Susan Vdh  - Winner !

Cheers for voting guys! Might see ya on the other side fairly shortly! If not, send me some more marmite :P

Please take me home, Marmite!

That’s right all (?) you lovely readers out there, it’s time for the final episode of Sooz’s Marmite blog madness. The story is epically long but it ain’t over yet. As usual, I’ve saved the best for last – the reason why I’m still miles away from blessed Enzed and slogging away at this ridiculous university coal-face. I should probably have given up on this science crud and gone back to the safety of my kitchen sometime ago (after all, we women should never really leave the kitchen), but then this came along so I didn’t.
This thing that I’m referring to involves three years of further study. Counter intuitive? Entirely. Still it’s a good thing. It all started last year sometime. Some of my mates from uni organized a symposium for my study and roped me into helping by designing posters and being present on the day. Apparently all the highly important Dutch ‘minds of science’, police people and judicial gurus were to turn up and attend lectures and workshops about the latest forensic geek exploits. My purpose was to hand them name badges and point out important things like toilets, coffee, sandwiches and such. I hoped I could manage.

The day was cruising along according to plan when 5 minutes in it became apparent that having an English guest speaker attend a day-long symposium given in Dutch is slightly impractical. But lovely man that he was, the professor had no problem half understanding and was happy to stay. Unleashing a computer workshop entirely in Dutch on him seemed a bit ridiculous though, so my mates decided he should be provided with a translator. Being that I was the only one not actually involved in anything important I drew the short straw and so was installed as the human version of Babel-fish for the duration.

Luckily I had paid some attention to his presentation and so knew what he was into. The time came and we were installed in front of a computer. A sheet of paper with Dutch instructions was provided. I had a quick glimpse during casual pre workshop chit chat. Insanely technical Dutch well beyond my 4-year old vocabulary glared up at me. Ah Fudge, I thought. This is going to get embarrassing fast. There was a bit of fluffing around but eventually we made it through the workshop. In between fluffing I had suddenly become incredibly interested in the professor’s work (and it was actually interesting, not gonna lie) and used this to distract from the fact that I had no idea what we were supposed to be doing. To this day I hope he didn’t notice. He probably did.

But it didn’t matter because afterward during complimentary happy hour, as we were all desperately chugging wine to try and expel the stress of symposium-day, I had a wee chat to the professor on casual terms. He really was a very nice guy. Didn’t send me packing or anything due to my mere ‘student’ status. He even enquired and listened attentively about my previous studies, my life in NZ, my up-coming internship in Canada and my possible plans for the future. Of which of course I had none. ‘Um, work or something.’ Clearly I’m not very good at selling myself on-the-spot. Had I considered further study? ‘Oh hell no, I can’t wait to be done here’, I cheerfully responded. Oh lord. Open mouth, insert foot. Sometimes I’m a little too honest when there’s wine involved. To the professors’ credit this didn’t stop him. ‘Would you consider a PhD position? In my lab perhaps?’ I stared at him and almost dropped the glass I was holding. ‘Oh but… I’m afraid I can’t pay for that.’ Ah crud. Curse my lack of brain-mouth filter. I cringed inwardly. The professor laughed and went on about scholarships. It all went a bit fast for me and I struggled to keep up and hang on to that glass all at once.

Before I knew it the conversation was over. The professor was ferried off for a pre-flight dinner by over-enthusiastic university staff. He told me to think over the offer and email if I ‘happened to’ still be interested. I returned to the crew in a state of mild confusion. They were stoked. ‘Sooz you just pretty much scored a PhD scholarship!’ Huh. Suppose I did. How bizarre. A few days of what I guess could be careful consideration later and, even while sober, the offer seemed too good to refuse. I sent that email after all and was invited for a complimentary visit to the university. Free of charge flights and accommodation? I’m up for that. But hang on a minute – Norwich? Where on earth is that? And wait, how do you even say it?

Three weeks later and I’ve been and gone. A short flight, a tour of the university and city, an unexpected interview with a bunch of highly important men from the appropriate department who I apparently impressed with my unprepared babbling, a dinner with the lab staff (they were lovely), a complimentary breakfast and a return trip later and I felt I’d been officially introduced to Norwich. Somehow along the way I received an official and apparently ‘prestigious’ scholarship offer. Did they mistake me for someone more brilliant? Highly likely. Still, I felt pretty special. And I still do even now that I’ve finally (almost) made it through this endless masters and am almost ready to start.

So there you have it. Why am I still studying? So that I can do more study! But paid this time. Genius, right? I thought so. But first it would be nice to drop in and visit my mum sometime.

Got any flights left, Marmite?

For those of you who haven’t figured it out by now or somehow I’ve failed to mention it, the flatland-ers are huge fans of the good old fashioned bicycle. Pedal power is the way to get around down here under sea level. Got school/work/a visit to Grandmas? An enormous box to carry perhaps? A wheel of cheese? Or even 15 children? No worries – just throw everything on your bike and go for it.

Like the good little adaptable Kiwi that I am, I too have taken to the way of the two wheeler. My cousin in resident, a seasoned Amsterdam cyclist who clearly took pity on me for my uncultured/backward/uneducated ‘down-under’ ways, sorted me out with a free pedal machine on my first day here. A few of you may have spotted this trusty steed while watching ‘a day in the life of postie Sooz’. My ride is of the classic Dutch ‘sit up straight’ Ladies-frame variety, with wide handle-bars and a large seat for comfort. It comes in an appealing shade of brown and has affectionately become known as ‘The Tank’ after its near two ton weighing solid circa 1901 steel frame and incredible lack of braking power (pedal brakes only – look ma, no hands!). During my time here I have twice experienced the joy of, while riding, having my chain fall off on its own accord and for no apparent reason (as clearly I have no gears), leaving me careening along helplessly through intersections and down bridges without any way of stopping.

Most of the time, however, The Tank and I are a well-oiled (no actually that’s just plain not true. A creaky and never oiled) Flatlands commuting machine. Together we cruise from one side of the city to the other, dodging shaky tourists on hire bikes, street sweepers, rubbish trucks, reversing cranes and of course the inevitable bunch of pigeons. Right now we rattle a bit but still we’re ok. In fact, efficiency has improved with all this excessive rattling - now tourists jump a mile in either direction before we even get there thinking that they’re about to be taken down by some kind of parade of manic percussionists, rather than just a Kiwi girl on a rusty old bike held together by rubber bands.

But I digress. Once, several months ago or in fact April of last year, The Tank and I had a run in of a less than fun variety. It was late afternoon and I had finished mail delivery and removed all remaining traces of orange. I had arranged to meet a couple of mates for a coffee and was late, as usual. The Tank and I were motoring to make up for lost time. On the home stretch, a street close to central station and a mere block from the meeting point, and there was a guy cycling just that little bit too slowly in front of me. I considered overtaking him – there was plenty of room on the left; no tourists, tram rails, pigeons, dangerous posts at knee height or any of that kind of business. I put the pedal down (see what I did there?) and went for it. I rode alongside him. We were neck and neck. And the next thing I know, your guy over here is swerving to the left for no apparent reason. Our handle bars lock together and he takes me out at break neck speed, elbowing me down and falling on top of me. The whole thing is not turning out well for the Tank and I. I shut my eyes and hope for the best.

When I open them again the guy’s looking down at me. I’ve landed in some kind of flailed position in the middle of the bike path. The Tank has continued on its own accord and now lies in a state in the distance. I check that all my limbs are still attached. A wall of stunned tourists gape at us like possums in headlights. The guy offers his hand and I stand up. My skin litters the surrounding area. There’s an enormous hole in my jeans revealing road rash embedded with thick Amsterdam filth. The bones in my right hand are visible. This clearly disturbs the guy and even I find it a little bit unappealing. ‘Ohh…' says guy. 'Are you all right?’ In response I cough up some colourful NZ-style language which scares the living daylights out of both of us. The guy makes goldfish-like mouth movements and tries to apologize in Dutch/English. I switch to Dutch and ask him what on earth he was thinking. Apparently he didn’t see me. I am Unimpressed.

Meanwhile, somewhere in the back of the wall of onlookers some guy has identified this moment as His Time To Shine. He marches towards the front of the crowd and pushes people aside with great sweeping hand movements. ‘Look out,’ he victoriously declares; ‘For I Am Doctor.’ I regard him with great suspicion. Crash-causing guy looks significantly happier. Some helpful person picks up The Tank in the background and leans it against a pole as an old lady pats my intact hand for comfort. The Doctor decides he must examine me immediately and makes a bee-line for my purse strap. Needless to say this shakes me a little. I decide that at no cost will I be run down AND robbed in one day and cling to it for dear life, refusing to allow access. The Docter becomes frustrated and demands that I remove the purse, which I eventually do but only after he has let go of it. My shoulders and neck are squeezed and poked for a bit until, apparently immensely satisfied with his amazing powers of deduction, the Doctor declares my shoulder to be Not Broken. Brilliant work, doctor. I just leaned on that arm so of course it isn’t broken.

