Life's Surprises

By Marcel van Heijzen

Friends asked me to write my autobiography, as I worked in a lot of countries. This book deals with the subject.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Marcel van Heijzen
• Release date: Mar 24, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393060123

Book preview

My early life

I got born in 1949, and life in The Hague just after the second world war was relaxed but poor. We did not have proper food supply yet, and in some cases in The Netherlands, children needed to go to special institutions to strengthen, as they were under-fed. I did not need such treatment; my build is heavy and suitable for top-level sport. My build goes with eating habits that can be expensive, certainly in those days. My mother gave me for breakfast two slices of bread with meat on it; when I wanted more, it was bread with a bit of butter, the butter being spread seriously thin by my mother!

*****

Growing up in the fifties meant that I have seen the milkman coming to our street in a horse cart. For children, this was quite an event, a large wooden car with lots of dairy type products, a large cart horse in front, and the milkman scooping out milk for the women who came with their cans to collect the milk and buy other products. Buying butter meant that they got a block of butter, to the size they asked. Packed butter did not exist, at least not where I lived. We could buy margarine, but it was expensive, I believe, as my mother only used real butter.

Seeing a car driving in our street was quite an excitement. The only car I remember from these days was the old Citroen Traction Avant. When a vehicle like that passed through our street, we all stopped playing and waved at the driver. We lived in a working-class neighbourhood, so people living in our street would not own a car. We could see a taxi or a car passing by. No car parking issues during those days!

The grocery store at the street corner got a daily supply of ice to render their refrigerator cold. The ice was brought by a guy who carried a long block of ice on his shoulder. He arrived at the shop by bicycle. Living during these days was great. We roamed the streets, and we got quite excited when we found a piece of chewing gum on the pavement. We got it off using our nails, divided it up between us, and used it. My mother told me later that she was disgusted when she found out about this habit. I was not the only kid who did things like this, we were like a gang, and we all had similar behaviours, plus we shared what we found. To me, everything was exciting. Life was in the street, not at home. We did not have TV, computers and I-pads, and enjoyment we created ourselves.

Some of the enjoyment had to do with pranks. Ring somebodies bell and running away was one trick, but at some stage, one of us had bought a box full of stink bombs. A stink bomb is a little vile of glass, filled with a liquid that, when exposed to air, gives off a smell of rotten eggs. Great fun to ring a bell and throw a stink bomb near the door. Possibly less enjoyable for the person opening the door. We had an enjoyable part of the day, but when we got back home, we found that people had been complaining about our great joke. The resulting trouble was a lot less fabulous. My parents had no problem with giving us a severe pad on the backside, no law about child abuse in those days! In my view, it has done me no harm that we got disciplined, but I agree with dealing with child abuse, which is very different from a disciplinary pad on the backside, related to throwing stink bombs.

It was during those days that I experienced something that stayed with me my whole life: When I was running along the pavement, it felt like I noticed myself running. It was not me running, it was my body, and I observed it. How do we deal with such an experience as a child? We do not. I never discussed this experience with anybody, as I did not know how to address this. It was too weird. I now realise that this was a spiritual experience. Our body is a temporary illusion that we appear to have in this material world. What does it all mean? I do not know for sure. What I do know – as a trained engineer – Is that what we experience in this world is governed by the capability of our senses. These senses are creating a beautiful world in our mind, but that is the only place where it exists. The real world is something completely different, as our scientists are finding out. In a few of my other books and my blogs, I explain in more detail why I say this; for now, please accept that whatever we appear to experience is an illusion.

*****

In a rather unconventional way, I got introduced to coincidences. At the age of four, I biked down the street when a lorry appeared. Somehow, I clashed with the truck, but I had no damage to my body. My bike was a wreck, and the wheel of the lorry had gone over my shoe. The shoe was a wreck as well, but, for some reason, I had no damage to myself. When I look back, the chance of all this happening without hurting me at all was very small; this was a typical coincidence. I was not yet ready to leave the experience of life, or, for that matter, continue this life as a disabled person. All I remember is that I walked together with the driver of the Lorry to my house. The driver carried the leftover of my bike, and I chatted amiably to him. Later, my mother told me that the driver had a shock, as he felt the bump when driving over the shoe, and he thought that he just killed a young child.

The real excitement of a young boy in those days was playing in areas that are waste grounds. We did not have mobile phones and computers; we played outside with other kids. No need to worry about getting hit by a car, we hardly saw any vehicle in those days, at least not in the street where I lived. In the winter the council sprayed a field full of water in a nearby park, and people could go there to skate on the frozen water. Little stalls turned up around the skating place, selling hot sausages, typical Dutch pea and bacon broth, and other food and hot drinks that would keep people warm. The whole affair was a great social event as well; we met others, and we talked to other people. I loved it, and so did most other people who came there. To most people, everything was safe. The world had a robust social control; when a child did something naughty, any adult was allowed to take action. As children, we knew this, and it was accepted. I did not dare to go to my parents to complain; it would, for sure lead to another punishment.

