(PIL: Public International Law)
Cheeks chapped and red from the early Spring sun, and winds that never seemed to be with us, but always against us. Bones sore, and muscles aching from the overdose of exercise.
What was a sudden ‘Schnapsidee’ to get together for Easter in the end it turned into some forty kilometres and almost eight hours of non-stop cycling and hiking. More torturous for the others (especially the hunter-gatherer guys amongst us), since the rented lady bikes had no handbrakes and only one gear. Trying to keep up with my tendency of racing whenever I hop on a bike was perhaps hard enough, but the wind and the countless ‘mountains’ we had to conquer along the way made the leisurely ‘PIL Day Out’ a real ordeal. But divided we are weak, and today we proved to ourselves that advanced and regular together we can ‘Climb every mountain, ford every stream, search high and low".
Every journey begins with a big brunch, and we stuffed on the tones of eggs, chocolates, all sorts of warm bread and cold juices. Calories and any excess body weight gained attributable to me could be burnt later, I reassured. Soon enough we were on our bikes and hogging the inner lanes of the cross-country bicycle highways with our turtle speeds. The legendary PIL Tour had begun.
Being devout loyalists of the monarchy and so grateful for the fact that some great-, great-, great-, great-, ancestor of the Queen had decided to lay the foundations of what is to be The Hague as his hunting ground, we of course had to pay her a visit. We stood before the gates of ‘Huis ten Bosch’, only to be disappointed that the Queen was not in and had apparently forgotten our afternoon tea appointment. No matter, as we counseled ourselves with the fact that we were mere metres to the very building (though perhaps then not yet inviolable) where the Hague Peace Conferences took place.
Onwards we went, in search of our future residences in the luxurious and wooded neighbourhoods of Wassenaar. Translated literally, it would mean ‘to wash-strange’. Perhaps that’s why so many ‘stinking rich’ people love to live in what is the most exclusive area of the Netherlands. Enormous free-standing mansions with tennis courts and swimming pools rolled by, some big, lavish-looking cottages to house the gatekeeper at the beginning of what was more a tree-line avenue than an ordinary drive-way. Shame, the mansion opposite the residence of the Canadian ambassador I had my eyes was just been sold. “One day…”
We amused ourselves watching family dramas unfold from the top of what may have been the second highest hill in the country. We could see the scenic electric pylons in the distance, watch the occasional yellow trains fly past, and admire a certain talented football-players-to-be tackle at everyone and everything except the ball. Then it was through the dunes we went, braving the steep gradients and treacherous uneven cycle-paths that led us closer and closer to where the salted-sea breeze blew and lured. Finally, after expending all that energy and effort which made the rush to finish a paper the night before the deadline seem like a stroll in the park, the wide-open sea lay there waiting lazily before us. As did the ice-cream and ‘poffertjes’ (wo)man.
We sat down to coffee, tea and mediocre service. Though the weather was fine, and the water ‘lovely’, we enthralled ourselves with deep and revolutionary debates about the virtues and evils of nature vs. nurture, feminism, bio-power, identity, and why (to be politically correct, some) girls always seem to go the bathroom together.
On we rode on our metal horses, encountering magpies, a lone pheasant, and plumb pigeons, swarms of “killer, blood-sucking” mosquitoes, and realised the true meaning behind “doing it like rabbits”. We stopped once or twice to climb up to lookout points to take in the skyline and argued amongst ourselves which spire belongs to our beloved and revered Peace Palace. Posing like the inquisitive PIL-students we are, we looked on with philosophical glimmers in our eyes, in search of the horizon.
After numerous “Another fifteen minutes…” from me, we finally got to the fish restaurant at Scheveningen. We were all starving, and drained, our knees weak, faces sober like we just walked out of an exam we failed. The wonderful Dutch hospitality and service never ceased to amaze, but the food was pretty decent overall. All save for the tortured look of three twisted fish heads and hollowed corpses at the end.
Being diligent and proud PIL-students, we could not but pay homage to our place of worship. We cycled through the night, braving the black forests of Schevenigen which are rumoured to have countless sex-addicts lurking around after dark (sorry I didn’t tell you this then!), and with held breaths arrived at the Peace Palace. Easter Sunday, the sun had long set, it was close to ten at night, but we stood almost banging at the gates of the holy sanctuary of international law. In the end we satisfied ourselves with numerous shots of the another moment to remember in the years to come. We may be on lady’s bikes, and some of us may not even have backlights, but made a solemn vow to ourselves that we will one day return in all the glamour and glitz we could possibly muster. Next week, dus, for Telders.
What a day... what a great PIL Day Out!
