly and we both sleep through the rest of the night. I wake up swearing at myself, but Polly is fine. The lump is diminished, the purple is migrating southward, and she shrugs off our suggestions that she remain on the boat today. We leave Lemmer under cloudy skies, Polly among us, 16 ducklings behind Bram the Guide.

It is Monday, and we pass through miles of open countryside, farms, small villages all closed and quiet. Those of us tuned to Monday morning industrialized country frenzy find it a little eerie. Echten, Echtenerberg, Munnekeburen, Scherpenzeel, Spanga: all closed. By 10am, concern mounts, and by 11am we have a serious, serious problem: where are we going to stop for coffee and pastry?

Ritual caffeination is deeply engrained in this culture, and 1030am is time for “koffie”. I always assumed “koffie” happened whenever you dropped in on someone, “I’ll be there for koffie” a frequent refrain, but when I once showed up at an aunt’s house at 1130am after suggesting I’d come for some coffee, I discovered punctuality was expected. These people need their fix ON TIME, or things get irritable.

Luckily, just before noon, at Ossenzijl right next to the bridge in the center of town, 4 hours after breakfast and 26 hours since the last coffee break, we finally find an open café. Koffie, Cappuccino, Koffie Verkeerd (Latte): all hastily ordered; appel taart met slagroom (apple pie with whipped cream) smoothes ruffled feathers. Mutiny averted, though some are already writing complaint letters to the trip organizers in their heads…they could have…they should have…

We leave the streets and enter National Park “de Weerribben”, a beautiful sanctuary of waterways and bike paths. Lunch is a picnic beside a canal, the kids focused on feeding the ducks. It rains occasionally. We meander through the park, enjoying the quiet, the birds, the solitude…OK, there’s 16 of us…maybe not the solitude. Occasionally one child or another lags, and we become practiced at pedaling while holding hands, the stronger pulling the weaker, so that we all generally move along as a group…Kalenberg, Wetering, Baarlo…from our vantage point these towns appear to have no cars. There are signs for a town called “Mosquito Bite” (Muggenbeet), but we pass to the west.

In Blokzijl we get back on the roads, but the 4 hours far from civilization have seriously taken their toll: shopping spasms hit some of the women. Those of us unaffected try to stay calm and patient, but our nerves fray as we consider the possible cost. Some of the group continues on and we lose group cohesion, but the condition luckily passes quickly. We don’t ask how much. We move on. In late afternoon we reach Vollenhove, and the boat.


permalink written by  roel krabbendam on June 24, 2007 from Lemmer, Netherlands
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Dancing with the departed

Vollenhove, Netherlands

That evening we are treated to a walking tour of the city by author Wim Willemse. He explains that Vollenhove was once a port on the Zuider Zee, a prosperous Hanseatic League city with an important fish industry, and later a peat industry. 600 years later, fleeting fortune, the sea is turned to polder, these industries have died and Vollenhove is a pleasant but very small town on a canal. They build very expensive yachts here. What used to be shore looks out over farmland.
The Bishop of Utrecht once kept a summer residence here, attracting other noblemen who built elaborate houses. We walk through the formal grounds of one noble residence, the gardens in some disrepair and half of it dead. A small monument honors WWII dead. We walk quietly and whisper in deference not to the departed but to a theater company rehearsing an upcoming production. Nearby, in the forest, a castle lies in ruins on a small island and a large wooden stage stands in the water in front. This was the home of a nobleman who died suddenly, his home left to ruin. The theater company will perform here, past and present dramas juxtaposed, a dance with the departed.

Later, in the boat, the conversation drifts to an acquaintance who lost a foot to parrot disease, to the surprising challenges of navigating the Ijsselmeer, and to a German who sank and drowned by underestimating the conditions on the lake. A cousin I greatly admire and appreciate has disappeared with some inheritance money, and we discuss the abyss he seems to have entered and our inability to coax him back into the family. I tried to enlist him as a cameraman for my Sahara trip, but he didn't respond to my emails, and now we discover, except for flowers his mother received on her birthday, that his immediate family hasn't heard from him in a very long time. How can this end well? I fear for him, I miss his humor, I wish he would call. It seems slightly morbid, the present tide of our thoughts, and I can’t help thinking it is the town that has affected us so. The sun sets.

My sister and I sit down and play chess until late into the night.

permalink written by  roel krabbendam on June 24, 2007 from Vollenhove, Netherlands
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7 Trips
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Here's a synopsis of my trips to date (click on the trip names to the right to get all the postings in order):

Harmattan: Planned as a bicycle trip through the Sahara Desert, from Tunis, Tunisia to Cotonou, Benin, things didn't work out quite as expected.

Himalayas: No trip at all, just...

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