Frisian Days

I stood under the hot shower, feeling the jets of warmth splash all over my body, washing away all the mud, grime and tiredness that have been collecting over the past two days. It felt good to be back in the comforts of home , but closing my eyes, the sights and sounds of this past weekend still linger.

It all started with an unexpected email offer I got around a week ago. As a member of this youth organisation, I get bombarded with cheap offers to cultural events and trips... but this one just beats it all. A new youth hostel opened up in the far away village of Sneek. Tucked away in a sleepy corner of northern Netherlands, amid the green pastures and picturesque canals and dikes of Friesland, was the offer of one night accommodation, including breakfast for just 5 Euros! That's like the price of a sandwich, so how could David-- a notorious bargain-hunter who gets a kinky kick out of cheap deals-- possibly resist? And I could bring someone else along too!

So my friend and I hoped on the train yesterday morning, and rode for more than three hours to get to the far away province. Coincidentally, I found a way to save money by buying these ridiculously cheap train tickets that are valid for unlimited travel within a day. So travelling literally hundreds of kilometres from one end of the country to another cost only 9.95 per person (instead of 45!). Smiling at the cleverness of it all, we watched the green fields, forests and mooing cows fly by.

First stop was Leeuwaarden, the provincial capital of Friesland. Being almost at the most northern part of the country, the Frisians are often seen as odd farmers with their distinct culture and history. Earliest Frisians lived along the coast of the Netherlands stretching all the way up to Denmark some two thousand years ago. Today, Friesland is most famous for their sturdy cows and delicious dairy products , skating competitions (elfstedentocht) and 'pole jumping' (fierljeppen), and the home of the strange Frisian dialect.

What's more, the far north is notorious for being known as been extremely fanatic about religion. Indeed, as soon as we got off the station, we were greeted with a Christian youth group enacting the struggles between good and evil, and how a white-robed man (Jesus) can deliver us all from the world. I sat enjoying probably one of the most delicious portion of French Fries I've ever had, and watched the group make a grand scene between the hustle and bustle of the Saturday afternoon crowd of shoppers. There were laughs and sniggers, which disappeared as soon as a man stood up and started to preach salvation and sin. I started to walk on with my friend, and had a leaflet shoved into my hands by a cheery lady. "Come to our congregation and be saved!" I turned the leaflet over, and saw that they offered child minding services too. Being the free-thinking individual who subscribes to the philosophies of Buddhism that I already am, I no doubt immediately made a mental note to return come Sunday morning at eleven for a heavy dose of indoctrination and healing.


In the setting sun, we toured the old city a bit, strolling through the cobbled streets and in between quaint traditional doll-like Dutch houses. Eventually (unintentionally, of course), stumbled across the Red Light District. Perhaps not as sleazy and open (it wasn't open yet...) as in Amsterdam, but just proved that in a preaching and strict practising place where statues of Virgin Marias smile through almost every shop window, the oldest profession in the world is also practised too.

I wandered the streets alone by myself a bit, since for sometime my friend was somewhat having a cosier time with her work and mobile. Maybe it was being away from home, but things just looked more exciting and refreshing. It was as if the streets were bigger, the roads better paved, and the city was more spacious than where I live. Strange as it may seem, the most admirable were the public toilets at the station. Behind slick, shiny metal doors the toilet seat, the mobile seat itself, and the soaper-washer-dryer-in-one were all made out of polished steel. It felt like entering a surreal world of tomorrow, when all I wanted was to relief myself. You had the choice of entering the toilet by inserting a coin, or SMSing a certain number and entering a code, and the door will open for you too. Who would have thought, up there, in the far, far north, things were so futuristic?



The train to Sneek snaked slowly through the Friesian countryside in the dying light of dusk. The warm weather during the day met with the cold onslaught of night, and created a landscape shrouded in a veil of white fog, set in front of a horizon of purple and crimson orange. All too soon we had to step off of the train, but the little streets and cute houses of Sneek charmed us immediately.

The hostel was just amazing. So brand new that you could smell the fresh paint whiff through your nostrils. The bed linnen was still in its packaging, and the room I shared with two other people was really well furnished, with its own shower and toilet, as well as with a view of a broad river. Along the riverbank was a quay, where we took a walk, passing moored leisure yachts. Peeking through the little windows, I felt a little envious of the people inside, cuddled up cosily and enjoying glasses of wine on their own boats. But then again, leisure and simple pleasures like a stroll through the night taking deep breaths of frozen air that was intertwined with the smell of burning wood cost absolutely nothing, and can also be enjoyed by students with poor pay. Or, perhaps even better treasured exactly because we were poorly paid students .


