What are we doing?

June 26th, 2004

38th Marche Européenne du Souvenir et de l'Amitié (MESA or European March of Memory and Friendship)

Unaccustomed. It is the applicable word. And this is odd, for the MESA is not only the march I deem to be the most beautiful in Europe, I'd already done it thrice to boot - and also, it was my first, therefore most unforgettable multiple day march. How so, unaccustomed?

But it had been two years since I was there for the last time. Since last year, when Schelden was the only member of the Soc. to partake in the thing, I was in Viborg. I namely wanted to have done that one at least once, and the nasty thing about that fucker is that, for one whole day, it coincides with the MESA. Fucker? Affirmative. For compared to the MESA, Viborg sucks. I mean, it's nice enough - but northern Denmark is a bloody long drive for 'nice enough'. And the landscape in northern Denmark is absolutely charming, but utterly insignificant when compared to the beauty of the Walloon Ardennes around Bastogne and Houffalize.

Not a hair on my head, therefore, that contemplated travelling to Denmark this year. Thankfully, though, the Soc. wasn't missing there: Messrs Middelkoop and Swarts put in an appearance.

Day 1 (Tuesday 22.06)
Haarlem - La Roche

Meanwhile Max and I therefore set off southward, in his car, on Tuesday morning. We left as early as nine, because Max and I like to relax - and can only do so once what needs to be arranged has been arranged. The rest of us, that is Peter Weij, Fred Regts, Henk van der Schelden, Albert van Geyningen and Jochem Prakke, would come down later, and we would occupy a tent and camp beds for them, and find out how enrolment was arranged.

The drive down as an unaccustomed affair for me too, because Max allowed me to drive part of the way in his car. And this is a heavy kind of diesel, and I had no experience with that - let alone in the Ardennes. But I did, the occasional gearshifting error aside, acquit myself of it to Max's content. Pfweeoow.

That Peter, Fred and Henk would travel separately from Max and myself, would have come to pass anyway, by the by, because, shortly before, a drama of, by Wandelsoc. standards, sizable proportion had occurred. We had namely been invited to the wedding of Rijkman & Derkman LL.M.. And we had had a great day there, and an equally great party. But at the end of it things had gotten well out of hand. In short, discord arose within the Wandelsoc., and between the Wandelsoc. and the master of ceremonies, about the night's rest afterwards.

During the intense slanging-matches that followed, within the Soc., by email, I, as chairman, then got into a fight with Peter, because he arrogantly demanded a meeting should be held on the subject, but himself claimed not to be able to attend on the date I proposed, and got angry with me for picking it one-sidedly, whereupon I got angry with him for not suggesting an alternative. Moreover, Peter and Henk had stated not to march in Soc.-context until Ronald Fischer offered his apologies for what had happened, and he showed no intention of doing so. Well anyway, there was a lot to discuss among ourselves, therefore.



Which promptly happened, though, on this first day even, in La Roche (we had opted for that camp because only Bastogne and La Roche weren't full up yet, and La Roche sports a swimming pool). Max and I had barely arranged our own enrolment, prepared quarters for the rest, in one of the army tents in the encampment, in the grounds of the local athenaeum, and contentedly had a beer on it in the centre of La Roche, or the discussion broke loose, at the beer- and dinner-table.



With a happy ending, it turned out: the commandoes even announced, at breakfast the next morning, that as a human being they appreciated me more than they did H.P. van der Schelden. This, although I was glad truth was finally beheld, I myself found to be an irrelevant remark - because, as pertaining to persons, I would rather not think in terms of 'better' and 'worse'.

Day 2 (Wednesday 23.06)
Martelange - Martelange

Our Good Lord does. As was proven again today. Because he apparently felt it was all bad, and so had sizably chipped in: it had rained. And not just a bit. So heavily, at night, that the asphalt floor of our tent was inundated, and with several of us the travel bags, and everything in them, had hungrily soaked up that water. The dryingtent-with-blowers, farsightedly put up by the Lanciers who ruled camp La Roche, could not do much to mend that. This would, that evening, lead to Peter and Fred's moving from this, to their own two-men tent, to be put up alongside the swimming pool. Albert, by the by, was in a tent of his own all along anyway, next to the village of tents we were in.



