| What are we doing?
April 26th, 2002 43rd Schweizerischer Zweitagemarsch Bern Immature carousing. That's what it must have been - for who would believe the explanation given? The Wandelsoc. had even written
to the Präsident of the Zofingia Bernensis, competently translated into German by Schelden. We had, after all, the last time over, enjoyed our stay in Zofingerhaus La Blanche on the Alpeneggstraße so much, that we desired to return there this time, but we had, at the time, also been present so unexpectedly and loudly that the housekeeper appeared to have complained afterwards. So it seemed to us to be a good idea to warn her in advance this time over, and therefore we asked the Zofinger to do so, in that letter - assuming the Zofinger would agree to our staying in La Blanche at all. Day 1 Alas, on the day we set off in Marco's Polo, for the opening of Marching Season 2002, the 43rd Schweizerischer Zweitagemarsch in Bern, there was no answer to that letter yet.  Never mind, though. After Marco van Zijntergen, Jochem Prakke and I had collected Astrid van Loon in Gilze-Rijen, and after a long stretch of tearing down the road (through Germany, two stops at Raststättes included), we arrived in a rainy Belp. Belp? Yes, Belp. Until now, the Schweizerischer Zweitagemarsch, as said, happened in Bern. Basecamp in that case was the Bea Expo, a humongous sort of Excel. But last year, apparently, discord had arisen between its administrators and the organisers of the march.
And so, this year, they had diverted to Belp, a village 10 km out of Bern. This was not a problem, because Belp was easily found. Not only we, but also UN-diplomat Jan (whom we knew from last time) and Flip Koster (whom we still remembered from Diekirch) had been able to find it, since we bumped into them as soon as we got out of the car. After a long bout of waiting at the registration (which took place in the local school building, which also served as accommodation for about half the walkers), and a very short inspection of the Belp beertent, we motored on to Gümligen. Gümligen? Yes, Gümligen. Since because that school in Belp wasn't big enough, part of the walkers was accommodated elsewhere: in a nuclear fallout shelter in Gümligen, namely (which in daily life, amongst other things, serves as a practice hall for local bands).  It was patently obvious that the organisation has yet to get used to the new situation. Not only did we have to, at the Belp registration, go through considerable trouble before we found out where we were supposed to take up our quarter, but the route description for Gümligen was abominable too. In three hours, we had seen a lot more of Bern than we cared too. Fortunately, when we arrived at the Zivilschutzanlage, our discomfort was over.
We were received there most courteously, by Swiss commandos and paras, who neatly showed us parking space and quarters and also guarded the shelter 24 hours a day, at a table in the hallway. This without a deck of cards! Remarkable discipline. A shelter like that is a very comfortable thing, by the way (fine bunk beds in spacious rooms, men and women compulsorily separated, true, lockable metal cabinets, fantastic showers in well-equipped sanitary areas, small communal 'canteen'), although I think the fact that we could walk out at will played a part in this.  Which we therefore did. As soon as we had stashed our stuff, we sped off to Bern, parked right in front of La Blanche and proceeded, after an elevator ride down from the Grosse Schanze and a proper dinner at Neal's (still Europe's greatest snackbar, as regards its selection, do check the report on the last time over for a discourse on it) to effortlessly locate the Zofinger.
