| What are we doing?
August 14th, 2004 Sudden change of style? Drama? They're both concepts that are inadequate to describe what came to pass. The Death March, this year, in the 'Chinese' sense, was an interesting experience. This already began a few days beforehand. Armed with the knowledge we gained last year (when it turned out we'd brought along too much fruit and not enough Red Bull), mindful of the increased number of marchers (12, this time over, besides the 3-man support team), and having listened well to both the tips begot over the past year (for instance Anne-Jan Telgen, leader of a Scoutinggroup which specializes in winning running matches, suggested to, just as they do there, supply our marchers en route with vitamin tablets dissolved in water) as well as the reactions to the support we delivered last year (wild enthusiasm, with 1 comment: there should be soup), I knew what I had to do. But setbacks were manifold. The first one had been announced: Marco Neumann would not come along to support, because he was going to march instead. Commendable, in itself. I also thought it would not be a problem, since I'd acquired a driver's licence of my own by now. But this turned out to be unusable. Because you can't use a driver's licence to rent a car when you've had it shorter than 6 months. That problem solved itself when I found Lourens Dinger (who'd had a driver's licence for longer than I did) willing to take Marco Neumann's place.  Then, there followed the financial problem. I calculated to be needing some 300 euros for groceries, aside from the deposit on the multi-seater bus. Which I had, but, as I learned too late (less, namely, than two days beforehand, the time it takes to transfer money by other means), only on accounts from which I could not withdraw with a cash card. So when my creditcard offered no solution (limit reached), a problem evolved. I therefore tried to find someone within Soc.-ranks to lend me the 300, but didn't succeed with, in that order, Max and Jochem. Thankfully, and to his great merit, Lourens Dinger offered a solution here too. He lent me 500 euros for a day, on the day that I took my Greenwheels out to get the groceries.
That Greenwheels is paid for once a month, so there was no problem there. With it, I therefore drove, on Thursday, to the Schalkwijk shopping mall, where I met Dinger, there in a Publich Health Department cart, since he'd gotten a job there via Randstad, the temporary employment agency. Bizarre exchange, of cash notes, in a parking lot. One of those bearded Public Health officials present, who then says: "Let me handle that: there, one for you, one for me, one for you, one for me...". "I am pleased to notice little has changed, with the Public Health Department", I said, to his shock (I once worked with the Public Health Department for two days, for Randstad, too). Then, I stormed Aldi and MAKRO, in that order, and found the 500 to only be just enough. This was due to the MAKRO's tempting me to some impulse acquisitions on the one hand, but on the other hand, and much more so, it was due to the fact that vitamin tablets (and Isostar-hydration tablets, which, given the quantities needed, I also purchased after I'd already bought up the entire supply of vitamin tablets at the MAKRO, they don't sell them at Aldi) cost a farking fortune.  All this aside, and following five hours of shopping, the groceries were complete (barring two trays of Red Bull, which we therefore got on Friday morning from the VOMAR - and for which I myself could pay by then, with the money that had been transferred by now, and with which I'd reimbursed Dinger's 500 as well, although, because of the discounting, it hadn't arrived with him yet), and the next day the deposit turned out not to pose a problem, because Dinger's creditcard could still cover that. So that was all peachy, and we therefore stacked the 9-person Ford Transit with the groceries from the Greenwheels, in front of the Bouwens offices, in the best of spirits, that morning.
 Once the Greenwheels had been reparked in the multi-storey lot at Houtplein, we headed back to my home, where, besides Erik-with-LandRover, we also accosted Death March Grandmaster Johan van Dijk (following some waiting, which luckily lasted long enough for Dinger to drive to and fro again to Bouwens, where'd he'd left his creditcard behind, and which we did in the rain, by the way, because the weather gods were ill-minded towards us, so it was clattering down pleasantly). With him in the Transit with Dinger, and me in the LandRover with Erik, we then made for the Jaarbeurssquare in Utrecht.
