| What are we doing?
June 30th, 2003 35th Haervejsmarchen, Viborg And there's me thinking. There's me, having once spent a holiday there with my parents, thinking that Denmark was one large flat marshland. There's me thinking that the march in Viborg, once attended by Schelden and explained to me by him as "that march where drunk Danes with plastic viking helmets on walk about, pushing prams filled with crates of beer", would be utterly annoying. And there's me thinking I can handle booze well.  Denmark deals swiftly, with illusions like that. It would turn out, at short notice. But we didn't yet know any of that, as we gathered in Peter Weij's house, in Soest, in the early morning of Friday, the 27th of June, at 0400 AM. I had arrived there the night before, and had been collected by him from Soest-Zuid railway station, close by. Just before we laid ourselves to rest for a short while, ex-commando Fred joined us.
Day 1  Our merry band expanded at 0400, to include Henk Warring, sergeant major and weapons instructor of the Military Police in Soesterberg, who'd organized a Transporter for the occasion. That he was there at all, was a miracle - for he'd been designated for deployment to Iraq and therefore should have been at the course-about-God-knows-what that preceded it, on Friday already. But because he'd previously arranged to go walking with Weij, and the MOD had given him very short a warning (matters were arranged so quickly that he didn't even get embarkation leave), he was in Soest, with that combi.
 After Peter had presented him with a book full of practical information about the Arabic part of our world, as a useful preparation for this deportation, we therefore set off, in that bus, towards Hoogeveen where, after all, we were expected by Harm Swarts. He received us, in his beautiful, spacious home with more beautiful, spacious garden (in which beautiful, spacious poultry, led by a spirited cockerel that, according to Harm, failed in the department of egg fertilizing though, and would therefore probably not survive much longer), with fine coffee. Well, he did so once we had found that house. This took some doing, because we got lost around Hoogeveen in a major way, first. Thankfully, the town plan placed at the side of the road eventually offered a solution, and so we got to Harm.
From there, great speed was made towards Germany, where first, at a gasstation, we ran into Petra Vissers and dad, who were on their way to Denmark too, and we then stopped at a local Spar to buy trays of beer, and I bought myself some Moskovskaya (because beer fattens me fastly, eh). Which I dan drank down at way to great a speed. Which led to my already being plastered when, somewhere along the way, I found that the car wasn't stopped soon enough to let me out for a piss, and reacted rather agressively to that (an episode which I cannot recall at all and therefore relay to you from the rendition the rest gave me at a later stage). Very bad of me, and not the worst the drink would lead to either. But this was yet to be, and I do believe we resolved this first incident, by way of apologies on my part, before we got to Viborg, because I otherwise would not know how we got to take the picture in which I elaborately shake Harm's hand, on debarkation there. 
'There', by the way, was the barracks of the Prinsens Livregiment (the Prince's lifeguard, in short), starting- and finishing grounds of the Haervejsmarchen. After we'd collected the cards for lodgings-plus-breakfast-and-dinner, and starting-and-checkpoint-marking-cards-for-the-march there, we moved into our quarters at the Nordre Skole, a vast complex, close to the barracks, containing a primary and secondary school, large particularly because it was spread out over only one floor. Together with a bunch of Danish soldiers, we ended up in a classroom of the primary school, rolled out our sleeping bags there, and then left for town, looking for fun. That, by the way, was the moment the second incident was born - for we promised, on departure, to come back and wake Henk, who wanted to have a fast nap in the meantime, if and when we would go and eat. Partly because we didn't eat at all, in the end, we forgot this appointment entirely, and so it was only much later that Henk heard anything of us again. But more on this later. 
First, we then took to the town's centre, where at the central square, which we reached after walking past the USA Tref (a gettogether for owners of American speedbeasts like the Mustang), things were beginning to be rather lively. Sunlight on it all, a nice band (playing Beatles-covers, amongst other stuff), and cute ladies, not even exclusively Danish, since Petra Vissers was among them. 
