Cricket or conflict?

Imagine having to explain cricket to someone who hasn’t got the faintest clue about rounder’s or baseball. Now imagine that a scant elucidation will result in your subjection to a court martial. Of course, the latter part is somewhat extreme and unlikely. But not when a burly Croatian Lieutenant tells you so; naturally, he was only joking. This, however, did give me some food for thought: how do you explain cricket successfully to those who’ve never played the game? Many a time, I have attempted to illustrate the intricacies of this eternally mind-boggling, yet challenging, game most especially on serviettes at various pubs. Yet each time, unless my memory is failing me, I have failed in my quest to preach the virtues of bat and ball, and instead served to confuse or even bore my audience (usually never composed of more than one or two people).

By virtue of my current internship with CESS (no pun intended), I travelled to a military academy in Zagreb, tasked to assist with the delivery of a course to a bunch of military men (and some women). At one of the lunches, I found myself wedged between a young Croatian officer and a Bosnian lady, whilst being surrounded by a whole host of burly army jocks that would only have to flinch slightly to teach me a brutal lesson. Given that Serbian, Montenegrin and Macedonian personnel were sat close by, steering clear of mentioning seemingly innocuous topics for small talk was recommended if not de rigeur. I doubt that the Croatians would have appreciated my gloating about how well the Serbians (or even the Slovenes) had played to reach the 2010 football World Cup. Instead, I decided to humour them with my dietary habits.

Discovering that I was vegetarian brought about reactions of shock and surprise. What did I eat? “Just vegetables and bread? What about cheese and milk? Did I eat fish? What’s wrong with eating meat?” Nothing really, it’s just not for me. The coup de grace came almost instantly when we were all served lunch: suddenly, I underwent the ignominy of explaining that eating batter-fried cauliflower and salad was a more attractive proposition than tucking into beef and gnocchi.

In attempting to explain that Indian cuisine was vastly vegetarian and thus provided well, a Croatian lady then confronted me and remarked that vegetable curry was a bizarre conception. For her, rice and naan constituted all she knew about vegetarian Indian food. My guess is that little else can be concluded when some of the most well-known and best-selling dishes happens to be Chicken Tikka Masala. That aside, I did appreciate her candidness in voicing her rather uncultured opinion (especially for a diplomat). As a small country that is undoubtedly meat-obsessed, ideas as quirky and niche-orientated as vegetarianism remained a forlorn concept.

Perhaps it was better to have mentioned the delicacy of bananas to the soldiers rather than the ethical considerations of one’s diet. The Croatian Lieutenant, however, was discontent and still wanted an explanation on cricket. I committed the cardinal sin of promising to elucidate further at the bar, after a hard day in the classroom, over a cold beer and using serviettes. Though I have no recollection of what did happen in the no, thanks in part to copious quantities of Moldovan cognac, I am forced to ask: How’s that?

Would you rather fly them?

Imagine that you pack your bag, double check the contents, and confirm that you need to board the 6pm train to the airport. You are all too aware of the fact that the airport is two and a half hours away by train. You are better still aware of the fact that by virtue of booking to fly a popular, yet much-maligned, no frills cheap airline, you must arrive there early enough to queue up for the bathroom, let alone the plane. Yet, by sheer luck, via an earlier than anticipated change, you manage to arrive at the airport a full TEN minutes early; enough time for you to scour for a morsel to eat, rather than resorting to the exorbitant gruel served onboard.

But upon looking at the “Departures” screen, you find, much to your horror and chagrin, that your flight is delayed: the dreaded D-word that all travellers fear and despise alike. Alas, fortune has been too kind in the past. Having read of others misery with cheap flying coffins and their sheer contempt for punctuality, it is now your turn to suffer this horrible fate. Your heart sinks and your brain ceases to compute, albeit momentarily.

