What are we doing? July 1st, 2000 First off: I have a new mobile phone. Its number is +31 653 803 541. The MESA (European March of Memory and Friendship) Second: in the early hours of this morning I returned from the 34th MESA (Marche Européenne du Souvenir et de l'Amitié) 2000. This is a yearly 4 day military march, 32.5 kilometres (20.2 miles) each day, through the Belgian province of Luxemburg, in the rocky and hilly Ardennes forest. Organised by the 7th Mechanised Brigade of the Belgian army in memory of the fallen amongst the Chasseurs Ardennais (hunters of the Ardennes), a unit of the Belgian military that fought valiantly when the German army attacked in 1940. I walked this march with my personal walking coach (haha), Hendrik van der Schelden, my sister's previous boyfriend. He's a weird character, but good fun to be with on occasions like this. And he pulled me through in an excellent way. Not all of that was his work though (but I'll come to that below). Although the weather was brilliant (80 Fahrenheit and clear sunny skies every day but the 4th, on which we had grey overcast skies and a slight drizzle at times), and the Belgians were incredibly friendly and hospitable, I had a really hard time. You see, this was the first march I did since I was 19 years old, and what's worse, I walked the entire 130 km on cheap basketball trainers and in the heavy black trenchcoat I normally wear. The former was because of a lack of both money and time on the day we left, but the latter was by personal choice - I figured I could do with some serious sweating, having a sitdown job. Also, the coat was a good carryall and wonderful after resting in the shade of the forests (you get real cold), in the rain the last day, and in the very cold early mornings (having overlooked to bring a sleeping bag, it also served as a blanket at nights). The trenchcoat and trainers The coat being coupled with my usual Terminator sunglasses and allblack other clothes, my looks earned me a wonderful series of nicknames: 'Prince Willem-Alexander' (from a very stupid and irritating Dutchman), 'Zorro', 'Batman', 'Pastor', 'Reverend', 'Blues Brother', and the four I was really honoured by, 'Simenon' (after the famous French writer of detective novels about Commissaire Maigret, from a French lady who looked uncannily like Mrs. Marple herself), 'Neerlands hoop in bange dagen' ('the hope of the Netherlands in dark days', from a very friendly fellow countrywoman), 'Der schwarze Geist' ('the black spirit', from a German team of army reservists) and, first and foremost, 'le Matrix', from the soldiers of the Belgian army, our hosts. The shoes killed me, meanwhile. Having worked up some serious blisters during the first day, I visited the military lazaret on the second, at the halfway stop. The Belgian military medics were excellently professional and had me going again in no time. But they had to (and did) repeat that feat on the fourth day. On that day I would not have finished, had it not been for them and two German soldiers, who supplied me with paracetamol tablets. So now I can hardly walk and have two inflamed tendons, in my groin and right foot. Well, here's to a week of quiet recuperating. Yes, I had a great march. The weather, the beautiful landscape, excellent food and atmosphere all combined to make this an unforgettable experience I would advise almost anyone to undergo. But the thing that stood and stands out above all others is this. Walking with the ATC You talk to me of British hooliganism - I give you the men and women of the British Royal Air Force Air Cadet Training Corps. There was a unit of about twentyfive of them at the MESA. The ATC is a scouts-like organisation for up to 18-year olds. Their unit was led by one of the most friendly and impressive leaders I have ever had the honour of coming across, a flight lieutenant named Steve. Being an Anglophile and seascout of 11 years, it was natural for me to team up with them. But it was Henk who broke the ice when, as we overtook them on the first day, he sang 'Rule Brittannia' and 'Jerusalem' for them. That night, they drowned us in Belgian beer in thanks for the uplifting experience. As if that wasn't more than enough, they repaid us hundredfold in the days to come. I don't know if anyone reading this will share my sentiment, but to me there are few sights to compare to this ATC team marching behind its Union Jack, under a stark blue sky along the horizon, in the distance ahead of me, over the rim of the lush green hills of the Belgian Ardennes. 'There goes civilization', I recall myself saying to Henk, and by God, I meant that. These youngsters, their cadre and their leader are the finest model of teamspirit I have ever seen. A few examples: one of the guys in the troop, Adam, should normally have dropped out when he injured his hamstring badly. But he didn't. This hero finished the march, but not alone. On day three, while the team marched ahead, Flight Sergeant Briney, a wonderful (and ummm... ...pleasantly beautiful in a paintinglike way) girl with a great spirit, talked him through the entire day (and this pulled me through too, since I was dying with pain on the last 5 km - but the knowledge Briney and Adam went that same stretch before me absolutely was what got me to the finish; Briney, Adam, I can _never_ repay you for that). On day four, the same happened, Steve's second in command taking Briney's place. One other girl in the team had blisters so bad she could not march on day 3 - but she did on day 4. Not only did the team again leave one person with her (another member of the cadre named Steve), but after the first stop they also sent back two of their finest to go looking for them. They failed to locate them, since she had again dropped out due to the incredible pain, and was in a lazaret with Steve. Now, instead of finishing the march quietly on their own, the posse of two doubletimed it all the way back to their troop, after finding out from the Belgian soldiers that their mates were in good hands. Couple this impressive teamspirit with the great time we had in the bar, the humour along the way (I say to Flight Lt. Steve on the fourth day, when beginning a steep descent: 'Can't somebody flatten this bloody country' and his apologetic answer is: 'Well, we tried'), and the model of military discipline this team was (in marching, doublefile with their national flag in front, as well as in general behaviour - where on earth would you find a group of youngsters who, in the absence of their leader, still decide to leave the bar at their officially designated time of 9 pm to go sleep?), and it is small wonder this team was awarded the silver plaquette with the boar on for being the best team to march this year. Guys, girls, you deserve it. Thank you so much for being there. I will never forget you. To have experienced the honour of marching with you is a thing that will be a great source of pride and inspiration to me for the rest of my days. Wear that swine with pride, and drink to Henry and me, as we will to you. You're England's finest, and the day we meet again will be an occasion to remember. Haha Alright, enough said. Back to the march. I finished it limping, but still wearing the black trench (buttoned up the last 4 km, just to irritate those who laughed at me). There was no laughter after Henk had pinned the medal to it, haha. You motherfucking morons, I made it! How's that for fun?! I tell you, I could receive few greater compliments than the genuinely admiring looks, raised thumbs and applause I got from the departing contingent of soldiers of France (for whom Henk sang the Marseillaise after France beat Portugal in Euro 2000), who had laughed at my look all week. At a time when Holland loses the European soccer championship semi-final to Italy, and France wins the title, this is my finest hour so far, by far. So, to the organisers of the MESA, the personnel at Camp Roi Albert in Marche-en-Famenne, the people of Belgium, the friendly German Reservists (who applauded me halfway through the week to show they didn't give a rat's ass about any person's looks), the group of French army wives (with whom Henk sang the Marseillaise and several dirty songs), dat menneke uit Vlaanderen, the two active German soldiers, the group of US soldiers (for whom Henk sang the Star Spangled Banner), more especially their Afro American female member, the Dutch group of excommandos, Adjutant van Dongen, those French, Henk Bakx (the Rotterdam soldier from the Hague who gave us a hitch to Maastricht on the way home), and those beautiful English: thank you, from the bottom of my heart. I'll be back. But for now I'm gonna rest me feet in a pail of cold water. Neil, the above was not a try. Do or do not. There is no try. (Yoda)