With this incredible diagnosis completed, the Doctor begins casually chatting with the Crash-causing guy about how he is Doctor and about how your man just ran me down on the bike path. The crowd of tourists becomes bored and disperses. My state of Unimpressed-ness has now elevated to being Mightily Unimpressed. Of course what with me not being actually Dutch and all, I don’t even consider asking Crash-causing guy for insurance details (and yes I should have). Instead I glare at both of them, pick up the Tank and attempt to ride off. Unfortunately the Tank had sustained some serious damage so riding off is out of the question. I choose to stomp off instead, a feat which impresses me to this day considering the state my knee was in.

Once at the café I am reduced to a pathetic and blubbering mess. My mates take one look at my bleeding and grime-caked exterior and ferry me off the hospital after an attempted cleanup. I am loaded into a series of trams and presented to the emergency staff. A further clean-up ensues and then we are sentenced to the waiting room, where we have a great time, much to the annoyance of the complaining patients-in-residence (photo shown below). At least two hours later I have been scrubbed like a table-top, X-rayed, innoculated, wrapped like a padded mummy and sent on my way. By now I’m limping like I've suddenly sprouted a wooden leg. Crutches are apparently not provided. My remaining friend and I are ejected from the hospital and decide, bike-crash or no bike-crash, we’re going out for dinner anyway. Distressed diners stare at my padded outfit as I attempt to operate cutlery. Luckily the whole thing is so hilarious that none of it matters. Some soothing beverages later and I sleep like a baby, oblivious to the fact that I spent the entire evening with Amsterdam grime still smudged on my face.

The next morning I wake up and realize I’m full of holes. There’s bandages everywhere and none of them are allowed to come off. Showering is a plastic-bag riddled chore unto itself that takes at least an hour. I realize that I can’t climb stairs and proceed to shuffle up and down all 5 flights of them on my rear end. It’s like tramping down a mud-slide. My right hand is a pumpkin-sized blob of bandaged fluff on the end of a stick-wrist which looks hilarious when I wave it at people but is ill-suited for writing or mail delivery. Postie Sooz is momentarily out of action. But not for long. A week later and the road-rash is slowly becoming skin again. My hand deflates to something resembling a normal size and walking resumes.

The End, right? Wrong. 6 months down the track and I’ve been to three different (actual) doctors, none of whom believe me when I tell them that I’m still having trouble with my knee. Clearly they’ve never been in contact with kiwi posties before – we don’t complain like this unless there’s something actually wrong. Long story short, one of them finally believes me and the next thing I know I’m on the operating table, numb from the belly-button down thanks to a hugely painful injection into my spine, gracefully positioned with legs and arms in starfish position. The surgeon has three stick-like things shoved into my knee and is making comments like, ‘Oh yes this bit’s really quite damaged, yes… we’d better cut that out of there.’ I watch the widescreen in horror as a seemingly monstrous saw starts scraping away at the inside of my knee joint. The surgeon remembers I’m only half under. His headlamp thingy blinds me as he looks up. ‘Don’t worry – it’s only the size of a pinhead.’ 20 minutes of apparently very technical knee impaling later and he’s busy wrapping my now porous knee. I watch and consider the fact that I’m in a hospital gown and he can probably see to my tonsils. He bashfully grins back at me. Apparently I needn’t have worried. ‘Don’t watch my hands! I might get nervous.’

Three weeks of intense physiotherapy later and a depressing moment where I was passed on my bike by a no less than 130 year old man, and finally I was back to my old self – Postie Sooz, the orange-flavoured ninja. Ok so I’m not quite the same and my knee’s still a bit strange (I can’t feel half of it which is always exciting), but I’m pretty much back to normal.

Anyone else had any crazy accidents recently?
Only one more blog to go people! Hope you’re still enjoying them. Thanks for all the votes!!

The final chapter in the story thus far. I had delivered millions of letters. I had run out of cash, earned some more and then that ran out of that too. I had fled the giant snow-covered expanse that is Canada, broke and in fear of being branded in maple leaves for my trespasses. And now here I was at Schiphol, surrounded by gaily painted cow statues, a mere two hours late thanks to some Heathrow transfer-related carnage – back where it all started: The Flatlands. A tiny, strange-shaped country hunched on the edge of Europe, mostly under sea level and almost entirely funded by the sale of cheese. Without marmite. But that’s just the start of what’s going wrong in this place.

Upon returning I immediately started putting survival plan ‘When All Else Fails’ into action. This involved one thing and one thing only - excessive mail delivery. No fancy tricks, just me and the letters, earning some cash. I delivered like a postie possessed, 50+ hours a week for the two weeks that were left before school started (check out my ‘A day in the life of postie Sooz’ video below for details). The Orange Ninja postie was back and better than ever. Thesis writing was relegated to a ‘spare time’ activity. Sweet, sweet TnT post cash slowly dribbled its way into my bank account. I was stoked. Clearly I would put this towards food, rent, a ‘new-grandchild’ photo book for Mum and, more importantly, my return to NZ (yeah baby!).

But then the wind changed. For some reason, the Dutch government gods were no longer smiling down on me. During my time in the land of the people who say ‘eh’, the lovely city council back here in the Flatlands had, unbeknownst to me, gone ahead and signed me out of my shipping container and hence out of Amsterdam. They make you sign into this country, you see. They must be able to track every move you make by making you register your address with no less than 50 different tracking systems, none of which co-ordinate with one another. Look out - Hugely Dysfunctional Big Brother is watching. Like the good little girl I am, I set about registering my new address on the website after re-entering the Flatlands so as not to alarm this meat-headed, orange-flavoured fist of bureaucracy. A little while later I got a call from them saying that during my absence I had been signed out of Amsterdam and would now have to show up in person with my flatmate to sign myself back in. We went, did the thing. It took an hour, tops. The whole thing was frighteningly hassle-free.

And then, out of the blue, my student allowance disappeared. I rang them to ask about it. Erm, listen, I said – I’ve got no money. What’s going on? ‘Oh yes, well – we just figured out that you were signed out of Amsterdam in June. Because of this, your living status with us was automatically changed to ‘living with your parents’ rather than independently, as that’s the only logical explanation for your absence. Therefore, you only have the right to receive a quarter of your former allowance and we expect you to pay us back all the excess allowance we paid you from June onwards. We’ve gone ahead and subtracted some of those costs from this months’ payment and those following, conveniently leaving you with absolutely nothing. Is that clear?’ Um, but I told you I was doing my internship as part of my study in Canada. You had my Canadian address. Can I not just change my status back then? ‘Well, you can, but only as of this month. Which means you still owe us money and you won’t be getting any allowance until you pay off that debt.’ But how can I get that changed then? ‘I’m sorry, but you’ll need to write a letter to the requests department for that. I’m afraid I can’t help you.’

A letter? Even for a postie this seemed a bit old school. But there was no choice in the matter. With the help of my parents and the university printer the thing was in the mail a day later. There was nothing left to do but wait. I twiddled my thumbs for a bit. A letter arrived saying that they had received my letter and would process it ‘as soon as possible’ (yeah, right). I waited some more. Time passed. The leaves started changing. The Flatlanders switched from light jerseys and sneakers to jackets and gumboots. Pumpkins crowded the fruit stalls. I think I’ve made my point with this. It was taking AGES and still nothing was happening. I opted for affirmative action. One of my classmates tipped me off about a student allowance office in the area, which for some reason they don’t tell you about anywhere on their information site and now that I’ve been I think it’s to prevent murderous rampages/bomb threats. I decided to make an appearance.

Despite the lack of signage I successfully made it to the building. I took a number and a seat. A little while later it was my turn for a chat. I walked up to the desk. The old woman leaned toward me. I asked about the amount of allowance I was getting. I handed over the necessary ID. And immediately things got weird. She whipped out a single gardening glove and proceeded to pull it on before typing in my ID number. I was blindsided by this bizarre turn of events. What on earth? A gardening glove? And why only one?? But there was no time for thinking. Rapid questioning ensued. I explained that I felt the government was trying to sabotage the end of my study by spontaneously taking away my funds for life. In response she assumed defensive mode. The gardening glove waved in front of my face as it was revealed I had made a serious error – I had accidently given my address in Canada as my POSTAL address and not my living address. Therefore, this whole thing was MY fault and nothing to do with them.

An honest mistake, right? But apparently quite costly. I muddled this over as gardening glove woman continued yabbering on in the background. I explained that I thought this whole thing was ridiculous as how could I possibly be living with my parents in NZ while I was standing right here in front of her. It’s not like I can feasibly commute back and forth on a daily basis. I doubt even the Dutch would bother making a dyke that long for ease of transit. But there was not stopping this woman. Her explanation – we sent you a letter saying you had been signed out, and you had 4 weeks to do something about it. But you didn’t. So it’s YOUR fault. All this was accompanied by manic glove waving and exhagerated code typing. And I do actually mean code typing – she even showed me her screen at one stage and I swear it had a green background and circa. 1989 block letter font. It was bizarre. No wonder the student allowance system sucks so bad here when they’re still using the same operating system that I used to play Pacman on in the early 90s.

