Utrecht

Have you ever woken up in an unfamiliar place with no recollection whatsoever of how you got there?

I have a few times. Usually it's a result of falling asleep somewhere after a long day. My couch, a mate's floor, the local park. I've really done it this time though. This time I've gone and woken up in Holland.

"Good morning, Max", says Willem as he comes in. That's good, at least my name hasn't changed. He brings me in a cup of tea, which I accept gratefully, and slowly but surely the details of my journey begin to come back to me.

It took me over seven hours to cover the 230 mile distance between London and Amsterdam. The first two and a half hours required travelling in the opposite direction, via train and bus, to a paddock in the middle of nowhere commonly known as Luton Airport. 45 minutes spent standing in a check-in queue that looked like the beer line at the Captain Cook on a Saturday night - but a bit less orderly - did little to improve my mood. Nor did the ever-increasingly possibility of missing my flight, which quickly dissipated when I finally reached the departure lounge to discover it had been delayed an hour.

Once safely removed from British territory and the complete lack of organisation, communication and efficiency that goes with it, the rest of the journey was a doddle. Willem and Heleen were waiting for me at the train station and after a brief walk and a beer, I was safely ensconced in their Central Utrecht apartment.

Heleen has already gone to work by the time I'm up and about, but Willem (who is "in between jobs") is happy to walk me around the town. From what I understand, Utrecht is kind of an Amsterdam-with-training-wheels: it has the look and feel of its bigger brother 30 miles to north, without the nightlife, the smut and the tourists. "We like living here a lot", says Willem. "Much cheaper and friendlier, and we don't get all the bloody tourists".

Like almost all of his countrymen, Willem is tall and slender. The average height for a Dutch male is 6"1, almost 10 centimetres taller than your average Antipodean male. My theory for why this is so - which has been widely refuted by everyone I talk to, nevertheless I know it is true - is that when it floods, the short ones can't keep their noses above water and subsequently perish. It is survival of the fittest in its purest form.

Holland is remarkably flat and susceptible to heavy flooding: not surprising given that 30% of the country lies below sea level. Thinking about it now reminds me of an amusing encounter I had with a Dutch couple one summer on top of Queenstown Hill.
"Howdy", I said cheerfully, after dragging my arse to the top and taking a couple of hours to regain my breath.
"Hello", the man politely replied.
"Not a bad a view up here, eh?"
"It is beautiful. We certainly don't have anything like this back home".
"So where are you from then?"
"Holland".
"Wow!", I said enthusiastically. "You've probably never been this high before".

The silence that followed told a thousand words.

Let's face it, rightly or wrongly, marijuana is an intrinsic part of Dutch culture. Every time in the past two weeks that I've told someone I was going to Holland, the news has inevitably been greeted with a snigger and a "Holland eh? Wink wink, nudge nudge, say no more". That's not what I'm here for, though. I'm here to play cricket.

When I emailed my friend Irish Richard a few months ago asking if I could stay with him in Amsterdam, he replied almost immediately in the affirmative and with the news that he'd lined up a game for Bloemendaal Cricket Club for himself and I. I didn't think much of it at the time. All I knew about Dutch cricket was that the Dutch don't play cricket. Who would I be playing against then?

Then it hit me: oh God, I'll be playing against a team of Pakistani and Indian immigrants, all fearsome, highly competitive and quite mad. They'd see a meek, hungover Kiwi huddling over the crease, smell blood and before I could do anything my jaw would be in ten pieces. And lord only knows how good their batsmen might be. My bowling - which barely set the world alight in my schoolboy days - would be mercilessly pasted to all parts. Well, the game isn't for another few days so I might as well enjoy Utrecht while I'm here, but quite frankly, I'm terrified.

It also happens to be gay pride week in Amsterdam this weekend, which entails a parade through the streets in the afternoon followed by a canal boat parade later in the evening. But I had no idea it was on this weekend, I swear. If anyone tries to tell you otherwise, they're a liar.

In the afternoon I wander by myself through the streets of Utrecht. Firstly through the town centre and its narrow, winding, cavernous streets that occasionally offer a pleasant view of Dom Tower, which rises a hundred metres about the town. Then I find myself in residential areas, wandering down canals past fishermen drinking beers in the sun, middle aged men smoking joints, young men playing football in parks. Life seems happy and healthy and everyone I pass has a smile on their face. How attributable this is to the weed they're smoking, I can't be sure.

Heleen finishes work in the early evening and we sit outside in the central plaza drinking some local beers. Surrounded by graceful old buildings and bathing in the happy chatter of hundreds of afternoon drinkers, the plaza is an ideal location to observe take in the sights and sounds of Utrecht.

