Grassland conversation. Where less is more

Hans Faber
Oct 30, 2020
7 min read

Updated: Jul 25

Being out on the grasslands may bring you face to face with farmers, fellow wanderers, or—of course—'birdwatchers'; see the note at the end of this blog post. Encounters with these countryside folk unfold in slow motion, and follow a sequence of clearly defined phases. Out here, less is more—just like the empty landscape itself. If you have any intention of mingling with the locals of the griene woastyn (‘green desert’), or hope to receive assistance should you be badly injured and in need, you must observe these conversational phases with great care.

This blog post offers valuable tips and instructions for communicating with locals during encounters along the Frisia Coast Trail—whether by day or by night! Perhaps it also holds some lessons for government officials and politicians seeking to rebuild dialogue and restore some trust between the prosperous and more neglected regions of the country, and with the national capital itself.

The best way to learn is through a real-life example. But before we begin, remember a few golden rules. First: whatever you do, never—never—laugh. A restrained grin at best. Second: if you happen to encounter a farmer out in the fields, never—never— contradict him. On their land, they are the undisputed boss, and they are not accustomed to being challenged. Also, keep in mind that Frisians in general have an inborn complicated relationship with authority—and farmers especially so. Lastly: always carry tobacco, whether for smoking or chewing. Understood? Good. Let’s continue.

Here we go:

You're walking across the grasslands in early spring, desperately—and almost certainly in vain—searching for peewit eggs, when you spot someone in the distance slowly making their way toward you. Important: you keep doing what you were doing. Don’t stop. Don’t change direction. And above all, do not walk toward the person. Pretend you haven’t seen him. Think of it like encountering a silverback gorilla in the Rwandan highlands: avoid direct engagement. Eventually—and it’s always a 'he'—he’ll get close enough. That’s your cue to pause and offer a brief, fleeting glance. Nothing more.

Traditionally, one opens with a simple “goeie,” short for ‘good day.’ Do not respond with “ah, goeie.” That prefix is reserved for people you know very well and will only cause confusion if used with a stranger. Just return the “goeie” as is. It’s enough.

Both parties now stand their ground and say nothing for a moment. Eventually, the other may offer a remark—but only after a long pause. Absolutely no questions, please, at this stage of the encounter. Not even if you’ve just broken your ankle and are bleeding out, and in need of medical help urgently.

A fitting first remark might be: “It wurdt hieltiid minder mei ’t aaisykjen”, which translates as 'the egg-seeking has been getting worse over the years.' Then: observe the silence. As a rule, leave at least ten seconds between each sentence. Generally, somber comments are usually better received than cheerful ones.

For some city folk, silence may feel awkward—but here in the north of Germany and the Netherlands, it’s simply part of the conversation. 'The silence of the tides,' as they say. Still, don’t make eye contact. Instead, look up at the sky or scan the horizon, as if assessing the weather or watching birds. The other will do the same. Only then, and only if the silence has been properly observed, may the conversation begin.

You respond to his remark with a remark of your own. You only transmit—the opposite of asking follow-up questions and showing interest. That’s how it works. This exchange isn’t about small talk—it’s a subtle way of demonstrating your knowledge of the land and the natural environment. Don’t speak nonsense. You’re being sized up, and you’re sizing him up in return. If all goes well, you plant your feet in the clay, reach for your tobacco, and light your pipe. Or a cigarette. Even if you don’t smoke. No excuses. No but. Just do it!

Jalder Faber 1972 by Kors van Bennekom — farmer Jaldert Faber, Langezwaag 1972 by Kors van Bennekom — grandfather of one the Frisian bastards, see note at the end

Now, at last, it’s time for questions. Be sure to use the formal address jo in the West Frisian language (pronounced yo), meaning ‘you’ in polite form. Do not use the informal second person singular do (pronounced like dough). Things tend to go very badly when you do. Now you also understand why rap music, with all its emphatic yo! yo!, never really caught on in Frisia.

A good question might be: “Jo sykje sels ek?” (you’re out seeking [eggs] yourself, too?), or “Hawwe jo hjoed al wat fûn?” (found anything yet today?). Whatever you do, don’t mention the word ‘eggs’. Doing so instantly exposes you as a beginner. A rookie. An outsider. Remember, keep your gaze fixed on the far horizon and continue to observe the silences between each question and answer. Breathe in, breathe out—like the tide. Even if your ankle is still bleeding heavily.