All this and she was still yelling. I was so blown away by the ancient computer system that it took me ages to say, but wait, I never got that letter. This stopped her. I also explained that now, because of this, I couldn’t pay the rent let alone anything else. She softened slightly, but re-iterated that she couldn’t help me. Over and over again. I said all right yes, you’ve made your point. I picked up my book bag, left. I wondered what my next step should be. I felt dejected.

The following day I was cycling to school when in the middle of a monstrous intersection a piece of my bike fell off. Of course it didn’t just fall off, it had to also wedge itself between my frame and back tire, hindering my rolling action and almost catapulting me in front of an oncoming tram. I picked up the bike, carried it to the other side and tied it back together with postie rubber bands. The most depressing part of this whole thing was when I realized I couldn’t afford to buy duct-tape to tie it back together. Things just couldn’t go on like this. Thank god for the text message that arrived shortly after class. My awesome workmate from the post had come up with a possible plan of action. I was to turn up for a free ‘help session’ offered by a local branch of the political party she was involved with.

Political party, aye? Huh. I checked the fine print just in case. You do know I’m just a geek, right? I don’t really do or know anything about this whole politics business. But apparently that didn’t matter in the slightest. At the help session, everyone was welcome and experienced people were on hand to make calls and take on the evil meat-headed fist of orange bureaucracy which currently had me crushed against the wrong side of the exit door. I was picked up from class. Cautiously stoked I willingly tagged along on my rattling bike-wreck. In a rare fit of good fortune we were the only ones there. I was invited to share my tale of misfortune. I explained the ins and the outs of the situation – me, far away from home but apparently living with my parents and hence scammed out of my allowance because of a clerical error. The woman laughed incredulously and said it was the most ridiculous thing she had ever heard. I liked her immediately.

Moments later and she was on the phone. I swear in my time I have never heard anyone speak to a government employee as well as she did. This woman was pure genius. She just started unloading my tale of woe on the poor operator and whenever they even made an attempt at re-butting she just ran over them with her enormous truck full of plain, outspoken logic. Nobody could get rid of her fast enough. She raced through the departments, smacked into the one we needed and gave them a piece of her mind, throwing in that she might have to mention to a political leader if necessary. My mate and I stood in the corner silently cheering her on. Eventually she hung up, victorious, but unsure if anything eventuate from it. Not to worry - suddenly there was all kinds of action. An email arrived immediately. Had I seen this letter saying that I was being signed out of Amsterdam, sent July 9? Well no, or this whole thing could have been prevented, you fool. Plus, surely I’m not the only one who knows you shouldn’t entirely trust the international postal system…

The verdict? Because I hadn’t laid eyes on the letter, my claim that it was unfair to take away my student allowance was grounded. I was to receive a refund of my paid “debts” and all owed allowance as soon as possible. Up until now, this money has yet to eventuate, but apparently it is set to arrive next week - a mere four days before my last day of study. I would be lying if I said I wasn’t excited.

Anybody else ever had government issues as exciting or rediculous as this one?

Finally, I have returned to blogging! Thank goodness. Curse all this school work for getting in the way of winning flights.

The story, as it stands – I arrived in Canada and was immediately set upon by a giant furry thing and some blue monkeys (ahem, Smurfs). That pretty much sums it up. So where to from there? Well, firstly, one of the blue people advised me to get off at the wrong bus stop and I quickly learned that just because you’re on the right street in Vancouver doesn’t mean you’re anywhere near your destination. You see, streets/avenues/whatever in Canada can stretch from one end of the earth to the other and you can walk for miles without encountering number 3185, or whatever house it is you’re looking for. Mental note to self. One large suitcase dragging mission later and I was wedged into my tiny basement suite in East Van alongside one Mexican, one German and another rather homosexual Czech flatmate, away from all the Chinese signage outside (Surely this is Canada, and not Hong Kong? I’m fairly certain I checked that…), and seconds away from bashing my head yet again on the low ceilings clearly not designed for Dutch tall-ness. The Marmite was safely stowed in the kitchen cabinet. All was well.

The very next day I escaped my dungeon abode and took on the rain-beaten East Van (aka. Hong-couver), armoured with my wilting umbrella and a book of 10 bus passes. I was a (wo)man on a mission. I needed one thing and one thing only – a functional scanner, and preferably one with some kind of ‘will-work-no-matter what’ guarantee. Oh and some bedding. Fine, that’s two things. Whatever. My first trip outside was bizarre. As I said, Asian signage was everywhere. The bus went for miles and I found myself in some kind of industrial estate, but then there it was – a giant computer store, like an oasis in a truck stop. I went inside. I obtained said scanner. I battled it onto the bus and shouldered it back into the dungeon. I turned it on, tried it out. It sounded like a screeching group of 5 year old violinists, but it sure as hell could scan and that’s all I needed.

Two days later and I had made myself at home in the public library. It’s not as bad as it sounds, in fact it’s rather a nice one: big, tall, imposing. There was room for my head under the ceiling. I watched as protest marches, giant swaths of blue clones and enormous Quatchi’s waddled past the building. Canadians pulled on all manner of red woolen outfits, including one amazing hand-knitted, package/enhancing one-piece suit adorned in a giant felt CANADA. Clearly seeing this suit changed my life. I studied on regardless. watched the opening ceremony in a pub, checked out a skier doing tricks on a trampoline outside and then returned to the library. Vancouver went wild with massive parties as I desperately crammed more chemistry into my leaking brain. Exam day and I was up at 4am. Funnily enough it was dark as night. I turned on the screeching scanner and mentally apologized to my sleeping flatmates. The exam paper arrived in my inbox. I set to work. My pathetic brain sludged around in several cups of coffee but refused to produce the goods. Time ticked on. I answered questions and sent them when they were finished. The noise was ridiculous. The exam comprised of no less than 8 questions. Question 5 and I was two hours in when the scanner decided to give up the ghost.

No screeching, no cowbells, no nothing. I poked in vain. I answered another question. Caffeine and adrenaline leaked from my pores. I poked some more. Frantically this time. Another question. I unplugged the over-rated plastic box of doom and cursed its uselessness. Yes another question. One more to go. I plugged it back in, I pressed buttons and swore like a maniac. The blessed screeching returned and I thanked the chemistry gods profusely. Too soon. Halfway through sending the sixth question and I realized that time was running out. My bludgeoned brain refused to function as I stormed through question 8. I emailed 1-6 as insurance, and later 7-8. Only the first six made it within the allotted time and the last were rejected. I hung my head like a marathon runner on the 38km mark. I banished the evil scanner to the depths of my wardrobe. I drank yet more coffee. It was only 8am and already I was mildly traumatized.

The days went by. I bonded with Vancouver and the flatties. The Olympics were fun, the partying was ridiculous. Ironically, it was far warmer than it had ever been during that entire European winter I had just escaped from. The snow melted and I went outside without polypro. I watched one event. I partied in the Irish and Dutch houses. I cheered for the Canadian [ice] hockey team and I drank Canadian beer. Eventually the fun was over. The last Quatchi wandered out of the closing ceremony, the ticker-tape parade debris disappeared, the complaining British journalists departed, the homeless were let out of their shanty-town-like enclosure, Vancouver returned to normality and the paperwork was finally rounded off for my internship. I got down to business. There were tests to be run, reagents to wait for. Stacks of reading and so forth.

For months my lab machine and I bonded. I was mesmerized by its rotating robotic arms and sheer inability to function. My only job was to get it to work and this was proving to be a challenge. I spent up to 50 hours a week at that place trialing, improving, testing, running and finally repeating test after test. I sampled dead people´s blood and my own pee (and almost everyone else´s in the lab) till I thought I would go mad and start flinging little pink-lidded pee-pots and blood tubes everywhere. Eventually we both made it, my machine and I. Nobel-prize worthy it was not, but as you might have guessed I am a geek at heart and so content to shuffle around in my little lab coat amongst humming machinery, preparing (yet another) round of slightly useless test samples.

Unfortunately, one of the most important lessons that I learned in Canada was not how to get my machine to function, nor how to flee a basement suite and end up in a house full of Irish guys and kiwis who have marmite, or that moose can never be found when you´re looking for them but every other type of animal in Canada will show up instead, or even what beer spray in a zip-lock bag looks like (don´t ask), but rather that even geeks like me can´t survive on nothing. Vancouver, let it be known, is NOT a cheap place to live and I admit this caught me slightly unawares despite my Amsterdam surviving-on-nothing-strategies. In the beginning, all was well. My parents paid the rent, my Dutch student allowance and my under-the-table return to baby-sitting was just enough to cover the rest. I was cruising on my usual shoestring budget and thought nothing of it.

