Anecdotes and Secrets

Haha, so did I hear that you wanted a crazy Dutch anecdote? Well I've got a corker! So you know I've mentioned a few times how fond I am of this rowing malarkey, I took it one step further this Saturday... Having rowed last week on Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday and Friday (and boy did my muscles know about it) I was asked by one of the board members as I went to fill in some forms if I was coming on Saturday. "Sorry, what's on Saturday I ignorantly replied?" to which I was told that there was an official inauguration day, which due to my ever-inadequate/non-existent Dutch, had escaped my knowledge. "You must come" they told me, "it's gonna be a lot of fun, we'll send you an email with the details". So I receive the email on Friday morning and much to my horror read:

Normally you wouldn't get this much information ... but our experience is that this day can be very confusing for non-dutch ... So let me explain a bit ... This is designed to let our members grow close to eachother, and to make people feel like they have achieved something ... There will be some screaming, and other activities that can scare you (especially when you don't understand whats happening). But keep in mind that it's all a big joke, and that its fun to do.

Flippin' great, this all sounds like it might be a bit of a laugh if you had friends to go with and people to console you/egg you on, but billy no-mates over here has to brave it alone. On Saturday morning I wake up early, wanting but a rowing-free day to catch up on washing (a habit I need to get into), tidying my room, and oh yeah, work for that MA thing I'm doing, but I drag myself out of bed and head off to the rowing club house complete with clothes that I don't mind getting dirty ...

The morning activities were physically challenging, but in no way mortifying, the worst for which I had feared. A boat race in fancy dress (my boat penciled on moustaches and wore our jumpers as capes, in a lousy attempt at being a plurality of Zoros) then some time to chill out and a rumour of a 5km run, which foolishly I doubted. Sure enough the relaxation shriveled up, when the powers that be told us, that not only was the rumour true, but that it was a race. Occasionally I go running and my stamina is not atrocious thanks to a good mate (Brov - you know who you are). Yes I can do this, I thought. So all 70 of us set out together, boys and girls, we have to run the length of the river we normally row, down to the windmill and back. Lots of people start off at a speed I know they will not endure and I plod along like a robust donkey. But can I just say people, that I not only came 5th out of all the girls (there was about 3o behind me) but I also beat at least 1/4 of the boys, finishing in just over 27 minutes and it felt goood - well it didn't actually I was a terrible red in the face and shaking for ages after, but I knew that I had worked damn hard and that felt good in a painstaking-I've-achieved-something kind of way. After a short break, we then took on our next challenge. The rowing machines were brought outside and we were split into 'boats' of four: the challenge to row 2km between us as fast as we could in a race against the other teams, 500m each. Now this, at the best of times, as I found out fresh-faced on Friday morning is tough, but imagine this after a boat race and 5km run which your body is still in recovery mode from ... glad your in the frame of mind. Well I did fall off the rowing machine at the end of my stint, but I'd worked bloody hard and didn't feel at all inadequate to the gaggle of Dutch peers. We then all get sat around for the presentation of awards from the running race. After the presentations, we unsuspectingly get hosed down and water-bombed by our superiors. A massive water fight ensues, which results in everyone jumping into the river - it's freezing and there are yucky weeds at the bottom, but jumping in hand in hand with a girl (yey! - I have a friend) along with the 70 or so others at the culmination of this epic water fight is communally liberating, even though I was now stood with wet knickers, a see-through white t-shirt and blue bra -oops! Despite exhaustion, I was actually having fun. People were talking to me and my conversations were beginning to go beyond what I studied and whether I was, like my accent suggested, from Britain. I finally even bucked up the courage to shower naked with the other beautiful girls of all different shapes and sizes - that too gave me a strange sense of relief and more feeling of achievement than my personal 5km victory. What had I been dreading?

Well if the sport-enthusiasts' day programme was for kittens, the evening was for the big cats. After eating some dinner and stocking up on some drained energy, we get frog-marched into the club house, which has had its windows blacked out. The girls are ordered to move all of their belongings into the boys' changing rooms and the last chance to go to the toilet is announced. After conforming to these instructions we are shut in the clubhouse, with strict instructions not to peek outside (all this is translated for me, by a guy who actually wants to talk to me). In the interim before the activities commence, he asks if we have this in the UK. I tell him that we have sports clubs and initiations and he then explains that Asopos de Vliet is not just a sports team, but a student society. That might not sound shocking to you England-dwellers, but as I've learned in Holland, their societies are allusive of American fraternities/sororities and are closed, cliquey communities. I've been fascinated by this alien concept ever since observing the ominous 'Minerva' frat flags hanging from eerie looking buildings around Leiden and here's me unknowingly joining my own! When I signed up for this I was told that we could just do it for fun, on a non-committal basis (even though it has all gone to my head a bit) yeah, whatever. The same boy doing the translating for me, asks me if I'm scared. "Yes" I nervously giggle. "It'll be alright" he says, "We're all in it together and it's not like they are going to hurt us. I just don't want to throw up!" As he says this, I'm starting to wish that I'd stuck to the initial plan and chickened out to 'go and do work' after dinner, but oh no, curiosity kills the cat. Anyway, as much as I would love to recall every last detail to you, your time will probably not allow, so let me gloss over the next few hours in little depth. We are in the clubhouse for approximately 2 hours and tension is slowly bubbling up to overflow as every 15 minutes or so, 10 people's names are read and they leave the room not to return. Whilst the rest of us nervously wonder what fate awaits them and soon enough ourselves, we have to sing a Dutch nursery rhyme repetitively and when the board grow tired of making us do this, random people are selected to share stories from the front (I deduce not really understanding what is going on) and then we are made to line dance. Finally after these tiresome and confusing activities, my name is called and I sheepishly follow the other 7 out of the room. We are the penultimate group to undergo the impending...

