going for a walk
I have had the experience of looking after pilgrims in Roncesvalles twice now, and I’ve written about it before. All those fresh pilgrims, from all over the world, starting their Camino often in St Jean Pied de Port, in France, climbing over the Pyrenees on their first day, and tumbling into the ancient monastery of Roncesvalles, to stay at the albergue with the Dutch volunteers. So many stories to listen to, advice to give, yoga to teach, and beds to clean and change; and chuckling at the stuff that new pilgrims realise they can shed after their first day walking with a pack on their back. It’s the beginning of change on this 800 km journey to Santiago. And now I’m in Santiago de Compostela, in Galicia, and it is being its usual imperturbable self. It’s raining, the local stone buildings wet and grey, but somehow I love it. When I arrived, very weirdly on a plane, that typical energy met my feet as I stepped into the town. It adds a lightness to my step, like little wings attached to my ankles, it moves my heart and tells me that I need to walk again soon, and it always brings that silly happy smile on my face. As I walked through the medieval main street (I’m telling you it’s just like Diagon Alley!) and arrived at the plaza where the cathedral looms, my jaw dropped, as it was the first time I saw the facade and towers of this building in all their splendour without the scaffolding! I couldn’t stop this time, and continued through the main gateway to the Hospedario San Martin Pinario, a medieval monastery turned hostel, and if possible, my jaw dropped even further, it was so beautiful, with metre thick stone walls, high vaulted ceilings, a beautiful claustrum, and the quadrant where monks can walk and meditate. I went straight into the bar where my colleague for the next two weeks was waiting for me with a glass of wine. Bliss. I slept like a rose in my ‘cell’, with a view of the bell tower, in a comfy bed. In the “Reception room of the Low Lands”, on the other extreme of the Camino, I am now at the end of the journey for most pilgrims. My job here is to provide people with coffee, tea, biscuits and a listening ear, just that. The difference between the starters and the finishers is striking, and what a wonderful difference! On my first day, after I have done the rounds, and introduced myself to our neighbours in the French, the German, and the English speaking reception rooms, and then to the team of pilgrim office workers, who check and prepare the ‘compostelas’, the certificates that pilgrims earn for having walked the Way, I see our first guest arriving in our living room and within 5 minutes she is in tears. She had a lot to get off her chest and needed to pour out her heart. Later on I do nothing but translate a lovely poem from Dutch into English for two Americans and move them to tears. People keep finding us all day: Belgians, who cycled from Sevilla; two young guys who are so relaxed they didn’t even know you could get a certificate, but they walked happily from Porto to Santiago; a couple who walked all the way from the Netherlands; a girl who started alone in Holland and now brings along her Camino Family of four North American women. The mood is relaxed, everybody is cut loose from daily life and chores, reflective on life, their journey finished now, sharing what they’ve learned, tired but happy, and I hear lots of stories of amazing encounters, and wonderful adventures. I run around with the coffee, tea and - this goes down like a storm - the Dutch ‘pepernoten’ I’ve brought in my rucksack. By five o’clock my head is on overload, and I’m glad we are closing the door for the day, hopping to avoid the puddles, on the wet, black and grey ancient cobbled streets to our apartment which will be home for the next two weeks. "Completed is the path Satisfied we are and happy to now share the almost unshareable Sharing is multiplying Our happiness growing and growing, inside and out."
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On the nightshift….