You realise that there will be knock-on effects: the likelihood of you catching that dirt-cheap train, booked well in advance, to Victoria is as high as of San Marino winning this year’s football World Cup. Remember how smug you felt you booked it, intending to scorn the stupid tourists who would supposedly pay an arm and a leg to travel to London? Now it means that it’s either two night-buses or an astronomically extortionate taxi to get home.

Notwithstanding the fact that your brain has gone into meltdown and that you want to wring someone’s neck, you suddenly realise that the same Idiot Airways offer a slightly earlier flight, albeit to Stansted Airport. Ah, another dreaded proposition for most frequent travellers to London. Located in the middle of No-where-stan, you realise that whatever efforts and strides you have made in the past twelve months to eradicate all existence of this backwater airport, let alone prevent using it, have all gone to vain in one fell swoop.

Or them?

Nonetheless, arriving slightly earlier at Far-far-away Airport is not as bad as arriving at an ungodly hour at an equally distant, yet somewhat more accessible, airport. So, ostensibly, you ask the female (if you are male, that is) agent if you can kindly be moved to the earlier flight at no cost to yourself (note, the latter concept is most essential). She consents and you feel smug again.

The question remains: who will have the last laugh: you or Rubbish Air?

Would you rather be here...

Monuments, meals and mangy beds. No, no, I’m not hallucinating. And neither I am attempting an alternative rendition to Cynthia Enloe’s Beaches, Bananas and Bases. Some days ago, I was browsing through Facebook – as most of you do, when procrastinating. I came across photos uploaded by a “friend” (term used loosely, according to the definition implied by having Friends on Facebook) about a recent holiday/trip they had made. Through my nosiness, I realised that the very same individual had taken similar pictures over 2 or 3 other trips. So I could either assume that the friend was content with being the stereotypical tourist (not traveller) or was simply devoid of what to do when abroad.

Then again, how many of us visit places and feel compelled to pose jauntily in front of quasi-famous and even, sometimes, less well-known monuments? Many even find themselves eating exquisite cuisine that simply needs to be photographically honoured. But what makes us travel? Why do we feel the urge to fork out money just to have photos taken by an overrated attraction?

Some time ago, during a conversation with a former lecturer, I was introduced to the concept of “atrocity tourism”. I’d informed the lecturer of an earlier trip to Rwanda, which had included my companion and I staying at the infamous Hotel Rwanda. In our case, yes, we’d adopted typical tourist-like behaviour and shamelessly had our photos taken outside the hotel. But I would classify this as an exception as the hotel itself is an icon that few will have heard of (in comparison to the Eiffel Tower). However, this is a reason as to why people travel. Disasters would foment tales of bravery, which Hollywood would someday transpose on to our screens. People, like me, would become instantly captivated and would spend the better part of £1,000 on flying to some God-forsaken hell-hole just to say or think: I was there. Tourism’s magic formula, I believe.

Personally, although loath to admit it, a number of my trips have been booze-cruises. The thrill of going incognito to a foreign place and soaking oneself in cheap alcohol has always had a mysterious allure about it. Furthermore, there’s something quite tempting about letting yourself go in a place where no one knows you and whose language you could never muster – whether sober or drunk.

...or here?

I’d even considered whether people travelled solely for showing off on Facebook. So many I know have visited a place and upon returning home, have proceeded to dump all their holiday snaps on Facebook. And so often has this process been repeated. It’s almost become a ritual for some. At one point, I found myself at an airport every few weeks. Excitement gripped me for the first two times. But thereafter, I questioned whether I was travelling for personal gain or for simply to breed envy. Did I need to travel fervently just to prove that I religiously adhered to my “travelling” hobby? I’d always thought of it more as a privilege and an experience to savour. But upon seeing thematic repetition, I suddenly felt the need to question my motives. Come what may, I know my trips have never been short of events; fish bones getting stuck in throats, Hindus accidentally eating beef, and prostitutes coaxing for beer. Shall we book a flight to someplace fun?

