Camping in Holland

In order to get from Frankfurt to our campsite on the coast of Holland we had to cross yet another European border. Again, I could not help but marvel at how seamlessly these two different countries flow together. A mere road sign marks the start of the Netherlands and if one were to drive too fast it would be missed altogether. A clearer sign? In Holland the fast cars of Germany are replaced by bicycles. Every size and callibre of human being spins through the streets on metal bipeds. There are parking bays on almost every corner fit to store hundreds of them, stacked against each other in a mass of aluminium and rubber. What a refreshing change to the relentless buzz of motor vehicles crowding Cape Town and Johannesburg roads.

We arrived at our campsite 'De Lakens' in full sun. De Lakens is a large ground in the Zandvoort region on the coast of Holland frequented by locals and foreigners alike for the purposes of holiday-making and camping. The area in which we pitched our sturdy, three-man tent is especially, albeit unofficially, reserved for students and the younger generation. Youth unites otherwise entirely different individuals and nationalities. Only a foliage-covered sand dune divides the camp site from the sea.

Owing to the favourable weather we decided that it was imperative that we immediately journey to the beach for some sun and relaxation. A deceptively long walk on sand leads to an area dotted by topless tanners with a monstrous beach bar, standing like the Taj Mahal, as a backdrop. Gaudy pink and unimaginably kitsch by day, some clever lighting converts this bar into the Moulin Rouge by night. A highly laid-back Moulin Rouge that is as travellers lie by a central fire, smoking various substances and listening to the beat of a drum circle happening on the periphery. Mixes of alternative music, Jazz and Blues play and there is inevitably one or two individuals who sway all night, eyes closed, to their own tune. The decor is an odd mix of collectibles, including a manican head that follows you, eerily, with its eyes. The mood is that of summer and soul and youth.

One night we had of this. One night before the weather turned, the skies opened, and the campsite was converted into a swamp of mud and puddles. Torrential rain and wind characterized the following two days of camping. Our tent was beaten and battered and whipped to and fro by the onslaught. Only our sleeping bodies kept it from being ripped from the ground at night. Having little to do in these conditions, our time was predominantly spent enjoying sips of wine and silly banter in the parked car, or in the quaint nearby town of Harlem.

Harlem too was invaded by torrential downpour but at least here we could take shelter in clothing stores or cafes selling the local speciality, poffertjes: mini pancakes smothered in butter and powdered sugar. The old Dutch architecture and cobbled streets of Harlem are apparently worthy of a visit, but unfortunately were hardly visible for us through sheets of rain.

The nights we spent learning German card games from our neighbours under the beating plastic of their tent roof. Alternatively the residents of the campsite would cluster and huddle in the changerooms; an unlikely meeting place but the only dry spot available. Here we would connect cultures and exchange ideas and opinions, however trivial, until the early hours of the drenched morning. Always, always avoiding the wet walk back to the thin plastic dome that was our sleeping place.

Yes, camping in Holland was not quite the expected experience, but from it I learnt and I grew as a traveller. The rain carries certain lessons, I found: to stop, to listen more closely, to connect with others, to heed to those forces that we cannot control. To adapt. In particular, this experience, these three full days of camping in unrelenting downpour, they taught me the art of flexibility and the equally important art of endurance.