It just had to be. When the request came to work at the Gala Night of the National Dutch Film Festival, from 8pm until 4am, in the cloakroom, I felt this fit right into my exploration of the Dutch labour market, so I accepted. I was a bit uncertain - did I really want to do this? - when I reported at the theatre entrance, but was ushered in straightaway by a friendly security guy, with no further questions. The words "I come from Randstad" [the temping agency] really open all doors. I wandered around for a bit in the foyer, which was full of expectation, but otherwise still empty. The ceremony of the 'Golden Calf' award, the highest film award in the world of Dutch film, was still in full swing. I was hired for the party after. Two Randstad colleagues arrived for the same job. After a bit of asking around we found our line manager and received a backstage pass to go get our uniforms. I got a look behind the scenes in theatres. It was a labyrinth, with staff changing rooms full of people, celebrities on a couch, champagne, flowers, all in a buzz of energy. Dressed as a City Theatre employee, in a black blouse with logo, and armed with earplugs, I went back up and missed the briefing. No one had told me there was one. I have worked at film festivals before and this kind of happy chaos is pretty standard. These events use a lot of volunteers, and they don't run professionally, but on enthusiasm and flexibility. "Happy chaos is fun, isn't it?!" a festival colleague shouted at me half way through the evening. My colleague Ibra was a kind, middle-aged Moroccan, who spoke Dutch reasonably well. He had given up his own business in Groningen and had just moved to Utrecht. He had trouble with the routine of the cloakroom, had trouble putting the little number cards on the right hooks, but he did his best. Hans, a happy-go-lucky thirty-something, gave the impression to be still looking for his goal in life ("If only I was still 20", he sighed) and had a lot of experience in catering work. He worked hard and ran miles that evening. The job wasn't difficult, but if you have to do it for eight hours, non-stop, without a minute break, not even to get a drink, all night long, and the cloakroom is choc-a-bloc with thick winter coats, all kinds of bags, huge heavy rucksacks, umbrellas and shoes, and there is just three people on duty, while that should have been at least six, it becomes quite a challenge. I was surprised how physically demanding the job was. The next day my body ached, with painful shoulders, arms and feet. I noticed people love to have a chat with the cloakroom people. Most heard question: "Can I please have my bag for a moment, because these stiletto heels are killing me, just need to change them for my training shoes." The golden calves were another item. Different film categories all had Golden Calves to award and almost all of them were dropped off at our counter by the winners. Who wants to go dancing with a heavy brass calf under their arm, right? And the world is so small when you are a Dutch celebrity, only famous in the Netherlands. I don't know who's who, after more than 25 years of overseas living, but I recognised some of them by their behaviour. They reacted surprised when I said they were welcome to drop off their calf but how were they going to remember which calf was theirs? "But my name is engraved on it!" they would exclaim. "Ok, so when you pick up your calf, please check the name so that you take the correct calf please?" Again, a surprised face. Didn't I know who they were? I chatted with a nice guy, didn't know he had a calf too. It turned out to be a famous Dutch actor/director. Of course I had never heard of him, but I knew of his father, a very well-known actor. I apologised. "Sorry I've lived overseas for years, I have no clue who you are, but I do know your Dad." He didn't mind. He had just won a calf, so his day was made. Halfway through the night, about 2am, and still just the three of us toiling away, I had a dip, a sudden deep desire to abandon the job, But I learnt on the Camino that you are capable of much more than you think, especially if you have no choice, so I gave myself a little mental lecture, about the commitment to my colleagues, and this exploration of work, and on I went. Running. Lifting. Carrying. How do I get that bloody heavy bag off this hook which is at shoulder height? Where is the calf of that beautiful lady and what is her name? Pulling, pushing, trying to get at coats and scarves, kilos of fabric packed closely together. Tripping over umbrellas. And smiling at the guests, here you are, have a nice evening. Most people were very friendly. Then there was the man in a tuxedo who subtly pressed a euro in my hand, with a face as if he had just given me 20 euros, expecting me to run extra fast for that. Four am it was over. Cleaners started mopping the floors. The builders came in to pull down the stage and disco. The bar staff said they would continue to tidy up until at least six o'clock. We were allowed to go. I survived it, and I have reconfirmed to myself that I am strong and stress resistant. Eight hours of physically heavy work, at the weekend, on the nightshift, without a break, and what did I earn? Just the minimum wage, no extra allowances at all. For me, by now, Holland has really lost the reputation of "social welfare state". #inburgerenineigenland Het moest gewoon een keer. Het verzoek om op het gala van het Nederlands Filmfestival de garderobe te gaan bemannen van 8 uur ’s avonds tot 4 uur ’s ochtends paste in mijn exploratie van de Nederlandse arbeidsmarkt, dus ik liet me inplannen.
