Beek en Donk

After being in Amsterdam for a while we decided to head South to where Tamara's parents live - a small town called Beek en Donk which to me sounds like "bacon dong" whenever a local pronounces it. Getting here is easy but after we arrive in the centre we hit snag after snag. First up, Dad is entering cranky toddler stage. It's late afternoon and he hasn't had his siesta because we've been travelling. Second, a couple of calls in Holland, a few messages home and I'm out of credit on my mobile. Third, you can only top up your credit online, not over the phone which brings us to fourth, no free WiFi anywhere. Fifth makes itself known next...no bastard speaks English. Sorry, one does but she doesn't really know the address we're going to. We set out walking on vague directions. My suitcase is on wheels but Dad is shouldering his bag and refusing to put it on my suitcase so I can wheel that too. This does nothing to improve the cranky. Ten minutes in and we see a sign for the police station. I park Dad and head off down the street. No police station. A "helpful" local laughs. No politie here for long time. Of course not.

I go back to Dad who has managed to suck down a cigarette while I've been gone. It has not improved his mood. We keep walking until we get to a small restaurant bar thing. I tell Dad to ask them if we can use their phone. He comes back and says the taxi is on the way. I ask him why he didn't just call Ari and Mayke and his eyes glaze over for a second before he tells me to shut up and pulls out another cigarette. He decides to buy us drinks while we wait. I'm golden with a diet coke but he winds up with a flat, yellow, salty drink when he asks for lemonade. He winces when he drinks it, gives me some, I wince too, and we still have no idea what it is. We settle on "disgusting". The taxi shows up - a massive black Mercedes - and drives us four streets away. He is unimpressed and I don't blame him. Beek en Donk doesn't have a taxi service, he's driven from the next town for a three Euro fare. He charges us five, we sheepishly pay him six. Despite only being four streets away, we had no chance of finding it.

Ari and Mayke are lovely people with a lovely home and they immediately make us welcome. They know my Dad well enough to rib him about the fact that he never shuts up and the fact that he smokes. We settle in to fabulous beds, food to die for and a shower that makes me want to weep with relief.  I am suddenly powerfully homesick. There's no place like home...and someone else's fitted with all the tiny comforts is enough to remind you of it.

Over the coming days we meet lots of family because Mayke is one of sixteen and all of her brothers, sisters and their children live in the village. I say village. It's 10,000 people all living on 250m2 blocks in three storey tiny townhouses. When I tell them that I like it better than Amsterdam they say, "Ja, it is very rural, ja?" and I almost die laughing. On day two we ride to the next village, which is only three kilometres away,  for a hair cut at the home of Rogier (Ari and Mayke's son). It's a proper Summer day, almost thirty degrees and I'm not super keen on riding. But I saddle up and we ride out. I almost kill myself exiting the lane they live in because there are no handbrakes on my bike. It takes me a moment to realise it's like an old BMX and to brake you back pedal. I am further discouraged by the lack of gears.

Then we start to ride and the lack of gears becomes obvious. THE WHOLE DAMN COUNTRY IS FLAT. Not even gentle inclines. Flat. Flatty flat flat flat. If there's a gentle breeze you don't even need to pedal. Ten minutes later we're there without breaking a sweat.

So a moment to talk about bikes in Holland. Everyone owns at least one and they can be customised in a number of ways. They come with saddle bags, carrier baskets, locks, lights, wagons, straps, racks, baby capsules, toddler seats, the works. Anything an Australian can do with a Barina a Dutchie can do on a bike. They are flabbergasted that we don't cycle more in Australia. I explain that it's three kilometres to my son's daycare, five after that to my daughter's school and then 25 clicks to my work. I explain that given the lack of direct route and the kind of country I'd have to cycle over this would take me three hours minimum and I'd need a shower at the end. I needn't bother, they're still gasping over the fact that I work 25 kilometres from where I live. I see their point. 25 kilometres here is half the bloody country. Here you'd put your baby on the front of the bike, your four-year-old on the seat at the back (over four and you ride your own) and half an hour of easy riding later you're going to step off your bike and be able to start work looking pretty darn fresh without your kids who were dropped off along the way.

No one wears helmets. But then, if a cyclist gets hit by a car the car is at fault no matter the circumstances and there are major penalties involved. So the cars go slow near riders, make a wide berth and no one is killed. Plus there are cycle paths almost everywhere. So everyone walks or cycles, the towns are densely populated and in general cars are really rare and a little bit strange. More on riding later. In particular the story of how lost you can get riding a bike with a local.

 

Rogier and Marjon show us how it's done with Gussje and Maud