In 1885, Emile Zola published Germinal – the seventh title in his magnus opus: the Les Rougon-Macquart series. With his unique voice and cultural sensitivity, Zola paints nothing short of a masterpiece depicting the merit of escapism in working-class French villages. In 2020, I went to Roosendaal, Netherlands to experience the height of the Carnaval celebration and what I found was an ode to escapism, the drudgery of everyday life, and above all, to community. I also drank a fair amount of beer that I somehow still have not paid for.
Disclosure: as far as Carnaval in the Netherlands (and beyond, to an extent) goes, there exists two schools of tradition: Rhenish Carnaval and Burgundian Carnaval. In Roosendaal (and Noord-Brabant as a whole) it is the Burgundian traditions that are followed. Though the Wikipedia article is as a good a place as any to start learning about these niche differences, simply remember these two things:
- Rhenish Carnaval derives from the Germanic traditions and Burgundian derives from the French traditions, more or less;
- Such differences are only measurable pre- and post-Carnaval, during the Carnaval celebrations there exists only one true division: those who have gotten a beer, and those who are going to get a beer.
For context: Roosendaal is a Dutch city situated in the region of Noord-Brabant (North Brabant). I will save an entire history lesson here focusing around the Dutch concept of verzuiling (pillarisation), but the main takeaway is that the regions of Noord-Brabant and Limburg still harbour the cultural norms and practices of their “separate but equal” Catholic administration. For this main reason, there is one thing that is taken more seriously than any other day of the calendar year in the South: Carnaval. The festival of “sin-before-fasting” is a cultural anchor point whose presence applies a constant pressure on the culture of the region. The notion of a Feast of Feasts before the 40 day fasting leading up to Easter is nestled right in the middle of Religious Piety and Community Building at the local level. It is at this time that the mayor is allowed a weekend off – entrusting the literal keys to the city to the “Prince of Carnaval” (a title not awarded lightly, in fact, in some regions this is a job entrusted to a Council of 11 to vote upon the various members needed). It is a time where throwing garbage on the ground is not only tolerated, not only is it accepted, it is taken as a rule for those who wish to follow the first rule of the Netherlands: “Doe normaal (dan ben je al gek genoeg)” (literally: do normal, you are already crazy enough as is). It is easier, perhaps, to imagine all the different cities becoming a single Student Association – with all the petty politics, unnecessary bureaucracy, and ridiculous budgeting for beer included – and Carnaval being just their very best Zamibo (short version of zaterdagmiddagborrel or literally “Saturday Afternoon Casual Drinks”) of the year.
We keep all this in mind as we exit the train in Tullepetaon (as is tradition, all Carnaval-celebrating cities change their names for the Carnaval celebration. Train stations have temporary signs, songs tell the semi-mythical histories of these towns, even the locals self-identity no longer as their former city moniker. In a similar fashion to the gastronomical rituals surrounding the French consumption of Ortolan, the change of the city name is perhaps a way to “hide” the shame of the purge.) Despite a literal near-warning from the train conductor before even alighting, the station around noon was tame enough. Sure there were orange flags and banners everywhere, but that just seemed like par for the course in the South. We realize a small crowd amassing, however, and as we meet Joost (one of those brave enough to be willing to show us around) we inquire as to why.
“Easy. They are awaiting the Prince (of Carnaval, to my knowledge Prince Constantijn was nowhere near Roosendaal this past weekend).”
“How long until he arrives?”
“Still another forty minutes or so.”
Knowing it is a pretty important tradition, and Joost seems excited to see it, we reserve ourselves to waiting in the Carnaval-themed train station until Joost himself interrupts:
“Ok, I’m bored, let’s go.”
And with this flippant comment about the celebration ahead of us, our day (and night) was underway.
Arriving at the house of our hosts, we are quickly teleported to a bonafide Jan Steen Huis (a house with all the cacophony and life of a 17th-Century, working-class, Catholic family a la one famous painting by Jan Steen entitled Soo voer gesongen, soo na gepepen (translated loosely as: As the elderly sing, so smoke the young). Though it is widely accepted that the “truest” rendition of this painting is housed at the Mauritshuis in The Hague, I can now confirm a couple thousand just as true iterations of this painting exist just north of the Roosendaal city centre. Before I am able to recall the title of this painting and make the joke though, we are ushered up to the attic, the makeshift “costume room” to be placed into any combination of costume parts out on the bed.