They namely were, as Schelden had accurately informed us about by phone, in Hotel Zum Goldenen Adler, celebrating the christening, in the fountain outside it, of a number of new members. It was a pleasant reunion, with Subtil, Goldrauch and theirs. But of the story the Präsident (for punishment I have forgotten his name, although I must say he was as much of a nice guy as Präsident Von & zu was last year) told us, we didn't believe a thing, as said: he alleged that they had been so impressed with the fact that our letter had been drafted in German, that they had wanted to reply in Dutch, and the only students within Zofingia who could, were, naturally, ill and/or absent at the time. Oh do come off it! As if we don't know students: in drunken stupor, is what they most probably were! We were more than welcome in La Blanche, he told us. Well sorry old boyo, but by now we'd already paid for and made our beds in the Zivilschutzanlage Moos. This did not hamper the fact that the drinking and conversation was enjoyable, until twelve o' clock. At such time, mindful of tradition and habit in-country (insofar as the Zofinger are typical of the Swiss, that is) we stepped outside to sing La Messe - as a group, as always, in a close circle, held candles in its midst. One must have been there to appreciate this: it is a moment for pride and cold shivers down the spine). After that we contentedly said our goodbyes, strolled down to the bridge across the river Aare (it remains a wondersome place, although, by now, the view was somewhat lost on Astrid, fatigued as she was) and then sped back to the fallout shelter, for a well-earned night's rest. Day 2  The next morning, around half past five (our moment of departure for the 40 km. had been fixed at 06:15 by the march organisers) we drove down to Belp, at Marco's familiar speed. Not that that speed helped us any, for the road back from Gümligen to Belp turned out to be just as hard to find as the other way 'round. But, the richer for one entrycard-with-a-first-punchhole, we nevertheless laid down a brisk pace at more or less the appointed time, into the fields, still cold, around Belp.
 And wet moreover, since it rained up to the point that we took our first steps. It is really starting to look as if the Wandelsoc. is always lucky, weatherwise: this time too, it became dry and, shortly after I'd passed Flip at high speed, throwing him a cheerful morning's salute, even sunny, and warm. That it took a few hours before it became really hot, which it did in the end, was nice, of course - fresh and bright, but comfortable marching weather.
 And it now quickly became obvious that the move of the march to Belp entailed an enormous improvement to the track. Where we had, last year, mostly walked through the valleys, over pavement and through largely modern village centres (good places to live in but not exactly the place one would desire to go walking in during one's holiday), this time we were met by relief and height. And more than a little so. All of a sudden I turned out to be undertaking a steep climb that made that monstrous lump, last year in Diekirch, pale in awed comparison.
 Fearing cardiac arrest, but triumphing naturally, I reached the top sweating and panting, to be set upon by a fantastic view. To my left lay the lush green valley, where all fruit trees were in blossom, in front of me alpine meadows stretched, brightly green with freshly yellowcoloured dandelions, between them stood rustic Swiss farmhouses, the occasional Ravensburger-puzzle-church, and beyond them towered... ...moun-tains!
 To our great disappointment we hadn't seen those last year, but now they were there all the more. Because, at ground level, it was still relatively cold (or so Jan explained to me at a later stage) and, as it happened, there was no cloud cover over the snowcapped peaks, the Eiger and Jungfrau, right in front of my nose for almost the entire remainder of the day, were there to be admired in all their unapproachable, bare beauty. Mountain air makes free (Rousseau once said). I know of few vistas that are as overwhelming as those of the mighty Alps. Makes you realize anew how tiny you are, and that things exist that are much stronger than yourself. Astoundingly beautiful.
 Also, here's where I ran into a companionable group of Britons ("What part of the UK are y'all from?" "What part would you like us to be from?"), a combined unit with characters from all over the United Kingdom, quartered in Germany, bravely prancing with 10 kg on the back. A good conversation and a substantial number of kilometres further on, and in the company of Jochem by now, I ran into the very same mixed group, of Belgian navy, Swiss and Germans, that had pestered us the year before with their broken song. Thankfully, they hadn't changed a bit, and so we were not only treated to a merry rendition of 'I wish that all the ladies...' (dreadful song, but better than 'Captain Jack'), but to stickers as well.
 Groups like those always carry them, to pass out to children in villages passed, who always shoutingly ask for and are very happy with them. Luckily, the Wandelsoc. could partake in this custom this year, because I had had the dolmen-postcards turned into actual postcards at the Haarlem MultiCopy, and so proceeded to hand them out with Marco. They were in great demand, so much so that fights broke out between the kids over who was to get which, and they proceeded to trade furiously amongst themselves.