There, it was dry, thankfully, and pleasant. Not in the least because the group completed itself without complications, here, with Anita Willemsen, Ronald Fischer, there with cousin Jesse Fischer and acquaintance Boyke Akkermans (Jesse had yelled, at the breakfast table, that 100 kilometres was 'for sissies' and had therefore been persuaded by Ronald to go and do it himself then - that he was only 14, and so 2 years shy of the minimal required age for participation, was not an unsurpassable problem to a former legionary like Ronald, naturally; and Boyke had, in a separate conversation with Ronald, also expressed his interest, and so he, shortly before his departure for Japan on a business trip, was partaking too), Marco Neumann and Raymond de Gisser and, the as ever unbelievable, H.P. van der Schelden MA (Messrs. Swarts and Telgen travelled separately, by Audi, from the east of the country, and Mr. van Geyningen was awaiting us in the Brabantian). Unbelievable as ever, for he wore a fez, this time over. Which did, then again, go utterly well with the flag specimen, of the Society banner, which he then fastened to the LandRoverbow with Erik Kuijken, by way of standard (the wrong way round, according to Schelden, but better according to me, because the motto was now readable, from the side). This got us a picture that would not have ill-suited a Moroccocorps from the Interbellum. 
Fun and prosperity lasted some - for at roadside restaurant De Lucht (The Air) West, close to Den Bosch, we effortlessly met Albert van Geyningen, deposited there by son Vandy. Nice! Gave us a chance to see him again ('cause that had been quite a while)! He was doing fine, as armoured infantryman, and we were pleased to notice this. Swiftly onward, we made our way, succesfully still, around Antwerp (this, we wanted to do anyhow, since the Antwerp Ring was undergoing full-scale reconstruction) until we stranded in Lier. There, it namely not only turned out to be a good thing because of the Antwerp Ring (we'd experienced reasonably horrid things there, during the first few Wandelsoc.-editions of the Death March, where queueing in endless tailbacks is concerned), that we'd left early. 
Because after, for 50 euros(!), of what was almost my last money, at Bricorama (good store otherwise, although this branch will soon become a Gamma), we had bought a 5-by-6 metres large tarpaulin here, against the rain, the left rear tyre of the Ford turned out to be punctured. There was a sizable nail in it, and so we paused for an hour or two, at the Auto5 around the corner. Good store, where Erik, with permission I got for him on the phone, from Bouwens Haarlem, had a new tyre fitted to the Transit wheel (so that we'd have a spare left). That tyre conclusively cost me the rest of my financial (advancing) assets, some 125 euros namely, but I was happy enough, with it.  I was happy anyhow, with on the one hand the sanitary relief (because the supermarket-restaurant around the corner offered a fine lavatory, and thus a much needed solution for Marco Neumann too, although it was a bizarre bog, because of the scribblings on the wall: "All foreigners must be ousted from the cuntry!", and below it "Learn to write properly first, ya rotten foreigner!"), and the folly on the other (Albert van Geyningen tried, with a pair of scissors I lent him, to give Ronald Fischer a haircut that was shorter than he appreciated, and Schelden paraded around in, besides the fez, a djellaba - this, for a while, in silence, although he was armed with a walkie-talkie of Erik's, because he'd made a bet, for five euros, with Fischer, that he wouldn't be able to shut up for five minutes; after, of course, his bragging over the succesful earning of those five euros was rampant).
One short rally along Antwerp B-roads later, we then finally found ourselves in Bornem, nota bene on the same patch of grass we'd parked on the year before. This turned out to still be an excellent idea, because it offered us a quiet place for the greasing up and kitting out of our marchers. When they'd finally fucked off (we hadn't much desire to come along into the centre of town, this year - it's only crowded there, and because one has to pack before driving off to the first rest, shortly after the march's start, there isn't much use to all that to and froing) we could enjoy the quiet, and therefore contentedly leaned back in the cars, while the rain slammed down torrentially. 
The downpour past, we resolved to set off for the first stopping place: the parking spaces opposite the funeral parlour in Wintam. Along the way, Dinger inadvertently damaged the Mercedes, by cracking one of the mirrorhoods on a wickedly protruding branch, along a narrow country road, but otherwise, both due to last year's experience as the new topographical maps of the area that Erik had bought, we got there smoothly. And there, we again made friends with WSV (Walking Sports Club) 'De Schorrestappers' which, just like the year before, had leased the whole parlour as a resting spot, and of whose hospitality we therefore thankfully made use, where water and toilets were concerned. But first, we parked LandRover and Ford alongside one another, with a wagon's breadth between them, so we could cover that with the newly bought tarpaulin. 