But then the email came. `Final exam mark – 5.4.´ A 5.5 was required to pass. Oh the terrible cruelty of it all. Upon returning to the Flatlands, the University kindly informed me, I would need to take a whole new course to make up for lost points and hence pay another round of fees. Oof. But as with all my stories, this was only the start of the end. Surely you saw that coming. I only had just over two more months of internship to go but the dominoes were falling. The messages trickled in. Please pay your school fees for the coming semester. Previously we had allowed partial payment, but now we expect it in a lump sum. I studiously ignored these messages. Shortly thereafter – you must pay fees NOW. All right, FINE. I gave them two months-worth of allowance and all the cash I had left. The savings pool dipped below threshold. Within days of spending these last funds and it was revealed that I was bleeding my poor parents dry. I disallowed further rent funding and wallowed in guilt. I couldn´t afford my bus pass and had to bike to my 50-hour-a-week job for which I got paid nothing. Even coffee was proving too expensive. I was cranky and things were getting hairy.

I turned to plan B – the trusty Dutch student loan. Accessible at any time, apparently. I tried to log onto my internet account, but a log-in code sent via txt message was required. As my el cheapo Dutch cell phone can´t make it further than 300m away from the border without carking it, this was clearly not an option. Instead I got up at the crack of dawn, went to the 24 hour internet cafe and rang them on skype. ‘Yes, you can apply for a loan using a paper application form. But expect a processing time of around 3 months. I´m afraid only the internet loan is available immediately.’ Wait hang on – what now? 3 MONTHS? Ah, cripes. Loan Fail. Insert plan C - the trusty NZ National Bank $1000 overdraft. ‘You need to be employed and have proof of income to reinstate this service’. I didn´t bother to reply to that one.

By now things were downright ugly. There were only 5 weeks to go. Dinner was toast, and come to think of it so was lunch and often breakfast. I freaked out when someone took two of my eggs from the fridge. Never a good sign, that one. The Irish drank as usual and ate the last of the marmite. In sympathy they let me move to the couch in the lounge for the last month so I wouldn´t have to pay rent. I scrambled around. I got down to my last $10.42 and decided enough was enough. I got some dodgy work under the table, made some poor decisions. I clung to my internship for dear life and was worse off for it. Life was harsh.
Thank goodness for good-natured ´Kewi´/Irish flatmates and token but awesome Canadians to drag me through the bad times or things probably wouldn´t have gone as well as they did. The last few weeks of summer, bolstered by occasional sushi, BBQs, and beach swims and I managed to grind my way through endless graphs and calculations. The date of my pre-paid return flight slowly crept it´s way around the calendar. I was broke, stoked and ready. Clutching my half-written thesis I packed my suitcase, took the sky-train (underground) one last time, said a final farewell to the red maple leaves and ran for the Flatlands.

And here I am now. But more on that later! Keep voting, there´s only 2 weeks to go and we´re ALMOST AT 500 VOTES!!!

All right – enough distraction with cheesy postie videos; it’s time for another tale of woe. Or actually, a tale before woe. A pre-woe tail? Oh for goodness sake. Just a STORY then. Happy now? But first, let’s recap. In the previous episode we had left our hero just as she had choked (much like the All Blacks in the world cup) and failed the final exam of the final paper of her final year of studying. A right balls-up by anyone’s standards. Unfortunately, there’s plenty more where that came from. But first - a little context.

Many months prior to this I experienced some kind of brain fart, resulting in the ‘brilliant’ idea to do the compulsory 6-month internship that makes up part of my MSc outside the cloistered world of The Flatlands and instead off in the wild lands of Canada. Or not so wild. Whatever. Canada, in any case. The thought process that led to this was that perhaps I might want to live there one day. Sounds like a bizarre reason, and it was. Clearly this did not come to pass. Pre-emptive planning Fail. All I have is the usual excuse that I use for most situations - it seemed like a good idea at the time.

Back to the context. As part of Plan Canada, I had somehow managed to worm my way into a laboratory in Vancouver via the classic ‘my guy who knows this guy who knows this other guy who can phone another guy and email some random guy and plenty of greasing later you somehow end up with an internship’ kind of set-up. There was months-worth of wheeling and dealing but in the end my foot was well and truly in the door, or at least to my knowledge. Up to the knee, in fact. I had filled out all the paperwork, signed on all the dotted lines. And despite having to go through some vague consulate in Berlin for my work permit, two tries, 9 weeks and a loss of 120 Euro later that too made it into my mailbox, and not a moment too soon (and no, I didn’t deliver it myself). I was stoked. Time was pressing. I booked flights. I cancelled the lease extension on my shipping container and prepared myself for 3 weeks worth of couch-surfing before D-day. I handed in my Postie notice. Look out, Canadia! Here I come.

But it’s me who should have been looking. Closer inspection of the fine print and it was brutally revealed that Plan Canada had more holes than my inner tube after a night at the bars. Conditions of the Canadian work permit, summarized: Thou shalt not work for anyone, doing anything under any circumstances apart from for your internship. In other words, no working for anyone who will actually pay you or we’ll come at you with maple leaf-shaped bum paddle. Postie Sooz, the Canadian edition was hereby flung into an early and shallow grave. Come to think of it, so was Sooz the Canadian librarian, bartender, waitress, cleaner, envelope-licker, nappy-changer, professional can-opener, pooper-scooper or even dishy. I was hugely put out by this turn of events. It was exactly 5 weeks before D-day and it was clear that neither duct-tape nor no. 8 wire were going to be able to hold this thing together. Things were going pear-shaped, and fast.

Of course I considered backing out. Curse my persistent stubborn-ness for not doing so. I could have remained in the relative safety of The Flatlands, licking my wounds, stomping my foot occasionally and waiting it out until the next internship came along. But no. Instead I paced the tiny square of my container, fumed a bit and complained to anyone who would listen. Yee of little faith, was the word from my ever-supportive parents. Why don’t we just help you out a little with some funding along the way and you’ll make it in the end. In other words, here we are laying down the safety net – now go and walk that tightrope like your life depends on it. And to be honest there was little choice in the matter. I had given up my container and the prospect ending up near-homeless (again) was not an attractive one. I’d booked the flights, insured myself up to the eyeballs for no small fee and paid for the visa (twice). The whole thing was like running a front loading washing machine – it doesn’t matter how many lone socks you find littered around the place, once it’s on, that door is staying shut and there’s no way back in or out.

I succumbed to my fate. The funds were nowhere near what they should have been but I soldiered on regardless. In a state of repressed mild panic I finally caved-in to internal pressure and increased my postie hours for fear of extreme poverty (at the expense of my exams). Cue enormous snowstorm, and surprise! Here we are, back where we left off at the end of the last tale of woe: poor, slightly thinner and none-the-wiser. A few days later and you can add homeless to the back-end of that list. The Sooz had left the container.

Of course it was business as usual. I may have been crashing on couches and fold-out beds randomly all over Amsterdam, but I was still working and there was a roof over my head. All right, so I had failed an exam. But apparently that happens to the best of ‘em here and that’s why God created re-sits. Sweet. Unless, of course, that re-sit is scheduled exactly five days after you leave. Significantly less sweet. I approached the appropriate teacher and prepared to beg and plead. Could I please sit the exam on another day? No. Pretty please? No. Could I write a report instead? Of course not. Are there any other options? No. I recruited the help of another teacher, and eventually I was grudgingly allowed to re-sit. But only on their terms, of course. I was to take the exam in Canada, during the scheduled time and would send my scanned answers via email before the 3 hour time limit was up. Brilliant? We all thought so. Oh wait no hang on a minute – 2pm Amsterdam time? Isn’t that, like, 4am in Vancouver? Yes indeed. Oh bugger. I was going to need some serious coffee for that one.

D-day arrived and I was nevertheless stoked and excited. I was doing this! I was off, escaping The Flatlands on something other than a bicycle. Ready to show these Canadians a thing or two about what we ‘Kewis’ are made of. After battling through the snow and emptying out half my luggage at Schiphol (I’m sorry, but your suitcase is still 2kg over the weight limit. Would you like to pay the 60 euro or take more out?), my jar of Marmite and I made it through the ridiculous American security interview process (is this enormous grey school-approved Casio circa 2001 REALLY a calculator? Are you quite sure, Ma’am? Is this actually marmite? Did you pack it yourself?) and jetted via Chicago to Vancouver. We landed. I got off the plane, collected my visa, picked up my luggage. Marmite was safely in my purse. All was well.