 It was, in short, a wonderful walk. And varied too, since the last part of today's march did pass through the valley, but a very pretty part of the Gürbigental at that, through peasant hamlets and down a long shingle path, along a river. Just before that, in Lohnstorf, it became clear that even Swiss pigfarmers have taken notice of the miracle of ecologically sensible newcapitalist marketing.
By a muddy corral with well fed swines, bluntly planted into an extensive green meadow along a country road, a comical paper sign was raised, packed in plastic ("Feeding prohibited, entry prohibited, inquiries desirable, meat orders desirable!") along with a few bedraggled business cards, of farmer Michael Haslebacher, who turns out to be so modern that he also has a proper website. And so these happily grunting (but when stroked tremendously giving as good as they get) swine were the advertisement for their own product. Free range meat if ever I saw it, so: buy your Babi here.  Free range meat was everywhere, by the way. At least, that's how Jochem felt, who would not have been himself if he had not only enjoyed the local femininity, but also subjected the selfprovided bird to befitting male chauvinist piggishness. One sometimes wonders what difference there is, between the biting piglet and Prakke. Well anyway, all the same we walked down that last bit along the river joyfully and properly fatigued, then to contentedly collapse into the grass by the beertent in Belp.
 And then it becomes clear what the use of the early departure is. Since by now, around one pm, the world was sunsplashed and hot. Which makes beerdrinking a lot more pleasant than it does walking. It makes beerdrinking very pleasant in fact. All the more so when, apart from the fine companionship of Jan (who spent the afternoon in lively conversation with, in particular, Marco van Zijntergen), two gorgeous luitenants-first-class of the Medical Forces in respectively Seedorf and Oirschot enrich the surroundings, amidst the grass and dandelions. It became, therefore, a very good conversation, with Petra Vissers and Elisabeth Marquart Scholtz.
 So good and lengthy in fact that, by the time, sixish, that we returned to the nuclear fallout shelter in Gümligen, nothing came of our plan to go out for dinner in Bern. Marco, to me: "Shall we go?" I, to Marco: "Yes. Snore." And thus not just I, but also Jochem and even, after taking our picture, Marco himself passed out. That's what you get, from beer in the afternoon sun: floored is what you call it.
 
Day 3 And on day 3 it all got better yet. Although it was somewhat troublesome again, we did arrive in Belp much faster this morning. Not that we minded the ride anyway this time, since the weather had improved once more, and so now, to our right during the ride already, there were mountain ranges in view - breathtaking, in the light of the rising sun. Even the early hour of day therefore didn't really matter anymore, although it did manifest itself briefly because, looking for the departure checkpoint, marching card in hand, I ended up between the participants in the thirty kilometre distance, resignedly waiting for their scheduled moment of departure. Mindful of my proper upbringing, waiting along politely, I only found out after five to ten minutes that I should have struggled past them ages ago since we, as participants in the forty kilometre distance, really were late in leaving, it being a quarter to seven by now. 
What followed nonetheless was a beautiful walking day, much more so, even, than the previous one. Again, we were regularly directed up the heights. Today, at about three quarters of the distance, this even happened in a memorable way: the entire pack was namely led around a loop so that, on starting down it, along the left side of the road, one found oneself walking towards the marchers already returning, on the opposite right side of the road. This was funny, particularly because, between those walkers, there were two Dutch army officers who apparently knew me from marches past (to tell you the truth I didn't have the faintest). Because they crossed the road to greet me cordially, shake my hand, and jovially announce that: "There's a nasty motherfucker of a hill waiting for you, around the corner!".  Too damn right. In the heat of the early afternoon, right after a delicious Rivella-, bratwurst-, coffee- and alpenmilchchocolate-rest in the enjoyable companionship of Flip (who also amiably provided me with the sports tape I needed by now, and who adopted a most helpful attitude anyway, by walking along with a friendly girl from Surinam who had walked somewhat too briskly at the start and was now plagued by inflamed tendons, much to our concerned sympathy), that lump led to a sturdy bout of sweating.