Which immediately gave out, as it was fastened by the rings that were meant for the purpose. Some quality, for those 50 euros. But we did manage to tie it securely enough to actually make it help against the rain, and that was what mattered. Then, quiet came back (during which I prepared our supplies and explained my intentions with them to Dinger), until about twelve. By that time, in rain that by now poured down heavily, the fastmarchers (among them, as ever, Koen Straesser, whom I saw pounding past at some eight kilometres an hour) gave way to the walkers, and I therefore took up station by the roadside, to direct ours to our resting place. 
This was no luxury, since it was pitch-dark, sight was severely hampered by the hard rain, we were in a sidestreet that only last year's marchers might remember, and we were there for more marchers than just our own. This is how that had come about: having read last year's report, and knowing that I would again render support this year, Marc Poelen, Dutch reservist in the German army, and my fellow marcher from Ireland and earlier, had requested to be allowed to make use of said support (transport excluded, that is, because he was driving down from Germany with a marching mate, Gerhard, a fellow reservist). 
I saw no harm in that, and so said: "Sure, as long as you pay for your part of the supplies". No sooner said, than done. And then, there was Klaus Pläschke, the burly bearded German from Flanders, another of those fellow marchers, from the Bernensian, the Wellingborough and the Nijmegen Four Day Marches. He'd mailed me in the week preceding the Death March, to ask whether we would be present, and so I'd answered: "Certainly, and do come and have a cup of coffee with us". I'd extended the same invitation towards Ben Jeursen, who'd after all been Acquaintance of the Wandelsoc. for a very long time, and who was also part of the pack, this year.  And so, it became a crowded affair under the tarpaulin, because I managed to pick them all from the passing multitude, peering through the rain. That I'd invited those four extra persons didn't go down well with everybody, by the way, because I hadn't had a chance to explain to everyone yet (although, where Marc and mate were concerned, I had announced it in the mails preceding the endeavour) - I was standing by the roadside to warn them of the rest, after all, and so I couldn't leave that post before they'd all arrived. All the same, everyone was happy with what we offered, all the more so since the bad weather had produced horrid scenes, in the Frightening Forest, at the beginning of the march.
Once our walkers had moved on somewhat drier and warmer, I returned to the wagons, intending to get into my dry second set of clothes. This was necessary, because, during the waiting, I'd not only been soaked, but had also had cooled down uncomfortably. This was aggravated by my footwear: because I had not at all yet recuperated from the balloonfoot that was the result of the succession of MESA, Castlebar and Nijmegen, I was forced to wear sandals: the only thing that fit me (but I would have opted for them otherwise anyway, because I was also recuperating from blisters, and therefore wanted to let the lot breathe as much as possible). Soaking wet icecold clumpfoot was the logical consequence. That I nonetheless declined Erik's offer to put on a raincoat and/or oversized pair of boots, had to do on the one hand with the fact that I didn't want to leave the kerb (Erik namely did not know Marc, Ben and Klaus), but on the other hand I didn't think it would be a problem, because, as said, I'd brought along dry gear. And so I wanted to put that on, at this stage. This could not happen straight away though, because we had to make some speed to the next rest. This too, I thought, would be no problem, because the ride there wasn't going to take all that long and, moreover, it meant a dry spell, in any case. But, once at that next rest, shortly behind the Duvel-brewery, on an impossible streetcorner, where we had to park both cars in some kind of mudbath, I deeply sank into that icy mud there, as we stretched the tarpaulin over the cars. All the more, I felt, after we'd tightened that canvas, unpacked supplies and ordened them, and had made sure Erik could make coffee, that it was about time to change. Which I therefore then did (with some help of Dinger's, who was friendly enough to pour some water from the jerrycan over my muddy paws), and after that I was doing a lot better indeed. Erik, moreover, was friendly enough to lend me a fleece, because my own sweater was soaked, and hung out to dry. 
