| What are we doing?
April 24th, 2004 45th Schweizerischer Zweitagemarsch Bern One never ceases to be amazed. For you'd think that, after three times, you'd seen it all, at a march like that in Swiss parts. I mean, the thing does not nicely go up through the mountains, but stays halfway down the hills around Bern.  And although they're not ugly, one therefore definitely does not need to go there for the overwhelming nature. This leaves the people, and Bern itself.
One should really have been able to sufficiently process those, after three years, because those people can be found at other marches too, and Bern is not all that large a city. But none of it. We would discover, this year, that boredom is not a factor, in this affair, as yet. This already began with our departure. This was, after all, the first time I could make a significant contribution to the journey there, and back, because I'd recently gained my drivers licence. Day 1 And so I immediately did make that contribution, just so soon as Marco had driven his Polo to me, with a Max in it. Some ill-fated capers later (for I'd slept too little, and drunk too much, the night before, and I could well notice both, because of the hangover) we then finally found ourselves safely at the Jaarbeursplein after all. 
There, the trip became increasingly interesting. Of Fred Regts and Harm Swarts, who had announced they would partake, we had heard little but that they'd intended to arrive Friday night. Of Ronald Fischer we hadn't heard anything at all anymore, in fact, and when we now called him, it turned out he was working, and didn't contemplate coming along. This, of course, after we'd already spent a half hour waiting for him. 
We, in this case, meant the three of us and Jan Middelkoop. Because we had heard something from Albert van Geyningen, namely that we were to pick him up in Nijmegen, we proceeded thereto.  Having safely arrived there too, we, in the company of Albert, suddenly had the honour of accosting his borther Edwin, whith whom we had only so recently, and so pleasantly, had coffee.
Edwin was on his way to somewhere entirely different, so as he took to a train, we embarked for the going south - Max having been transferred to Jan's more comfortable Vauxhall Racing Car, in the meantime. The journey, via two German Raststättes, shortly before the first of which I handed the steering wheel to Marco, then passed without trouble, up to and including arrival in Belp. 
There, we even succeeded in cashing in on the work I previously did, by changing the reservations made through the Internet into two starting cards (one for Max and Marco Neumann, who were going to do the 20 km distance, and one for the rest of us, doing the 40 km - ridiculously arranged by the way, because theoretically every group could second just one, each day of marching, to take all checkpoints, or divide them internally), breakfast vouchers, admission passes for the shelter in Rubigen, and a description of the route to it.  But after that it went wrong. Because in Rubigen, it turned out I no longer had my camera, and the most plausible explanation was that, whilst sorting and pocketing cards, vouchers and wallet, I'd left it atop Marco's Polo as we drove out of Belp. Since even this most plausible explanation appeared to not be all that plausible, we first searched the fallout shelter and Polo in vain, and then, just so vainly, the roadside in Belp, and finally, I reported the thing missing at the Fundstelle, which for the duration of the march was manned by Swiss infantry in Belp's school building.
 But all that only took place after Max and I fell out. For even before we left the fallout shelter, one hefty discussion about the rest of the night's proceedings arose. Max, namely, was tired and felt like nothing at all. This, he already indicated clearly by loudly pressuring Jan, Albert and myself ("Do we have to wait for this?") as we calculated what everybody had to pay as pertaining to registration and accommodation fees. This, though, was a complex calculation, as is visible in the scans of our handywork, not least so because not all of us would stay the full three nights, but some would drive back to Holland on Sunday night already.
 We therefore felt it was somewhat rude on Max's part, not to show any compassion for the complexity of our calculus, but stonecoldly finished it nonetheless. Then, the row deepened. Because Max, as said, felt like nothing: he wanted to eat and go to bed as quickly as possible, and therefore intended to do that as close by as possible. In this, he was supported by Jan, who also felt tired, and wanted to get to bed as soon as possible too.
