Have you ever been in a room and thought, “what the %$?! am I doing here?” At a zumba class perhaps, or a dubious country hostel in the outback of Romania… While both of these scenarios I have indeed unluckily found myself in, the event in question here is the south Netherlands spectacle that is CARNAVAL. The block capitals are in sympathy to the manner in which the word is spoken inside my head. When I say spoken I mean screamed. And when I say inside my head I mean reverberating inside my skull for time immemorial from the lungs of every native of the North Brabant and Limburg provinces.
It’s a big thing here, the ol’ CARNAVAL. It’s bigger than a British Christmas. And as my mother’s daughter that is truly saying something. People takes days, sometimes weeks, off work to partake and indulge in it. It hasn’t even begun this year and I’ve already attended two absolutely absurd events, and missed many, many more. For this year not only am I residing within the country; my boyfriend’s younger brother has also been nominated / chosen / selected by God / Allah / the Dalai Lama to be one of the Prince’s helpers. Yes. A helper of the Prince. And that makes CARNAVAL a mere ten hundred times more intense. But also a lot more enjoyable. And also makes me – the strange foreigner – the talk of the town.
CARNAVAL, in short, is a three to five day festival (depending on how committed you are, and how far south you live; which for the in laws is very and very, respectively), involving the teeny tiny tots to the unsteady elderly dressing up in garish outfits while men in tights and long-feathered hats ‘get the party started’. The Prince is King of ‘getting the party started’. And the Prince’s two sidekicks, of whom I have a familial connection to one half, are his wingmen, if you will. But that is not all. Prior to the five pre-diarised days of pandemonium, one has the event to reveal and crown the Prince (and his sidekicks), and two weeks later the grand Prince’s Reception.
The first event – the crowing of the Prince – was thrust upon me quite unexpectedly. (As has the whole concept of CARNIVAL been.) I was, in fact, on a rare girls night out on the town, enjoying scrumptious sushi with a Roman (Federica, a girl from Italy’s capital, not a relic) and a Kiwi (Bhamita, a girl from New Zealand, not a luminous healthy snack). We were planning on continuing the evening at a nearby bar, where our partners would meet us following our girls-only dinner. As the last drop of Chardonnay was poured from the bottle my boyfriend walked into the restaurant. He’s come to join us early! I thought. I couldn’t have been more wrong. For he had come to inform me that his brother had just informed him (at 20:30 on the night of the ‘crowning’) that he was, in fact, the Prince’s second hand man, and would we like to watch his big reveal. His parents, too, had been dutifully informed at the last minute, but for them the logistics were a little less challenging as they at least resided in the same town as the party. We were in a different city, 45 km away, not to mention the fact that I was otherwise engaged with some rather tasty tuna tataki.
As my boyfriend went back to our apartment to pack an overnight bag (due to the timing and distance we would need to stay at his parents’ house; there goes the lovely brunch I had just ordered and collected from Too Good To Go), we (the tempura trio) decided it really must be a big thing for him to come in like that, especially given that he had actually been out with a friend of his own, whom he had unceremoniously ditched to attend the great unveil (but the friend apparently totally understood, because, “he was from the south too”). So I needed to get a move on. It was now 9.20 pm and the train we needed to catch was at quarter to ten. I met my boyfriend outside our apartment, overnight bag with all my essential requests in tow, and we made a dash for the station.
On arriving into Horst Sevenum, a ten-minute drive from where the event was being held, we were collected not by one of Gijs’ parents – gosh, no, they were locked in the stock cupboard of the venue, not allowed to be seen by any party-goer’s eyes as that would immediately give away the game of their son’s involvement – but by someone Gijs went to primary school with, who had been sent to fetch us, along with a black cape for Gijs to wear when entering the venue via the back entrance, just in case anyone were to catch a glimpse of him too. There was no need for me to be camouflaged – no one knew who the hell I was, and as the night(s) progressed this fact became increasingly apparent.
We inconspicuously made it up to the waiting room and were greeted by a sea of adolescent males wearing silver trimmed capes and boat-shaped hats, drinking beer and complaining of bursting bladders (as they were not allowed out of the room either (one actually went on the roof to take a leak and got locked outside in the process)). I started taking photographs, naturally, and was reminded not to put them on social media before the announcement in ten minutes. I reassured the master of ceremonies that, in case he hadn’t noticed, no one knew who the hell I was and certainly wasn’t a friend of mine on Facebook! My English accent suitably reassured (and humoured) him (and them all).
When the announcement / reveal / crowning took place we still weren’t allowed in the main auditorium; we had to watch backstage from the gallery, and I felt as if I had won a VIP ticket to an intimate One Direction gig in which the band mates were in a school play and the crowd was everyone but 1D fans. There were no screaming girls here, just a lot of knee-slapping men in tights drinking pilsner and jigging to ear-jarring Dutch ‘music’. I realised there was a lot I needed to get used to.
Once the Prince and his best men had been announced we were allowed to join the masses, and take part in the knee-slapping, pilsner-drinking and joyous jigging. This went on until around 1.30 am, but this was by no means the end of the event. No. For as tradition goes, after this (and other) CARNAVAL events the entire crowd is offered an open invitation to the Prince’s home (or parents’ home in this case), for which no written directions are required because everybody here knows who everybody is and where everybody lives. (Except for me. He he he.) So we trundled on to the prince’s house, which, hats off to his parents, had been pet-cleared and plastic-flooring-fied in preparation for the masses.
The tradition is not only for an after party at the house of the Prince, but an after party involving fried egg sandwiches at the house of the Prince. We arrived at his home, walking straight through the front door without even knocking, to a domestic scene of bread-slicing, plate-arranging and egg-frying from all the Mums. It was quite a spectacle. The egg bap was actually very pleasant, while the infatuation of one Prince friend or relative to my English accent was a little overbearing but nonetheless complimentary. On his fifth utteration of, “heeeeeerlijk” (delightful, wonderful, lovely, delicious), my boyfriend and I decided it was time to make tracks.
The event if this weekend just gone, the Prince’s Reception, was similar in format although there was a lot more hand-shaking, present-giving (one must buy presents for the Prince and his helpers), and a lot of shoulder-saluting when anyone was adorned with another necklace. There were (many) speeches in a dialect I cannot understand, but I have to say that this was far preferable noise to the previous CARNAVAL ‘music’. I managed to escape Sunday’s shenanigans after just two hours, to go back to his parents’ to watch the Liverpool game and have a nap on the sofa, but was back in time for the (earlier than previous) egg session at, this time, the house of the parents of the other Prince’s helper. At 8 pm this equalled dinner so I had three egg baps a bottle of beer and said goodbye to any concept of nutrition.
The CARNAVAL proper is happening this coming weekend, which oh so unfortunately coincides with a friend’s wedding back in England – so I’m only going to have to miss it!!! I will be back in time for the final day, however, next Tuesday, one week today… On this day there is a play of a farmer’s wedding and one must dress how a farmer from eighty years ago would when attending a wedding. Nothing easy here. But with enough pilsner I can pretend I am back at the British wedding and sipping glorious prosecco. Prost!
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