Known to the Dutch as an “agenda”, the diary is paramount in organising one’s daily routine. Without out, any Dutchman (or woman) would probably feel lost at sea (no pun intended, of course). My Dutch friends and acquaintances have demonstrated a particular sense of efficiency when it comes to organising even an impromptu meeting for something as mundane as coffee. I have borne witness to the shock and horror on some of their faces upon realising that they may have left their prized life-planner at home. Of course, not only is this misdemeanour seen to be sacrilegious, but also it can make one a social pariah in a moment given their inability to confirm a date.

My typical week.

A few days ago, to a group of Dutch and non-Dutch friends, I mooted the rather benign idea of meeting for a beer. Without being offered the opportunity to say anything else, four Dutch colleagues quickly whipped out their diaries. One of them had even upgraded to using a swanky mobile phone for this purpose. Surely, this sort of efficiency would make the Germans fret?

Naturally, I was astounded as to how serious these people were about keeping time. It had never seemed like such a big deal for me and although I usually pencilled my meetings into my diary, I tended to this upon arriving home. Or if I even remembered at all. Perhaps my point of view may seem mocking for something that apparently seems so inherent. And I may also be accused of generalising. But I wish to do neither; rather, I find myself enviously impressed about how their organisation skills. Possibly second to none, but if this maxim is used to explain Dutch bureaucracy – as I attempted to fathom in a previous article, then my entire argument would be rendered redundant.

Yet, I simply cannot comprehend why spontaneity is foregone for the sake of meticulousness. In the past, friends have asked me to “clear my diary”, usually in advance, for something momentous, such as a birthday celebration or holiday. Suddenly, that is when I have felt vulnerable and understood the importance of being organised. Again, I can understand a doctor or dentist’s need to keep a diary, but I find it bizarre to make an appointment for beer. Upon hearing this, I suddenly envisaged the vague thought of getting hammered with my GP. Simply unthinkable!

However, having immersed myself into Dutch society, I have come to the forlorn conclusion that living life without a diary would upset the natural order and would potentially foment loneliness. I’d read in a book (The Undutchables) about this phenomenon. But, as is the case with certain oddities, you’d need to see it to believe it. Until then, shall we make an appointment to meet?

The catastrophe itself was horrific, to say the least. Although no precise estimates of the death toll are known, simple calculations reveal that 5.5 people were murdered per second; much faster that the holocaust. To compound this statistic, the majority of killings took place in the first two months. Thereafter, the massacre petered out and resultantly Uganda-based rebels captured the country.

However, this is supplementary to my question. Is it conceivable that so many individuals may have built up resentment with an eye for vengeance? I remain unconvinced: Rwanda, unlike many of its neighbours, is not composed of different ethnic groups per se. Hutus (the majority) and Tutsis (the minority) share the same language, beliefs, culture and names; intermarriage is – or rather was – not uncommon, though perhaps frowned upon to some extent. It is archetypal, for some African countries, to contain distinct tribes which may bear grudges towards each other. The example of Kenya’s post-election violence of 2007 substantiates this point.

Rwanda’s demographics are somewhat comparable to the Caste system that still prevails in many parts of India. Castes are organised ethno-linguistically, yet worship the same God, eat the same food and share similar beliefs. Perhaps the only distinction comes from the fact that the quality of language varies across the spectrum. This fact, however, is contestable when considering the contemporary context.

I do not discredit the fact that grudges may have motivated some to kill their neighbours. But what would incite or provoke a man to kill his wife, or vice-versa, or men and women to kill innocent children? It is almost unfathomable to believe that adults can hold discernible suspicion against children. Many of those who succumbed to the frenzy and madness of murdering wantonly would have ideally been under peer-pressure; “if you aren’t killing with your brethren, then you must be complicit with the enemy!”

