Greetings, gentle readers.
As I've previously mentioned, I'm a bit behind on the events of the past week, but now that the vast majority of the madness, confusion, and outright confrontation is concluded, I'm going to try and go full bore at the things I've noticed.
Hot Springs and Hotties
I have a completely skewed view of Icelandic people after my last night out in Reykjavik.  I have no idea what the occasion was, but the live music café/restaurant at which we dined near the old docks had a bizarre demographic.  Prior to 2200h, the placed was filled with about 30 unreasonably and ridiculously attractive supermodels, attended by six rather feminine-looking young men.  I do not exaggerate.  These women paraded out for cigarette breaks on staggered intervals of about half an hour throughout the night, making it basically a constantly cycling catwalk of jaw-dropping pulchritude in heels and evening gowns.  After 2200h, they all evaporated into the night with their concierges like some sort of squadron of Cinderellas, and were promptly replaced by a pack of elderly men who looked like slightly better-kept versions of Walter Matthau.
I have no idea what sort of social occasion that was, but if anyone ever asks why I'm a bit hard on Liverpool women, it's because my whole spectrum has been recast.
Also, floating in a hot springs pool with strategically placed flotation devices can do wonders when trying to stretch and relax a compressed spine with a pinched nerve, although when your ears are submerged, some of the noises can be particularly alarming.
Liverpool Basics
Here are some of the first things that an objective observer might notice when arriving in Liverpool and wandering around the place.
Wild Parties
The whole place is a playground.  I don't mean end-of-term students on ridiculously irresponsible binges, or gangs of yobbos urinating on dumpsters.  I mean actual carnivals, fairgrounds, midways, the lot.  The kids are having a blast, and the adults are lapping it up.  The Mersey Ferries Building is surrounded by huge fair-style rides, with centrifuges, and all other manner of slinging, catapulting, and twirling devices illuminated by a myriad of pastel colours.  Throughout the city, mini-alpine villages have been constructed with bratwurst, mulled wine, and hot chocolate kiosks serving tiny heated chateaus.
People are Beautiful
I don't want you to take my word for it.  I've never seen a happier, more optimistic, forward-looking culture.  Here's what the local newspaper had for a headline:
"Science City Can Lead UK - Mayor Urges public to back Knowledge Quarter vision."
The article describes a £1 billion program to create a science research area of the city between the hospital district and the university district, creating 10,000 highly-skilled jobs.  Of course, the story carries over onto page two, where the reader is led to the next story:  "Big interest in new Chinatown."  Here we find the Hong Kong and Shanghai investors are looking at dumping £200 million into developing Europe's largest Chinatown into a cornerstone of the fastest-growing UK economy outside of greater London.  With 50% of financing secured and a commitment to the Chinese art form of zhezhi, and a motif of an awakening dragon fuelling the theme, excitement is high.
At this point, we look at the recto page opposite page two, and it features the gentle comedic themes of a local cartoonist who, while not side-splittingly funny, writes gently amusing, almost soothing cartoons. An example punchline of a cartoon featuring a dark age Scandinavian couple is "Ye gads, woman!  I'm a Viking!  I'm supposed to leave rings on the table!"
Not convinced?  It goes on.
"Crowds roll up to celebrate good mental health."  Liverpool's first ever Mental Health Festival occupied 30 venues with feel-good activities such as the community roller-skating event "Skate - Don't Hate."
The optimism and cheeriness is relentless.
"Rewards for staying active just got a lot more lucrative."
"Flourishing city named best British tourism destination."
"Take the stress out of raising kids" - from a column called "HAPPY ON THE INSIDE."
Other articles detail women's breakfast/yoga programs for Saturday mornings ("Rise and Shine") and parallel columns - one each for the two main football teams in the city.  Each exclusively focuses on the positives of that team with only glancing and respectful nods to the other.
Finally, I offer this cartoon strip.