But in so doing, they didn't take into account the experience Marco van Zijntergen and I have with this march, and which (partly due to van der Schelden MA's explanation) has taught us that a. the night view of the city of Bern is beautiful (we'd looked forward to it for the entire year that lay between now and our last partaking), b. the food at Neal's (the former Wendy's) in Bern city centre is not just cheap and tasty, but also unique to Switzerland (because it's a combination of fastfood as we know it, with traditional Swiss and other 'normal' dishes, like stuffed baked potatoes and very spicy chili con carne, all served in fastfood wrapping) and c. it is useful to enjoy this beauty and tastiness on the Friday night of arrival, because the party in the marquee in Belp is at its best when all walkers have arrived, and so that party is a better destination on the Saturday night than Bern is. To explain all of this, we were given no room by Max (everything I tried to say about it was greeted with a loud "Aw fuck off!", a looking the other way and a factual walking away), and so Marco and I succumbed to the will of the majority (Marco took an even more conflict-resolving stance than I did, by abstaining from the vote) and went to dine in the village. There, the food was not too bad in itself (but thrice as costly as usual, because the local catering industry has latched onto the Zweitagemarsch's being a cashable event, after two years). And even the (utterly ludicrous) stroll around a carpark out the back of the restaurant, suddenly instigated after dinner by Jan, was not unpleasant in its own right. As, by the by, wasn't the party in the beertent in Belp, to which we went thereafter (but which of course was attended by relatively few people, since it was the Friday night). But I remained pissed off, because the reunion with the AltStadt and Neal's had been stolen from me, and I became more so because, in direct contradiction of the selfmade contention not to want to go to Bern (which by the by lay at a distance of about 10 km, equal therefore to the stretch from Haarlem to Halfweg, and I had even offered to be the sober driver) because of fatigue, we only left that beertent when it was half past twelve, nighttime. So much for reason. Motherfuckers. Once returned to Rubigen, the ordeal wasn't over by a long shot. For because the shelter had been so conscientiously constructed that there was no mobile coverage inside, but Henk van der Schelden, Raymond de Gisser and Marco Neumann were still in the latter's car, on their way along the German Autobahn, I decided to go and sleep in Marco's Polo, so I could guide them into the shelter (which would otherwise be impossible to find, after all). This worked out fine, but then Schelden managed to keep the entire shelter awake by talking to Max, for an hour or so. I've never had so many irritably coughing German soldiers around me. And I write Schelden, because, true, we only heard Max's irritatingly loud bass - but he was answering questions Schelden asked him in a whisper, about the day's events. Day 2 Strangely enough, Max was also the first to rise, the following morning (because the Germans, being a military detachment, had to leave almost an hour earlier than ourselves), and saw fit to then ask them so loudly whether we shouldn't rush ourselves (I didn't think so, since I'd explained to him, the night before, that we had to rise at seven), that it woke us all up again. And then I'd had so much of it that I loudly told Max off in the parking lot, having first fled there, dressed and ready to march, to escape his sonorous banter, and after I'd been followed there by him, he disturbing my peace once more. Max, not easily frightened, merrily shouted back, of course. About, specifically, my forgetfulness. I had namely not just lost waylaid the camera, but also dropped my coat from my backpack, when walkin from the parking lot to the fallout shelter. This, on Sunday night, would also lead to Schelden's proposal to have "the Wandelsoc. guard Chielie's stuff". I subtly remarked that, at the loss of the coat, there were five Wandelsoc. members present who hadn't noticed it happening, but accepted Schelden's offer, nonetheless and naturally. But that was Sunday night. Now, it was Saturday morning, the first day of marching to follow. Which passed brilliantly, even though the weather (like the morning, which, from Albert van Geyningen, probably because of my fight with Max, evoked the quote "I've known happier days" in response to Schelden's question "Hello Albert, are you happy?") left much to be desired. Where, during the previous two years, we had been feasted on the glorious appearance of both Eiger and Jungfrau, straight in front of us, they were now invisible for the whole of today, hidden behind a grey mist, which also produced a wet chill. 
Merriness unmauled by this, we completed the first day of marching in the best of spirits. This was even true of Albert van Geyningen, so this just goes to show you, what walking can do for you. In the beertent, moreover, Marco and I met up with Jan Plasmeijer (a few days from his retirement), and so happy beerdrinking ensued. And we also became friends with Jansen, a German reservist who knew Schelden, from the Nijmegen Four Day Marches, and who'd run into us along today's course, during several silly splurges of Schelden's, at the rests (amongst other things, he offered a bottle of Fanta he'd bought to everyone, utterly uncharacteristic behaviour).  Much profound discussion later, Schelden resubmitted my proposal-for-yesterday's-evening, to head into Bern and have dinner at Neal's. To my astonishment, it was accepted today, without further ado. The fact that Max didn't like the place at all (as he jeeringly told me on the way back to Holland), I blame on his bias, based on the previous evening, but also on his choice: he namely limited himself to normal fastfood. And if you do that, Neal's is a mediocre burger bar.