 Which didn't matter. Because as pretty as the picturesque farming hamlets along the way had already been, rustically hidden in freshgreen alpine meadows enclosed by gently sloping hills, more colourful yet because of the apple- and cherry-blossom, just so beautiful was this trek upwards, along an unpaved flagstone path between through the forest of firs, and just so overwhelmingly vast the view when emerging from the forest rim, just before the descent down to the end of the loop.
 
It's a rocksolid fact: the Schweizerischer Zweitagemarsch can, with this new track, now rightfully take its place among the marches of extraordinary beauty, along with the likes of Diekirch and the MESA. As it will probably continue to do next year, because then too, departure will be from Belp, I've been told. 
But before we returned to Belp, we first passed through a very pretty bit of Bern (the only time that, while walking, we passed through the city itself, this year): following a rest on the bank of the swiftly flowing river Aare (which became somewhat of a lengthy affair because Astrid, Jochem and Marco, in complete disregard of established regulations, had stopped for a plate of spaghetti at a small roadside eatery just before it) we walked along it for five or so kilometres, through the Berner Tierpark, a series of habitat-enclaves for beautiful animals by the river. Beloved domain of training Kenyan cross-country-runners, couples in love and families-with-small-children on Sunday outing. 
Utmostly bizarre to walk amidst, having just spent the whole day outside in nature. Stranger yet when you realize that this, a park on sunday, comes across as city life, compared to the alpine meadows just left behind, but to the throngs on walkabout is quite a lot of nature together already. This in a country like Switzerland! But there you go, the world's full of surprises.  Of that last fact I myself was brutally reminded when it turned out that, true to form, I had left my wallet at that last rest. No problem, helpful Swiss soldiers, whom I never got to meet, but who did phone me twice while I was walking, took the thing along to Belp when they had to return there anyway, and delivered it to the Counter For Useless Thingumabobs And Other Found Objects so I could go and pick it up there by the end of the afternoon.
 Preceding that moment, for me, came another of those unpleasant surprises, as Jochem Prakke suddenly decided to pick up the pace. Not smallishly so either. Holy whatever. I shouldn't have complained, about the length of that rest by the Aare! This fool from the Ramplaanquarter stamped down the last 10 km at 8 km an hour, me in his wake. At a rising horrible heat of 30 Centegrade, on the country roads around Belp, in a practically treeless environment, this is quite testing, I can assure you.
But it did lead to hilarity, with amongst others those Dutch army officers from the loop, whom we passed now, to their astonishment. "You two have walked far too fast!" Right. Don't tell me. "Do kick up a little less dust!" Jochem: "If I can kick up dust and thereby annoy you lot, it pleases me greatly." Belly laughs. Yesyes, the sense of humour of the tired marcher.  And thus we reached the finish, where this year there were a lot more people than the previous year at the Bea Expo (where, last year, there hadn't even been music, just a lonesome kind of Karaoke-presenter), and the whole thing felt more honourful therefore. There was loud applause when, on crossing the finish line, I took off my hat and black coat and revealed that, just like Jochem, I was wearing the Wandelsoc.-outfit, there was sun to make it all the merrier, the colourful flags therefore stood out much better, but most important of all, there was a large local audience.
Satisfied, we sat down next to Jan, agreeing on the improvement of the course. Although Jan too had had unexpected trouble with it, the extra arduousness definitely is part of the increased charm: it leads to heroics, this time from, amongst others, a Swiss Polizistin whom I found limping at the last rest, the one by the Aare, but who now crossed the finish line proudly marching along as part of her group, and from the Surinam girl walking along with Flip, reaching the beertent in tears. Moving moments. 