I took a full three steps onto Canadian soil with my little luggage trolley and was immediately set upon by a Big Brown Furry Monster. I was horribly confused. I thought to myself, all right, so I was warned for bears and moose and things but I can’t understand why nobody ever bothered to tell me about THIS thing. I flailed madly, escaped its clutches, removed an errant hairball from my mouth and studied my assailant. What the, erm, Fudge? Has this thing got blue earmuffs and Ugg boots on? Is this Sasquatch? Where on earth have I ended up? But the madness just did not stop there. No sooner had I disengaged from Big Furry Monster over here or I was set upon by a bunch of loonies dressed identically in bright blue jackets. They all started talking at once. It was like Charlie and the Chocolate factory. Or Smurfs with AD-HD. Did I want information? Did I know where to go? Where was I staying? What did I NEED and how could they HELP??

It appeared that I was the only actual passenger in the terminal. I felt like Alice. I expected giant teacups and talking rabbits. I was somewhat confused, to say the least. And then the penny dropped. The winter OLYMPICS. Duh. Of course Fuzzy Sasquatch thing in Uggs, earmuffs and mittens with an army of over-informative Smurf helpers would be wandering around the airport at that time. Why wouldn’t they be? That makes perfect sense. Back to the situation. I just sort of standing there. Finally, I opened my mouth and prayed for inspiration. “Um…”. Several over-enthusiastic pairs of regular eyes above blue jackets and one pair of giant brown M&Ms stared at me expectantly with barely concealed excitement. “Um… um… Does the ticket machine for the Skytrain take $20 notes?” The Smurfs seemed to deflate with disappointment. This was clearly not the kind of exasperated Olympics-related questioning they had been hoping for. One of them said yes in a snarky tone. I said thanks. An awkward silence followed. And then suddenly and miraculously we were swimming in a sea of orange-clad Dutch people, straight off the direct flight from Amsterdam, madly tipsy on plane-wine, frolicking around their suitcases singing and cheering at irregular intervals.

The cascade of orange merriment engulfed the Smurfs and they were carried off into the distance. I could still hear them informing and explaining at record speeds from a safe distance. Even Hairy Brown thing looked a little out of his league surrounded by fluorescent tang gone mad. Feather boas, flags and other orange debris was flying in all directions. Strangely enough I, unlike the Hairy Brown Beast, immediately felt more at ease. It was like I’d never left The Flatlands. I ducked through and around the orange with practiced ease, avoided being poked in the eye by several flags, popped out a side door, pulled my suitcase through, sorted myself out and walked off into the big Vancouver like nothing had happened. A (not-so-orange)-ninja to the last. Even without mail.

Will the Orange-Ninja Postie survive this mail-less Canadian encounter?
Stay tuned! And keep voting. You’re all awesome :)

Are there ever times in your life that you wish you had an extra set of arms? Like one of those fantastic looking Indian goddesses? Just imagine all the things you could do at one time. I’ll bet mothers with triplets think this all the time.
I, of course, despite my recent rendezvous with maternity wear (re previous blog: ‘belly fashion’), do not have triplets or in fact babies in any numbers. But I did have that thought yesterday as I was cycling along with my laptop, a puzzle and three boxes of giant chalk stacked on my back carrier, holding an umbrella (rain as usual) and balancing a birthday cake on my handlebars. A rediculous and highly unlikely scenario to end up in, but of course one which failed to surprise or impress even the most attentive of Flatland dwellers.

Yes I am getting to the point. And that is that there are very few feats of athleticism/amazing balancing acts involving bicycles which can impress a Flatland-er. I have seen many things transported on bicycles here in ways I never thought possible; couches, Christmas trees, the kitchen sink, giant inflatable crocodiles, dogs, cats, canaries, absurd quantities of children all clinging on like monkeys and, lest we forget the obvious, a wedding cake and a 50L keg of beer. All of these things impressed me and yet the real Flatland-ers didn’t even bat a lash. In fact, there is only one time that I have managed to impress a Flatlander with my amazing cycling skills.

It all started a long, long time ago. Last December, to be exact. It was getting to be mighty chilly here in the Flatlands. The Flatland-ers, who are not huge fans of extreme temperatures of any persuasion, were becoming Unimpressed. It was the start of the month of Christmas. For those of you who aren’t very on to it, December is the busiest and most annoying time of year for Posties. There are ridiculously small Christmas cards which one must force through mail slots and somehow not lose track of, and also many, many parcels which also require forcing. Because of this, there is just a hell of a lot more mail. My little postie trolley was fit to bursting. Bags of mail were piled on top and would bail off the side at only the most inconvenient of moments (eg. In the middle of a busy intersection, most likely right in front of an oncoming tram). And like I said, last year was Cold. No amount of Marmite for breakfast could save my blue and exposed fingers from the evil snapping mail slots.

Because of all the time spent accidently flinging tiny Christmas cards into shrubbery and piles of dog turd (yes that actually happened), and of course the retrieval of fallen mail bags, my delivery hours were getting longer. Instead of the usual 3-4 hour stint, my walk was taking more like 5 or 6. Many times I found myself still delivering past 5pm, trying to read addresses in the pitch dark to the pitiful glow of a bike light I strapped to jacket pocket. T’was depressing, not gonna lie.

And then came the snow. At first there was just a little. It was fun. In the morning there were snowmen, and by afternoon the footpaths were cleared and my postie trolley could roll along unhindered. But the fun didn’t last. There was more snow, and more and more and more. It snowed for weeks. Check out the pics below this blog. There was so much snow that no amount of force could push my overloaded trolley through the embankments and I would have to drag it most of the way through my run. I prayed for the mail Gods to magic me up a mail sled. Somehow my prayers were unanswered. Of course when it wasn’t snowing there were slabs of ice where half-melted snow had once lain. I clung to my trolley for dear life as we slid uncontrollably across roads and bridges. Locals were skating on the canals for the first time in decades. I watched people bail off bicycles and cobblestones as if we were in the latest round of ACC ads.

It was ridiculous. It felt like Mother Nature was taking the mickey out of us all. A great chunk of Europe ran out of salt and grit for road clearing, and suddenly everyone on the back roads were left to fend for themselves. The army of snow-plows here in the Flatlands could do little or nothing to save us. It was at exactly this time that I managed to impress a Dutch guy. At that moment, I was trying to make it from the mail sorting centre to the depot where my trolley hangs out. There was snow and ice everywhere. My bike was fully loaded, there was mail balanced on or tied to every available bit of space.

Every move I made my back tire threatened to slide out from under me. But I was going for it. Mother Nature or not – The Mail Must Get Through. The Dutch army had a series of recruitment ads on tv at the time. People showing absurd amounts of physical tenacity were labeled as “geschikt” or ‘suitable’, whereas a guy too lazy to let the pizza delivery dude in was ‘ongeschikt’ (unsuitable). You can guess which they were looking for. As I was motoring towards my mail run I passed Dutch guy and he yelled out after me, “GESCHIKT!!!” It’s the biggest compliment I’ve ever received in the Flatlands. I treasure it to this day.

Unfortunately, although my commitment to mail delivery was unsurpassed, the long hours I pulled were at the expense of my study. December was not only mail madness but also final exam time, and I cannot count the amount of times I would come home (to my shipping container) after yet another 6-7 hour delivery, spend 20mins in the shower regaining the feeling in my fingers and toes, open my books after dinner and find myself face down, asleep and drooling all over the page 3 hours later. I spent so much time walking in the snow that when I ended up at the doctor for a routine check-up, she found that there was 7kg less of me than what there was before, making me officially ‘underweight’, a feat which to my knowledge I have never achieved either before or since. In classic Dutch fashion the good doctor advised me not to panic but simply to “eat more cheese”. Sometimes I wonder if everyone here is in on some kind of cheese-selling scheme. Which again raises the question – what’s with the lack of marmite??? But I digress.

Despite all of this, I passed the first exam with flying colours but just like the legendary All Blacks’ World Cup legacy, I made it to the last and final exam for my masters and choked at the last minute. A 4.5 out of 10. It was not to be.

Want to know what happened after this? Check out the next installment of ‘a series of unfortunate events.’ Feel free to hit that vote button a few times while you’re at it.

Thanks for all the support so far!

There’s nothing worse. They don’t call it ‘going postal’ for nothing.

And what is the relevance of this, you may ask? Well sit tight kiddies and let me explain. I’ve decided to change tack for a bit and deviate from my Series of Unfortunate Events to give you some important background info. Which most of you will already know. You see, I am one such postal worker. Not necessarily a disgruntled one, but a postal worker nonetheless. And aside from excessive study it is probably the only real and long-term ‘career’ that I have had. Depressing? Slightly. But secretly I love it.

It all started back in the lovely Queenstown sometime in 2007. I was happily working away at Queenstown Lodge, hanging out in reception handing out keys, explaining the essence of Marmite to tourists, selling bungy jumps and enjoying my daily 50,000 stair walk to the lower rooms due to our insanely annoying lack of lift. Then we changed management, one of the rooms almost burned down when I was sole charge, I kept having to work bar shifts and suddenly life wasn’t so rosy anymore. I decided to look for greener pastures. Preferably ones situated outside of my little reception box.