With whom, in my growing inebriety (also growing because of the excellent Danish Weizenbier that I discovered, on tap, here, and bought around for all of us), I had a good talk, which soon concerned Elisabeth Marquart-Scholz (the also-lieutenant first class of the medical corps, friend of Petra's, whom I first met in Bern, in her company, in 2000), and therefore ended in emotional tears on my part (this had nothing to do with booze - those tears would have been there in sober condition as well, since the subject is a rather profound one, to me), while Fred and Harm engaged in a cheerful bout of armwrestling (which Fred, laughing as almost always, won). Petra gave me good advice, this made me happy.  But the general perception around me, not so strange of course, was that those tears did find their origin in the booze and that I let myself go too much (the latter, I find an extremely disputable thing, but that's irrelevant for now: it remains understandable that people see it this way). And I was, I still think, rightly incensed when, as I (after another two or three rounds of the others) I ordered the next round, the waiter, a friendly Danish guy, told me he would not give me any more beer - for I hadn't yet done anything out of order yet, and I find premature actions like that a reason, emotionally speaking, to shoot such a guy.
 But that I then exploded and was about to kill the guy with my bare hands, for want of a pistol, seriously frosting the atmosphere in doing so, retroactively puts the guy in the absolute right, naturally, and means that I should not only have kept my mouth shut, but should do so afterwards, in this matter. Not in the least because there can never be a valid reason for shooting guys, other than that those guys first point a weapon at yourself with the clear intent to end you. All of which was explained to me, with astounding patience on his part, by Fred. Some walking and thinking later I decided he was absolutely right and therefore offered my apologies to both him and the rest of the group.
Which then merrily continued to party, but without me, because I'd had it and so returned to the Nordre Skole. This took some doing, as I was stupidly drunk and had trouble finding the way, which I eventually did with the help of a friendly Danish lady of a grocery store on a corner by the barracks grounds. Stopping in the barracks grounds to piss, I discovered that I had left my entire belongings in the square, for shock. Not so good, and when I recounted this to the dumbfounded Henk (who was so anyway, because all of us had failed to show up and, because of this, his dinner had too), he decided to mount a search. Which he wanted to do alone at first, but this went too far for me, because I could by and large explain where I'd been and he would otherwise be looking for needles in haystacks. This explanation progressed less effectively than I myself had hoped, but it still made for less wasted time, I'm convinced. Two hours further on, nonetheless, we had retrieved none of my belongings, but I had, thank God, been able to offer my apologies to the waiter, that friendly Danish guy, who proved to be that all the more by accepting those apologies with a broad smile and without a trace of rancour. 
Once back and asleep we, and our Danish roommates along with us, were roughly awakend from that sleep at three, by a to-tal-ly plastered Peter Weij, returning from the disco with equally drunk Fred and Harm, spinningly bitching at us that "y'all bjust blie there swleepin', gwhile I...", before he fell over. Day 2 The next morning I had never been so happy with Peter Weij, for though he looked like Godzilla, at dawn, he conjured up my camera. When Harm proceeded to do the same with my wallet (from which he had boozed away 300 kroner, justly, I felt, although I got them back from him later, in euros), I could kiss those guys (am glad I didn't have to, however). Not even the news that some Dane had gone awol with my hat and phone before they could intervene, could lessen that joy. And so Henk and I contentedly left for the barracks, to start the first day of marching (the others remained in bed for a while, since they wanted to start around seven, which was entirely feasible, since those gentlemen march much faster than Henk and I intended to). The good spirits would turn out to be necessary. For today I found out that Denmark is anything bùt one large flat marshland. When, during the next day, I told a Dane that that was what I had expected, he grinned: "Then you've spent your holiday in the other half. The one half of Denmark, the western part, is flat, yes." But the other isn't! Much to the contrary, in fact: hills abound, with a lot of fine forest on them, through which we had to sometimes go for long, unpaved stretches. Here and there, by the way, the place was plastered with juniper bushes - ! - which I couldn't photograph any more, alas, because my camera's memory suddenly turned out to be full, likely because Peter had snapped a lot of Danish ladies the night before; only I could hardly go and sift through them, on that small display, whilst walking in blinding sunlight (but my assumption later turned out to be correct: apart from a lot of ladies, Peter had also taken at least six marvellous shots of the floor). And there was open country too (marshy at times). Because the sun set up on us with a merciless glare, and I no longer had a hat to put on, I burned alive, as we were whipped up generally short, but sometimes extremely steep hillocks (and along unpaved, sometimes swampy paths, that, apart from my having to miss it this year, because it partly coincides, gave me an extra reason to think of my beloved MESA, which Schelden was completing at that very same moment - yesyes, the Wandelsoc. conquers Europe). 
