O amor natural

La politique agressive du gouvernement Macron

ACTUALITÉS

30/01/2018 02:29 CET | Actualisé il y a 4 heures

À Ouistreham et à Caen, face à la détresse des migrants, les habitants solidaires nous parlent

Associations et résidants se mobilisent pour fournir repas et hébergements à ces jeunes.

• Par Camille Dubruelh
  

MIGRANTS - "Les associations qui encouragent ces femmes et ces hommes à rester, à s'installer dans l'illégalité prennent une responsabilité immense. Jamais elles n'auront l'Etat à leurs côtés." Ces mots, Emmanuel Macron les a prononcés à Calais, mardi 16 janvier.

Alors que le projet de loi "Asile et immigration" sera présenté en conseil des ministres en février, de nombreuses ONG et responsables politiques dénoncent la politique agressive du gouvernement envers les migrants et ceux qui les aident comme Cédric Herrou condamné en appel à 4 mois de prison avec sursis pour aide aux migrants en août 2017.

Un "délit de solidarité", auquel souhaite mettre fin la sénatrice Esther Benbassa, qui présente ce mardi 31 janvier, une proposition de loi visant à l'abolir. "C'est incroyable de voir le courage de ceux qui les aident", explique-t-elle après une visite à Ouistreham.

La loi française était très sévère envers les personnes qui "facilite la circulation ou le séjour irréguliers d'un étranger en France": jusqu'à cinq ans de prison et 30.000 euros d'amende. Le texte a été assoupli en 2012 et désormais, ne tombent plus sous le coup de la loi les personnes qui aide des étrangers en situation irrégulière dans un souci "d'assurer des conditions de vie dignes et décentes". Mais dans les faits, la qualification en délit dépend de l'interprétation du juge.

Cette menace n'arrête pas pour autant les associations et particuliers qui se mobilisent, notamment dans les régions où affluent les migrants, comme dans le Calvados, en Normandie. A Ouistreham, des jeunes Soudanais se sont installés pour multiplier leurs chances de pouvoir monter sur l'un des ferrys qui font la traversée jusqu'à l'Angleterre trois fois par jour. Si les associations s'occupent des distributions de repas, aucun squat ni hébergement n'existe dans le port normand. Les jeunes migrants dorment donc dehors, dans les bois.
Une situation "inacceptable" pour Nelly, qui, comme d'autres résidents, a ouvert sa porte pour accueillir deux jeunes hommes à l'approche de l'hiver. "Je me suis réveillée en me disant : mais qu'est-ce qu'on fait?", explique-t-elle dans notre vidéo en tête de l'article. Quant à ce qu'elle risque, elle s'en moque. "Je n'ai pas peur et je n'y pense pas", lâche-t-elle.
"Si tout le monde fait ça, on sera très forts. Si tout le monde héberge, ils ne pourront pas tous nous mettre en prison ou nous faire payer...", espère-t-elle.
Quelques kilomètres plus loin, à Caen, les hébergements d'urgence manquent. Alors des squats s'ouvrent et se ferment pour accueillir demandeurs d'asile ou étrangers sans papiers à l'initiative d'un collectif informel. "Il y a au moins huit squats ouverts et 300 personnes logées, surtout des familles", explique Patrick Arz, membre de "L'AG de lutte contre les expulsions", dénonçant "la défaillance de l'État".

Deleted posts are still on internet

January 19 at 7:13am ·

DELETED POSTS ARE STILL ON INTERNET
I published the previous post on my facebook page resulting in a comment (in Dutch) of someone who said: "Your son is right."
I replied: "My son once showed me that almost nothing disappears from the internet. For example, I thought that the old entries in one of my blogs that I had deleted were no longer visible to anyone, but he found them."
... See More

Tutto è possibile: Mi hijo dijo que casi nada desaparece de internet

zambrone.blogspot.pe

Lage lonen en smartphones

Rijkste 1 procent streek vorig jaar 82 procent op van nieuwe rijkdom

• 22 januari 2018
• Bron: Belga

Thinkstock

De rijkste één procent van de wereldbevolking zag vorig jaar 82 procent van de nieuw gecreëerde rijkdom naar zich gaan, zegt Oxfam vandaag in een rapport aan de vooravond van het Wereld Economisch Forum in Davos. 