And in the morning, it still rained. In flurries, admittedly, but flimsy flurries of rain in the Walloon Ardennes inevitably mean mud, an when a march like that largely passes over unpaved stuff too, one is in for a hell of a time.

And so I was. I had a great time with this novelty, not to mention with the acquaintances that swiftly appeared: Klaus Pläschke's girlfriend (he was absent himself, on account of education), and the Belgian heroes we are accustomed to meeting here - and shortly before the large midday rest we also ran into Henk Bakx and Pieter Spaan (this time, he was in the company of girlfriend Margriet, but that was obviously in the past, since she was here with someone else; in any case this meeting moved my perception of it all back into the realm of the comprehensible, so that was nice) as well as Beau and her Belgian hero.



Pleasant, pleasant. And exactly what, besides hoping for it, I had more or less expected. What I had hoped for, but had not expected, then happened at the big midday rest. Shove walking, but what beauty there is to the marching experience! Stamping onto the sunsplashed field, from below a rainsprinkled treeline, I ran right into the outstretched hand of the person who, from all acquaintances there, I like to run into the most, at the MESA: Steve P. Atkinson, freshly promoted Squadron Leader (=major) of the British Air Training Corps. "Gotta go join the troop - but catch up with me later, 'cause I've got a present for you." Mutual respect goes strange, long, and profound ways, at times.



One rest later I caught up with his team (the only foreign one I can call myself an honorary member of), and it was a splendid reunion, with Steve, Elaine Porter, Andy Briant, Steve Callaghan and the rest of them. The gift turned out to be a shirt with an English para-wing on it. I'm not allowed to wear that, of course, since I've never jumped in England, although Steve himself cared a little less about that. Also, the shirt was a somewhat tight fit. Proud as a peacock nonetheless, I wore it during the busride back, which made me look like Max, while I lay sleeping.



But before that busride followed, we still had to arrive in Martelange. And no matter how much you practice, or where you do that, or under what circumstances, a MESA-stage that ends in Martelange always ends in hell. Not that Martelange is such an unfriendly village, or that ugly - but the road to it is a heavy one, that is unchanging. As it was now, and not just for me, but also for the Belgian Tinneke, an adorable soldierette, who, thereto obliged by her colonel, participated in only this first day of marching. It was impossible for her to decline, if only because he had fulfilled her ardent wish to be posted to Kabul, but she was having a hard time of it, on the last kilometres.

And so I talked her through those. And she finished gloriously, and was so thankful to me that, besides free beer, it got me a more than pleasant treatment on her part. Which, while writing this, continues, so there you go: there is hope, in hell.



This was a pleasant thought, because although things became very jolly, there in Martelange, with amongst others Gerda Becking (whom I knew from here, but also from the Yser) and friend Sjors-the-Belgian-mailman, it was very unpleasant that, upon return to La Roche, the swimming pool I had looked forward to for so long turned out to be closed. Hoping for the next day was therefore all that remained.

And in the hell of Portugal there was hope too, by the by. Because after we'd won the fight with the attending Germans (about three of them), in the canteen, and they were directed to the lounge by the swimming pool, to go and follow the game of the Mannschaft against the Czech Republic, Orange beat Letland at Braga, 3-0 - and the Czechs defeated Germany 2-1, so that we could continue into the quarter finals!

I have never seen a Walloon canteen explode with orange passion, for a Czech goal. But here, it did. Fabulous, to be there for it. The night was long, and turbulent, in camp La Roche.

