The ‘kakmadammekes’ from Knokke, Belgium, made something loose, but it didn’t come to a big frigo box party

At 09:53 Sonja Vissers (55) gets off the train at Knokke station. Her right arm is in a sling due to two torn tendons; with her left she carries a bright blue cool box. Just bought, for 14.99 euros at the Big Bazar. The content: sandwiches with fried egg and a few cans of coke. “It was early this morning.” She got up around 6 a.m. to leave her hometown of Dadizele, near Kortrijk, for the Flemish seaside resort. Partly out of nostalgia – she already went on holiday here as a fourteen-year-old. But the real reason is the event she saw announced on Facebook, ‘With shorts and fridge box to Knokke’. Date: Saturday 26 August, from 09.00. Place of action: the beach of Knokke-Heist. Online, 42,685 people indicated they were interested in the event, which started as a joke two weeks ago after a video of The Telegraph went viral. In it, two older women speak out about tourists in the traditionally chic seaside resort. It bothers them that people don’t walk around decently dressed but “in shorts”, and that some tourists “sit on the beach with a fridge box”. That is not in line with the level of Knokke, they say. “The old lifestyle should be preserved.”

Nonsense, many beachgoers think – the sea belongs to everyone. ‘Kakmadammekes’, says Vissers. Shorts and cool box deserve a place on the beach, even in the neat Knokke. And what better way to underline this than with a fun event?

Empty fridge box

Vissers was not the only one who had to get up early this morning. There are also agents of the federal police at Knokke station, ready to steer possible crowds in the right direction. They came here especially from Brussels to reinforce the Knokke corps. Further on, at the beach, police from the southwest of Belgium are standing by with a drone to keep an overview in case of an emergency. If about 40,000 people really show up, then all the troops that have gathered are badly needed. “It is a busy weekend for our own agents anyway,” says local chief of police Steve Desmet on the boulevard of Knokke. “There are various sporting events, and tonight is the conclusion of a major international fireworks festival. Then such an initiative for which permission has never been requested is particularly inconvenient. Such an organizer does not think about it, it is meant as a joke, but we will pay for the consequences. Because if so much influx is to be expected, doing nothing is not an option.”

Desmet has informed the initiator that sanctions may follow. The Facebook page itself now says ‘for fun, fictional event’ for clarification. The organizer has also added guidelines: follow the rules, respect each other’s space, do not leave any waste behind. And: ‘if the fridge box is empty or if you feel like something else later in the day, the local traders will be happy to welcome you with open arms.’ At least Desmet himself is wearing long trousers today. With a wink: “A protest against the protest.”

Fine bare-chested

To an outsider, the fuss may seem unexpected, says a hotel owner in Knokke Le Zoute, the richest part of the seaside resort. But in fact, local cooler box skepticism dates back to the 1990s, when mayor Leopold Lippens held sway. At the time, he opposed ‘frigo box tourists’, people who were too tight-fisted to spend money with the local middle class. The fuss about the shorts does not come out of the blue either. One of the most prestigious squares in Knokke is popularly known as ‘Place m’as tu vu’, roughly translated: the Look-me-a-square. The signs ‘smoking’ and ‘non-smoking’ seem to have almost a double meaning at some terraces. And anyone who walks into the village from ‘the dike’ – the boulevard – encounters white paint templates everywhere on the road. ‘Dresscode’ is written in large letters, with above (the sea side) images of flip flops, bikini and swimming trunks that look like shorts. At the bottom of the template (the village side) are a polo, a dress and a pump. The dress code is now also announced on matrix signs along the road during the high season. Anyone who enters the shopping street bare-chested or in swimwear risks a fine of 350 euros.

Yet there seems to be no hatred of shorts even among the expensive villas of Knokke Le Zoute. A group of men in neat trousers are standing on the golf course, but the fact that they are not hitting their hole-in-one bare-legged is purely due to the expected rain. Two gentlemen on the Royal Zoute tennis court jokingly point to their shorts: ‘We play sports, so we’re allowed!’ Bare knees can also be seen in the many golf carts in the village, with Ralph Lauren polo-clad men – both in their twenties and eighties. Yet here and there there is also some understanding for the women in the frigobox fragment. “It feels double to me,” says bartender Justine at Royal Zoute. “I understand the day trippers who just want to see Knokke, but I also understand the catering owners who hope for some turnover and therefore don’t like it if everyone brings their own food. The summer season is short here, and there is hardly any turnover outside.”