I challenge anyone to find a greater wellspring of positivity within a community of three quarter of a million people.  The pool of life, indeed.  I should really include a video of the New Zealand All-Blacks performing a haka for Jürgen Klopp at Melwood after explaining that the Maori term for Liverpool translates directly to "Spring of Life."  Ah, look for it on YouTube.  My back is yearning for some more hot spring attention.
And with that, I bid you good night, England and the colonies.
Cheers,
—mARKUS

Iceland
I'm going to try and post some copy as regularly as possible, since I'm already behind.  Good training for journalism.  I've already leaned to give Blackie the lead, so the rest is just learning the routine.
My first inclination when attempting to describe Iceland would be to start with the architecture.  In smaller communities like Keflavik, the housing design seems to be based on various types of shoe boxes with sloped rooves.  This may sound boring and pedestrian, but there's a terribly good reason.  The interiors are beautifully well appointed with hardwood walls, doors, and cabinetry, as well as geothermically energized underfloor heating.  The reason these small communities are able to afford these rather luxurious and energy-efficient residences is because the component elements are manufactured in abundance and then applied to each new house.  It is the very idea of the economy of scale.  Everyone builds their house based on the available assembly pieces, rather like Ikea.  If everything is cookie-cutter, the rest is just assembly.
An architectural element that the small rural communities share with the larger, urban communities such as Reykjavik is that of light.  Living north of the sixtieth parallel, sunlight is at a premium throughout the year.  Floor to ceiling windows are commonplace, even in urban highrises.  The rural houses that look like shipping containers usually have an entire wall dedicated to insulated glass.
Why focus on architecture?  I suppose that if architecture is art in which you live, then this art form tells us everything we need to know about contemporary Icelandic culture.
The people of Iceland are practical and very much dedicated to common sense, but are always open and willing to let more light into their lives.
In short, a lovely place with wonderful people and extremely expensive puffin-based dishes.
Until my next opportunity, goodnight England and the colonies.
—mARKUS

Return to Merseyside

Greetings, gentle readers.
And so it came to pass that in those days of much confusion and despair, wherein artists and visionaries fell by the score and frustrated despair tore down the halls of government offices, replacing them with street-fighting beer halls, there was a small band of adventurers that decided to take a time-out.
The following blogs are just the observations of one of these adventurers, desperately trying to stave off the forces of cynicism and apathy.  
Prologue
I was on FaceBook in the summer of 2016.  Dutarte had been elected in the Philippines, Erdogan in Turkey, and Brexit seemed to start an authoritarian political storm that would sweep through Hungary, Romania, Macedonia, and Moldova.  Bernie Sanders had suspended his campaign.  Like many others, I was forced to consider the hypothetical of voting for Hillary Clinton just to prevent Donald J. Trump from occupying the Oval Office.  Times were bad.
But there was still Facebook.  A minor notification reminded me that IcelandAir had made the Edmonton International Airport a major hub of operations, and offered not only direct flights to Keflavik, but free stopovers when connecting to European destinations.  In the anti-corporate tumult of all of the news items broadcast by the Ring of Fire network, the Young Turks, and Redacted Tonight, I realized that one company had made an effort to cooperate and nurture a relationship with my community.  I clicked on one of their sponsored ads and went to their page.
I sent a message explaining why I would like to extend my patronage toward them and offered some preferences and constraints.  They promptly sent me back a full suggested itinerary.  I was so impressed that I bought three tickets and told my friends later that we were going on a trip.
We were to fly to Iceland, stay two days, then take off again for Manchester.  From thence, we were to shuffle directly off to Liverpool by rail. Eleven days on Merseyside would be followed by a train ride to Manchester, and then back to Keflavik for a day.  From there we would be dumped back at our point of origin.
So that's the background.  The blog posts that follow are just my experiences and observations of the people and places that we encountered along the way.  I hope that some of them may provide some sort of insight into the human condition and some of the things that make us part of a greater global village and not a tribe amongst warring tribes.
Part One should be along shortly, but until then,
Goodnight England and the colonies.
—mARKUS

Cronenberg? The guy who played Buttonface?

Consumed by David Cronenberg
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

This was a very engrossing read.  High-tech, pop-culture references punctuate a sprawling cosmopolitan narrative that is rich in international detail and breadth.  The discussions of brand loyalty as a function of a highly developed and commercialized society contrast brightly with old-world sensibilities and sinister plots to manipulate technology and indeed humanity against itself.
I read through the entire book in a single morning and was left with a profound sense that I had encountered something that would resonate with my own personal experiences indefinitely.
Despite (or perhaps because) Cronenberg's tendency towards the horrifying and macabre is juxtaposed against a cast of very placid and demure characters, the tension and the suspense are palpable throughout.  Murder, cannibalism, self-mutilation, and disease stalk through the novel, casting sinister shadows across even the most domestic scene or technical description of photographic and sound equipment.
The reason that I didn't give the book a full five stars is that, like Clive Barker, Cronenberg seems afraid of endings, and as the book neared its close, the narrative started to become stuttering and hesitant.  The immediacy of the previous chapters seemed to waver. It lacked, as Peter Shaffer's Salieri would say, a good bang to let people know when to applaud.  This is not a bad thing in and of itself, but in this instance, it seemed to indicate a slight loss of control on the part of the author.