Day 3 (Thursday 24.06)
Martelange - Bastogne

Not that this mattered any, the next morning: back to Martelange. For a second day of marching that would turn out to be the transition from bad to good weather. Which is not a good thing. Because it begins with a drip, and then, as the heat grows, high humidity. Heavily sweating the going, in short. About the only one who was not troubled by this, must have been Albert. For he missed the bus, because he thought that, given the fact that the bus had left ten minutes late the day before, he could afford those ten minutes today too.

And although Schelden terrorized him lengthily, afterwards, claiming he would not have had to pass on the full swine if he'd had himself transported to the Boucle (at the MESA, you always walk in either a line, or a loop, 'Ligne' or 'Boucle' therefore), Albert did not allow himself to be waylaid by this besthorsemanship, but took part in the Mini-MESA today, and so we only saw him again at the large rest, halfway (Fred and Peter, by the by, only made that bus because they were clever enough to walk on to the other end of the street, where the bus that had left in front of their noses returned, after all, from a round around the neighbourhood surrounding the camp, so that we could halt the bus for them there).



By the time that, together with Steve Atkinson and his afflicted platoon, I arrived at the Mardasson to collect the free icecream distributed there (and it there turned out, by the way, that the ATC would have to wait in place for another one and a half hours for the parade they were to take part in), I was a happy man though, partly due to that reunion.

And when, with Jochem, and amidst the Minimesites (kids who, instead of 4x32 km, march 4x15 km) I finally arrived in Bastogne itself, my day was made. Not even Schelden's interminable bullshit (he constantly only fetched beer for himself, and then claimed he had "got it from a former commando" whom he had "just met, inside") could do detriment to that. Moreover, I was able to procure a proper Ardennes sausage there, for my good neighbour-who-was-taking-care-of-the-cat. Excellent, all the more so since that sausage was sold by a wellbreasted Letzebuergian beauty.



This satisfaction quickly gave way to irritation. From the finish at Bastogne, we were transported, by generic bus, to the redistribution point, at the Mardasson. And there, all hell broke loose, when a minute dude who'd arrived later maliciously jumped queue on my best behaviour, and so ensured that I, as the only one from our group, was summoned to leave the bus on account of its overcompleteness, and to wait for the next one.

Ridiculous measure, from that mustachioed Belgian, particularly when you know that years long experience teaches that buses at the MESA regularly leave with standing room occupied, and would even do so later that same week, but you know, an MP is the law. So, I stepped out. This, my Soc.-fellows would not tolerate: all of them debarked as well and both the MP and, particularly, the queue-jumper, were given a very hard time. By, because of his fluidity in French, Schelden in particular: "Vous êtes un cochon! Moi, j'ai le sanglier, mais vous êtes un véritable cochon!"

And although it troubled me greatly that we, as Soc., fell out with a member of the Brigade Gauloise for the first time, I could not but be touched by the gesture of my travelling companions.

At night, thereafter, it all became very pleasant, with Marjan, Irene and Claudia, three assistants (operating room and anaesthesia) from the Máxima Medical Centre in Eindhoven and Patricia, friend of one of them (who assists mongoloids elsewhere). We had, namely, already been noticed by them during the football match of the previous night, since we were the most fanatical party on the premises. Utterly enjoyable conversations, these became, today herald of more good to follow - and this while, at the European Championship, Portugal beat England. Almost everyone was happy with that, but for, just about, me, since I'm an anglophile.

Day 4 (Friday 25.06)
Houffalize - Houffalize

Good thing that, next morning, a more important thing was imminent. A return to my personal hell: Houffalize. Cityname whose ring will forever cause a shiver of disquiet and respect in me, since I finished there, in 2000, on the third day of my first MESA, crying from the pain. Today, I set out from and finished there in much better shape. This, despite the skinscrapes that I'd incurred in Diekirch, and that hadn't fully healed, was the way it should be too, because I had four years more of walking experience by now, and had taken it real easy the past two days, because I knew I was going to go straight to Ireland after this, for the Castlebar International Four Days' Walks.