I spotted an ad in the classifieds. ‘NZ post: delivery officer wanted’. Mail, aye? Surely I could do that. I loaded my CV onto the site. They rang me in the middle of a bar shift. Hang on, just let me pour this guy a beer. Would you like to come in for an interview? I surely would. I show up, pimped in my interview outfit and feeling massively out of place amongst shorts and sneakers. Have you delivered mail before? No. Have you got a motorbike license? Erm, no. Have you ridden a motorbike before? Quad bike, yes. Actual motorbike? No. And yet somehow I was hired. Needless to say they didn’t put me on a motorbike, or at least not to start with. I was strapped into mail bags like a veritable pack donkey and sent on my way.

At first I made a poor performance. The mail did not just fly into my sorting case as I had hoped. Apparently a Bachelor in Biochemistry does nothing to prepare you for postal work. Go figure. The sorting was slow and the outcome was average at best. Delivery proved just as difficult. They gave me the easiest run they had and yet I still sucked. I plodded along with my 20kg mail bags. A pack donkey I was not. I was tired. The hidden location of mailboxes eluded me. My fingers were cold. 37 Robinson St ended up with mail for 37 Robertson Rd. For this I received a verbal hiding from one of the residents which I still remember to this day (and which I still think was a little uncalled for). I was a little girl in a big mail world. I was Disgruntled.

I persevered. The Mail would not beat me. Two weeks later and things were looking up. I had made friends. The tiny blonde chick on the town centre run who had previously kicked my rear end at sorting and the equally tiny lone female motorcycle deliverer, aka. The Maori Ninja, and I were a tight bunch. They were awesome. They taught me the tricks of the trade. Within a month I had negotiated my first town run. Every other week and I was out of the suburbs. Move, tourists! The Mail is coming through.

I survived it all. Pouring rain, sleet, snow. Freezing cold. Excessive heat. Enormous hail stones. Tiny mailboxes, huge mailboxes, hidden mailboxes. Mailboxes in ridiculously high places, or as I like to call them, post boxes in the sky. Mailboxes perched on cliffs. Ice cream containers posing as mailboxes. Sheet ice so excessive that I had to cling to shrubbery to pull myself up hills, after which of course the only way down was the classic bum-down and slide. They gave us special ice-grips for those days. Nothing helped. Streets so steep I would hit my forehead on my knees as I climbed up them. On several first runs I dropped stacks of mail, mixed them all up and became horrendously lost. I no doubt incorrectly delivered countless items.

And yet I was, in every sense of the word, a real NZ Postie. I would deliver even if it killed me. Parcels, Christmas cards, birthday cards, dirty magazines, postcards, foreign newspapers, letters from Nanna, tv guides, and unfortunately, bills; I carried them all. I knew all the secret ally-ways, which shops were where, which shops were moving, which families were moving, which names belonged to which businesses, and how many Brazilians were living in 6A Remarkables Cres. I memorized screeds of post boxes. I posed for photos, I gave endless directions. I set off burglar alarms in shops with my postie-bag contents. I became trapped in doorways when my bag load was too wide. I smiled, I waved. I distracted dogs with toys and ran for mailboxes. I avoided mud puddles and yet I always stepped in dog poo. I delivered by bike, by foot. I could fling mail into boxes at pace and without braking. A year on and I was awesome (if I do say so myself).

And then I left. I departed the lovely Queenstown and moved far, far away to The Flatlands. I figured my days of Postie-ing had come to an end. I was wrong. After the demise of the nest-egg (for which I refer you to my previous blog) I was in need of work for which my not-so-advanced Dutch language skills were sufficient. I turned back to the only thing I knew, and knew well – Mail. My postal career was going international. I googled with instant results. TnT Post – Amsterdam Delivery Centre. Mail delivery staff wanted. Again, I uploaded my CV. They rang me an hour later. It says here you have experience. Is that correct? Yes, but it was in NZ. I’m sure that won’t be a problem. Mail is always the same. Come in and we’ll chat. See you in an hour. Two days later and I was walking. Of course, the mail is not the same but the concept is similar.

For starters, I was dressed in orange. Now I know I’m meant to be kind of Dutch, but orange is just not a colour I look sexy in. I longed for the good, old fashioned red of NZ post. Secondly, The Flatlands are a bit weird. I was used to the whole one house, one mailbox concept. I was confused by all these people stacked in tiny, doll-sized houses. There is only one door but there could be 30 different families behind it. It was all a bit strange. It took me ages to figure out what this ‘house’ concept is. But some things were better. The mail may be the same but here there is a hell of a lot more of it. So they gave me a trolley. I now push my mail instead of carry it, and sometimes I cycle. Apart from bridges, it’s flat so it’s easy. For 18 months I walked the same run. It was a long run, but nobody realized quite how long until I stopped walking it and they had to split it in two parts as no one else could manage. Now I am respected for my awesome walking capabilities. That’s right, Dutchies – this is how we little NZ postie chicks do it. We eat marmite for breakfast and then we walk for miles. Can’t handle the jandal? Toughen up.

Of course there were times when things are a bit grim. It rains an awful lot here. There’s only so much soggy mail that one can handle before it all gets a bit much. People sometimes feel the need to make stupid comments about my mail trolley. ‘Are you practicing pram-pushing?’ Yes clearly I am, by balancing 10 bags of mail on my 3-bag-capacity mail trolley, much in the same way as I intend to stack toddlers in a stroller. Good work, tool. I am often abused, particularly when I am unable to explain why a. a piece of mail hasn’t arrived yet or, b. I am unable to give directions in fluent French/German/Hungarian/Turkish/Greek. Mail slots can be vicious creatures. It’s easy to lose several fingers if you’re not paying attention. And of course, if you throw the mail in the wrong slot, it is gone. There’s no way back.

But like I said, I still love it. I have embraced my jaffa-like appearance. I am that flash of orange that delivers your mail when you least expect it. I deliver at speeds that no one else can (except Malu). I am The Orange Ninja-postie: bringing kiwi awesome-ness to the 1013 postal code in Amsterdam since 2008.

Is your Postie as brilliant as I am?

100 votes yeah!! Look at us go! Thanks everyone for the awesome support.

Few of you will have noticed, but there was a brief lull in blogging for a moment there. With good reason, mind. For I have been out working, serving the community (sort of) and earning my keep. I see that you are confused by this. I can tell what you’re thinking.

Wait – didn’t you just say you were a student? In which case aren’t you just some snotty, middle-classed brat who went to university because you couldn’t be bothered working a “real” job, now attends class for only an hour every other day and spends the rest of your spare time either being an alcoholic lay-about who vandalizes property and is in every way a bain to society, or pointlessly reading art-lit magazines in dingy cafes pretending to be ‘academically minded’ for hours while drinking liters of espresso from thimble-size cups with handles so small that no real human being can ever fit their thumb through? And all this courtesy of the enormous silver spoon jammed into your mouth (or possibly your backside?) And aren’t you right now just having a whinge because mummy and daddy are refusing to fund a return trip to the glorious EnZed from your latest irresponsible escapade?

Well yes, all of this is partially true. I could be snotty, although I very much doubt it unless I have a truly heinous cold. I enjoy an alcoholic beverage every now and again, but I haven’t partaken in any vandalism (mostly because I’m too chicken, but also because I am the type of person who would inevitably get caught), I am a huge fan of espresso although most of the time I just end up drinking instant, and I can with 100% certainty say that I don’t know anyone who could fund me a return trip to NZ right now (except you, marmite! Take me, I am yours…) let alone my parents, as much as they would love to do so. In summary, as in the Matrix – there is no spoon. In saying that, my wonderful parents have supported me and bailed me out of countless financial conundrums during my profession as eternal student, even beyond their own means and for this I am of course insanely grateful. I really have little to complain about. Oh yes, there is a possibility that this is an irresponsible escapade. I will let you continue reading and make up your own minds.

When I first came to The Flatlands, I thought I had it all figured out. This trip and the study was planned and in the bag, without any real need for parental funding. What I lacked in the silver spoon department I had made up for in cunning tactic. When I received my admittance into this course I was 8 months past graduation. I then deferred for a year and spent all that time (around 20 months total) working and saving. You heard it right people – out in the “real” world, working “real” jobs and many of them. I saved at least half my wages. It was brutal. But by the time August ’08 rolled around, the pain was worth it - I had a Moa-sized nest egg all polished, shiny-looking and ready for take-off.

And that wasn’t the only thing to keep me afloat. Using the force of my ‘other’ passport, I had sneakily hooked myself up with a Dutch student allowance. In lue of an actual silver spoon, the Dutch government had conveniently provided me with one in the form of a base-rate student allowance, which everyone here is entitled to. I even got some extra due to my parents’ meager earning in the eyes of all these Euro-collecting Flatland-dwellers. A pseudo-silver spoon – in other words, enough to pay the rent and a little bit more. Together with the Moa-sized nest egg and I figured I was set for the duration of my course. Brilliant, right? I thought so too.