Reason for drinking, which therefore took place. Following the collection of pins-with-the-number-two for Marco and myself, and the medals for Jochem and Astrid, Jochem, Jan and I, beer in hand, welcomed Marco and Astrid, and proudly watched as, by the applauding manifold, the Dutch military contingent, of National Reserve, Airforce and Army marched back into town.  What followed, after I collected my wallet and IML-stamps, was largely a repeat of the preceding afternoon: an enjoyable blow-out on the sunsplashed grass, continued inside the beertent after Jan left for Geneva, in the company of the reacquainted lieutenants-first-class Marquart Scholtz and Vissers. Vissers had moreover brought her mommy along, who herself had brought a good friend and formed a likeable duo with her.
 Likeable partly because, for reasons that will most probably remain unbeknownst to us, this friend refused to be photographed. This intention was of course doomed to failure, because if you really believe you're going to get away with that, you haven't yet met Marco van Zijntergen. This afternoon, he displayed a form even greater than the days before, and so, apart from various hilarious tableaux of great Breughellian class, this left us with a splendid portrait of the Missus. Well tell me: isn't she a doll?
 It became, in the meantime, an oldfashioned party in the beertent, all the more so because the gorgeous lieutenants, inescapably, were set upon by a group of Swiss commandos and paras, who, for the sake of general drunk bravoure, tried to get us to sniff their tobacco. For which only Vissers fell, and Jochem, because he was after her ass (with, as usual, some degree of success, that is, he did receive remarkably few slaps from her).
Myself, I was much more taken with Marquart Scholtz (a breathtaking lady, not just where looks are concerned), whose comforting personality and splendid character pleased me greatly. Moreover, she estimated me to be twenty-six years of age and aptly fell over when I told her the truth, since I haven't been that young in years, after all.  It was precisely what I needed, although it didn't prevent the obligatory explosion-of-anger on my part (which, by the by, wasn't even caused by greedy Prakke who, already being allowed to touch up Vissers all the time, also regularly undertook attempts to chat up Marquart out from under my much more elegant company).
It is the Wandelsoc. after all, and we hadn't yet experienced enough trouble, during this excursion (barring Marco, more to follow about whom). High time, therefore, for a rant on account of silly skirtishness. On my part, directed against Astrid. You see, originally we had agreed to go out for dinner at Bern's Altes Tramdepot, next to the Bärengrabe, but we were running rather late in the beertent, if we were to shower first and then to proceed there. So, at six, I proposed to leave. 
At the time, the lot desired to remain (it was, after all, quite enjoyable), and so the gentlemen (Astrid out visiting the loo at the time) decided to go out to dinner without showering first, around eight (in the meantime two plates of fries were ordered in order to still the first hunger). At the moment we wanted to leave for dinner, however, Astrid said: "Oh, but I want to first go by the shelter to shower then". This caused me to explode. That's why. And so it seemed to me to be better to march outside and cool down than to very loudly announce my discomfort right there. I did that later on anyway, but at least I didn't shout inside the tent, with everybody present. 
The shouting was very relieving of course, but unwarranted, as regards vocabulary in particular. Thankfully, nothing beats making up, and so I tried to do so, reasonably succesful, by offering my apologies to Astrid the following morning. But before that we put her off at the Civilschutzanlage Moos (where, thankfully, she had a good time that night, in the attentive company of the Dutch soldiers there), then made for the Grabe ourselves. A small detour later we beautifully parked right next to it in the end, and then Jochem, Marco and I enjoyed a fine meal and excellent (brewed, after all, on the spot and of high quality to boot) helles and dunkles Bier, in the Altes Tramdepot, and had a good conversation about Marco's Anger. 