But apart from the physical, the course itself definitely was a reason too, for my goodhumoured return to Houffalize. Because it was beautiful today. And as if that wasn't enough, the weather was too, even though exceptionally threatening stormclouds gathered during the day - but, luckily, they failed to actually empty themselves all over us.



And besides that, today was impressive because of the Minimesites, since those little men of 10 or 12 were doing their third of four times 15 km, cap on and walking stick in hand, as if they were way past fifty, and had been rambling around these hills for all of their lives. When I was about sixteen years old, as a boyscout, I used to do the St. George's Marches in Oegstgeest (1x15 km each time, and I did it 8 times), and feel like quite a man. These littluns do that four times in a row, and they don't do it on the flat pavement and asphalt of the Westland, but straight through the Ardennes of the -offensive. Hats off.



And it was a sociable affair too: besides the four pretty assistants there was Frans Gorissen, the Rotterdammer I'd run into more often already and who, later on, would supply me with many photos of this MESA, and we again ran into the ATC, which hospitably supplied us with lemonade and the kind of acid drops only English can make. I don't know what the hell was in them, but it made Schelden so crazy that, together with Albert, who does not need acid drops to be crazy, he put on a 'mongoloid-and-assistant'-act, shortly before the descent into the city.



Once there and some beers further up, it turned out, to our great sorrow, that Gerda Becking had to give up today. She had, hooked on marching as she is, really continued for far too long already, with a hefty tendon injury, and now the Belgian physician felt it had been quite enough.



Nonetheless, both in Houffalize, as well as on the way back by bus, by way of a redistribution point where we again ran into that mustachioed Belgian, but this time everything did go the way it should, things became utterly jolly. Schelden, on that bus, conducted a choir of Dutchmen through old Dutch songs, and although this happening was both a loud and a funny one, I did not let it disturb my sleep.



Back at the camp, the swimming pool next to it proved to be open this once, and so I swam a few lengths (before dinner, because I found the idea Fred and Peter had to have that first, whilst being as sweaty as we were, too ridiculous for words, and as I already said, I had looked forward to that swimming pool for way too long), having first, obligatorily so, hoisted myself into tight trunks, and bathing cap, which I had both had to procure from the counter. Now I can envisage the hygienical advantage of the cap, but with the best will in the world, I fail to comprehend that someone else's trunks are preferrable above my own, prohibited, swimming shorts.

Notwithstanding the joy over the healing effect on the muscles, produced by a bout of swimming after a long hard marching day, I must say that this ruined the fun I had with it in such a way that this single, would also be my last visit to the swimming pool.

But this was not to harm the festiveness we were to enjoy that night. We again partied with the assistants, and this, by the time I had gone to sleep, eventually led to Schelden's dancing on the table, slurring his words loudly, his scrotum hanging from his pants (penis neatly tucked back), close to the canteen's closing time.

Day 5 (Saturday 26.06)
La Roche - Marche

The next morning, all hell broke loose entirely. Firstly, Fred was furious at us, because, during the beerdrinking in Houffalize, Peter had shouted around we were leaving, but noone actually had at that moment, but for Fred. Who therefore, and much earlier than the rest of us, had returned to camp. With apologies by Peter (a grand and good gesture, I felt) this matter was not entirely, but thankfully largely settled. But hell had not blown over yet. For although we started from our own town today, we didn't do so from the camp, and were therefore still transported to the starting point by way of a bus convoy.

And that convoy was missed, by Schelden. He namely had not woken up from his catatonic hangovered sleep, when Max awoke us at half past five, with his sonorously bassed "Goodmorning, it's half past five". And he also had not woken up when, at three different instances, I had shaken him and hissed "Schelden, wake up!" into his ear, at the third instance of which I had wished him a pleasant day of resting too, having first informed him that the bus would leave in ten minutes.