Marco, Marco, Schelden and I, however, enjoyed to the fullest the harrowingly hot chili, stuffed potatoes and salad bar, and had a lot of fun (not in the least because I dropped my plateful onto the floor, but did eat it all, because Neal's is a spick-and-span place). After Neal's, we afterdinnered on the outdoor terrace of the Altes Tramdepot, at the Bärengrabe, so that Schelden could show his name, and Fuchsenname 'Beatrix', carved into the Zofingia-table, to the first-timers, all of us could enjoy the fine Hefe Weizen, Helles and Dunkles, and the view of Bern, and I was reaffirmed in my opinion that-there-are-no-bears-in-Bern. Not a bear to be seen, in the entire Graben, not even when I was totally pissed. Having catatonically commenced the night, though, because of this, I arose for the second day of marching a born again man. Day 3 Also went by in pleasing fashion, and brought us better weather to boot, so that, now and again, we got to see the mountains after all, albeit at a larger distance than would have been possible on the first day. The newcomers, who hadn't experienced it any better, did not suffer, but visibly and audibly enjoyed the landscape on offer today, which, all truth be told, it was worthy of. 
En route, I made friends with a Swiss soldier, and this came to pass because, as flagbearer of the Wandelsoc. (we marched in society garb, on this second day and, for the first time at an international march, with the society banner, which had been outfitted with a beautiful laquered pole-with-moorish-blood-on-its-goldpainted-point by Saint Erik, and which had landed in my whitegloved hands and on my toiling shoulders because Jan Middelkoop flatly refused to adhere to the rule cooked up by the Society Board, that the newest member present carries the flag), I pushed past his platoon-of-Swiss-battlemates, and this intrigued him. It got me compliments for stylish behaviour. Always nice, and better yet, once we had crossed the Mengistorfberg and had returned to the scouts' rest, for a renewed Knorr- and Rivella-experience, we could start the descent into the AltStadt under a beautiful spring sun. Sometime during that descent, Albert and I, to our astonishment, ran into a resting platoon of American soldiers. One would not have expected this, given the situation in Iraq. Respectfully, we lowered the Wandelsoc.-banner to horizontal position, in passing, by way of salute. "Goodday, United States". A gesture that got the rest of our party, following behind us as it was, a warm shower of welcome greetings and good marching wishes, from the Yanks. Once arrived at the riverrest on the Aare, we not only, and sadly so, again saw the neonazi party that was also taking part (bald black bomberjacketeers with a steel flagpole, sporting a wolfsrune on both flag and t-shirts, 'Nationaloffensive' written below it on those shirts) and that, sadly so too, this year did a lot better, where marching was concerned, than it did when, in 2001, we saw them for the first time, but Schelden also discovered, on the map, that Marco and I had done the wrong thing for two years in a row. For here, at the bridge across the Aare, where all the contingents that Marco and I ever saw, those baldheads included, turned right like we did ourselves, in the past two years, that is quite expressly not the thing intended. What is intended, is an onward loop, along the Aare, through the AltStadt, past Bärengrabe and Tramdepot, and back again, to pass that same bridge on the far side, on the way to Tierpark Dählhölzli. Having discovered this, Marco made a proposal, immediately accepted by me, to do that extra loop three times, this once. We therefore decided to park Schelden, Middelkoop, de Gisser and van Geyningen at the Tramdepot's outdoor terrace, and to then loop around twice more ourselves, before we let them join us again on that third time around. Middelkoop had no stomach for this, by the way, because of the long waiting spell, so he marched on, but first we then arrived at the Bärengrabe... 
...where the scales fell from my baffled eyes. For there, in the sun, I had to finally concede what I'd stubbornly denied: there are BEARS, in Bern! Some four or five of them, big brown ones! Good thing Jan had a digital camera, so he could take their picture.  Marco and I, meanwhile, cleared off, back towards the bridge. When, following a hefty bit of shitting on my part, at a First Aid Station just before it, we crossed it turning right, we were stopped by astonished Swiss soldiers. "Where are you going?" When we explained, they were even more amazed. But it wasn't just bewilderment - there was definitely some respect in their imploring us to do no more than 1 extra round, on account of the time involved, as they let us proceed.
Upon return to the Tramdepot's terrace, we merrily rendered a beersplashed account of the usefulness that extra loop has (because, along that bit, the place is crawling with jogging youngladies), when those very same Swiss soldiers stepped out onto that terrace. "You're probably here to tell us we'd better make a move on if we want to reach the finish in time?" "Ummm, no - but we are the sweeper van." Wonderful! What difference, with the scandalous way we were treated on the Diekirch course, almost a year ago! That's courteousness for ya! The whole way back, through Dählhölzli and by Belp airport to the last rest, they kept on solemnly following us, the last marchers on the track, in their LandRover, incessantly doing loops to the next checkpoint - but they never pressured us to move faster. Great going, and they completed this by waiting for us at the finish, as the last checkpoint, when we reached it singing loudly ('Jerusalem', amongst other things) and in marching formation, having regrouped at the last rest. Fan-tas-tic, and although the entire Swiss army brass and all dignitaries had by now long since left the stands along the last bit of street, we finished utterly contentedly because of all this, making 8 kilometres an hour, to the loud applause of both Swiss passersby, as well as passing Dutchmen, laughing their heads off at the lyric of the Wandelsoc.-song ('We have no love for walking'). 