Enigszins nerveus - had ik hier echt zin in? - meldde ik me bij de ingang aan, en werd door een vriendelijke beveiligingsman, zonder verdere vragen, binnengelaten. De woorden “Ik kom van Randstad” openen echt alle deuren, geen mens die verder wat vraagt. Ik dwa even rond in de verwachtingsvolle, maar nog lege lege foyer; de uitreiking van het Gouden Kalf, de hoogste onderscheiding in de Nederlandse filmwereld, was in volle gang in de grote zaal. Twee collega’s van Randstad kwamen voor dezelfde klus. Na enig gezoek werd een line-manager gevonden, en kregen we een backstage pass om de uniformen te gaan halen. Altijd leuk, zo’n labyrint achter de schermen, met kleedkamers, champagne, bloemen en rondrennende half aangekleed personeel.#On the nightshift…. In een Stadsschouwburg blouse toog ik weer naar boven, oordopjes in mijn zak, en miste de briefing, omdat niemand mij daarvoor had uitgenodigd. Ik heb al eens eerder op een filmfestival gewerkt, en het is standaard ‘happy chaos’. Dat komt door het hoge aantal vrijwilligers. Professionalisme is niet standaard, het hele gebeuren draait op enthousiasme en flexibiliteit. “Happy chaos is toch leuk!” riep een festival medewerker me halverwege de avond toe. Mijn collega Ibra, een aardige, iets oudere, Marokkaanse Nederlander, met redelijk Nederlands, had een eigen zaak gehad in Groningen, en was net verhuisd naar Utrecht. Hij trok het niet helemaal met de honderden nummertjes op de kapstokken, maar hij deed z’n best. Hans, een vrolijke dertiger, die de indruk gaf nog een beetje op zoek te zijn naar de weg in het leven (“Was ik nog maar 20”, verzuchtte hij) rende hard door, hij vertelde dat hij veel horeca klussen deed. Het werk was niet moeilijk, maar als je dat dus 8 uur non-stop moet doen, zonder een minuut pauze, zelfs niet om iets te drinken, de hele nacht door, en de kapstokken zijn overvol met dikke winterjassen, allerlei tassen, loodzware rugzakken, paraplu’s en schoenen, en je staat met z’n drieën, terwijl dat er eigenlijk zes hadden moeten zijn, dan wordt het wel een uitdaging. Het viel me ook erg tegen hoe fysiek zwaar dit werk is. De volgende dag was ik gebroken, met pijn in schouders, armen en voeten. Mensen maken graag een praatje bij de garderobe merkte ik. De meest gestelde vraag: Mag ik even mijn tas, want ik kan die hoge hakken echt niet meer aan, even omruilen voor mijn sneakers graag? De kalveren waren een verhaal apart, ze werden bijna allemaal afgeleverd bij de garderobe door de winnaars. Want wie wil er nou de dansvloer op met een loodzwaar stuk metaal in de hand? En wat is de wereld toch klein, als je een beroemde Nederlander bent. Ik ken ze niet, na meer dan 25 jaar in het buitenland, maar herkende aan de houding van een aantal mensen dat ze wel dachten dat ze beroemd waren. Ze reageerden dan ook verbaasd als ik vroeg hoe ze gingen onthouden dat dat hun kalf was. Maar mijn naam staat erop, riepen ze dan. “OK, kijkt U dan wel even goed als u uw kalf weer komt ophalen?”, adviseerde ik ze. Weer verbaasde blikken. Met een van hen heb ik nog even staan praten, een aardige man, dat bleek naderhand Jeroen Scholten van Asschat te zijn. Ik vind zijn vader een heel goede acteur. Ik heb Jeroen toen even mijn excuses aangeboden. “Sorry ik heb jaren in het buitenland gezeten, ik weet niet wie je bent, maar ik ken je vader wel.” Hij vond het niet erg. Hij had een kalf gewonnen, dus voor hem kon de avond toch niet meer stuk. Halverwege de nacht, met zware onderbezetting, had ik een moment waar ik dacht: Ik loop nu weg, krijg allemaal maar wat! Maar ik heb op de Camino geleerd dat je veel meer kan dan je denkt, als je maar moet, dus ik sprak mezelf even toe, over het experiment, en ik ging door. Rennen. Sjouwen. Tillen. Hoe haal ik die loodzware tas van dit haakje wat op mijn schouderhoogte zit? Waar is het kalf van die mooie mevrouw en wat is haar naam? Trekken en rukken, kilo’s jassen boven op elkaar gepakt. Struikelen over de paraplu’s. En glimlachen tegen de gasten, alstublieft, prettige avond. De meesten waren erg vriendelijk, en nu herinner ik me dat er een man in rokkostuum was die tegelijk met zijn bonnetje subtiel een euro in mijn hand duwde, met een blik alsof hij me 20 euro had gegeven zodat ik nu voor hem keihard aan de slag zou gaan. Om 4 uur was het afgelopen en mocht het garderobe personeel gaan. De jongens van de podium afbouw gingen meteen aan de slag. Het barpersoneel ruimde nog op tot 6 uur, zeiden ze. Ik heb het overleefd, en ook weer gezien dat ik stressbestendig ben. Acht uur fysiek zwaar werk gedaan, in het weekend, in de nachtdienst, zonder pauze, en wat verdiende het? Ja hoor, gewoon het minimumloon, zonder toeslagen. Het predikaat ‘sociale welvaartsstaat’ is Nederland nu echt wel kwijt, vind ik. #inburgerenineigenland |
AuthorI am exploring my creativity by writing about things that I see around me and that strike me as out of the ordinary. Archives
July 2020
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