The attention span of a goldfish
Two of life’s basics: soap; and dignity
Image: the long, pensive regard of a goldfish.
I found my bike. Or, rather, the chap who’s in charge of Natuurpunt in our locality, which is the organisation that looks after our nature reserves, found it and posted on Facebook that he had done so, with a photograph to prove it. It was a week past on Saturday, when the heavens were opening. My house mate knocked gingerly on my den door and, with a “come in”, showed me the announcement on Facebook, under “local affairs”. He explained what it was about and then expressed doubt: That’s not your bike, though is it? I thought yours was bluer than that. My heart was already racing at the prospect of having rediscovered my lost bike, and I looked at the photo, and indeed the bike is bluer at the front than it is at the back. How many bikes, I asked him do you think there are of even the slightest shade of blue lost in a marsh two miles from here? He humphed, which was an admission that the likelihood of there being two and more was slim. We went to see if we could locate where Erwin had plonked it, but to no avail. But the next day, in daylight, Kurt went and found it and fetched it home. I was very happy.
I wrote an explanation of how it had ended up in the marsh and sent that to Kurt to ask him to post it. Here’s what I wrote:
I don’t want to over-dramatise the events that happened to me in the Molenbeek Valley this September, but I am deeply grateful to Erwin for finding and announcing the rediscovery of my bike.
It was perhaps the strangest night ever. On a warm, late summer evening, I had cycled to the nature reserve in Veltem-Beisem to enjoy the peace and quiet of the forest and watch the magical sunset. After a while, it was time to go home, but I hadn’t realised how pitch black the forest had become, and I became hopelessly lost. Fortunately, it was a moonlit night, but even the towering trees cast long shadows, and I missed my turn. After riding back and forth a few times, I began to worry that I might end up in the stream. Finally, unsure which way to go, I thought I saw lights in what seemed like a flat field, and, having no other choice but to wait for sunrise, I decided to cross this flat area. It wasn’t flat at all, and descended rapidly into a steep slope. When I reached a sturdy tree, I stopped briefly to find my way. I shone my bike light around, but recognised nothing. I called out to see if anyone was nearby, but to no avail.
I heard a rustling in the undergrowth and suddenly thought of wild boars. I know they live in the Bertemse Bos, but are they also here in the Molenbeek Valley? The rustling remained just that—there was no grunting or aggression, which I’ve often heard in the Bertemse Bos, especially in spring, when the boars have to defend their young. But this was autumn. Later, I would return in daylight and hear this rustling again. I looked where it was coming from and discovered it was the sound of an automated lawnmower, working at night in a garden not far from where I was.
Finally, I climbed back up the slope and came out onto a path, breathing a sigh of relief. My troubles were only just beginning.
I reached a flat field, from where I thought I could see civilisation, and headed for it. But the ground beneath my feet became increasingly boggy, until I was in danger of losing even my shoes. Standing became impossible, and I kept falling on my face, back, and hands, unable to stay upright. This went on for at least an hour, maybe two. Each time, I got tangled in the brambles, which cut mercilessly into my skin with every step. Finally, my bike was so tangled in the brambles that I couldn’t dislodge it, and I could barely pull myself out. I finally got a short distance from the scout building on the road to Erps-Kwerps and sat down in a bus shelter to catch my breath. Then a bus pulled up, and I hailed it, in my dishevelled state. I’d lost my shorts, was covered in dirt from head to toe, wet, cold, and bleeding, and I asked if the bus driver could take me to Leuven. God bless him, he immediately agreed, even though I had no money on me. But when I saw we were at the station in Veltem, I exclaimed, “Oh, I’m almost home now, thank you!” And he let me go with his good wishes. The next day I went to my doctor, who treated my numerous cuts, and in the days and weeks that followed, I revisited the woods to try to find the bike. But it was in vain. Even the extra eyes of friends and even someone with a heat-seeking camera couldn’t reveal its whereabouts. Even Fernand Rochette, the local historian, was advised, as he knew a few people at the municipality who look after the reserve. Perhaps that helped, because Erwin, you found my bike, which I hadn’t seen in a long time.