De armste 3,7 miljard mensen zagen hun gezamenlijke rijkdom niet toenemen. “De toename van het aantal miljardairs is geen teken van een bloeiende economie, maar van een systeem dat faalt”, zegt Maaike Vanmeerhaeghe, beleidsmedewerker ongelijkheid bij Oxfam.

Lees ook

Amazonbaas steekt Bill Gates voorbij als rijkste mens ooit

“Om de winst voor aandeelhouders te vergroten, drukken multinationals lonen en ontwijken ze belastingen. De mensen die onze kleren maken, onze smartphones samenstellen en ons voedsel kweken, worden uitgebuit om zo goedkoop mogelijk producten op de markt te brengen”, zegt Vanmeerhaeghe.

Het zou 2,2 miljard dollar per jaar kosten om de lonen van alle 2,5 miljoen Vietnamese textielarbeid(st)ers leefbaar te maken. Dat is een derde van het bedrag dat aandeelhouders van de 5 grootste kledingbedrijven in 2016 opstreken. Het voorbije jaar zagen miljardairs hun vermogen stijgen met 762 miljard dollar. Dat is voldoende om de extreme armoede in de wereld 7 keer uit te roeien.

Het voorbije jaar zagen miljardairs hun vermogen stijgen met 762 miljard dollar. Dat is voldoende om de extreme armoede in de wereld 7 keer uit te roeien.

Oxfam stelt dat vrouwen vaker dan mannen de dupe zijn van het globaal economisch systeem, omdat ze vaak de slechtst betaalde jobs hebben of onbetaalde zorg verlenen.

Belastingontwijking

De ongelijkheid wordt ook in de hand gewerkt door de belastingontwijking door de superrijken en de multinationals. Hierdoor lopen ontwikkelingslanden jaarlijks 170 miljard dollar mis aan belastinginkomsten, becijfert de organisatie. De één procent rijksten ontwijken alleen al naar schatting 200 miljard dollar per jaar aan belastingen. Geld dat niet naar onderwijs, gezondheidszorg en sociale bescherming kan gaan.

Oxfam roept overheden wereldwijd op om extreme ongelijkheid tegen te gaan, door minimumlonen in te voeren, genderongelijkheid en internationale belastingontwijking te bestrijden. In België roept Oxfam op om haar petitie voor eerlijke belastingen en fiscale transparantie te tekenen.

Abandon smartphone?

Giovanni Zambrone

1 min ·

ABANDON SMARTPHONE?
I (almost 70) just discovered the attractions of smartphone, while a friend (30) just abandoned it because of its distractions. / Yo (casi 70) acabo de descubrir las atracciones del teléfono inteligente, mientras que un amigo (30) acaba de abandonarlo debido a sus distracciones.

The Future of Rotterdam

Giovanni Zambrone

1 min ·

THE FUTURE OF ROTTERDAM
I read an interesting article about Rotterdam and the Netherlands in the New York Times of which I will copy the first paragraphs below. I read it because of a a conversation I had with the director corporate strategy of the Port of Rotterdam. In preparing the interview I read a couple of articles and power point presentations about Rotterdam and the Paris Climate Agreement. Very interesting stuff!

The Dutch Have Solutions to Rising Seas. The World Is Watching.

I read an interesting article about Rotterdam and the Netherlands in the New York Times of which I will copy the first paragraphs below. I...

fondad.blogspot.com

La iniciadora y cumplidora

Ella ha estimulado la creatividad de nuestros hijos cuando eran pequeños. Y ella ha hecho los cuadernos llenos de fotos, dibujos y historias de ellos. Sin ella no habríamos tenido ese precioso testimonio de su juventud. Claro, yo también he contribuido, pero ella era la iniciadora y la cumplidora, la persona que cumplía!

Abajo está uno de los muchos dibujos de nuestro hijo que mi compañera ha pegado en uno de los álbumes que ella ha revisado los últimos días. Además de los álbumes de su juventud y la de su hermana (la madre de Kira), hay un sinnúmero de álbumes de nuestros viajes, con y sin hijos.

Los dos dibujos tirados de nuestro pequeño hijo

Los he fotografiado con la luz de una lámpara, no es luz adecuada. Los dos son dibujos grandes, de un tamãno de unos 40 con 60 centímetros.

Ella tira dibujos de nuestro PEQUEÑO hijo!!

Hago disipar las diferencias entre mis blogs. En este blog "Wondertje" (Milagrito) solía escribir en neerlandés, pero ya empecé a publicar aquí posts en inglés y castellano. Mi "problema" es que en este momento del viernes, temprano por la mañana, estoy pensando en castellano.