Two guys shout in Dutch at us to get into line. Not understanding a word they say, I observe the others and quickly scuffle to follow suit. They proceed to bombard us with instructions at us. I giggle and say, "Excuse me, but I don't understand"

"Oh Engels" he sighs and then translates, "you don't speak unless spoken to and when spoken to, you reply 'YES SIR'"

"Thanks" I mutter.

"No you say ..."

I get it suddenly and interrupt, "YES SIR"

He nods, I comprehend and we are ready to continue. We march in a line with our hands on the person in front's shoulders. We go around obstacles and every time a car puts us in the spotlight we wave at them like idiots, part of the intended humiliation I guess. After walking backwards in unison for a while, we are taken around a corner and have to do star jumps into squats 10 times over. The whole time I am concerned that my jeans that are far too loose might expose my bottom to the unfortunate person behind me. Builders bums do not translate well in any country I assume. After this, we are instructed to get into girl-boy formation and hold hands with our partner, before we are guided round another corner. The elaborate drama is starting to invade reality. Around the corner and up to our left is a steep embankment and a huge plastic sheet. At the top are more of our Aposos de Vliet (the name of the rowing society) superiors like dark shadows and yet we are the puppets. One of them hollers down at us aggressive instructions, which our captors realise I don't understand and request that they translate for me. He summarises as follows: "We're up here and that means we're everything, you're down there and that means you're nothing. The aim is for you to get yourselves up here and to get us down there. Now, COME AND F***ING GET US!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" My partner and I are shoved - a prompt that we should be the first pair and we run up the slope, which is slippery, sludgy filth from the previous groups who earlier endeavoured to succeed this challenge. We get 3/4 of the way up and I am feeling like it's not so bad, when in unison big black buckets are forcefully upturned and the contents of which projectile towards us. I am sure I have a face full of curry and God only knows what else. Mayonnaise, flour, yoghurt, ketchup. And then a whole bucket of soapy water. It's on my upper lip, in my hair, it stinks and then they physically launch on us, rugby tackling us down the sloppy slope, sending us flying off the end of the plastic sheet to toboggan through the mud to the bottom ... I am in the sort of pain that makes you feel alive and smile in relief.

The other pairs take their turn, but none of us escape our dirty baptism. Next we are ushered on, but rather than walk we must run (through sewage) and then frog hop into squats (which would be bad enough in dry clothes, without a day's physical exertion under our belts, but now my jeans are falling down more than before and my whole body is damp and sticky with yuk. We are instructed to count in unison 'een, twee, drie, vier' as we walk along. I feel silly, but giggle as we go along at the hilarity of the situation - maybe this would be scary if I was dutch, but I question what was to fear, the worst is over I am sure. Our kidnappers, catch me laughing and fiercely warn that this is just the warm up act. I doubt this and laugh more heartily, but they aren't lying...

We are forced into a room which would be pitch back were it not for a few flickering candles. The girls changing rooms have been transformed into a fictitious prison wherein reside the freshers that have undergone the torture before us (I did wonder where they had gone) and they are buzzing and quacking all at the same time - sounds comical - but is actually nerve-invoking. (Try it some time, if you should ever be with 30+ mates up for a social scare experiment!) As we enter, a guy definitely compensating for something shouts, "TEMPO, TEMPO, TEMPO, TEMPO" as we run and get down on our knees with our faces to the wall. He continues with his scare tactics for about 10 minutes and I don't know what's being said, all I know is that I must remain still and not draw attention to myself - I know it's all a drama, but I do not want to be shouted at in the dark by a man I cannot understand. He chucks some water over the guy next to me for wearing a hat and then I think demands something like "Who do you live for?" in Dutch, to which my group responds, "APOSOS SIR" and I hastily mimic. We are made to do press-ups in the dark and then released to create the whole quack, buzzing symphony for the last group to come through and the ritual begins again. Finally the lights flick on and I assume we've finished the initiation. But we haven't ...