View all my reviews

World Cup 2014 - Brazil

Greetings, gentle readers.
I'm a bit late, since the World Cup is already underway with Brazil (possibly undeservedly) posting a win against Croatia in São Paulo.  That being said, I thought that I would nail my proverbial colours to the mast and post my pre-tournament predictions, which are only marginally affected by today's result.
Without further ado, here are all of my predicted scorelines for the group phase, followed by my story of how I reckon the rest of the tournament ought to play out.
In order of the dates/times in which they are played, here are the matches:
BRA 2 - 2 HRV
MEX 1 - 1 CMR
ESP 1 - 1 NED
CHI 2 - 0 AUS
COL 0 -0 HEL
URU 4 - 0 CRC
ENG 2 - 1 ITA
CIV 3 - 1 JPN
SUI 0 - 0 ECU
FRA 1 - 0 HON
ARG 2 - 1 BOS
GER 3 - 2 POR
IRN 0 - 2 NIG
GHA 3 -1 USA
BEL 4 - 0 ALG
BRA 5 - 1 MEX
RUS 2 -2 KOR
AUS 0 - 2 NED
ESP 1 - 0 CHI
CMR 1 - 2 HRV
COL 0 - 2 CIV
URU 2 - 2 ENG
JPN 1 - 1 HEL
ITA 2 - 0 CRC
SUI 0 - 1 FRA
HON 0 -0 ECU
ARG 4 - 0 IRN
GER 4 - 1 GHA
NIG 1 - 0 BOS
BEL 3 - 0 RUS
KOR 2 - 1 ALG
USA 0 - 2 POR
NED 3 - 1 CHI
AUS 0 - 1 ESP
CMR 1 - 4 BRA
HRV 2 - 2 MEX
ITA 2 - 3 URU
CRC 0 - 4 ENG
JPN 1 - 2 COL
HEL 0 - 1 CIV
NIG 1 - 3 ARG
BOS 2 - 0 IRN
HON 0 - 0 SUI
ECU 1 - 2 FRA
POR 3 - 1 GHA
USA 0 - 3 GER
KOR 1 - 3 BEL
ALG 2 - 2 RUS

So here is what the final group standings will look like if I am correct.  Note, incidentally, that I am changing the result of the Brazil-Croatia match, but that it doesn't adversely affect the big picture.

Group A

Brazil — 9
Croatia — 4
Mexico — 2
Cameroon — 1
(note that I think that there's something wrong here.  Cameroon should have more points than this.)

Group B

Holland — 7 (tops on goal-differential)
Spain — 7
Chile — 3
Australia — 0

Group C

Côte D'Ivoire — 9
Colombia — 4
Greece — 2
Japan — 1

Group D

Uruguay — 7 (tops on goals scored)
England — 7
Italy — 3
Costa Rica — 0

Group E

France — 9
Ecuador — 3 (qualified on goals scored)
Switzerland — 3 (something is wrong here, but I can't figure out what)
Honduras — 3

Group F

Argentina — 9
Nigeria — 6
Bosnia-Herzegovina — 3
Iran — 0

Group G

Germany — 9
Portugal — 6
Ghana — 3
U.S.A. — 0

Group H

Belgium — 9
South Korea — 4
Russia — 2
Algeria — 1

Round of 16

All of the CONCACAF entrants are out, and with one exception, all of CONMEBOL are in.  The Belgians have stunned all comers, and the Italians have been exposed ruthlessly for a lack of cover in defence.  Cristiano Ronaldo has looked out of sorts for Portugal, despite bagging four goals, while Lionel Messi seems to be growing in strength as the midfield solidifies for Argentina.

Brazil 3 - 1 Spain

The tiki-taka taliban are finally derailed from their track to four straight major trophies by the host country, who have finally started to play some samba-worthy futbol.  Neymar's disciplinary record starts to become a worry.

England 2 -0 Côte D'Ivoire

The muscular and fit Africans are undone by a very young-looking England defence that plays confidently in possession and squeeze pressure forward.  Phil Jagielka even scores a goal.