Mi compañera está tirando dibujos de nuestro hijo que él hizo de pequeño teniendo unos cuatro años. Salvé dos dibujos y voy a sacar fotografías de ellos para mostrarlos y, claro, guardarlos.

No estoy realmente criticando a mi compañera, sólo un poquito (?), porque comprendo que ella en su labor de ordenar cosas en nuestra casa tiene que tirar algunas de esas cosas. Me dijo ella anoche: 'Para poder guardar bien los dibujos de nuestros hijos en los cuadernos que hemos hecho cuando eran pequeños, tengo que cortar algunos y tirar otros.'

Ella también tira fácilmente dibujos que ella ha hecho. También en su caso los he sacado del cubo de basura y escaneado para guardarlos. Algunos de los dibujos salvados de ella he publicado en el otro blog, "Tutto è possibile".

PD: de repente me pregunto si 'disipar' es la palabra adecuada para la desaparición de las fronteras que había establecido para mis blogs.

PD2: Mi hermano canadiense sugiere 'evaporar' como palabra más adecuada. 

Aafke Steenhuis in Ons Amsterdam

Een vriendin schreef Aafke en mij:

"Hallo Jongens.

Wat een ontzettend leuke, vrolijke & lieve foto van Aafke blikt ons ineens tegemoet in Ons Amsterdam!

Nou, je bent geen spat veranderd hoor.

Amore, Cilia"

Ons Amsterdam is het tijdschrift voor iedereen die van Amsterdam houdt. Dit zegt Wikipedia over Ons Amsterdam.

De foto in het tijdschrift heb ik aangeleverd. Wat ben ik blij dat ik zo zorgvuldig foto's en scans bewaar. Dankzij die scans konden er in het nieuwe boek van Aafke, Wie ben je?, tekeningen opgenomen worden die zij niet meer heeft.

Six (very) short stories from Bombay

Jan Joost Teunissen and Aafke Steenhuis were a week in Bombay (Mumbai) for their book on world ports. Upon their return, Jan Joost wrote six short stories. They give a clue to why he regretted  leaving Bombay after a week.

Buying a SIM card

Mahendra and Aafke

At the exit of the cruise terminal they trudged around me, the taxi drivers. "Sir, I can take you to all the places you want to visit," "Sir, do you want to go to the Gateway?", "Sir, I can bring you to the Museum, it's very cheap."  
"Thank you for offering your services but I do not need a taxi," I kept answering. "I just walk to the traffic light to buy a SIM card."
It was a wide avenue that I walked from the gate, with high, thick trees on the left. There was little traffic. A man approached me and asked modestly if I might need a taxi. "Not now," I said, "but tomorrow. My wife and I are still on the cruise ship for another night and tomorrow morning we will go to our hotel and have an appointment somewhere in the city." "I can take you anywhere for $ 15 a day," he said. I looked at him a bit better, he looked back quietly. "Okay," I said, "can you be at the gate at 8 o'clock in the morning, then my wife and I will come with our suitcases?"
The next morning he walked towards us calmly and confidently. When we said goodbye to each other a week later at the airport, both Mahendra, Aafke and I had tears in our eyes. 

At the junction with the traffic light there was an open shop on the other side, actually more like a wide, open booth, like the one where Aafke and I bought a SIM card in Shanghai, with a man who constantly received smartphones that customers gave to him for a number of hours. I could only buy a SIM card with him if I had a passport photo, because forms had to be filled in with a photograph of me stuck to it. He told me where I could have a passport photo taken in the neighbourhood. 
I came to a photo shop, with staff in the front, light section and in the back, in the dark, the boss. He was a calm, friendly and confident man, with whom I soon started talking about black and white photography, the development of negatives, the fascination of seeing emerge the image in the developer liquid, the type of paper that was our favorite - he sepia, I Record Rapid from Agfa - and the film rolls from initially 8 and later 36 photos. I still  have a few rolls in my closet and also photo paper, developer, fixer and tongs to pick up the wet, developed photo paper and first put it in a container with fixer and then rinse it in a bucket. But the conversation about those details was not until after he had taken off his pants and shirt and suddenly stood in front of me in half-length underpants and with calm and controlled movements pulled on a perfectly ironed shirt and white trousers to walk with me to a telephone store to buy a SIM card.  
He took me by the arm to cross a busy road and that's how I got my first lesson in crossing a street where cars on the wrong side run past each other and alongside you. That lesson was useful later, when I crossed busy roads with Aafke. For me it soon became routine and an adventure without danger, because I saw that the traffic chaos and the drivers of the always honking cars, scooters and motorcycles respectfully interact with each other and with the pedestrians: they never bump against each other, even though it seems that they will do that every moment.
Together with the photographer I found a suitable telephone store. On the way back he told me about the beautiful sepia wedding photo he had of his parents, about his daily yoga exercises and the skipping of the evening meal, so he stayed so fit. He was 72 and I thought he looked younger than me. Later I introduced Aafke to him when she also had a passport photo taken to get an Indian SIM card. In the end she did not buy one: one working cell phone was sufficient.