Being not at all proficient in Dutch I stumble through the menu without much idea of which is which, so end up relying on Willem to recommend the beers.
"That beer sounds good", I say, pointing at an item on the menu.
"That's a ham and cheese toasted sandwich. We'll get you a Dommelsch".

The local beer is fresh, crisp and served in big tall proper pint glasses, not the poky little handles you get back home. It's a warm sunny evening and the opportunity to get a skinful then stumble home with a wad of mayo-slathered Dutch style French fries looks too good to turn down. I'm careful not to get too carried away though, because I have a big day ahead of me tomorrow. Tomorrow, Willem is taking me to see a windmill.

While I was in New York, I read an article in the Times about Holland's disappearing windmills. While a new generation of futuristic, soulless electricity-generating mills have gone up, the old school thatched roof variety are becoming an endangered species. Schemes have now been established to ensure the survival of the 250-odd remaining mechanical mills, so that future generations of windmill-admiring tourists will be able to gaze up at these graceful dinosaurs of the Dutch landscape for years to come.

It's mid-morning and Willem and I are standing at the base of "De Ster" - the Star windmill. Built in 1721, the mill was used to cut logs into strips, which then slid down a ramp and onto barges to be taken up the river to construction sites.
"I didn't even know this was here", Willem says. "Thanks for bringing me, Max". Isn't that always the way? We get so blasé about the architectural relics we live around that we never give them the time they deserve. It makes me feel guilty that I never spent much time admiring the Peace Pole outside the Otago Museum.

Once upon a time, De Ster would've been visible from anywhere in Utrecht, the second highest structure after Dom Tower. Nowaways it is hemmed in by the canal on one side and depressing 1960s-era prefabricated housing blocks on the other three sides. Still it stands, proud and unyielding - despite the fact that it isn't turning on this occasion and probably never does - a tribute to a distant past when they were the lifeblood of Holland's industry.

And I fear there's only so much one can say about windmills, so we move on.

Holland is currently in the grip of a heat wave that has seemed to follow me throughout my Insipid Journeys thus far. The thermometer is pushing 30 degrees and the humidity is smothering. Willem and Heleen have promised me a trip to the beach, with the caveat that it is "nothing like the beaches you get at home".
"It'll be fine. As long as it's got sand and good waves, I'll be happy", I said.
"You won't be happy then".

After lunch we hop into a murderously hot train packed to the doors with other Utrechtians who have had the same idea as us. The countryside is flat and featureless. Occasionally, a skate ramp or a pile of rubble will tower over the surrounding landscape, but other than that, there is nothing but flatness. At every station, we are joined by another legion of overheated beachgoers. By the time we reach Zandvoort, a resort town on the North Sea, the train ride resembles a pilgrimmage on which millions of Dutch folk have felt obliged to go today. "Are you ready?", asks Willem, with a wry grin on his face that suggests I'm in for a rude shock. "Let's do it".

It is a beach the likes of which I have never seen in my life. Barely a square foot of sand is visible beneath the swathe of tents and beachgoers packed onto the sand like sardines. The mass of people stretches endlessly to the south and many miles to north, where, far in the distance, factories can be seen belching out smoke.

The sea is as calm as a pond. What's more, most of the bathers are content to go in only as far as their waists and no one is putting their head under the water.
"You'll see why", says Willem, still grinning.

Aside from being freezing cold, the water has taken on a murky, brownish tinge and has unidentifiable bits floating in it. I can't see my hands six inches in front of my face through the muck. "What is all this shit?", I ask. This time Willem doesn't even answer. It's quite possible I have just answered my own question.

Back at the bar, enjoying an afternoon pint, I reflect on how lucky we are to have the beaches we do back home. I think back to all those magical summer holidays I had, during that brief but euphoric two-week stint every January when the weather was conducive to beach going. Big, wide, pristine beaches with not another person on them.

At least at Dutch beaches you can get a beer, which is more than you can say for ours. Perhaps that's it: perhaps Kiwi beaches are so empty because you can't get booze at them, so everyone just stays home and drinks instead. One day I'll go back to New Zealand to discover they've relaxed the liquor laws and lined every beach with bars, and then no doubt half of our population will be on them as well.

The train ride back to Utrecht is hotter than anything I've ever experienced. If it's 30 degrees outside the train, it's a least 45 degrees inside. We sit still as possible but regardless, we are sopping wet within minutes. Heleen takes turns to fan first Willem's face then mine, but it makes no difference. For a brief while the air conditioning comes on, but it is quickly overwhelmed by the heat of the train and its passengers. Five minutes after leaving the grotty beach, I feel like I need to go back again and cool off.

Instead we park up at another bar in the plaza, in the shadow of Dom Tower, with a few of Willem and Heleen's friends. It's been a long day and the beers begin to flow steadily as the sun goes down. I flip through the drinks list and, through the sea of indecipherable Dutch words, one drink stands out: Dutch Dynamite. What on earth could it be? The Dutch answer to Ranfurly Draught? Or something more sinister, like budget liqueur or even absinthe? I ask Willem, but he's never heard of it either. The intrigue grows.