Croatia 2 - 2 Holland (2 - 3 after penalty shootout)

Robin van Persie, Robben, et aliter are finally victorious after a scrappy and highly-contested match of many fouls.  Dejan Lovran features prominently as Croatia's best defender in a vain cause.

Uruguay 4 - 0 Colombia

Colombia follows Chile as the next South American team to leave the tournament.  They had barely crawled out of the group phase without Radamel Falcao, but the lethal, golden boot-seeking duo of Luis Suarez and Edinson Cavani are predatory and lethal, killing off Chile within the first 19 minutes.

Nigeria 2 - 1 France

The Nigerians get on the scoreboard first, withstand a rally in the early second half, and finally kill the game off in the 89th minute.  Shola Ameobi features prominently, and the lack of French striking talent appears obvious.

Germany 3 - 0 South Korea

The ability of the Germans to interchangeably swap players and positions plays havoc with the last Asian team in the tournament.  Phillip Lahm roams madly around the pitch and Thomas Müller provides the creativity for Miroslav Klose to add to his World Cup record 16 career finals goals.

Argentina 2 - 0 Ecuador

The Argentinians quietly put this fixture to bed without much fuss.  Ecuador, recipients of a number of officiating and statistical decisions, have nothing left in the tank against a very sturdy-looking albiceleste.

Belgium 2 - 1 Portugal

The dark horses of the tournament claim their first major scalp when they trump a Portuguese side that fades considerably after Ronaldo is subbed off shortly before the end of the first half.

At this point, I've already written out the results of the remaining rounds, but we'll see how horribly I've misread things after a couple of days before I publish them.  At this point, I'll just say that I'm picking three of the four semi-finalists to be South American, and that I expect to see a couple of World Cup record trends come to an end.  Oh, and England doesn't make it past the quarter-finals.  But we all knew that, didn't we?

Until next time, goodnight England and the colonies.

Cheers,

—mARKUS

Miscellaneous Rants

Stuff I Hate

Naming Your Children

Jason Fung and I had a discussion several decades ago during which we discussed the impact of a name given to an individual, and the impact that arbitrarily-given moniker has upon the life of that individual.  Jason's younger brother was always known as "Jimmy."  Jimmies are universally recognized as gas pump attendants, helpful sales associates at Home Depot, and feckless Gotham city photographers.  How does Jimmy fit as a computer engineer?  He doesn't.  He must become a Jim or a James.
So what are parents thinking when they name their daughter "Raven-Simoné"?  Yes, the accent is deliberately included.  When you name your child "K'Brianey-Tinesha", you have to consider the consequences that the name will have on that child's life.  Children are not a luxury item or decorator purse-size pet that you can name "Trojan Condom" and dispose of it when you get bored or find a different coffee shop at which to bore people with your theories on child-rearing.
If I name my child "Xum-Dhumpsterstain," I do not have the right to blame modern society, the man, the freemasons, the government, or the aliens that are waiting behind the dark side of the moon for that child doing something contrary to public morality.

Facts v. Belief

If you think that evolution/gravity/thermodynamics/electromagnetics are some kinds of mythological processes that are open to debate, you're an idiot.  If you think that a compilation of semi-literate desert nomadic scrawlings is the guide to living an authentic life, you're an idiot.  If you think that the Bible (both testaments, plus apocrypha) was written in English, you need to take the easy way out and save the rest of us the trouble of shaking our heads and defriending you for the rest of your life.  If you think that Jesus was white, you're a bigot and an idiot.  If you think that God is American, you're a full-blown, certifiable lunatic, and we need to get you off the streets.  I'm not a militant atheist, but I really wish that people with IQs in the single digits would shut up.  There is no debate.  There is no magic Mr. Beardy that made every single natural and chemical process happen throughout perpetuity.  Get used to it and shut up.  Put your faith in humanity and your family.  Where it belongs.

The Olympics

Professional and amateur sports are an important part of our lives.  They emphasize focus, direction, concentration, desire, resolve, teamwork, and a myriad other things that are espoused as fundamental anchors or our society.
Look at this: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Pf7SwT85LrA
This did not make the goal of the month, nor even the goal of the season.  The goal-scorer did not make the Canadian Olympic team.  Bottom line:  If Canada does not stride confidently toward the goal-medal podium at Sochi, the blame lies here.