It had namely been great all week and concerned Schelden. Schelden had, a few nights before, complained to Jochem and me that he found Marco's character quite elusive and had trouble coping with it. He had even stated this to be the reason for his not coming along to Bern. Jochem and I had looked at him astonishedly after half an hour of this explanation on his part, and said: "But why then, don't we ever have this experience with Marco?" then advised him to take it up with Marco himself, it not being our personal problem after all.  Which is exactly what he'd done, but he had, in doing so, greatly offended Marco (by saying some things I will spare you right here). But, to the amazement of both Jochem and myself, Marco had not professed his discomfort with it all at that particular night itself, but had only become angry about it by the time we were on our way to Switzerland well and good. There to become angry enough to announce his departure from the Wandelsoc., putting his actions where his words were by using Jochem's pocket knife to tear up his Wandelsoc.-blouse (having spent a considerable amount of money on it the week before, by having his PADI-badge and the, also self-financed, Moorslayer embroidered unto it in a Haarlem studio), to then dump it in a wastebin in Zivilschutzanlage Moos.
Now I ask you. As if Schelden personifies the Wandelsoc.. And as if one serves ones own interests by walking out on something one likes because there is 1 person who says something unfriendly. In such a case, I myself tend to murder the conflict before it grows to adulthood, and that's that. But I'm not Marco, and to each his own. So we had a good conversation, there in the Tramdepot over the Berner Teller, and the contentedness about this was only disturbed by the fact that aforementioned Bärengrabe again turned out not to contain any visible bears. And so I now allege this right here, and I will believe it until the opposite is proven to me: there are no bears, in Bern. 
This fact therefore adequately proven, as Jochem had a telephone conversation with, in order, both Lydia and Lanca, we strolled across the bridge spanning the gorge, fairylike as always, and into Bern's city centre, had a look at the tableau over the church doors that depicts both heaven and hell and that we had admired so much the year before too, Jochem played with a work of art that consisted of water clattering unto the street from a gutter overhead every few seconds (the water being of high quality, it must be said, since the water in all those fountains in the streets is both chrystal clear and potable, in Bern) and we concluded the night hanging on the same corner terrace we had ended up at last year. Nice, nice, nice. Those people who claim one should never return to places already visited, because they can only disappoint, are wrong. It is both an uplifting and satisfying experience, I can assure you: we returned contentedly, to Civilschutzanlage Moos. 
 
Day 4 The trip back was uneventful in itself, although we were wakened rather abruptly. Not by the Swiss, who had in the early hours dutifully began their next working day, but by a noisily packing Dutch family that, typically, didn't give a fuck about our still lying there sleeping. To make matters worse, we could no longer complain about this to the nightwatch of paras and commandos, since they had left the night before, making sure that any tramp wanting to rob us during our sleep would have been free to do so that night.  Refreshed because of a good night's sleep nonetheless, we clambered into Marco's Polo once more, and motored out of Gümligen and, via eatery Cindy's (great concept of u-shaped bars where the serving staff operates between the legs of the u and, from that space, serves those sitting around it with fastfood and coffee, the quality of both food and coffee being excellent moreover), set course for Luxembourg.
 Which, by the way, led to a good fight, between Marco and myself on the one hand, and Astrid on the other, on account of silly skirtishness on her part. She had namely, preceding the trip, agreed with us to drive back via Luxemburg, but not only tried to change our minds on that one now, but also tried to take over my mapreading as we could not locate the proper turnoff for the b-road at Saarbrücken, because of the toll-fondness of the road constructors, and so had to deviate in the direction of Nancy, in order to reach Luxemburg City via Metz.
Imagine my surprise when she proceeded to claim she'd picked a beautiful road by the time we had found the turnoff towards Metz. She had not picked it whatsoever, I had done so, bearing in mind our previously reached agreement that we would not travel along the toll roads because we had had rather displeasing experiences with them the year before. Skirts suck.  Well anyway, thankfully Astrid turns out to be resilient and, though skirtish, fundamentally reasonable and selfcritical, and so we arrived in Luxemburg City without further ado, and there enjoyed the reunion with and being waited upon by Rogér Do Silva Jordão, and a great meal, in his unsurpassed Café l'Académie, before we returned to Haarlem, having first brought Astrid home to Gilze, and ended our six-nations journey satisfactorily.
To your health gentlemen, lady, excellent walking there. Bern is ours. Diekirch awaits. |