The eyes of Naresh Fernandes

He could tell wonderfully about Bombay, about the neighbourhood where he lived and where his mother had also lived as well as generations before him, about the globalization of Hawaiian music, about his grandfather who had devoted his life to protesting against the injustice that was done to him by the expropriation of his piece of land, but I was intrigued by his eyes. It was as if I were looking into my grandmother's eyes, and into my uncle's, my father's brother's eyes.  

That same day I sent Naresh Fernandes a photo of my The Hague grandmother, after he had shown me a picture of his mother that morning: a face that seemed familiar to me.

On the last day of our stay in Bombay I looked again in the eyes of my uncle and in that of my grandmother. This time it were the eyes of Mahendra Sinh, the friend of the Indian writer's friend who Aafke once had interviewed. We sat on the lawn of the Willingdon Golf Club, it started to twilight a bit. He asked if I was born in March. He thought we had the same constellation, because it was as if he had known me for a long time. 

At the airport, at check-in, Aafke said, "When you look back, at the man with his little daughter on the arm, you see those same eyes with dark circles around them."

I once thought that my The Hague grandmother had Eastern blood.

The spots on Aafke's lower legs

She had been bothered for a few days, but suddenly I thought: a doctor has to look at this. I walked to the desk of our hotel, explained what happened to Aafke. The boss looked for a piece of paper, picked up the phone, called and said that we had an appointment with a dermatologist in a clinic in the neighbourhood. He sent one of the servants to arrange a taxi. And so we sat fifteen minutes later with bare feet in the waiting room of the dermatologist. 

There was a woman who had a look at Aafke's legs and not much later the skin doctor came to us and invited Aafke in the small room to tell her story. Then we went to the treatment room. He looked carefully at her legs, diagnosed her and prescribed two types of cream, one for the morning and one for the evening. 

Two days later the spots had almost disappeared. I thanked the boss of our hotel for his resolute action and said that this would be exceptional in the Netherlands. 

What Aafke had? An allergic skin reaction.  

The dermatologist also prescribed pills. He asked if Aafke sometimes had side effects, said he did not expect the pills to cause side effects, but left it to Aafke about whether or not to take them.  

He wrote the use of both creams and pills in such a beautiful, clear and artistic handwriting that I said that I had never seen a doctor in the Netherlands with such a clear handwriting. To which he replied laughing, that they therefore did not take him seriously as a doctor.

The glass door

Before we went that evening to the beautiful old-fashioned cinema in our neighborhood to watch a Bollywood movie, we quickly went to our beloved coffee bar at the corner of Marine Drive one kilometer from our hotel. 

I stepped in there resolutely and did not see the glass door. It did not give in a millimeter, because with my forehead I collided with the side of the glass door where the hinges are. 

Aafke ordered coffee, I sat down at a table in a corner, and staff and customers asked me concerned how it went.  

Aafke noticed on the terrace a moment later that a huge bump had appeared on my head, just above my left eye, and she asked for ice cubes. Thanks to the plastic bag with press-on closure that I had received at the airport in Amsterdam when exchanging euros in rupees from the perfect Dutch speaking Russian from the GWK, I had the perfect waterproof bag for the ice cubes, which I first held against my forehead just above my left eye on the terrace of the café and, later in the hotel room, while watching a Bollywood movie on the TV. The swelling became less and the next day you hardly saw it. 

After a few days a beautiful dark blue border appeared around my eye reminding me of my The Hague grandmother.

The architect who studied in Delft for a year

Quaid invited us to come to his office in a neighborhood on the north side of Bombay (most of Bombay is north of the center of the old city where our hotel was nearby). Someone at the iron gate door opened the door for our taxi driver, and when we stopped in a courtyard, a pungent urine smell penetrated our nose; we were right in front of a pishouse.