After a good night's sleep, we enjoyed a filling breakfast before setting out into town in search of a bike to rent. The church bells rang, and people ran towards the centre of town. It was then that we realised that chances of a bike shop being open on a Sunday, in a town where the train track has only one line and isn't even electrified, was less than slim. It took a while, but we travelled back to Leeuwarden, and even though the city was just as dead (everyone else probably in church...), we did manage to rent two sturdy bikes. We rolled the bikes onto a train, and headed in the direction of the sea-port town of Harlingen.

From there, it was merely 9 kilometres towards our destination, the great Afsluitdijk ('Closure Dike'). We cycled along the coast, on a cycle-path that was constructed on a dike itself. The scenery was sublime, and weather wonderful. Feeling the gentle breeze through my hair, and autumn sun on my face as the sea flashed by on one side and green pasture on the other, I thought to myself that freedom is anything, it must be that sensation. The sea was so calm, and calming, and seagulls called in the distance, as if cheering us on. Some flew up high, and then suddenly plunged down, while others flew alongside us, as if chaperoning the two cyclist on their way back into nature, as we got further and further away from the city.




The Afsluitdijk itself is an impressive piece of engineering, and a monument to the Netherlands' constant and continuous war against water and flooding. Built in 1932, it connects two northern provinces of the country by cutting across what used to be the Zuiderzee ('South Sea'). The 32km dike has a highway on it, as well as a cycle-path. At two points there are locks and gates that can allow ships to pass through, and at the same time block rising seawater in times of storm. As a result of the dike, perhaps the largest artificial lake in the world was created (Ijsselmeer), and the water on one side has become fresh water, while the salty sea water of the Waddenzee ('Frisian Sea') is kept at bay on the other side. It was impressive to be standing on the dike, let alone cycle on it. It stretched as far as the eye can see, and seemed like a sword that cut through the sea, splitting it into two. In the distance, yachts sailed on by lazily, while the sun cast a sparkling golden reflection on the smooth sea surface.

At one point on the dike was a strange bunker, hidden under a hill. We ventured closer to take a look, and realised it was a part of a complex network of bunkers strategically covered over by grass and trees overlooking the open sea. We (or actually she...) wanted to go inside and explore, but I had a really bad feeling about it... the rusty lock, mangled furniture, empty bottles, and torn up clothes strung on the floor and dripping water and complete darkness seemed like a scene out of a horror movie, and my paranoia and claustrophobia kept conjuring images of us being locked and trapped down there screaming for help, as a psycho watches us suffer and grins. I stood at the entrance to the bunker, and shivered a little, as my friend took a peek inside. There was a reason why the area was fenced off with barbed wire that had badly corroded in the salty sea wind. Was I glad we finally left that place.


The day passed quickly, and soon enough the sun was setting fast over the Waddenzee. The low tide enticed us to take off our shoes and socks and jump onto the sand. But it wasn't sand, and we immediately sank into the famous mud! Brown, slimy goo splashed everywhere, and the more you struggle, the more you get stuck in deeper. And mud wasn't the only brown thing we stepped on. There were these pebbly and slimy things that looked like grapes and that collected in large amounts across the surface we walked on. We couldn't identify them, since they weren't really mud, and when you crush them, their become mushy and gooey. Hoping they weren't animal corpses, or worse, we just plodded on.


The seagulls stood still and weren't amused by these two growling monsters that were trespassing what was normally a tranquil and protected area. I was sure a couple of times I would loose my balance and fall flat on my face and soil my clothes even more than they already were. We waded wildly through the mud. My friend, curious and adventurous and daring as ever, ventured further out to where the ebb of sea met the temporary sand bank some distance away. I watched her stand there as the sun set behind her, a slim silhouette standing bravely in the sinking ground below but still ploughing determinedly onward. We each fingered a slob of mud and drew warrior marks on our faces, and laughed as we saw each other. Stomping around, we drew our names in the mud. Names that no doubt later that evening would be washed away by the rising tide, and lost save in the loose remnants of our memories.

The sun set even lower, and the bright light of day narrow to a magnificent golden glow splashing across the dimming evening sky of orange and various shades of blue and white. Just watching the sun shy away quicker and quicker made me smile for no reason.

There was no need for a reason.