That didn't alter the fact that a new problem arose: contact. There was so much phoning and sms-ing going on, namely, that there simply was no getting through. And so, after an hour and a half's worth of trying, I only got hold of Schelden when, with Anita, he'd long since passed our rest. To his great anger, which expressed itself in a snappish sms: "next time please warn sooner". Well. We fortunately did catch the rest, although we'd almost missed Neumann, because I was so engrossed in the sms-ado, and by now, because of all the staring into the dark, had developed such tunnelvision, that he'd have walked past me had Dinger not seen him. That Dinger saw him was a blessing, because Neumann had totally had it, and therefore dropped out here (no disgrace, because Neumann hadn't trained much, this year, and had by now marched some 42 kilometres). Some fifteen kilometres later, Jesse Fischer and Boyke Akkermans would follow his example. But we didn't know that yet. First, we had to pack up, and move to the next rest. And as we did so, discord arose, between me and Erik. Because I was still going about on those open sandals, I namely asked him to take down the tarpauling from the cars with Dinger, so that I wouldn't have to stick my second and last dry pair of socks into a meter of mud too. I saw no problem in that request - fastening and removing the canvas, namely, is a job you only need two people for, and for which a third one is utterly superfluous, barring the folding of it after the removal; and I had assisted at all previous occurances, and fully intended to do so again the next time. But this enraged Erik, because he felt I was nagging terribly anyway (I had announced I wanted to go change, done so, and remarked "Shit, 's gonna take a while before my sweater is dry", which had, as said, given Erik cause to lend me a fleece, although by itself I hadn't made that remark for that reason) about a problem I myself had created by not having my stuff in order (his exact wording), and that this was a new feat of antisocial laziness. Well. I, of course, didn't feel this was the case, but did not add fuel to the flames. When the canvas then had to be folded, I thought "Good, I can help out there, because this is done on the asphalt next to the mud" and so I hastened to assist. But with only 1 hand, because I was carrying two pieces of garbage in the other (empty plastic bottles of energy drink - throwing those to the floor seemed like a bad idea to me, because I'd just seen Erik meticulously picking sugarlump-wrappers from the mud, whilst nobly commenting that we shouldn't pollute the place, and throwing those bottles into a rubbish bag, I intended to, but if I'd first do that, I'd be too late for the folding of the canvas) - and this too incensed Erik. "Throw that shit away, fool." Well.  We planned the next rest closer to this one, than we had last year. This, we did because we'd been told, last year, that it had taken too long to reach us, when we'd stood outside the gym in Buggenhout around eleven in the morning. So, we now opted for a corner in a country road near Peizegem, on the southern border of the Buggenhout municipality. This did mean that we ourselves could sleep a lot less. Last year, we'd been able to grab five hours of sleep, in a quiet Buggenhout street. This year, there would be two at the most, because Harm was already in the Palm-brewery, eating, when we parked our cars 10 kilometres further up. And so I proposed that only Lourens and Erik would go to sleep. They'd, after all, driven the cars all this time, and were therefore more tired than I was.
 I for myself would then be able to go to sleep when Harm and Anne-Jan had been by, because they were some two-and-a-half hours ahead of the rest, at this stage. No sooner said than done, but I did first need Erik to explain to me how his petrol burner worked, so I could prepare coffee and soup. And you've already guessed it: now too, Erik got mad. Not because I asked for that explanation, but because, as he went to fetch that burner from the Ford, I stood waiting for him, with my cold claws comfortably tucked into the pockets of the fleece he'd lent me. Because he felt that was another feat of antisocial laziness. Well. "If there's anything you want me to do, you should just say so", I ventured, in vain: Erik snappily explained how the device worked, and angrily withdrew to the LandRover to sleep, while Dinger and Neumann snored away in the Ford.
 I, meanwhilde, experienced the most pleasant hours of this support-edition, quietly heating four cans worth of soup, making coffee, cutting peppers and, now and again, walking to the course, a hundred metres further up, to see if anything came in sight. Some two-and-a-half hours later (because they were moving slowlier all the while) Harm and Anne-Jan arrived. They were visibly relieved to see me, and threw themselves at the soup, pepper slices and dextrose with total abandon.
Harm: "What a BAD moddafokka of a march. Even Anne-Jan and I quarrel all the time. Except when there's people in front of us who quarrel amongst themselves, then we forget our fight for a while and pay attention to theirs". My reaction: "Well, that doesn't just go for you". Whereupon I explained to the interested Harm what I described above, about the discord between me and Erik, and added that I suspected that Erik's fatigue was playing tricks on him, in this matter, and that I therefore didn't really hold it against him (I had been about to pack up my things and walk to the nearest taxi, after that petrolburner-explanation by Erik, but had decided not to do so, because I'd after all come here to support my marchers, but I left that out). 