The title alone should have told you it was not to be. Unexpected hitches arose as the Master plan (see what I did there?) was being carried out. The first of these was the Great Financial Crisis. Stock markets fell, banks collapsed, petrol became absurdly expensive and loads of people lost their jobs. Of course I chose that moment to unwittingly trot halfway across the world, happy as Larry with my little suitcase and my great Master plan. Meanwhile the NZ dollar, cresting the wave of carnage, plummeted to a value of very little and my shiny Moa-sized nest egg went rolling merrily after. Of course I should have known. It’s not like Moa’s could fly or anything. Nor could they climb out of holes with their crummy giant-brown-round-body-with-neck-on-two-stick-legs-and-no-other-limbs-type design. Clearly the Master plan was flawed from the start

Damage was substantial. At least two-thirds of the nest-egg was lost in transfer. What was left paid fees, rent, deposit, and very little else. I was briefly and manically depressed. I thought of all the things I could have brought with that money instead of this ridiculous attempt at post-graduate education. Then I recovered and turned to plan B. The plan of ‘all study and no work’ was out the window. Unsurprisingly, plan B fell back on the age-old tactic of part time employment. There have been very few times in my life that I have spent studying without the trusty ‘bit on the side’. Because of this, I have been employed as almost everything under the sun from caregiver for demented elderly and boiler worker (not joking, I shoveled a lot of coal), right through to bookstore worker and bartender. So I did what I had to do – I strapped on my blue collar and joined the Dutch workforce.

At first things were fine. I was working a few hours a week, it was fitting in with my classes and with my student allowance I was getting by easily. Once again I refer to the title. As sound as it looked, my house of cards was set to fall. December came and went. Christmas in The Flatlands for the first time in years. To the disappointment of many grandparents (I have three) and one very Great aunt I manage to get food poisoning with epic timing and spent both days of Christmas (they like to live it up here) throwing up vigorously. It did wonders for my post-holidays figure but I wonder if it was worth it. However, the important part of this story happens in January. The 23rd, to be exact. Precisely one day after the first student allowance payments for 2009. I stared at my bank account statement. And I wondered where the rest of the money had gone.

So I called. ‘You are the 17th person in the cue. Please hold and we will be with you shortly’. My cell phone battery ran out. ‘You are the 29th person in the cue. This is a busy time for the IB-Groep calling centre. Please have patience. We will be with you shortly’. Finally an actual person on the line. Is there a problem with my allowance? It’s suddenly and without warning gone down by half. Was there an error? No I’m afraid that’s not a mistake. We will send you a letter with the details, and should there be any further problems please do not hesitate to call again. The letter arrived two days later. Dear Student, You were previously receiving the full student allowance. However, in light of us discovering that in 2006 your parents earned above the income limit for this allowance, we have now docked your allowance by half. Thank you and good day.

My parents were baffled. My mother tried calling. But sir, it’s in NZ dollars. Clearly this is a mistake. To no avail. The response: if you would like to appeal, you can take us to court. At your own expense. The battle was lost. The Master plan was in tatters. I was beyond gutted. Where to now? I was four months in, I could hardly just give up and leave. Of course I considered it but it wasn’t worth it. I decided to stay. I increased my work hours and soldiered on as best I could. My parents came to my aid, paying my ridiculously expensive health insurance to give me some leeway. Things were tight but not impossible. The summer holidays arrived, with all the joys of hot weather and fresh income. I took a break, did some seriously shoe-string travelling around some warm bits of Europe with an awesome mate of mine and came back refreshed and ready for year #2.

Stay tuned for the second chapter :)

I am taking a wee break from my tales of woe (of which there is only one so far, but whatever) to tell you about my latest shopping expedition. Not that I shop very often, and when there is shopping to be done it is normally hampered by lack of funds. But you see, this is ‘special occasion’ style shopping where one has an excuse to ‘cut loose’, so to speak.

I hit H&M with wild expectations. Straight to the back of the shop where the specialized sections hang out. Accessories, lingerie and the all important… ‘zwangerschapskleding’. Bugger all these skinny girl clothes near the entrance. I was on a mission.

I wondered what kind of feedback I would get, if any. How far along are you, dear? Is this your first? Is it going to be a boy or a girl? It should be obvious by now that there I was, shopping for maternity wear. However, to any of these questions I would have had to reply no, I’m afraid these are just fat rolls you are looking at adoringly as I am not at all pregnant. And yes, I am going to go try on these four ‘Mama-licious’ maternity items thank you very much, and I don’t care whether you think I am clinically insane or not.

Because I am going to be an awesome aunty.

My one and only, oh-so-fabulous sister back home is having her first baby and I am VERY excited. So excited, in fact, that I am trying to make up for the horrendous lack of fashion outlets in her area (and secretly my lack of presence) by sending her trendy mum-to-be wear from across the pond so that she may be fashionably attired and comfortable for the next few months. Or several ponds, as the case may be. As far as I’m concerned, this special little kiwi kid deserves it all (and so does mum).

In preparation for this mission, I had done the only thing I could do given the situation: I ate a lot of pies. Or at least I would have, except that meat pies aren’t exactly abundant in The Flatlands (another thing this place is lacking), so I stayed at home all day writing my thesis instead and eating stacks of chocolate biscuits and exceeding all daily recommended doses of toast. With marmite, of course.

All this just so I could be a ‘mummy-model’ and try stuff on in her place without her actually being here. Because of course she isn’t here, and nor can I get to her there. And as much as I am trying to make the whole thing sound hilarious (which of course it is), there is something just a little bit sad about it. Me, there, in the changing room, by myself. I loved it but at the same time it sucked. I never imagined myself trying on maternity wear for her and without her. Really makes you realize what you’re missing out on.

Bring this kiwi home, marmite! It’s been too long.

Within a couple of days of my arrival Amsterdam I was able to move (by bicycle, of course, dragging my little wheely-suitcase along behind me) into a place on the Grote Bickersstraat. Which is a street name, just in case you were confused by that. It’s hard to tell sometimes I know.

I had been ‘hooked up’ with this abode by my international student-ness, which meant that I was not to be homeless during the first part of my stay in the Flatlands. The wonderful people at Woonstichting the Key (ie. Property management company for student housing) made sure that I was foreseen of my every want and need including all the toiletries, mouldy food and feral hair-plugged shower drain left to me by last years’ inhabitants. Of course I was ever so grateful particularly when an administration error led to some creepy-looking cleaner guy barging into my room at 7:30am on the Sunday after I had just moved in, scaring the living daylights out of me and demanding in broken Dutch-English (or Denglish, as I like to call it) that I leave the premise immediately as I should have moved out a week ago. It was a confusing situation for both of us. I was equally pleased when, two weeks after we had all moved in, the cleaners decided to do the kitchen after all and threw out all our food in the process.

Not that the flat wasn’t the most awesome place ever. Because don’t get me wrong - it was. It was mint. It was big, had a kick-ass roof deck, brilliant location and endless entertainment provided by resident American exchange students. I remember one particularly brilliant moment when Chad* tried to drink Vla, a type of Dutch desert treat which closely resembles flavoured custard and comes in cardboard cartons. Realization that it was not chocolate milk dawned only after about 30 seconds of him standing there holding the carton to his mouth and nothing coming out. Of course, as expected, when he took a closer look to see what the problem was (“I think they ripped me off with an empty carton! But why is it so heavy?”) a great glob of it hit him squarely in the eye. Surely he should have seen that coming. Surely.

Another fond memory is of one anally-retentive neighbour ringing for the one thousandth time to complain about, say, smoke from the BBQ/clanging bike locks at 8pm/people holding a conversation in the kitchen/our entire buildings-worth of rubbish bags not fitting on the 20cm² ‘this is your rubbish spot’ paving tile out front/anything else he can think of, only to find that the “ridiculous music” he was raving on about in the middle of the day was actually Lenny Kravitz holding an outdoor concert a good 5km up the road.

But anyway. I digress. A year of good times at the Grote Bickersstraat later and the lovely people at the Key remind me that, despite my enrolment in a 2 year masters program, my housing contract expires after a year and that soon I will be sleeping in a (soggy) cardboard box under a bridge if I don’t do something about it. Is it possible to extend my lease? No. Can I apply for another contract elsewhere? No. Is there anywhere else I can live in this city? Well, considering some people have been on a waiting list for housing here for the last 9 years and counting, that would also be a No. And several weeks later - Will you accept my soul in exchange for housing? Hang on a minute, let me check with my supervisor … Erm, sorry – but No. We’ve got enough souls for the moment.