I’m overwhelmed by your generosity and kindness. You gave me back my property and instilled in me a sense of welcome and community that is immeasurable. Thank you. Thank you. You, Erwin, and thank you, Herent, for your kindness and care. And believe me: don’t stray from the beaten path of the Molenbeek Valley, especially after sunset. The woods are treacherous for those who venture there unwary. They swallowed my bike for a while, and I’m convinced that if I hadn’t given it up, they might well have swallowed me as well.1
The reason I reproduce that message here ad longum is that it was never posted. Kurt’s reply to my request was to the effect that no one would read it. People, he said, have the attention span of a goldfish. I asked him, somewhat tongue in cheek, how he knew what the attention span of a goldfish is, but whatever it is, he meant that people have a very short one.
Erwin said he had notified the local police about his find, and so I wrote to them to explain the bike was mine and I had reclaimed possession of it. A very kind police officer named Nathalie telephoned me a day or two later and was satisfied I was the bike’s owner and declared that, with that, the matter was closed as far as they were concerned. The attention span of the police in our district is, I am relieved to say, somewhat longer than the putative attention span of a goldfish. But why, do you suppose, did I want Kurt to post my message at all? To establish some claim to fame? To put myself in a dramatic super-trouper, despite declaring that that was precisely what I did not want to do? No, it was none of that. It was a message of thanks to the man who found my bike, and in fact it was not really meant for anyone else, despite its admonition at the end. It was for him, and anyone who cared enough to read it. That is all my published messages are ever for: for those who are interested.
When I worked in tourism, a tour was often spead over perhaps ten or fourteen days, and maybe a hotel every night or two. The hotels would give guests the basic toiletries: soap, shampoo, perhaps even some face cream or such like. If these were in sachets or little cakes of soap, I would take them with me when I left. They were “in the price”. The price that I myself had not even paid. I stopped touring in about 1995, and I am still using up these little cakes of soap. Can you credit it? That simply shows how silly it is to even have taken them in the first place. We think of these things as freebies, but they are simply a burden on the environment, even thirty years later.
It was therefore something of a shock for me when I entered into correspondence with a refugee a few years back. He was living in the UNHCR refugee camp at Kakuma in Kenya and, because he is gay, his life was hell. He set up a GoFundMe, to which I made a modest contribution, to help pay for basic necessities for him and a group of about 80 fellow “queers” who were being persecuted at the camp. And one of their fundamental, basic needs which could not otherwise be satisfied was not food, not clothing, but soap. Ordinary, everyday, carbolic soap. The means to cleanse the body and restore some feeling of dignity.
It pains me to read again today about Cox’s Bazar, where a million people live as refugees and also, in this filthy rich world, are unable to access basics like soap. There is a newspaper report about the predicament of these people here.
This post is not a cry out to the world, because the world would seem to have the attention span of a goldfish. This post is rather a call out to those who are interested, and who care. You are few, and far between. But, if you’ve read this far, you are with me in spirit.
If you can, send them the means to buy two basic necessities. One of them is soap. The other is human dignity.
In case you missed it:
Ik wil de gebeurtenissen die me in september dit jaar in de Molenbeekvallei overkwamen niet overdramatiseren, maar Erwin ben ik diep dankbaar voor het vinden en aankondigen van de herontdekking van mijn fiets.
Het was misschien wel de vreemdste nacht ooit. Ik was op een warme, nazomeravond naar het natuurgebied in Veltem-Beisem gefietst om te genieten van de rust en stilte van het bos en de magische zonsondergang te aanschouwen. Na een tijdje was het tijd om naar huis te gaan, maar ik had niet door hoe pikdonker het bos was geworden en ik raakte hopeloos verdwaald. Het was gelukkig een maanverlichte nacht, maar zelfs de torenhoge bomen wierpen lange schaduwen en ik miste mijn afslag. Na een paar keer heen en weer te zijn gereden, begon ik bang te worden dat ik in de beek zou belanden. Uiteindelijk, niet wetend welke kant ik op moest, dacht ik lichtjes te zien in wat een vlak veld leek, en besloot ik, omdat ik geen andere keus had (behalve wachten op zonsopgang), om over dit vlakke gebied te gaan. Het was absoluut niet vlak en daalde snel af naar een steile helling. Toen ik een stevige boom bereikte, stopte ik even om mijn weg te vinden. Ik scheen met mijn fietslicht in het rond, maar herkende niets. Ik riep om te zien of er iemand in de buurt was, maar tevergeefs.