I shouldn't have done that explaining to Harm, apparently, because it made Erik even madder. He had namely, being half awake again by now, heard it all, and although I myself didn't feel I'd said one indelicate word about him, he felt I was a Mosley-ite, and that I shouldn't attempt to burden him with not having my own stuff in order. Well. I really didn't feel that I had, because I hadn't, while talking to Harm, blamed him for any misery on my part at all.  But when Erik, as soon as the last of our marchers and acquaintances had gone by (they, barring Harm and Anne-Jan, were not aware of our falling out at all, because Erik and I, not speaking to one another, orbited around eachother and them until they were gone), called me that Mosley-ite, and accused me of transferring my problems onto him, and seethingly packed his affairs and left for Holland, snapping at me that, for all he cared, I could "be gassed", I'd had it too, and said "well then, here's your fleece, for the lending of which I warmly thank you, by the way, and I do wish you a pleasant journey home - the honour, by the way, is all mine, you know".
Because I felt, by now, that he was an arrogant, hypocritical asshole. This had to do with a lot of things I had kept to myself. Because I felt it was utterly anti-social that he, when I asked if, like last year, I could use the rear deck of the LandRover for arranging the supplies, he agreed to that, and when I then asked him to clear it, said "we'll do that later", then had me wait for two hours for that, making me seek refuge in the rear of the Ford (which is much smaller and cannot be approached from the side, and therefore is much less efficient in use), because I would otherwise have no time left for arranging the supplies and explaining to Dinger about them - but I hadn't made a fuss about that, towards Erik. And I felt it was utterly anti-social that he did order me to read the topographical map while he drove (logical thought by itself) but thereupon had no patience at all with my inexperience with it (it was the second time in my life that I beheld a topographical map, we were travelling along pitch-dark roads, and Erik was making good speed), and so threw "What good are you?" at me - but I hadn't made a fuss about that, towards Erik. And I felt it was utterly anti-social that he, when I told him, in advance, of my (or actually, Anne-Jan's, as explained) plan-with-the-vitamin-tablets, and so said that we'd need two jerrycans for that, did obligingly holler: "I'll take care of that", but when it came to the crunch, refused, in Wintam, to let me have 1 of the 2 jerrycans present, for it, because he was afraid we would otherwise not have enough drinking water left, so that there was only 1 small thermos flask of that vitamin-stuff, which meant that, in the end, so little of it was actually drunk that I was left with a personal setback of about 60 euros worth of unused tablets, afterwards (mind you, I'm not saying that this was because Erik didn't offer it to the marchers anyway because he felt the whole idea was stupid, which is what I think, but not what he said, beforehand; see, with those scouts, it is all different of course - you don't let them choose, but force it down their throats, and I am accustomed to supporting that way, because my personal experience teaches me that everyone is happy with anything offered anyway, all the more so if it works, because one is too tired to think) - but I hadn't made a fuss about that, towards Erik. No, I'd kept all that to myself. Because it was all less bad than the way he treated me with respect to my alleged laziness and, just so supposed, not having my gear in order, while at the start of Friday night, in Bornem, he'd been the one to tell me that I should under no circumstance take offense to rudenesses on his part, because the fuses after all are shorter during an endeavour such as this, because of the fatigue. Hypocrite. Not in order, my gear? Who'd stocked up on all the supplies? Who'd, in weeks past, troubled himself with the list of participants, the mobility to be rented, and the nature of the supplies? Who, whilst having let Erik go sleep instead of himself, had stood in the wet cold making soup and coffee for the marchers? All this aside from the fact that I'd have loved to drive that Ford myself, but was not allowed to because I didn't have my driver's licence for longer than 6 months yet? And who, by the way, continued to care for the marchers while Saint Erik moved off home on his cloud? Fuck you, you pompous hypocritical prick. Do fuck off to Holland and get the fuck out of my life. I have totally fucking had it with 'friends' trying to tell me how I should run my life. I'll be the judge of that, GODDAMMIT. My apologies to the believers.  Erik therefore pleasantly gone (the marchers, of course, didn't feel that way: they, at a much later stage, sent an utterly discourteous card to Erik in which they proclaimed to have missed him because I could not make coffee; discourteous, because I can - my mother has neatly taught me to - and they'd thanked me for it too, that morning, albeit with Erik still present, because I hadn't made any coffee after that, on that day, because I no longer had a petrolburner), to the amazement, by the way, of Dinger, who'd hardly noticed our quarrel, I thus set out with Neumann, Dinger and the topographical maps (because Erik hadn't wanted to let me have them, because the Soc. hadn't yet reimbursed him for them, this despite my solid reassurance that this was going to happen; I would have preferred to do so immediately, but no longer could, because all my cash had been spent on spare tyre and tarpaulin - it was a good thing therefore, that Erik did let Dinger have them, who paid him for them, with a small contribution on my part).