The next phase allows for more personal questions, such as: “Binne jo der ien fan…?” (are you one of the family of…?). Frisians take pride in who they know—and in their deep knowledge of nature, history, landscape, and ancestry. Steer clear of any topic related to the national government or nature conservation policies. If your broken ankle is still throbbing with pain, now—and only now—is the moment to ask for help. But keep your emotions in check. You might say: “Witte jo faaks wêr’t in dokter wennet?” (do you happen to know where a doctor might live?). Don’t mention the agony you’re in. And be prepared for a bit more conversation—and a bit more suffering—before you're finally on your way to the doctor.

Then comes the farewell—as slow and deliberate as the tides of the Wadden Sea. You give a subtle hint by mentioning your plans for the rest of the day. Wait a moment. Tap your pipe out on the toe of your rubber boot, tuck it into the pocket of your long coat, adjust your cap or hood, and say: “Ik sil ris fierder. Seach sakrekt noch in mantsje in roek oanfalle” (I should be moving on. Just saw a male attacking a rook). Just like with the egg business, don’t say male peewit—simply male is enough. Otherwise, you’ll give yourself away as a beginner. After that, and only now for the second and final time, you may look the other person in the eye and say: “Oant sjen” (see you). Then turn your back and walk—or limp—away.

Keep your hands low. Don’t shake hands, smile, or wave. Stay composed, keep it cool. Walk away as if the conversation never took place. What happens on the grasslands, stays on the grasslands.

If you happen to meet each other again by some crazy coincidence, continue the conversation where you left off the last time. As if no time has passed since.

Be advised: if it turns out during the conversation that you both went to the same elementary school as children, it changes nothing. The conversation continues exactly as before. No emotions. No surprise. No joy. Proceed as if you're reviewing company ledgers.

An identical encounter at the grasslands might take place when you are out there in the middle of the night. You are not seeking for peewit eggs, of course, but placing and emptying your illegal fish traps and nets. Be careful with standing in and wading through the ditches and canals, by the way. Know that swimming in these water in the province of Friesland is tricky and nearly impossible. Not because of the massive numbers of the invasive species Chinese mitten crabs and red swamp crayfish. No, because you get entangled in the infinitely many fish traps all the time. And do not rely on Greenpeace cutting you free here.

It must be at night that you empty and place your fish traps, since during the day there’s nowhere to hide on the flat, treeless grasslands. In other words, the grasslands might be surprisingly busy at night.

Yet, even under the crescent or full moon, the interactions and conversations remain exactly the same—including the topic both of you are searching for peewit eggs. Neither of you will admit to doing anything illegal after dark. Frisians are experts at avoiding sensitive subjects. What else could you expect from a people who have endured centuries of devastating floods, regularly washed away with great loss of life? They’ve learned to bury their emotions deep beneath the shallow sea. Besides, how can you really trust the other not to steal or empty your fish trap? The only difference at night is the way you light your pipe or cigarette—done with much more care to avoid drawing attention.

Good luck! and you know

“Doon deit lehren!”

(it is learning by doing)

Note 1 — When you are curious why ‘birdwatchers’ are so abundant at the grasslands, yes even outnumbering birds itself, read our blog post What’s hip and happening at the grasslands.

And since it is the land of grass, there is ample opportunity for grassroots, like the first insurance company and the first farmers co-operation. Read our blog posts “I did not have financial relations with that village” and A Theel-Acht. What a great idea! respectively.

Note 2 — The picture of the farmer named Jaldert Faber (1903-1983) is, indeed, family of one of the bastards of the Frisia Coast Trail. It is taken at the back of his farm at 25 Lytse Wyngaerden Rd. near the village of Langezwaag in the province of Friesland. Renown Dutch photographer Kors van Bennekom (1933-2016) is the one who took it. The footage is being kept in the Nederlands Fotomuseum ('Netherlands' photo-museum') in the city of Rotterdam. De farm is long gone and replaced by something modern.

Remarkably, Jaldert Faber never spoke a word about being photographed—whether by Kors van Bennekom or anyone else (though it's highly doubtful he even knew who Kors van Bennekom was). It wasn’t until December 2017 that the bastard—his grandson—was searching online for an old black-and-white image of a Frisian farmer, when suddenly this unknown portrait appeared on Google. Equally remarkable: Jaldert Faber isn’t wearing his cap in the photo. No one in the bastard’s family had ever seen him without it. They even doubt his wife ever did.

So, photographer Kors van Bennekom must have had excellent communication skills with those sturdy Frisian countrymen at the grasslands.

Note 3 — The real pros in the egg-seeking-thing wouldn't say mantjse 'male' but âld instead for denoting a male peewit. Literally translated âld means 'old'. However, again like 'egg' the true noun—i.e., male—is being avoided.