I would love to walk you through every detail, but I simply do not have the energy to relive/write it down. In brief, two hours pass in the changing rooms. To get the general flavour - there are 70 of us sardined in, each covered in curry, mayonnaise, water, sweat, mud and other delightful liquids - there is a stench and a mist of exhaustion. We are given a 30 minute low-down on the unwritten rules of the society (which when I requested later in an email, due to incomprehensibility, and was refused). There is then an hour clinic, teaching us all the anti-every-dutch-rowing-club-bar-aposos songs. This activity would be more fun if I had the gusto, and ability to understand them. But it goes on and on and on and ... Names start to get called out and people leave the room in groups again for the next stage. In the meantime we are 'entertained' by the duo who had done the shouting in the dark, who with the lights on are less scary and unsure whether they are in a stand-up comedy or Walk the Line, like angry, cockish, dissatisfied prison-officers they occasionally scream at us and launch cups of cold water over our already damp and cold, dirty bodies. After the torture of discomfort and confusion of bombardment by a foreign angry tongue, my name is finally called out and I follow the others.

We are blindfolded with a smelly tea-towel and thrust into the cold October night's air (it is approximately 11.30pm, although I confess I feel as if I've been in a time-vacuum). Of course the blindfold is highly disadvantageous for me, no longer able to mimic the others' behaviour; I can now neither understand the instructions audibly nor visibly. I convey this and an occasional bitty translation is given - the first of which is "On your knees". Shortly after, the dreaded words, "Open your mouth" are uttered. In goes a spoon, of what tastes remarkably like human vomit, chunky and acidic. I want to hurl and skew my hidden face in disgust. God I had no ideas the places you were gonna take me when I agreed to come to Holland. We have to do mock rowing on the concrete floor, which is not at all reminiscent of childhood play, as I awkwardly end up in the guy behind me's crotch. On the second request to open my mouth, a table spoon of flour is shoved in. I hurl and dribble it down my front, all the time getting, colder, dizzier, more exhausted and wondering what will be next. Bewildered and really on the brink of break down I continue. How bad can it be? I remember the boy's words from earlier - "they're not going to hurt us". I am grabbed and pushed along to join the rest of the group, we pubescently wander around for a bit, losing footing and momentum, with the backing track of aggressive imperatives. Someone mutters at me in dutch, not recognising that I still have no idea what he's saying to me. I feel terrible. We are once again told to kneel down and open our mouths. This time it's a pleasant surprise - some kind of cinnamon delicacy with chilli sauce - apparently prematurely, I stand back up. Someone yells with hurricane force at me and I burst into tears. He is rebuked, "She's English, you idiot"

"Sorry, he mutters, I meant you have to kneel back down". My tears flow freely and I start viciously shivering. An unidentified voice asks if I'm OK. "No" I mumble. I am ignored, but continue to shiver. I feel as though I might faint, absolutely exhausted, nauseas, freezing, exasperated and baffled by the events of the day. Eventually they realise that I am not OK and after much desperate persuasion, I am unblindfolded and permitted to go and take a warm shower. One of the coaches intercedes as I head back to resuscitate myself. "Where are you going? Are you sure you can't finish up? It's just your group are nearly finished? Only 10 minutes more and I'd hate for you to miss out on the last station. It will be really fun for you." Thankfully I convince her, that I couldn't care less. Turns out her idea of fun is (can you believe) getting pushed, blindfolded into the river. Yes that's right folks, they pushed my poor blindfolded peers into freezing water after everything their bodies had been subjected to that day. I think I actually would have passed out with the icy, wet shock of a midnight plunge.

They judge that as a hurdle enough to get over to earn one's entry into the society and the last part of the initiation, which I was able to rejoin, was going before the board, regally clad in their Aposos de Vliet uniforms, with oars criss-crossed behind them and a huge flag, like a life-sized breathing crest. We sing the club anthem, sign membership papers, are awarded with a certificate, official club scarf and shot some gym. Success. We are members...

This is all true, I kid you not. That was how I spent this Saturday. Somehow I am still alive. But I did it, I got through, initiated. I know I sound like a wimp, with the whole crying thing, I knew it wasn't real, I was just so confused, so do excuse me for that bit and concentrate on my victory would you. I have been laughing to myself ever since, like you do at an incoherent nightmare that consumed you at the time, that I took it so seriously. Since Saturday I have warn my amazingly 'ra' scarf with pride and honour and today as I cycled to uni actually got nodded at by someone in the same scarf I had never seen before. I am in some weird, close-knit community. Recently I have been mulling over prophecies (promises and picture from God for my life) that people have given me and I remembered that someone felt I would fit into Holland in ways that I would never have imagined. Let me tell you, that Aposos de Vliet is one of those ways. Hopefully the initiation day is not one of those top secrets that I will get ejected immediately for sharing with you all.