 Dinger, thank God, could read these things better than I, and so, after a detour through Lebbeke, we ended up by the railroad crossing in Oppuurs. Famous spot, because Max got ill there last year, because of which I'd had to miss the rest because I was in the waiting room of the hospital in Dendermonde. And memorable spot, because I ran into Steve Atkinson there, at that time. He wasn't there this time, although he was, it would later turn out, close by, but I did run into something prettier there: Tinneke, namely, the Belgian soldieress I'd met during the MESA, and who had promised me as early on as that, that she'd come show her face when we'd render support at the Death March, because we'd be in Belgium after all.
She made good on her promise, and that was nice, if only for half an hour. Together, we welcomed our marchers and acquaintances, and then she left for Antwerp, on family affairs. 
We happily cared for our marching multitude, and then, at special request of van der Schelden MA, set off towards the last rest to be set up by us, at the outskirts of Bornem, five kilometres before the finish, roundabout where Marco Neumann had done the same last year, while I was in that Dendermondian hospital.  And this rest was, again, much appreciated, by for instance Anita, who arrived there chirpy as a cricket with Albert, as the first of our marchers (barring Harm and Anne-Jan, who'd already finished and left for home), but did happily attack the melon I'd prepared for her. Harm, by the way, beleaguered our phones, delighted about the end, to his Death March, and the fact that en route, just before the finish, because of his Wandelsoc.-uniform, he'd been recognized by Steve Atkinson and the rest of the Herts and Bucks Wing of the Air Training Corps. "C'mon, Wandelsoc.!" they'd shouted at him, and Anne-Jan. Harm was mightily chuffed with this. Yes well, Swarts, that's how it goes, during international marches one makes new friends, and the Soc. makes a name for itself.
 Me, they would not find that day, although they had asked Harm, about me. But I would find (besides Bernd, a German reservist I became friends with during the Castlebar) them. That is, I found one marcher of theirs, abreast of our rest, whom I warmly congratulated with his achievement and invited to join us for absent coffee: which he, not even because of that, declined; he preffered to make his last metres, understandable.
Van der Schelden MA, meanwhile, did what was to be expected of him: he prolongued his time on the course as much as possible, and therefore, by invitation of locals, as we learned later on, proceeded to, in Restaurant Scheldehooft, just past the end of the dyke to Branst, extensively hit the beer - accompanied by Rijkman, Fischer, van Dijk and de Gisser. This to the great anger of Lourens Dinger, who felt it was utterly antisocial of Schelden to do that, where Schelden had asked us for that last rest at 5 km. Well. 
I felt Dinger was unjustly enraged. Because the latest allowed finish-time is 2100 hrs. So, if Schelden decides to want to finish at such time, that is his right. And so he did, incorporating the rest we had set up for him, and no less thankful for that. Not a flaw in the argument, as far as I'm concerned. 
But I did feel that that had consequences, nonetheless. Because Albert and Anita were, by now, on a terrace near the finish for a long time already, and were thus stiffening up and getting cold considerably. I feel that everyone who finishes a march, and particularly if it lasts for a 100 kilometres, has the right to a beer afterwards. But I do feel that, when one opts for finishing just before closing time, one should be gallant enough towards those that have been there for a long time and need to share the same transport home, to keep it to 1 beer at that finish. 