In the beertent, both Jan and Jansen awaited us, and the latter's reservist pal, who was a brave guy, because he was now at the end of his very first march, sitting down with that beautiful large medal on his chest, heaving Feldschlössen (which by the way had become a lot more expensive, since last year, for it now costed almost four euros). 
Pluspleasant beerbashing ensued. But before that, something incredible happened. This namely being the end of the march, I had, following my collecting-the-medals-for-our-lot, dashed off to the Fundstelle - where, a-ma-zing-ly, my camera had turned up!  The guy must have thought I was gay. I believe I kissed him everywhere.
He looked at me unperturbedly, nevertheless, and said "Sie hatten nicht erwartet es zurueck zu bekommen". Not as a question, but as a dry statement of fact. Well indeed, just as you say. Thank you kindly. Es lebe die Schweizerische Armee! And stuff like that. Diligently snapping from that moment on, I captured the rest of the afternoon (our meeting with the orchestra leader who conducts in Bemmel every year, on the first day of the Four Day Marches, included) and the evening, up to the moment that we, having already said goodbye to Schelden, Neumann and de Gisser, landed in Rubigen for dinner. 
There, it was a jolly do, with the Swiss ànd Croatian staff, whom we pitied though, because, in our opinion, they were exploited.  But they were exemplary, attentive, witty and sweet staff nonetheless, who joyfully supplied us with food and drink that were, by the by, of fine quality (Jan and I cosily sharing a cheese fondue, sad thing that I couldn't fully enjoy it anymore), and also cleverly remarked that we would not have been there had the march not happened - cashability takes root, and marching works miracles.
That I couldn't fully enjoy it was because I, as opposed to all others, had not yet caught up on sleeping, that day. I therefore had myself transported early, to the shelter, by Jan, there to become the recipient of contented sleep. 
The rest, I concluded from the stories the next day, had continued to have a great evening in Gasthof Krone. Day 4 That next day, Max had decided to not let the trek back via Luxembourg, as planned by Marco van Zijntergen and myself, pass him by, after all. A wise decision, we felt (and it wasn't his only one, for although upon writing this the latter already seems to have watered down to cutting down again, he bravely took the decision to quit smoking, at the Swiss border, and reinforced this with the destruction of his fags). 
For himself, he will probably have had second thoughts about that first decision too, in hindsight. For although we had a splendid day, both on account of the weather as well as, not in the least, because of Max's idea to, en route to Luxembourg city (having first said goodbye to Jan and Albert, in Hockenheim, because they expressly wanted to spend that evening at home), stop over in delicious Trier, where in the market square we enjoyed the beer, and in the cathedral the mass, Max went home disquieted.  This had nothing to do with our repose in Letzebuerg. That was pleasant (although we did not meet the ladies who, Dutch but living here, had stayed in the same shelter and had marched too, and that we found so cute), because, on the outdoor terrace of Restaurant L'Académie, following some fooling of ourselves by him (he first presented us with a false waiter as a personalization of hisself), we were after all received by manager Rogér Do Silva Jordão, who'd worked here for 34 years by now, with, as usual, ex-cep-tio-nal-ly excellent cuisine at a moderate price ("Y'all asked for a Frenchman? No? Oh! No, I have no plans to retire to France. What? No, I know the blond guy, but you - you were here the year before last, too? One never stops learning.").
Even Max enjoyed this, although he was considerably less pleased with the company that shortly announced itself at the table next to us (which was swiftly concocted out of five other tables by Rogér): Minister of Agriculture Cees Veerman, and following. Who then proceeded to himself be astounded at the familiar treatment we got from, and returned to, Rogér. All baloney to me, Cees. Or, more correctly, escargots and frogs' legs. But I am utterly pleased to note that Ministers from MY cabinet dine at MY expense in a restaurant that is, admittedly, ex-cel-lent, yet not all too expensive. Bravo, bravo, bravo. 
The Hurrah I reserve for the Dane who, as I made for the cash dispenser, suddenly yanked me from the street, as if I'd known him for years, and offered me a glass of wine, in an attempt to deliver a "good man" to his sitting sister. Who wasn't pleased with that, but was a hot chick, and was very friendly inclined towards my person. Good wine, moreover. But that disquietness of Max's, that was because of the speed Marco and I then kept on the journey home. Where possible, 160 an hour, namely. And there, Max made a proper point. No matter how happy he was to arrive home before two AM (in time for a final drink in the Souteneur with Marjon, even), he was right in remarking that this could have cost me my pristine drivers licence. We shall do this differently, from now on. To your health, gentlemen, excellent walking there. Aken awaits. |