Despite numerous previous visits, I had never seen the tall, wonky buildings and bicycle-clad bridges of Amsterdam from the unique perspective of the canals, and with this playing on my mind, my compatriots and I made our way down to the docks to hire an aqueous steed for the afternoon.
We arrived at a small hut at the end of a rickety jetty. It was roughly twice the size of a portaloo and on approach one could only envisage a troll angrily emerging from inside, scuttling up the jetty to the creaking, swaying bridge between jetty and canal bank, and manically waving his arms around whilst roaring a torrent of indecipherable abuse in an attempt to defend his territory. This, however, was not to be the case, as on inspection the shack was sparsely decorated with sailing accoutrements but eerily bereft of human (or troll) life.
In the enforced lull we took time to inspect the boats for hire. Whilst robust and evidently seaworthy, these were not the plush, comfortable motorboats frequently observed making waves serenely through the city's famous waterways. In fact, the boats were no more than several different sized sheets of steel welded together. The concept of relaxed and comfortable seating was poorly represented by three strips of bare metal which braced the boat width ways. It was at this point in the assessment that a man approached our party.
Bounding carefree over other small boats tied to the dock came a small fellow of oriental descent, evidently the proprietor or a person working under the employ of such a figure. He seemed a genial man, eager to iron out the bureaucratic formalities that would characterise our final few moments on terra firma and with them smoothly out of the way, he instructed us on the methods of steering and propelling our craft. Furnishing us each with a small sheet of five millimeter thick foam to protect our posteriors from numbness, our cruise facilitator untethered us from the dock and, with trepidation, we began to navigate the most major of the canals that we would encounter during our journey, one that would take us to the network of smaller canals in the heart of Amsterdam.
Having traversed the aforementioned intimidating stretch of water, we breathed a collective sigh of relief as the canal banks closed around our boat and we became free to concentrate on the scenery about us. We made past other travelers relaxing on the bank with drinks and snacks, under arched bridges alive with the sound of cyclists' bells and through streets lined with homes that tilted and slanted in numerous directions. As we coasted past moored canalboats serving as dwellings, adorned with furnishings and decoration to make them warm and welcoming places to inhabit, the sun threw off its blanket of cloud and cast warm, gentle rays over the water, ripples sparkling and twinkling in appreciation.
The general novelty of our predicament began to wane after some time and we continued our slow but steady progress through the canals considering what direction best to point our vessel. Soon we were heading for a notorious thoroughfare of Amsterdam, one made famous by a multitude of harlots who repeatedly bequeath the fruits of their loins to gentleman willing and able to pay suitable recompense. It would be a delightful folly, thought the three of us, to witness the usual scenes of exhibition, bravado and barter from the comfort of our boat.
We eventually reached the top of the particular canal. The sunshine became more modest and the sky grayed somewhat, various shades of neon red still visible in the daylight. Flesh jiggled in windows, eyes attempted to ensnare, fake fingernails tapped on windows, folds of unkept skin obscured economical undergarments. Giggling, intrigued tourists walked in parallel with our boat on the canal banks, mixing all the time with groups of boisterous, leering men and shabbily dressed individuals quietly exiting doorways or surreptitiously making enquiries. Our steel tub continued to slice through the water, the occasional swan gently swimming out of our path, its gleaming white plumage in stark contrast to the dull, litter-strewn water beneath, and the seedy machinations of the street in whose midst it now swam.
Two thirds of our journey down this canal, we came across an unusually high volume of ducks. Perhaps, we conjectured, this was related to the amount of food-related litter deposited in the water on this stretch, thanks to its popularity with tourists and sexually repressed males, of which, surely, there are many. Thankfully these ducks were taking evasive action in order to avoid collisions with our vessel, much like the swans, including swimming from its path but also, on this occasion, flying away from the bow of our ship.
A piercing shriek from an associate suddenly drew my attention and almost before I'd turned around to regard my company I felt repeated and heavy thuds on my head, as if a torrential rain shower had begun. In that same instant, I adopted a cowering posture, similar to that of the brace position made famous by flight attendants, and could only wait in this defensive position until the deluge had subsided. When I straightened myself and turned to my shipmates with a look of both shock and dread on my face, the exact nature of our misfortune quickly became apparent. At first I thought we may have been pelted by jealous contemporaries from the shore but it was with alarm I realised that our craft and its party had been heavily defecated on by fleeing ducks. Our clothes were streaked with earth coloured stains, each of which had a nucleus of grit which was quite clearly feces. Numerous witnesses laughed uproariously, as well they might, while we smiled in resigned dismay, contemplating the fact that we were at our furthest point from the harbour, with at least an hour's journey back through Amsterdam's waterways covered in shite.
With heavy hearts we set out on the long, ardous path back to the dock. The overcast skies and falling temperatures seemed to mimic the sombre atmosphere aboard our craft. At every turn the waterways seem to stretch endlessly toward the horizon, a prospect which reminded me of tales of adventure involving Columbus, Vasco Da Gama and Ferdinand Magellan.
Through careful retracing of our steps, we eventually made it back to the first, wide expanse of water where our voyage had begun. As the small rental shack came into vision, our boat began to slow from its usual, deliberate walking pace to a state of total inertia. We were all immediately concerned; I wondered if perhaps a used prophylactic had become entwined on our propellor but after closer inspection the offending article happened to be a plastic bag. With no propulsion or steering, our craft gradually began to turn 180 degrees and bob gently back the way we had come, like flotsam and jetsam being washed out to the ocean. My associates, by now, were frantically attempting to remove the detritus that was preventing us from continuing and were doing so with scant regard to the weight distribution in the boat. The danger of us capsizing was tangible, and as a man who was cold, in need of refreshment, drifting in the direction opposite to the one in which I wished to go, and covered in shite, I did the only thing I could and collapsed in the boat, in tears of delirious hysterics.
When we finally arrived back at our mooring we paid our good friend his frankly exorbitant fee for the use of his boat. Being the conscientious man he so clearly was, he politely asked us if we had enjoyed ourselves and, lest he should notice the shite that was so abundant about our personage and so deep within the hairs on my head, we sheepishly said yes and quickly made off to our residence.