We were hardly on that bus, or Max (who was after all doing the Mini-MESA, and so left later than we did, and was therefore still relaxing in camp) called me. "Schelden's stamping starknaked around the camp here, shouting in German that you are an asshole, because you failed to wake him". Failed to wake him? Failed in getting him to wake up, is what you mean! Wahaha. And Schelden naturally did not only not end up at the startingpoint of the Boucle, thereby failing just so hard as Albert had done according to him, on the Thursday, but also almost missed the bus to the Mini-MESA, in which, by that time, Max, of course, had neatly positioned himself.

This led to his running beside the moving convoy, screaming in French, shoes and rucksack in hand and, before he finally managed to get the driver to open the door and take him aboard, cursingly flattening an unsuspecting chickenwire fence, as he almost fell flat on his nose over it. This, of course, to the great hilarity of Max and his fellow travellers.

We, meanwhile, unperturbedly marched down the Ligne, en route to the large rest in Hotton. But before we got there I was suddenly, from a berm, jumped upon by Tim, leader of the support team for the Herts and Bucks Wing, who lay in wait in that berm, for Steve and comrades, camera at the ready.



He directed me around the corner, to Elaine and her refreshments, where I was, moreover, introduced to the Wing Commander, Herts and Bucks, who, with his wife, had come over for the day, to behold what his troops were doing in these Belgian parts.

He found it an honour to meet me, having heard about my previous MESA-reports - but I felt the honour was entirely mine, and was also pleased about the extra attention from the staff, for the Marching Team, that my reports on Steve's efforts had yielded.

And what I therefore told him was the truth: "You've a great team, walking out here". I said it in my first report, and there has been no change in it over the past four years: that country on the other side of the water cannot hope to have any better ambassadors than the Marching Team of the Herts and Bucks Wing.



At the large rest, in Hotton, we then finally ran into Schelden again. This joyful event was enforced by me, with an enormous flood of abuse in his direction (I had looked forward to it all morning), which I produced so loudly that Jochem worriedly asked if I could tone it down some, because the whole field would otherwise hear it. To which I replied, broadly grinning, that that was my intention exactly, and continued to holler.

Enraged because he blamed me for his own drinking problem ("You're a walking drinking problem that doesn't even walk anymore!") with his contention that I hadn't woken him up ("THREE times! I have tried to wake you THREE times, you MONGOLOID CAVEMAN!") I let Schelden have it the hard way ("The commandoes told me at the breakfast table that they appreciate me more than they do you, and then I told them I was about to tell them I appreciate you more than I do them, and you know what? I take that back! I TAKE THAT BACK!").



This brought a lot of relief, and so I left for the finish in a great mood, in the company of Max and Jochem.

Eventually, my own speed picked up again, and I arrived at the finish, at Camp Roi Albert, before them, but in the company of Peter and Marjan.

At which point a solid case of melancholy kicked in, because Henk and I had, in 2000, enjoyed such pleasant a stay at that camp, and hadn't been back there since. At that finish, we collected our medals and thumbtacks (and it turned out, there, by the by, that the medal for the Mini-MESA is prettier than the one for the 'normal' one), contentedly quenched our thirst with Jupiler, and took stock of our blisters. I had two, one on the left heel, and one atop my right large toe, which worried me greatly, given the oncoming Castlebar. But, nothing to be done about it, save cleaning it and resting as much as possible. Which I therefore immediately did, and in doing so, I went in against my own conviction: I hate driving home immediately after a march, because one misses way to much afterpartying that way.

In this particular case, however, I felt it was better to do that nonetheless, so that I could spend another day-and-a-half on doing the laundry and recuperating, before flying out to the west.



And so I got into Max's car, and thus made it home in time to, together with Schelden, who was dropped off at my home by Jochem, watch the European Championship football match between the Netherlands and Sweden - which we won, by penalty kicks. Through to the semi-finals!

To your health, gentlemen, excellent walking there. Nijmegen awaits you - but now, first, me, the Castlebar.