My parents were not unique; they were what in the UK get referred to as working-class people. My father worked as a policeman, a sturdy introvert man, tall, with his hair combed back with grease in it. He always wore an alpino hat. My father did not feel at ease in any group of people, and he had the habit of severely judging others, without ever judging himself. A lot of people are like him, but he was a bit extreme in this sense. I know him going to work on his bike, and every five years the police gave him a new bike. When my brother and I got older, he gave his old bicycle to us; I got the first choice being the oldest, from me, the bike went to my brother. Bringing a damaged bicycle to a repair shop was not on; we could not afford it. We learnt from a very young age how to repair just about everything that could go wrong with a bike.

My mother was fifteen years younger than my father and a good-looking woman with a bubbly personality. I used to tell people that when my mother was in a room, it would never be quiet, and nobody would feel that there was nothing to discuss, she could keep any conversation going. She was, contrary to my father, quite intelligent, and very perceptive about what went on around her. I tend to say that I inherited a lot from her personality, although my initial introvert personality I got from my father.

The personalities of my parents clashed, and I know that my father was violent towards my mother. However, in those days, things like this got hidden. Nobody talked about it. What happened in the house had to stay in the house was a statement that applied to my family.

My brother had more the look of my father, but he had inherited the political skills from my mother. His body was slimmer, and he had blond hair, contrary to my bulkier build, with brown, wavy and a bit reddish hair. Both of us were tall for our age. My brother had the skill to fit in and to know how to behave to avoid clashes.

*****

The house we lived in had a layout that was for most people quite standard. We had a lounge, which got only used for receiving guests. Usually, nobody was allowed in this room. We had a living room, which doubled up as a dining room. In this place, we had a coal fire, the only place in the house that had heating. We played games in the evening and having a giant jigsaw puzzle on the table during the winter – 5000 pieces! – was something we all loved. I do not remember my father joining into these events; it was between my mother, my brother and I.

When it was time to go to bed, we accepted that the bedrooms were freezing during the winter. Jack frost on the windows, and we had to wear warm clothing in bed. The first time I experienced central heating was when we lived for two months in our holiday home; coming back from working and living abroad. More about this later.

*****

As a boy, I was different from other children. I behaved in my way, not the way others behaved, or how these others expected me to act. I did not fit into the local culture; I did not even realise that such a concept existed. Much later, I learnt that most ordinary people automatically fit into a mini culture that exists in their group. I was different. The result was that I ended up having clashes with other children, and at times with my teachers. Of course, the conflicts with the teachers led to issues with the other boys in my class, which meant in some cases that I got exposed to bullying.

I did my utmost to fit in, which could lead to awkward situations. I remember that I managed to disconnect the electricity to the whole floor at the school, with the result that we missed a music lesson. The boys in the class wanted it done, and I ended up in the office of the director of the school.

I did a few more things that one can class as naughty, and this led to a warning, either calm down or get removed from school. All this to try to get accepted by the boys. Of course, I never got accepted. I learnt later that the only way I could hope to achieve acceptance in some form was to behave like I am; be myself.

I presume that after this period, I developed the tendency to pull pranks on people. A few examples of this period are:

I found a bottle of ammonia in the shed of my father. I pretended to smell the bottle, but I held my finger on the top. Next, I asked my brother for his opinion, and he took a deep breath from the bottle to smell what it was. He had to go to bed for a few hours, and I got into serious problems with my parents.

When my brother took a bath, I locked the door with the door key from the outside. Unfortunately, the key broke, and nobody could get in or out of the bathroom. I had to tell my parents, and the panic started. The bathroom was on the first floor of the house; the only way in was through the window. My father borrowed a ladder from the neighbours; he now could enter the room. He removed the door hinges and removed the door. My brother was free, and my father repaired the lock. Needless to say that my parents were not a fan of me again.

At school, a few students pulled a trick on me, and I wanted to do something back. I took the fire hose and aimed it at the door when they came out. Unfortunately, it was one of the teachers that came out. He made me clean everything up but did not report the incident to the director. If he had, possibly, it would have meant that I had to leave school.

Our school was in The Hague in the red-light district. One of the guys in my class had his mother working in that area. Once we walked along a street with a lot of these women sitting in their windows. One of them shouted something to him, and he spat a piece of chewing gum to her, which landed between her breasts. A few pimps came after us, and we had to run for our lives, back to school.