This led to slaughter among our fellow marchers, of course. And so we were, for instance, passed in the early morning, by a platoon of Dutch soldiers, staying in the Nordre Skole as well, who were going at it way too fast and, to make matters worse, tried to push their way through the crowd going "Coming through please" - if you do that, you do definitely not have a lot of marching experience. And so it would turn out. For at the end of the day, three of them had dropped out, and their contingent had fallen apart, the remainder of it limping across the finishline. This amidst the drunken Danes, who did make themselves felt here indeed, with prams and other carts full of beer as predicted, but they were more of a nuisance to themselves than they were to us. 
Not that we had an easy time of it ourselves. Henk, who by the by marches a usable scheme of 2x2 hours followed by blocks of an hour each (although I, myself, prefer to let myself be surprised by the scheme of rests that the organizing party implements, because that keeps it interesting), seized almost every rest as an opportunity to have a five-minute nap. Astonishing, but impressive that he can - because he rose on his own after those five minutes, and then stood up again, to stride onward, uncomplainingly. Nonetheless, we went through tough times, particularly in the last five kilometres, and we might not have, but certainly wouldn't have finished as easily as we did, had not Marjan and Paulo of the Military Police from The Hague been there. They, namely, were out supporting their own contingent, but repeatedly supplied us with fruit (apple- and orange-parts), water and uplifting conversation. Mar-vel-lous, and unforgettable.  Very happy that, around five, we'd made it to the finish, we left the starting grounds to return to the Nordre Skole, following a few short conversations with some friends of the-Military-Police-contingent (amongst them Brenda, hot thang) and Petra ("They measure with elastic band here!", as indeed, those signs along the way, with the distances on them, were useless to go by, although that, apart from the fact that all food and drink at all rests had to be paid for separately, was about the only thing bad about this organization, for I have seldom seen so well-organized a march - I by the by also found time to offer my apologies to Petra for "the hassle of the day before", but unfortunately Petra misunderstood this, as she thought I meant my crying, instead of the incident-with-the-waiter, and I had no time to correct that perception, because I was forcibly removed by Henk). There we found the others, who had finished at three o' clock already and therefore had to have passed us at one of the rests (we'd been looking for them, but hadn't seen them all day, thus feared that they hadn't started at all, for drunken oversleeping). Together, we had the somewhat sparse dinner, and then left for town, to enjoy an evening party that went by relatively calm this time, and was enlivened by a mar-vel-lous band that played Earth Wind & Fire-covers, but that I didn't photograph, because, being a forewarned man, I intentionally left my camera in the Nordre Skole this time. Pity though, for there was a hot chick among them! Marie 'Bitch' Kongsted, I won't easily forget her (and gave her a Wandelsoc.-card, to her disappointment, because she'd obviously expected more from the intense contact we had had during the concert - but, I had a group to follow and, after yesterday, wouldn't dream of it).
Day 3 The next day we set off all together, because Henk and I rose a little later, and the rest wanted to leave somewhat earlier than yesterday, in the combi, towards the barracks grounds. There, we started around five thirty, for what was to become another arduous day. With, by the way, a lot less fellow-walkers than the 5000 of the day before. That sun had made for carnage indeed, and so there were a lot of dropouts, a lot of people who today marched the 20 or 40 km distances instead of the 45 km one, and a lot of military who suddenly walked in civilian clothes and without pack. We nonetheless laid down a brisk pace, in the direction of the first rest. Long past Petra & dad, we only split up there, as our three stompers oldfashionedly made a run for it.  Henk and I, on the other hand, took considerable more time today, at the rests (Henk now slept for almost a quarter of an hour per rest, because of the previous night's party). That we finished around four thirty notwithstandingly, means that the all-pervasive whisper-among-walkers about this was correct: we had marched a good 51 km the day before, and the course was a lot shorter today.
