The Hague Conventions
Karbouw = water buffalo, trassie = very strong-smelling shrimp paste
Reading time: approx. 5 min.

The detail that put me in an extremely unpleasant position was of a startling simplicity. Allow me to explain how it all began.
Handmade in a well-known studio, I am allowed to count myself among the foremost among umbrella's, and my career began in a posh hat shop on the Noordeinde. Looking for a suitable buyer, I stood there for several days next to a chic mannequin. I subjected each client to a careful inspection, but none met my standards. I also observed the passing public with interest. I was impressed by a distinguished gentleman who carried an umbrella of excellent quality along with him, in the rhythm of his self confident step. I imagined myself accompanying this gentleman on his long tours through The Hague. Unfortunately, he always passed by. For days, I watched pedestrians struggle through the autumn storms, their tortured umbrellas tossed in the driving rain. Yet, I felt no compassion for my pitiful colleagues. On the contrary, I waited graciously until one of them was caught by the wind and blown into the air. That was the moment the owner needed a new umbrella, but a glance through the window at my price tag generally made him pass quickly.
And so I stood there. For the time being, worryingly ignored.
Until a somewhat older woman from the Indies entered the shop. I didn't pay much attention to her, because I am, after all, a man's umbrella. But a short time later, I left the shop on her arm. Troubled, I swung back and forth on her wrist. Still imagining the elegant stride of a certain gentleman, I made vain attempts to match the woman's graceful steps.
Nevertheless, we became good friends. She lacked the grandeur of The Hague's upper class, but she possessed a certain charm all her own. It wasn't long before the distinguished gentleman vanished from my memory entirely, and I began to take unmitigated pleasure in complementing the Indonesian lady's rhythm as a harmonious counterpoint. We visited the Pasar Malam on the Malieveld, where she judiciously commented on the snacks on offer: "Kassian, this satay, simmered too long, yes, tastes like rotten durian fruit," she would grumble. "The sauce is too thick, with a skin on it, yuck, looks like dog poop."
Heading home, I found myself contentedly next to her sister Toetie's brightly colored parasol in the backseat of a taxi. Until my lady carelessly exited the taxi. Behold the seemingly insignificant detail!
Toetie reached behind her for a moment, and I saw the orange, flowered, little lovely parasol disappear. The taxi drove off with me, indignantly perched on the backseat.
Several corpulent behinds manipulated me into an uncomfortable position between the seat and the backrest. I was inelegantly confronted with certain intimate details that I won't divulge. My fate was sealed when a man of questionable character clumsily climbed in.
"Hey there," he hiccupped when he spotted me. Although his breath filled the car with alcohol fumes, he wasn't unfriendly. He stopped the taxi on Bezuidenhoutseweg near the city park and got out without paying, but with me in his arthritic hands. The rain forced him to lift me up to keep him dry, a favor I readily obliged, because—as I said—he wasn't unfriendly, but otherwise, I hoped to be rid of this gentleman as soon as possible. His gait didn't resemble that of the Indonesian lady, and he couldn't measure up to the elegant steps of the gentleman from The Hague, who suddenly reappeared in my mind.
As soon as the air cleared, he deposited me in a trash can. Ingloriously among the dented cans and spoiled hot dogs. With my foot in the sour mayonnaise of a portion of fries, I recalled the much-loved aromas of the Indonesian cuisine.
The night faded silently into a watery morning. Hasty residents of The Hague hurried to work, their morning newspapers tucked under their arms. Mothers with whining toddlers sat down on the still-damp slatted benches in the park. Amidst the dirty diapers, I contemplated my extremely precarious position.
Suddenly—and with intense relief, I might add—I made out the click-clack of a familiar step.
"Adoeh, here he is!"
Inquisitive brown eyes subjected me to a critical inspection.
"It still works," the familiar Indonesian voice cheered after I'd been opened and closed a few times. My lady then followed up with a judicious comment, which, however, did nothing to diminish the joy of our reunion:
"Oh dear! He stinks like a buffalo in a container full of trassie!"
                                             © marian puijk