During the process of growing up, I found that I was left-handed. Nowadays, being left-handed is not an issue, but when I was young, this was considered a significant problem. The school forced anybody who wrote left-handed to write with their right hand. My mother did not agree with this policy, and she went to the head of the school to complain. Eventually, I was allowed to write with my left hand, but the boys in the class and the teachers did not address me by my name anymore, they all called me left paw, as that was the nickname the head of the school used when he saw me, either in the class or on the playground. We tend to talk about the good old days, and life is so much harder now. Well, I have a slightly different opinion about those good old days!

*****

One of the highlights during my younger years was going to my grandma. Early on, we went with my mother by bus, but later on, I went on my own. My grandmother, to me, was a typical grandmother. She lived with two of her daughters, and she presided over anything that went on in her house. She was a real matriarch. However, she was also very understanding, and being with her was fantastic. I could talk to her about anything. She was very free in her thinking, but she also stuck to her habits. When I discussed politics with her, she had a definite opinion. However, when I asked her why she still voted for the catholic party in The Netherlands, she replied that as a catholic, she voted catholic. At one time, I came to her house to repair the TV, when her oldest daughter and my grandma argued about who had the most massive breasts. I stayed out of this discussion, but it did not work, as my grandma asked me, Marcel, please tell us, who has the most? The way she worded it, let me off the hook. I told her; I think you both have two. That led to a lot of laughter; she said to me that I was a good politician, but the question did not come up anymore.

My mother came from a family that had thirteen children, and a party at the house of my grandmother meant that I saw all my nephews and nieces. I was the oldest of the lot, and from my last count, there were forty-four. A party like this was great fun, we had groups that related to age, and we got spoilt with all sorts of drinks and sweets. The adults were either talking or playing games, while as children we played, but later in life, we could join the games. I loved to play chess with my uncles, but at some stage, I could beat them, and that was the end of my chess games during the parties at my grandmother. I was sad when she died; she had been an extraordinary person in my life.

*****

My parents felt that both my brother and I needed to do some sports, and we went to the police sport swimming club. It was there that I found that I could swim very well, and I joined the police water polo team. After receiving suggestions from my tutors at the club, I joined a well-known swimming club in The Hague. It took me about a year, and I became part of the small group of people who showed signs of being top swimmers. During that time, I went to other countries, I swam in the Dutch National Championships, and I played water polo in the number one youth team of my club. We became a country champion that year. All the signs indicated that I could climb very high in the swimming sport, but I had other ideas. I noticed that at the top sport level, one does not have friends. It depends on performance; when one performs, one has friends. When one does not perform, friends go.

My brother and I had a good relationship when we were young. We loved walking, and we enjoyed a joke. One day after an enjoyable evening out, we decided that it was a good idea to roll up the white line in the middle of the road. The job was fun until we heard a sound behind us. A buss wanted to get by. The mood for joking had not gone yet, so we felt that it was fun to buy women’s stockings at one of these machines. We each took one hose, and let it hang out of our pocket. Real fun! When we got home, my father spotted the stockings, and as I walked in front, I got all the trouble, while my brother quietly went passed us.

*****

When I was a teenager, my father used to do wallpapering jobs to earn some extra money. I was reliable and handy, so I always went with him, to assist, and later, to do part of the job. I enjoyed these times with my father; we worked as a team. Usually, my father kept his distance from everybody, but when we worked for people, we could talk, and be like friends.

We did other jobs together, and during that time, I learnt to wallpaper, but also, I learnt the basics of plastering and painting. Especially during the early parts of my life as an adult, these traits came in handy.

*****

I felt that change was needed as I wanted to learn ballroom dancing; I felt like joining the crowd that drunk alcohol and smoked. An additional issue was that I had the ambition to become an engineer. When I discussed this with the people who were my trainers, they told me that I should go to an exclusive sports academy. At my level, I should not go to a technical university. That was sufficient to put me off; no more daily training, no more travelling to various swimming competitions, I was going to follow another path in life.

To finance this part of my life, I looked for various jobs I could do, mainly during the weekend. Twice I got fired; the first time I worked in a shoe shop, but in January sales went flat, and they fired temporary staff. I worked some period as a salesman, but that was not my type of work, and after this, I worked for a few years for a local newspaper. During the summer period, I had to do a particularly dirty job, holding the hose at the top of the ink tank. The hose leaked and I got pretty black, while my boss and the ink tank driver stood at the tanker laughing about me getting black. Suddenly, the hose got loose at the truck, and both my boss and the driver got black, while a lot of ink spray went outside, spraying a lady in a white coat. She looked like a Dalmatian. Now I started laughing, and I got fired on the spot!

Most of my student years, I worked in kitchens as a dishwasher, and I assisted the cooks. In the process, I learnt to clean the kitchen, and I learnt to cook.