Through an internal staircase of a former factory we arrived in the room where the architect, a boy or man in his early forties, the same age of our Dutch friend through whom we had gotten his address and with whom she had studied in Delft, has his office. There were open rooms with young staff and an older woman who later made tea for us.

We asked him about the plans for the new destination of the old port site that lies along the east side of Bombay on the bay; on the other side a new port has been built, which we have never seen because of the smog and the great distance. Our taxi driver did not want to drive to it, it was a two and a half hours drive, he said, because he did not know the situation there and because he was afraid he would have problems with the authorities.

Quaid could tell us something about the new zoning plans, but in the end we talked more about his search for how he would direct his life after the divorce of his companion and partner in business with whom he was still close friends. He especially wanted to know how we managed to stay together for 50 years.

In our favorite coffee bar on Marine Drive we continued the conversation the next day.

The 'Sister' of Percy Mistry

Percy Mistry

For ten years, Percy Mistry was the man with whom I worked most closely within FONDAD. A friend of mine who worked at the World Bank said to me at the end of the eighties: maybe he will soon leave the World Bank and if I were you I would immediately contact him. A large number of books that I have published as director and editor-in-chief of FONDAD have been written by Percy (see Fondad books by Percy Mistry).

But here I want to talk about his 'sister' or the lady he introduced to me as his sister when we saw each other again after 20 years, but who is actually his cousin: her mother is his father's sister, but the two families have lived in the same family building in Bombay and they grew up like sister and brother. Percy lives in Bombay for the winter part of the year, his permanent home is in Oxfordshire in the UK.

Percy and I saw each other back at CCI, or the Cricket Club of India. Just like at the Willingdon Sports Club we sat at a table on the lawn, a kind of outdoor terrace, and because there was a lot of noise and I was sitting next to Percy's sister, I had a conversation with her, while Aafke on the other side of the table had a conversation with Percy and his protégé who worked at the OECD. Percy has a serious illness and after half past eight in the evening is only capable of falling asleep or watching TV.

His sister told me about her mother who gambled money at horse racing, but she also told me about another cousin of hers who is committed to teaching children from slums. That cousin has already made thousands of slum (and disabled) children happy with education that was not only focused on learning but also on drawing and sports. And so for me, and later also for Aafke, the first-class lady became a lively, sweet woman with whom Aafke had a conversation about her youth at Catholic boarding schools in India and in Switzerland.

I still found a warm bond with Percy.

The eyes of my great-grandfather

One of my great-grandfathers has a face that intrigues me. What is it that intrigues me? His eyes, and his lips. They express a mood and a genetic background that I find intriguing, not only because they are a bit uncommon for a Dutchman but also because they relate to an inner world that I would like to know.

I looked again at the picture above when I was writing one of the short stories about my stay in Bombay, The eyes of Naresh.

I am less intrigued by the face of the wife of my great-grandfather, even though I once visited her as a small boy when I stayed with my grandmother in The Hague. You can see the face of my grandmother in my post The eyes of Naresh and tthat of my other grandmother (the mother of my mother) in Mi abuela napolitana - Nelly De Ferramte.

Below is another picture of my grandmother from The Hague.

The architect in Bombay who studied in Delft for a year

Quaid invited us to come to his office in a neighborhood on the north side of Bombay (most of Bombay is north of the center of the old city where our hotel was nearby). Someone at the iron gate door opened the door for our taxi driver, and when we stopped in a courtyard, a pungent urine smell penetrated our nose; we were right in front of a pishouse.

Through an internal staircase of a former factory we arrived in the room where the architect, a boy or man in his early forties, the same age of our Dutch friend through whom we had gotten his address and with whom she had studied in Delft, has his office. There were open rooms with young staff and an older woman who later made tea for us.

We asked him about the plans for the new destination of the old port site that lies along the east side of Bombay on the bay; on the other side a new port has been built, which we have never seen because of the smog and the great distance. Our taxi driver did not want to drive to it, it was a two and a half hours drive, he said, because he did not know the situation there and because he was afraid he would have problems with the authorities.

Quaid could tell us something about the new zoning plans, but in the end we talked more about his search for how he would direct his life after the divorce of his companion and partner in business with whom he was still close friends. He especially wanted to know how we managed to stay together for 50 years.