So that is how I agreed to arrange it, with Dinger, who quietened down some because of that. And that was how I arranged it, by concocting with Neumann that he went to get the bus, while we had that one beer. So when Neumann called me (and we had, in the meantime, had some hilarious medal-presentations, and recovered Boyke and Jesse to boot; Jesse still felt the Death March was for sissies, but didn't think himself one, as he had dropped out at 57 k) and told me he was at the railway station with the bus, I beated the retreat. This turned out to have happened somewhat too fast for Fischer and Rijkman. So when everyone was in the Ford Transit with Dinger (and I was in Neumann's Redford - it took a long time for everyone to get into that Transit, by the way, because, on yonder side of the railway-crossing, there was a lot of dawdling at a snack- and beverages-stand, to my personal annoyment; my goal namely was to reach The Netherlands at such a time that we could still heave a final glass together, to celebrate a happy ending, this inclusive of the drivers, who couldn't of course drink until then), they turned out to still be missing.  Whereupon Neumann phoned them, and endless pleading ensued. From Schelden, who repeatedly and loftily demanded that Neumann hand over his phone to him, so that he could arrange things with Rijkman, who was, in his opinion, much more reasonable than Fischer - and of Neumann, who felt Schelden should shut up because he was having a conversation with Fischer. And of Fischer, because he said he felt it was so shitty of us, to have left "without announcing it to them" (I had, nonetheless, loudly proclaimed it, on the highwalled, resounding courtyard of Het Land van Bornem [Bornem's Land]), that he claimed he would spend the night in Bornem, in a hotel, with Rijkman, and would return the next day, by train.
Whereupon discord arose in the Transit, because there were those who felt Jesse Fischer should then debark, to join his uncle. In the end, it turned out to be a joke on Fischer's part, who entered the Transit with an aggrieved "Where the hell have y'all been?".  This, he shouldn't have said. Because, after a Death March such as this one, the fuses are ultrashort, with everyone except Anita (I have never seen someone who, after 100 k of marching-at-breakneck-speed, looks like it's about time to, fit and lively, go and prowl around the better, for immaculately groomed, night life, before I saw Anita). So Albert van Geyningen, who lost his cool here for the first time in our presence (this had, by the by, announced itself when, in the courtyard of Het Land van Bornem he let fly against Schelden, for his general antisocialness, partly because of that drink-dragging-before-the-finish), threatened to throw Fischer from the Transit, which by then was speeding towards Holland at 120 k an hour. "Everyone always shouts they'll do all sorts of things here, but I'm warning you, I will." Well.
I won't say I do not understand Albert. Jesse didn't understand one fucking bit of it all. He burst into frightened tears. Which made Fischer lean over towards him in paternal manner. Which both Schelden and Dinger felt was ludicrously hypocritical (and were therefore enraged by it, on their part). In the end, it was Rijkman who calmed the lot down, because he managed to silence Fischer. Not bad, for a bridegroom who's already gone through so much with the Soc. (see the report on the MESA, at day 1, about that). I, meanwhile, was completely unaware of all this, because, as said, I was with Neumann, in his Ford. He namely felt it was pleasant to have me drive, and I was keen on the extra driving experience - but I was so tired by now (because I hadn't slept at all, anymore, that night, after all) that I was in danger of falling asleep at the wheel, and therefore passed it to him again. After the Transiteers had dropped off Albert van Geyningen at his home, in Ammerzoden, we met up again at roadside restaurant De Lucht (The Air) East. There, it was too late to jointly dine or heave glasses, because De Lucht was closed on both the eastern and the western side, by now. To the great anger of van der Schelden MA, who loudly demanded to be allowed to give everyone a drink. I thought this was very creative on his part, but didn't see much of a chance for this, the catering industry being closed for the night.  We therefore then took off for Schiphol, because Rijkman, Willemsen (invited thereto by the others), Fischer and Fischer could catch a train for The Hague there. With Dinger and Schelden I then drove to Haarlem. There, Schelden proceeded to throw a fit, because he failed to locate a shoe and a poloshirt (he promptly accused his fellow travellers of the theft of them, but eventually found them in, of all things, my travel bag, into which I myself had definitely not put them), but a calm night ensued nevertheless.