*****

I particularly liked the time that I was at the technical college. Finally, something I wished for, and I could do well. The teachers liked me, with the result that the other students more appreciated me. Later, my mother told me that they were highly surprised when they first went to a parents evening. The previous report from my primary education was that I could not learn well, and since I was left-handed, I would not likely become a sound technician. The head of the school had no idea what would come of me. At technical college, all the teachers told my parents that I was excellent technically, and they felt that I should go on to university, as I was also good at all the theoretical sciences. Apparently, I could only learn when I felt encouraged. The result was that I went for my bachelor’s degree in electrical engineering.

I had one more clash on the subject of being left-handed: During my studies at the technical high school, my mathematics tutor asked if anybody could solve a mathematical equation, which he wrote on the blackboard. I said yes, but when I came forward and picked up the crayon, he told me to sit down as I was left-handed. I said nothing, but I felt utterly enraged. While looking at him, I turned slowly around, put down the crayon, and went to my seat. During this process, I kept my concentration on my tutor, while the whole class was in dead silence. After class, my tutor asked me to stay, and I had to explain what went on. He had never felt such an aggressive feeling that descended on him. I explained what happened in the past during my early educational years, and asked him why he thought that it was necessary to rub in that I was left-handed in the way he did. We had quite a lengthy discussion on the subject. The situation showed something else; I possessed a lot of presence. However, I had to learn how to guide this asset properly, so I could use it to manage people. Learning to use this power consciously took me quite a few years.

I did not finish my college at that time; I played in a band, and I also managed this band, and the time that took meant that I hardly attended college. Besides, I got a girlfriend who I managed to get pregnant, so I got married and found a job.

Although when I look back, I always felt spiritual, my early life revolved a lot around the concepts of sex and drinking alcohol. Whatever I decided and whatever change I implemented, I smoked, I drunk alcohol, and I looked at women.

During those years, I had minimal contact with women; the school was still a boy’s school. This changed very soon after I moved on, but I always remember the first girl entering the technical college where I studied. I never worked closely with a woman during the earlier phases of my life.

The Brother and Sister who passed away

I always considered myself the oldest child of my parents. It was much later in my life that my mother told me that I had an older sister who got born too early and died soon after birth. Subjects like this, my mother could not discuss while my father was still alive; he insisted that the past was over, no more discussions.

I have given a lot of thought to this way of thinking. In a way I agree, we cannot change the past, so let it be. On the other hand, we need to learn from the past, and by ignoring it, we will not acquire the learning. Another issue with ignoring the past is that we have to learn to live with the past. When we ignore it completely, we hide what happened to us in our subconscious, and what this may do to us we do not know. I, therefore, do not agree that we should never discuss such matters, as we do need to learn to live with what we went through. However, when we make the past part of our way of living, we are also on the wrong track. It is difficult to give the correct answer. In my view, it relates to attachment; we try to decide what we should have done so that the child would survive. Life designs challenges for us for a reason. When we do not learn the lesson, we have to go through a similar event again.

What we did not know at the time was that my parents could get a child that missed an enzyme. This deficiency means that such a child does not process dairy products properly; some forms of sugar are not processed and stay behind as poison. The result is that the body of the child slowly deteriorates, starting with the brain, and the child dies young. The early signs are that the child has no feeling for balance and does not learn to speak and walk. The child looks normal, but due to the deterioration, it also looks disabled. Medical science now recognises this deficiency, and doctors test for it after birth. My oldest son was the first baby in The Netherlands that got diagnosed with this deficiency; he survived and is now perfectly healthy. The body generates the enzyme in most cases, so the issue will sort itself, provided that the baby does not get fed dairy products. At the time, we did not know all this.

My youngest brother – Henkie – could not walk or talk. He was a lovely little boy with dark brown hair, and he always had his thumb in his mouth, I do not remember him in any other way. I loved the boy, but taking him out in the neighbourhood caused issues with other children. Humanity in those days did not accept people with bodily or mental deficiencies. Openly laughing and joking about a disabled person was entirely accepted in those days. Do people accept a person with a disability now? I do not know for sure. We have to by law; thus, we pretend. However, do we accept people who deviate in any way? I even question myself about this, and I had a brother and sister who were profoundly disabled.

I have fond memories of Henkie. He knew when I came home from school. He used to sit in front of the window with his thumb in his mouth, waiting. When I arrived home, I always took him out for a walk. As he could not easily walk, we just went around the block, and I needed to support him completely. It was no bother to me that other children were laughing at us, although it did make me angry.

Henkie had feelings and consciousness, and we could somehow communicate. What I always wondered about was how disabled people feel. Once I saw a mentally disabled person on the bus, and suddenly I felt that this person was very content. I – at times – get feelings like this, but I cannot control or steer these feelings. They just happen.

When I talk to others, it appears that