In our favorite coffee bar on Marine Drive we continued the conversation the next day.

Economic thoughts and music

Painting by Aafke Steenhuis

Rather than reading another 2-minute post on world economic affairs, you may prefer, on this Sunday, to listen to a one-minute piece of music played by me on guitar: Le bollard et la guitare.

Analytical thinking is one thing, playing music another. I could not do the one without the other.

I guess that for many of you music is important in your life. Tastes may differ but I hope you will enjoy this little, classical piece.

Posted by jan joost teunissen at 1:50 AM

De glazen deur

Voordat we naar de mooie ouderwetse bioscoop bij ons in de buurt zouden gaan om naar een Bollywood-film te kijken, gingen we nog snel even naar ons geliefde koffiecafé op de hoek van Marine Drive een kilometer van ons hotel. Ik stapte daar resoluut naar binnen en zag de glazen deur niet. Hij gaf geen millimeter mee, want met mijn voorhoofd botste ik op de zijkant van de glazen deur waar de scharnieren zitten. Aafke bestelde koffie, ik ging wat verdwaasd aan een tafeltje in een hoek zitten en personeel en klanten vroegen mij bezorgd hoe het mij ging. Aafke constateerde even later op het terras dat er een enorme buil op mijn hoofd verscheen, vlak boven mijn linkeroog, en zij ging binnen ijsblokjes vragen.

Dankzij het plastic zakje met aandruksluiting dat ik op Schiphol bij het omwisselen van euro’s in rupees had gekregen van de perfect Nederlands sprekende Rus van het GWK, had ik het perfecte waterdichte hoesje voor de ijsblokjes, die ik eerst op het terras van het café en later in de hotelkamer tijdens het kijken naar een Bollywood-film op de tv tegen mijn voorhoofd hield, vlak boven mijn linkeroog. De zwelling werd minder en de volgende dag zag je hem bijna niet. Na een paar dagen verscheen er een mooie donkerblauwe rand om mijn oog die mij herinnerde aan mijn Haagse oma.

Jan 3rd - Stormy weather

This morning, looking through the window.

The glass door

Before we went that evening to the beautiful old-fashioned cinema in our neighborhood to watch a Bollywood movie, we quickly went to our beloved coffee café on the corner of Marine Drive one kilometer from our hotel. 

I stepped in there resolutely and did not see the glass door. It did not give in a millimeter, because with my forehead I collided with the side of the glass door where the hinges are. 

Aafke ordered coffee, I sat down at a table in a corner, and staff and customers asked me concerned how it went.  

Aafke noticed on the terrace a moment later that a huge bump had appeared on my head, just above my left eye, and she asked for ice cubes. Thanks to the plastic bag with press-on closure that I had received at the airport in Amsterdam when exchanging euros in rupees from the perfect Dutch speaking Russian from the GWK, I had the perfect waterproof bag for the ice cubes, which I first held against my forehead just above my left eye on the terrace of the café and, later in the hotel room, while watching a Bollywood movie on the TV. The swelling became less and the next day you hardly saw it. 

After a few days a beautiful dark blue border appeared around my eye reminding me of my The Hague grandmother.

Bombay - The spots on Aafke's lower legs

She had been bothered for a few days, but suddenly I thought: a doctor has to look at this. I walked to the desk of our hotel, explained what happened to Aafke. The boss looked for a piece of paper, picked up the phone, called and said that we had an appointment with a dermatologist in a clinic in the neighbourhood. He sent one of the servants to arrange a taxi. And so we sat fifteen minutes later with bare feet in the waiting room of the dermatologist. 

There was a woman who had a look at Aafkes legs and not much later the skin doctor came to us and invited Aafke in the small room to tell her story. Then we went to the treatment room. He looked carefully at her legs, diagnosed her and prescribed two types of cream, one for the morning and one for the evening. 

Two days later the spots had almost disappeared. I thanked the boss of our hotel for his resolute action and said that this would be exceptional in the Netherlands. 
What Aafke had? An allergic skin reaction.  

The dermatologist also prescribed pills. He asked if Aafke sometimes had side effects, said he did not expect the pills to cause side effects, but left it to Aafke about whether or not to take them.  

He wrote the use of both creams and pills in such a beautiful, clear and artistic handwriting that I said that I had never seen a doctor in the Netherlands with such a clear handwriting. To which he replied laughing, that they therefore did not take him seriously as a doctor.