Not that it was short. And although the weather was a lot better than the day before (room temperature and cloudy, so I didn't really need the nice KNIL-hat Peter lent me for the day), it was a lot sweatier (because thunderstorms were lurking nearby), and we were therefore just as happy as yesterday with the sight of that blue bus of the Military Police, Marjan and Paulo in it (we said goodbye to those two angels-in-uniform at the last rest, and took their picture - Marjan is the one with the bit of orange in her face), who saved us from bad and worse repeatedly today as well. 
This did, by the by, enable us to enjoy the landscape after all, and it was overwhelming today too, particularly in the bits of forest that led us along the banks of a ginormous lake - the kind of softly whispering, sovereign Scandinavian wood, totally empty but for the marchers, in which the wind has an eternal quality and the soul finds rest. The same Dane who, earlier on this day, had to laugh so much about my mistake about the landscape now passed us again, whilst Henk and I rested somewhere in that forest, in the breeze blowing across the lake, and asked me what I was telling nature. I replied: "Nature is talking to us", and that's exactly how it was. I hadn't thought Denmark would be so beautiful. Another lesson learned. 
This did not negate our being totally wasted, by the end of the march, and this was just as true for all those who finished it (amongst whom there were again several who offered us harrowing, but brave displays of tottering over the rocky forest paths, below the drizzle that came down during the last five kilometres).  Except, of course, for our three monster marchers (finished as early as two o' clock), who were waiting for us in a tent by the finishline, impatiently pointing at their wrist watches, and pushed Henk across the finishline by the three of them, to the loud applause of the Military Police contingent. Once we had congratulated eachother, we collected the butt-ugly medal that goes with this event, in the registration hall, I bought extra ribbon for the batons and military makeup, and Henk and I obtained stamp and bronze strip for the IML, after which we made our way back to the Nordre Skole.
 There, an unpleasant ending to it all came into being, which almost led to physical infighting. The commandoes, who had after all already waited since two o' clock for us, wanted to get a move on with the return trip. Whether or not this was, as they themselves claimed later, because of the email that Henk sent (in which, even before we left from Holland, he had announced his intention to drive back immediately after the march on the Sunday, because of the course-for-Iraq he had to follow) I didn't find all that important: I'd become accustomed to the Harmhaste anyway, in Diekirch and moreover understand it (the man has a company to run after all, and this means you want to be on site as soon as possible again, I perfectly understand that, being an ex-enterpreneur myself). And I noticed that this haste was now not just Harm's, but also Fred's and Peter's, and so I swiftly showered, packed and ate dinner.
 At that dinner (which was pretty sparse again, by the way, Danes dislike vegetables, we learned) I was abandoned by the others before I'd even finished it, but because this was because they went to clear away the camp beds I did not complain about it. But that haste did royally piss of Henk when, by the time everyting was packed and all of us, including myself, were waiting in the bus, he was still having dinner and Peter Weij came to "stare the food from his mouth". Yes well. I felt and still feel this was the case. But I also found and find it a bit strange that Henk, when I came back from showering, still sat on his camp bed talking to the others. Means you either haven't caught on to the haste the others are in, or disagree with it and are digging your heels in.
That all hell then broke loose about this, between Henk and the commandoes, and it lasts until today, baffles me even more. Becaue it means that something went wrong in the mutual communication at this point (why not at that moment tell Henk to "get a move on, will ya"? Or why not at that moment say "Say gentlemen, can we take it a bit easier, 'cause I'm not in all that much of a hurry?" Had that discussion been opened at that time, all subsequent glaring and insinuations on both parts would have been unnecessary). And whatever caused it, fact remains that that haste is an unsavoury thing. For it led to Peter Weij's driving into the crash barrier for sleep, on the way home, after he'd dropped Fred and me off at our respective homes (which, by the way, I duly note and am deeply grateful for). That he survived with damage to the bodywork only, is fortunate, for it could have been a great deal worse - but tell me another one: I never want to go home again directly after a march. To your health gentlemen, excellent walking there. Nijmegen awaits. |