This brand of rudimentary rhetoric was certainly pervasive at the time. Paradoxically, to safeguard your own life, you had to expend that of another human being. And often the life of a loved one or close friend. Considering that the minority group were themselves subjugated under the majority from independence (1962) until 1994, with opportunities restricted stringently and controlled by a 9% quota (though they comprised of 14% of the country’s population), it would beggar belief as to whether members of the minority would have progressed enough to breed envy and jealousy amongst the majority. Surely, this would not have been permitted by the ever-controlling regime. And surely, this must mean that one man’s grudge became another man’s incentive to commit murder most foul?

Although I’d prepared well and felt confident, I realised, during the course of the debate, that I was suddenly struggling to express myself clearly. Fortunately, I didn’t fare badly; but certainly not as well as I would have earlier in the academic year. Inevitably, my vocabulary had shrunk and my descriptive ability had been diminishing for quite some time. Recurrence and repetitiveness were the norm with my everyday speech. And, somewhat sacrilegiously, basic grammatical errors began to creep into my sentences. Something was very, very wrong.

For the next few days after the debate (or debacle – dare I say), I spent a considerable amount of time attempting to scrutinise what my problem was exactly. The answer itself was quite simple; the solution to the problem was anything but. Having hitherto immersed myself in an environment conducive for expanding my vocabulary – via academic sources – I now found myself in setting that served to challenge my inherent abilities: being able to speak English well.

Normally, I’d describe myself as an avid reader. There is no shortage of books on my bookshelf (and concomitantly no respite for my credit card) and my weekly subscription to The Economist ensured that I learnt new words or writing-style on a regular basis. Being removed from my comfort zone, however, has as good as put paid to that. As far as I am concerned, the blame for this misfortune lies squarely and solely at my feet. My overconfidence – not least in my memory retention – in my ability to adapt to the changing stimulus I was always due to encounter and my self-insistence on my failed attempt to read the online version of The Economist compounded my misery. Moreover, using the MacBook’s Dictionary application – as user-friendly and expansive as it seems – is still a scant substitute for a standard English dictionary or thesaurus. To sum up, I was the architect of the demise of my vocabulary. How pitiful!

Perhaps I am blowing my predicament out of proportion. After all, few are required to communicate at a standard expected in written English language examinations. And if I had felt desperate at any point, I could have resorted to using MS Word’s “Synonyms” option. Resultantly, I would have followed in Joey Tribbianni’s footsteps and potentially shunned simplicity for stupidity. Yet, reading more seems to be the only viable solution out of this would-be crisis. Or perhaps I should write more. Before beginning this article, I realised that I had seldom used the words “slacker” and “mushy” in the last six months. But since neither describes me in any way whatsoever, why should I care?

Normally, you’d expect a remark of this sort to irk someone enough for them to spew out a rational and justified response. After all, millions of people live in countries whose languages their struggle to comprehend or simply do not bother to learn. But my challenger’s inquiries encompassed more than my ineptitude for Dutch; instead I sought to bypass this debate and focussed on her lack of economic reasoning when understanding how mass emigration can distort a country’s economic development.

That said, she certainly had a point: how could I live somewhere and not understand the language? The answer is quite simple. It’s not as though I am loath to learn Dutch. And neither do I find the lingo difficult as many individuals have attempted to make me believe so.

My degree does a grand job of chewing up almost all of my time. So I am chronologically constrained, to start off with. Then, the course itself is taught entirely in English. For all my classes, the medium of instruction is English. Even the Dutch students, be they a majority in the class, are required to talk in English – at least officially. Hence, most of the contact I have with other students is in English. Exams can be sat bilingually – but this, I believe, is only the case to aid Dutch students. After all, it may seem unjust or unfair to switch the system over overnight and ask students to write academic essays in another language.

The only Dutch contact I have is when ordering take-away or buying groceries. And even then, my basic phrases and accent are abysmal enough to make the other person resort to English. As far as I am concerned, this is not my fault. A Frenchman/woman would probably continue to address me in French no matter how badly I butchered their glorious tongue. So why don’t the Dutch follow suit?