‘Fat shit’

Back in the center, on the terrace of bar Monico, Pieter-Jan (27), born and raised in Knokke-Heist, can laugh about the Facebook initiative. “I wear shorts eleven months a year.” His friends Maxim (21) and Birgit (21) also find the video from De Telegraaf “big bullshit”. The people who are making a fuss are importers from Knokken, they say. The newly rich who have a second home here, or have moved here because of the tax benefits. “We shrug our shoulders about it.”

However, not everything is peaceful and quiet during the summer months. Knokke is not only the scene of a clash between no-nonsense beachgoers and the nouveau riche, but also of resentment between residents and Dutch youths who come here to party. Birgit lives in the Lippenslaan, in the middle of the nightlife area, and in the summer hears the lamenting Dutch people under her window until deep into the night. “Sometimes I threaten to call the cops.”

Chief of Police Desmet agrees with the nuisance. “We call it the trilogy here – at the age of sixteen, young people from the Gooi and Vecht region go to Knokke, at the age of seventeen to Albufeira, at the age of eighteen to Hersonissos. Here they learn how to party.” That is accompanied by a lot of alcohol, because where the age limit for alcohol in the Netherlands is eighteen, young people in Belgium are allowed to grab a pint at the age of sixteen. “Those children themselves are not yet allowed to rent an apartment, so their parents often do that for them. But we have our hands full at night with those drunken teenagers.”

In the summer, his corps even receives assistance from youth police officers from the Netherlands. “To prevent fighters from the Vecht region from fighting in Knokke.” The popularity of the seaside resort is now increasing even further due to the Flemish-Dutch drama series Knokke Off, about a group of rich kids in the seaside town. The fact that De Telegraaf took a closer look here earlier in August was partly due to that Netflix hit.

As the only cool box owner in the area, she naturally attracts all journalists in Knokke

Worst case scenario

It’s getting to twelve. Sonja Vissers has installed herself on the beach. Her blue box now also contains mini-muffins and cooling elements that she received as a gift from the Vlamynck bakery. “Everyone with a fridge box and shorts was allowed to pick up a present there.” She looks around in despair. “No idea where the others are.” As the only cool box owner for miles around, she naturally attracts all the journalists in Knokke – soon she is surrounded by cameras from the VRT.

Desmet acknowledges that it is quiet. “But we had to assume a worst-case scenario. It is easier to scale down than to scale up.”

A suntanned man over sixty who has installed himself with his lounger right next to the rescue brigade, enthusiastically gestures that he also has a fridge box. “It’s actually a garbage can with a lid on it, but I got free cakes from the baker.” He introduces himself as Marc de Blick, former candidate of B&B is looking for sweet – the Flemish counterpart of B&B full of love. “It’s all the fault of the newly rich,” he points out the icebox consternation. “They think everything belongs to them.”

In the hours that followed, frigo fanatics trickled into Knokke in dribs and drabs. One motorist has tied his box demonstratively to the roof of his old-timer; Ahead walks a man wearing Lidl socks with a counterfeit Louis Vuitton copy. At the Vlamynck bakery, five friends of the Borsbeek volleyball club VC Sloep hesitantly ask whether they will also receive a gift with a cool bag. It’s allowed, An de Sloovere nods behind the cash register. “For us, everyone is equal.” She points to a decorated shoebox. “If you leave your name and address there, you can win a luxurious Frigobox breakfast. The draw is tonight.”

Not all customers are served by this. “Sorry, all the attention for that Facebook event is absurd,” says a woman in white pants. “It was a joke, nothing more.” A man from Bruges also thinks it is logical that the expected crowds are not forthcoming. “In the Netherlands, that Project-X party in Haren attracted a lot of people. But we Belgians are too shy for that.”

It’s starting to get cloudy outside. Soon Sonja Vissers will also be returning home. “Maybe I’ll buy another ice cream in a bit, as a conclusion. That is part and parcel of such a beach day.”