After about 45 minutes of deliberation, out emerges a beer maiden (biermeisje), a police officer with a fur poncho, and a far-too-skinny attempt at Obelisk (this was me). Before too many jokes, or photos, can be made of our entourage, we are introduced to our next guide for the night: schrobbelaer. Schrobbelaer here becomes more than just a sum of its parts: a simple sweet liqueur of relatively low alcohol content (keyword being relative). Schrobbelaer here becomes the treat, the “Happy Pill” of Carnaval. Beer is constant, you will always be giving or receiving beers (Marcel Mauss would greatly appreciate this celebration), but Schrobbelaer, in either its individual stone jars (the reason for that is a story for another day) or in a communal jar to be poured into a shot glass that everyone seems to be wearing around their neck, harbours an importance. The drinking of Schrobbelaer is still always quite free in essence, but it is used as social punctuation.
I realize this bit as, in barely intelligible Dutch I attempt to explain to a middle-aged couple why I, as someone who is clearly not Dutch, am spending my Saturday in such a zany celebration. In my head, the conversation went something like this:
“I am from California, but I study in Leiden”
“Ah I see, but why are you here in Roosendaal”
“No I am not from Roosendaal, I am from California”
“Right, but why are you in Roosendaal today?”
“Oh, my friend is here (meant to say from here). Sorry my Dutch is really bad, I understand I don’t really belong here (I also know that this is not how smoothly it came out in Dutch)”
“Nonsense, are we speaking Dutch right now? Exactly, you are Dutch, let’s have some Schrobbelaer”
After which my shot glass is once again full for a solid three seconds and two strangers I will never see again gave me the real feeling Carnaval is meant to portray: a feeling of belonging.
The Dutch, as mentioned before, have a saying “Doe normaal” meaning “do normal”. This is an acutely Dutch phrase, filled to the brim with Calvinist moderation and reverence for the status quo. It is a very Dutch phrase, at least to me, because “normal” requires much more of a definition in a lot of other places in the world. The Dutch know people are unique, they even know they are strange as a culture compared to those around them. It is within this place that they know you can be an individual but not being too much of an individual. Even the “normal” is malleable in this case. No, I am not Dutch by definition. I have no familial ties to the region and I clearly do not look the same. But, even with the Carnaval version of normaal, I was doing as such. I was speaking Dutch, I was drinking every shot of Schrobbelaer I was given (and ones I was giving in return) and I even threw a piece of trash on the floor (oh lord, did I feel bad doing that. The only comfort available was the general acceptance of respect for the street sweepers. They do have everything cleaned up by the next day, and that is understood to be no easy feat. In fact, the waste management staff even had one of their trucks near the very front of the parade. Again, they were respected).
And that really was the highlight, and lesson, of Carnaval. Yes, it is a reverence of decadence. Yes, it is rather deprived in its own way; it is a festival of sin. And that is the point. It is, by design, a party thrown by the locals for the locals. Though it is hard to think just how much capital is tossed around for beer and other Carnaval-related purchases over the course of the celebration (if anyone is able to find better measurements, please let me know), with locals even saving up year-round for their “Carnaval budget”, it is all spent with the understanding that you will get back twice as many beers you put in. Our hosts even had a Felix the Cat-like bag of cheeses, bacon-wrapped sausages, and mustards. A drinking-Dutchman’s dream come true, that was shared with gusto. It is this communal understanding of reciprocity that it becomes worth it to invest into, even if out of fear of seeming too stingy.
Leaving Carnaval, even sitting here at my desk today in dreary Rotterdam, I still have flashes of elation. The type of feeling that one could hold on to and extract enough happiness to get them through 362 more days of the mundane and drudgery – until the titillating sound of Carnaval horns, the stench of two-day-old beer, and the traffic starts building up again next Carnaval. Hell, you might even find me there. After all, I am, at least, Dutch whenever I am in Tullepetaon – and you can be, too.
Varasi Academica 