Ik hoorde geritsel in het struikgewas en dacht plotseling aan wilde zwijnen. Ik weet dat ze in het Bertemse Bos zitten, maar zijn ze hier in de Molenbeekvallei ook zo? Het geritsel bleef bij dat – er was geen gegrom en geen agressie, wat ik wel vaker heb gehoord in het Bertemse Bos, vooral in het voorjaar, wanneer de zwijnen hun jongen moeten verdedigen. Maar dit was herfst. Later zou ik bij daglicht teruggaan en dit geritsel opnieuw horen. Ik keek waar het vandaan kwam en ontdekte dat het het geluid was van een automatische grasmaaierrobot, die ‘s nachts zijn werk deed in een tuin niet ver van waar ik was.
Uiteindelijk klom ik de helling weer op en kwam op een pad uit, en slaakte een zucht van verlichting. Mijn problemen begonnen nog maar net.
Ik bereikte een vlak veld, vanwaar ik dacht de beschaving te kunnen zien, en ging erheen. Maar de grond onder mijn voeten werd steeds drassiger, totdat ik zelfs mijn schoenen dreigde te verliezen. Staan werd onmogelijk en ik viel constant op mijn gezicht, op mijn rug en op mijn handen, omdat ik niet rechtop kon blijven staan. Dit duurde minstens een uur, misschien wel twee. Elke keer raakte ik verstrikt in de braamstruiken, en die sneden genadeloos in mijn huid bij elke stap. Uiteindelijk zat mijn fiets zo verstrikt in de braamstruiken dat ik hem niet los kon krijgen, en mezelf er maar net uit kon krijgen. Ik kwam uiteindelijk een stukje van het scoutsgebouw aan de weg naar Erps-Kwerps vandaan en ging in een bushokje zitten om op adem te komen. Daarop kwam er een bus aanrijden, en ik hield hem aan, in mijn verfomfaaide toestand. Ik was mijn korte broek kwijt, was van top tot teen zwart van het vuil, nat, koud en bloedend, en ik vroeg of de buschauffeur me naar Leuven kon brengen. God zegene hem, stemde hij meteen toe, ook al had ik geen geld bij me. Maar toen ik zag dat we in Veltem bij het station waren, riep ik: “Oh, ik ben nu bijna thuis, dank u!” En hij liet me gaan met zijn goede wensen. De volgende dag ging ik naar mijn dokter, die mijn talloze snijwonden verzorgde, en in de dagen en weken die volgden, bezocht ik opnieuw het bos om te proberen de fiets terug te vinden. Maar het was tevergeefs. Zelfs de extra ogen van vrienden en zelfs iemand met een warmtezoekende camera konden niet onthullen waar hij was. Zelfs Fernand Rochette, de lokale historicus, werd geadviseerd, die een paar mensen kende die bij de gemeente voor het reservaat zorgen, en misschien hielp dat, want Erwin, je hebt mijn fiets gevonden, die ik al lang niet meer had gezien.
Ik ben warm van je vrijgevigheid en vriendelijkheid. Je hebt me mijn eigendom teruggegeven en je hebt in mij een gevoel van welkom en gemeenschapszin geworteld dat onmetelijk is. Dank je wel. Dank je wel. Jij Erwin, en bedankt Herent voor je vriendelijkheid en je zorgzaamheid. En geloof me: ga niet van de gebaande paden van de Molenbeekvallei af, vooral niet na zonsondergang. De bossen zijn verraderlijk voor wie er onoplettend naartoe gaat. Ze hebben mijn fiets een tijdje opgeslokt en ik ben ervan overtuigd dat als ik hem niet had afgestaan, ze mij ook misschien wel hadden opgeslokt.
i always thought goldfish struggled with their memory span, rather than their attention span. It’s conference interpreters who have a 15-second attention span—on a good day:)