The happy ending to this story is that after much begging and pleading, my university took pity on me and had me signed up for temporary student accommodation. Which is how I ended up spending the next 4 months living in a seacan. That’s right - a shipping container. But not just any shipping container. A shipping container providing the ground floor foundation for 2 other shipping containers stacked on top of it. What was Amsterdams answer for the storage of all these pesky students running about the place and needing housing and such? Containerization**. Sounds bizarre, and it is. Although apparently it is not an entirely novel idea, as according to Wikipedia’s ‘shipping container architecture’ page (clearly an extremely reliable source) people have been making strange things out of containers for ages.

The idea is pretty simple. Like Lego, little multi-coloured 25m² (which I think is 40ft) container blocks were stacked and made into nice little buildings with running water and heating and all the rest of it. Legoland, in other words. My seacan had it all. Bathroom, little kitchenette, window, door, etc. Also mice but I got rid of those by plastering duct-tape over the holes between my lego block and those adjacent. Kiwi ingenuity and all that. Living in it was sweet, not unlike an extended camping trip in a stationary caravan. Perks included the ability to reach into the fridge while sitting at the table in the ‘living room’. And apart from the slightly depressing sight of the homeless dudes down the road in containers not unlike my own and my sister telling me the NZ government put the housing of prisoners in containers down as ‘inhumane’, I was entirely happy there. Check out pics of my former abode somewhere below this blog post. I have also posted a link of what the inside of my container looked like, filmed by a guy who lived just down the hall from me in a container identical to my own. Before viewing, it should be noted that:

a. I have never met this guy and therefore cannot be associated with him or his cheesy thumbs-up-in-the-mirror actions,
b. Why he chose to film this in the dark and not add music to make it less creepy I cannot explain,
c. I have no idea what that red thing in the bathroom is and,
d. Yes, I too am blown away by the sheer quantity of shoes in his possession. This guy has more shoes than a Malaysian International Shoe festival. Which is in fact a real festival. Google it and you will see.

So what’s the weirdest place you’ve ever ended up living (with purpose or by accident)? And is there anyone out there who owns more shoes than that guy?

Oh yes and – take me home, marmite! I miss real houses…


*Name (quite obviously) changed for privacy
**It's a real word. Honest

Here's a video of what my house looked like. Hopefully the link works:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=89tbybePq80

That’s right, it’s time for blog #2. Now, according to the “tricks and tips” part of this website, I should be busy unleashing unimaginable tales of woe about my plight as an ex-pat trapped in the back-end of yonder* on all you unsuspecting and sympathetic people out there. Of course, it should be mentioned that for starters I am not trapped in the back-end of yonder*, I am in fact bogged down in The Flatlands**. And secondly, we’ll just have to save my plight for later because today I can’t be bothered with tales of woe and would rather discuss bread. Or more importantly, the stuff you can put on it.

So I’ll bet the first thing that comes to mind when thinking of things that can go on bread and looking at this site is of course marmite. Which is logical given that it is a site made by marmite (yes that’s right I am a genius. They don’t give out masters’ degrees for nothing now do they). In my very early youth I was first introduced to the joys of marmite by my pyjama-clad sleepover buddy, who basically slapped me with a piece of toast slathered in the stuff at breakfast time and instructed me to eat it. But it smells funny, I thought. A good dose of peer-pressure later and the toast was gone. I was changed forever.

A weekend mission to New World with mum and the first thing I asked for was marmite. This black stuff? She’d asked. For on bread? All right then, but you better be eating it! It sat sparkling in all its tar-like glory on its shelf beside the jam. That seductive red and yellow label. I just couldn’t resist. Finally lunchtime and I slathered the stuff on my toast with wild abandon. The taste – it was like nothing I’d ever experienced. I could have thrown up for days.

Of course it turns out that I’d done it wrong. Being the off-spring of a set of foreign parents meant there was nobody around to tell me that what was required was not a great slap of the stuff but rather ‘just a little’. However, in the face of my laughing older sister I persisted in my plight. Oh look – I’ve managed to mention my plight after all. Amazing! But back to the story. I watched my playmates closely for signs of proper marmite etiquette (probably too closely, this could explain my lack of friends by age 6) and finally there came a time when I too was kiwi enough to enjoy my marmite. And I’ve never looked back.

Nowadays one of my favourite toast/sandwich combo is the good old cheese n’ marmite. And I’m not just saying that because it’s going to be posted on a marmite website. No, that is actually the case. Another is cream cheese and jam. Strange I know, but it works. However. As strange as those may be, it has come to my attention during my time (trapped) here in The Flatlands** that the Dutch have some far more interesting sandwich fillers than ever made their way into my school lunchbox. There seems to be no end to the weird and wonderful things you can find between bread in this place.

Lets start with savoury. One of the delicacies of this nation that is much loved by the general populace is “kroket”. A kroket is not a game that involves sticks and balls and hoopy things, but in fact a rather, erm, phallic looking meat treat made of something closely resembling pie filler. Possibly the best description I have ever heard is a ‘crumbed tube of meat snot’, which I think sums it up quite nicely. Of course this tube of meat snot can be upgraded to a “broodje kroket” simply by adding a bread roll and mustard, and voila – strange sandwich #1. Of course, if this doesn’t tickle your fancy you can always go for a pickled herring (ie. Fish) sandwich. Still not satisfied? Last but not least there’s ‘filet americain’, which don’t be fooled by the name as there’s probably nothing American about it, is in fact a paste made out of raw beef mince.

From here we move on to the sweet treats - always a winner with the kiddies. My favourite is ‘hagelslag’. What on earth is that, you ask? It’s sprinkles, generally of the chocolate variety. For on bread. That’s right, not cake, some kind of slice or a sundae – but bread. Believe it or not it works, kind of like Nutella but then without the goopy-ness. Aside from chocolate there are also other types of “hagel”. And this is where it all goes west. Fruit hagel, for instance. It’s kinda like getting an eskimo lolly, as in the kind which discriminates against Canadian Inuits, firing it in the oven for a good 20 mins till there’s nothing left but a hard and concentrated powdery mass, breaking into tiny pieces and then eating it in a sandwich. The sugar high is something to write home about but the come-down is terrible.

And don’t even get me started on “cocos-brood”. There is something so wrong about sticking a slab of flavoured coconut between bread that I just can’t even begin to describe it. If that isn’t sweet enough for your liking, you can always just put plain old biscuits between your bread and have a ‘speculaas’ sandwich. Seem a bit strange? No worries, they’ve thought of that as well and made it into a biscuit-flavoured paste so you can feel at ease.

So assuming there is in fact somebody reading this, what’s the weirdest thing you’ve ever stuck between bread? And is marmite better than biscuit paste? Let me know!

And don’t forget to press the “vote” button or I’ll never get out of this place… :S


*The term 'yonder' is a slang term I am using as a general way of saying 'out of the way'. As somebody once asked me where yonder was, I thought I should explain.
** This country has in fact been dubbed The Flatlands by the French (as in, Pays-Bas). Just in case you thought I had made that part up.

Hello everyone I know plus randoms,

Here I am! Blogging from the flatlands. Yes I know I've just spent about half a year saying that I would never blog as I'd like to (however deluded that my be) think I have a life, but it's for a good cause so I thought I'd suck it up and do it.

Bit of background for you then. I departed the homelands on August 8, 2008 for this very location. My trip was via Hong Kong where I was briefly confused by heinously warm weather and giant Budhas stuck on top of mountains with many, many stairs. Moving beyond the joys of Asia I struggled past giant, groping German-housewife style customs officials and arrived here in the Dam on August, erm, 12, I think. From there I spent a couple of weeks adjusting to life on the flat, bikes without hand brakes, roads the size of footpaths and strange food combinations like mayo on fries (whatever happened to good old Watties' T. sauce??). After this I was thrown back into being a pseudo-scarfie, except this time obviously without Dunedin and what I like to think is a little more class.

The reason I left Queenstown (my former and wonderfull abode) was to conquer the world of forensic science in far off places. CSI Amsterdam, or as close as I could get (yes all right I admit it. It isn't very close). My endevours have so far not quite earned me an MSc in forensics which I am currently at the back-end of but still going strong (2+ years down the track).

So far I have not been successful in my bid to make it home one of these days. Despite the many of my now infamous money-making ventures which I have worked hard at when not busy poking dead people, I have not managed to earn more than the dosh required to make it a quarter of the way around the world.

But nobody likes a quitter.

So here I am! Begging for votes and Marmite-induced sympathy so I may make it back to the homelands and spend some much needed time with my soon to be expanding family. And of course all my mates. Don't worry I didn't forget you guys. Although it did take an Aussie friend to send me my latest lot of marmite and pineapple lumps (for shame).

So help me out here guys! You know you want more Sooz in your life right now (oh for goodness sake stop giving me that look). All you have to do is extend you arm slightly to the right, press the "vote" button and... magic! Here I come.

See you in the next blog,
Sooz