I'm reclining in my chair with my pint, looking up at the tower and asking myself important questions such as, "do ants on an ant trail in Europe pass each other on their right hand side?", when the guy next to me taps me on the shoulder. "So, are you going to Amsterdam for the gay parade?", he asks with a grin.
"Nah, I didn't even know it was on this weekend, honest".
"Sure you didn't!", says Heleen.
"I fucking didn't!". Everyone laughs. "I'm going up there for a game of cricket, actually".
"Cricket? Says the man, who has been introduced as Tim, blankly.
"Yeah".

I spend the next half an hour or so struggling to describe the gentlemen's game to three men who have never seen it being played, much less played it themselves. Willem was lucky enough to go to a game with us when he was in New Zealand last year, so he knows some of the rules, but the rest of the table are listening intently and regarding me with a mixture of wonderment and deep suspicion, as if I'm trying to sell them the world's dodgiest get rich quick scheme.

"So then the batter hits it, and if it goes away from a fielder, he will run to the other end and the guy at the other end will run to his end, so they cross, and they get one run. But if the fielder picks it up and knocks the stumps over-"
"Stumps? What are stumps?"
"The wickets... the sticks. So if he knocks the sticks off before the batter gets in his crease then he's out, so he goes back in the dressing room and another guy comes out and he's in".
More blank looks.
"Basically it's like baseball, but ten times longer and more boring".
"And you're going to play this in Amsterdam?", someone asks.
"Yes".
"Why?".
Long pause.
"I don't know".

After a while, my curiosity gets the better of me and I decide a round of Dutch dynamite is in order. "Oh, it's awful", says another man at the table, who is a barman here when he's not drinking. "You better get a chaser as well".

All the boys say cheers and down the vile-looking black contents of our shot glasses. It tastes like mouldy liquorice, if that's even possible. The aftertaste is sickly and bitter.
"Now drink the glass of beer!", demands Heleen. So I do. No one else does, though. They just sit and watch as this crazy man from New Zealand downs his pint in 15 seconds flat. Then they applaud and cheer wildly.

It's as if no one has ever chopped a beer in Holland. I explain to them that chopping beer is a cornerstone of our social history in New Zealand, but they won't listen, they're just amazed. Someone orders me another pint and it's quickly delivered to my table. I can see how this could go downhill fast.

"What were you and your family doing in America?", Tim asks. "We don't like those guys".
Not for the first time since arriving in Europe, I explain that Americans are good people and it is a wonderful country to visit. The global animosity towards America, I contest, is a result of the utterly abhorrent Bush Administration and a global media that loves to pour shit on the Yanks because they don't like their leader.
"The 'all Americans are gun-toting rednecks' line is just a media beat-up", I insist.
"But they voted for Bush. Twice!", he continues.
I try to point out that less than a quarter of the voting population actually did vote for him in the first instance, but my words are starting to desert me as the beers sink in.

"Before coming over here I was worried about how dangerous this place was, what with all the ethnic violence", I say to Tim. "But I haven't noticed any agro at all. Everyone seems pretty chill, eh".
"It's crap. Everyone here lives happily next to each other. Dutch, Turkish, Indonesian, they all get along. There's no violence".
"So it's just a media beat-up then?"
"Exactly".

Which just goes to show what a misleading bunch the media can be. Here was Tim thinking that Americans were a bunch of assholes, and me thinking I was going to be gunned down in the streets for walking around in the wrong neighbourhood. Looks like we're both wrong.

We move inside the bar and remain there until 3am or so, discussing football and the media and how no one else in our party had ever been to see the Utrecht windmill either, which makes me feel pretty special. Eventually I sense the time has come to walk on out while I still can, so I exit the bar and find myself standing in the pouring rain.

Hang on. Wasn't it blazing hot and sunny not six hours ago? It's still warm, but now the rain is pelting down in huge droplets. Thunder is crashing and lightning is frequently illuminating the now-empty plaza. Willem and Heleen have long since gone home, leaving me to find their place under my own steam. I walk around the corner, check to see if there's any Turks lying in wait to gun me down for the three Euro I have in my pocket, then sprint all the way home.

Back at Willem and Heleen's place,, I manage to struggle out of my sopping wet clothes, pour myself a glass of water and struggle into my night shirt. Everything is a struggle at this point. Pushing thoughts of my impending fast-ball induced death on the cricket pitch to the back of my mind, I lie in bed and listen to the relentless thunder and rain hammering down on my roof.

Come to think of it, I don't think I ever saw a single ant the whole time I lived in Dunedin. Isn't that amazing?