Epilogue I rarely write them, but this one deserves one. I will not be supporting again anytime soon. Supporting, moreover, is more arduous than marching, I found out this year. So next year, God willing, I promise you I will happily take part in the Death March again. Jesse proclaimed, towards Uncle Ronald (now what does that remind me of?), afterwards, that he found the Soc. "utterly insane, but fun", so the crying fit has, at the most, confused him a bit (aside from some supplies, I turned out to be left with a backpack of his, containing a pair of socks, his Gameboy, a towel and a cap). Besides that, found items were: Barend's junglehat (he's reclaimed it by now, thankfully, because it's hard to survive, otherwise, there in The Hague) and several blue towels, at least one of which belongs to Erik, though I don't know which one. The bus dispute's been settled, because it's been redirected to the realm of Societable table tales. Kuijken recently sms-ed me with "Shouldn't we polder nearer to one another one of these days?", whereupon I replied "my front door is patient", whereupon he replied "so's the bar", whereupon I replied "but I'm still broke because of the Death march and I don't feel like going out tonight", whereupon he replied "some other time then", whereupon nothing further has happened, because he has not taken any initiative, and I don't feel obliged to do so towards arrogant, hypocritical assholes who turn their back on ME. They either return on their own accord, or not. Like I care. Poldering? The very idea. Being a fervent supporter of Purple, I rather feel I shouldn't have to do anything, than that I should polder. The day after the Death March, Schelden decided that, in the evening, there should be drinking to celebrate the happy ending, following the return of the rental Ford to Bouwens. This, by itself, was fine with me, but I did warn him that, due to all the advancing I'd done, I was broke for the moment. "Not a problem", he told me. So we hit a terrace with Dinger, and Schelden tried, by phone, to get the rest of the Deathmarchers and the Soc. to join us. This hardly succeeded: only Max and Prakke did. The entire night long, I continued to questioningly look at Schelden, at the ordering of every drink, but he continued to go "No problem". Until the bill arrived. Then, "as a friend", he was "more than willing" to lend me 10 euros, and for the rest of the sum, which totalled 25 euros, I could take out a personal loan with him. Whereupon I got very angry. "Had I wanted a loan, I would have asked you for a loan. I told you I was broke. That doesn't mean I want a loan, but that I do not want a loan, because I cannot pay it back." Whereupon Schelden became hysterical, started screaming that I could not expect him to settle the bill, and started throwing glassware into pieces. Whereupon, since this was one of my regualr haunts, I intervened and threw him to the ground, taking two tables along in the process. Whereupon he, after I'd angrily left for home, did after all pay the 25. Whereupon I, because I, upon reflection, decided I did not want to be given drinks by morons like these, as soon as I had those 25 euros to spend, got into a Greenwheels and drove down to Ieper, in Belgium, where Schelden was namely doing the Four Days of the Yser with Max by now, to give him back the 25 (cost me 331 euros, it turned out afterwards, but I was happy to spend them in order to be independent of that fil-thy manipulator). Whereupon he changed that into booze again, and it all became late and merry, with, among others, Steve Atkinson and the Herts and Bucks Marching Team. Schelden, in his report, naturally doesn't mention the reason I came down to Ieper, but it most certainly wasn't just to be able to welcome Max to the finish (although that was a pleasant added bonus) and meet the British (althought that was a pleasant added bonus). Schelden manages to eloquently write matters his way, in his report. It's a big dis-grace. Oh. And I am still due (it's October 11th, 2004, as I write this, almost two months after the Death March therefore; that this report was a great labour is not, of course, even entirely due to the fact that there were many reports preceding and following it, to write up and prepare for the Web, on my part), by the by, 460.84 euros from the Wandelsoc. (since Jochem has advanced me 60 euros, see my neatly prepared Excel-sheet, in which you can read that the aftershave, over the acquisition of which, as I was told, Mr. van Geyningen got rather angry, was NOT paid for by the Wandelsoc., but by myself), Erik, because of diesel, is still due 60.16 euros from the Wandelsoc., and Lourens is still due 25 euros from the Wandelsoc., because not everyone has by now paid treasurer Prakke his or her part. It's a big disgrace (although Harm and Anne-Jan are not to blame, because I'd omitted to, in my neatly prepared Excel, neatly indicate that they hadn't made use of the communal transport). Treasurer Prakke, although he didn't come along to the Death March, feels that this is so much trouble for him, that he has announced to de-treasurize shortly. Trouble? Seems to me to be the worst thinkable reason to de-anything, as pertaining to the Soc.; trouble, namely, is the only given, in relation to the Soc., so one should be aware of this in advance, if yaknowwaddahmean. Treasurer Prakke, by the by, is also plagued by a failing computer, making it all yet more troublesome to him. It's a big disgrace. But: to your health, gentlemen, dame, excellent walking there (one would almost forget, eh). |