People Dying

I was crushed when my uncle Teddy died last summer.  He was a wonderful, colourful, engaging fellow with loads of stories and lurid gossip to keep every conversation zesty.  Then his sister died last month.  I'm getting fed up with dying relatives.  To stop the depressive rot, I'm posting this:  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AZjwCmJrnlY

Anxiety

According to modern news outlets, everyone is on anxiolytics and everyone has panic attacks, just like every schoolchild must wear glasses, have asthma, and be allergic to nuts and shellfish.  It sounds a bit cliché to say that things were different in my day, but I'm 40 now, and I can say this — no-one in my entire grade /class had an allergy to anything so stupid.  No-one wore an epi-pen, and everyone had PBJ sandwiches once a week.  Do I blame helicopter parents who don't allow a single bacterium within ten blocks of their little angels, or do I blame kids who will make a sneeze into a new apocalypse?  I don't care.  In two hundred years, it will be obvious that the families that live by the ocean or who roam around in the forests are the ones that can freely breathe without masks or have operational digestive tracts.  If anyone wants to argue with me about vaccination, that person gets three sentences to posit whatever vapid, unscientific, and stupid opinions before I tell to neuter him or her self, and not hurt the rest of the human race with the ignorance that he or she wields with such casual blitheness. 
How do I deal with anxiety and panic attacks?  Answer:  dishes.  I wash dishes.  When my kitchen sink is clean and empty of disintegrating food products, I feel as though I have control over a part of my life.  Everyone else may be a conglomeration of gluttonous slugs, but I can keep a part of the system maintained and regulated.  When things get really hairy and I can't sleep because of the hyperventilation and tachycardia, then I have to resort to laundry.  Those who know me will recognize those days.

Best wishes to Leonard Nimoy and a fond wave to all of England and the Colonies.
Cheers,
—mARKUS

Forget the White Horse...

Forget the White Horse Final.  Push the Matthews Final to the shelf.  Wigan's heroics?  A notable curiosity.  This is the FA Cup Final of all FA Cup Finals.  For those of you who haven't witnessed the miracle of Istanbul, look at Steven Gerrard's eyes when Liverpool are down by two goals.



If you unconsciously rose from your seat, you weren't alone.
Cheers,
—mARKUS

Last Thoughts on the Dark Continent

Greetings, gentle readers.
It's odd that despite roaming all hither and thither across the landscape of England, echoes of South Africa keep reverberating throughout the experiences.  For one, all of the friends and associates that my father and uncle have arranged to meet have some sort of South African connection.  Paul Tagg, for example, went to secondary school with my father in East London.  My uncle Melvin's friends, Marie (pronounced MAA-ree) and Gordon have connections to branches of the family tree in South Africa that I have yet to chart.
So before I carry on with my travelling tales of mystery and imagination, I'll try and put to bed the last of the anecdotes from the southern hemisphere.

He Nodded It On!

One of the things that my cousin Sean brought to my attention is that one of my few cricketing memories from my days in Malawi continues to have relevance today.  As I related my one cricket story to him, his face suddenly flashed with recognition.  Upon further discussion, it turns out that Pommie Mbangwa, the tragic hero of my Malawian anecdote has somehow parleyed his experiences to a successful career in broadcasting.  We even watched a match from the IPL T20 Cricket season that had Pommie as a colour commentator.  Somehow, I was gratified to discover that the story I've been telling for years about the hapless bowler actually has some factual basis, and not merely some form of malaria-induced hallucinatory flashback.  I'll have to check my archives and discover if I can make a link to the story, or if I'll need to rewrite the thing again.

FAQ on the V&A

The Victoria and Albert Waterfront is one of the big tourist pulls of Cape Town, and for good reason.  There are loads of fun and educational things for the kiddiewinkies to attempt to break, there's ample shopping for those interested in quasi-authentic curios and knick-knacks, and points of scientific, geographic, and historic interest.  We didn't ride the Cape Town interpretation of the London Eye, nor did we visit Two Oceans Aquarium on this particular trip.  Despite the extended car tours of Stellenbosch and the Cape Peninsula, it seemed that these tourist activities were just beyond the pale.  I did, however, manage to pick up some books from the big book clearance shop that provided much of the physical discomfort and challenge for the weeks to come.  Couldn't just buy books, me.  Had to buy the heaviest hardcover pieces of nastiness to act as ballast in my luggage, knowing full well that I was going to hump them the length and breadth of London Town and Merseyside.
I also tried to sample some of the local tipple, a theme that was to serve me well in the latter stages of the expedition.  There are some very classy microbreweries in Cape Town that produce some tasty ales and lagers.  There is also a restaurant called Quay 10 (if memory serves) that serves a special drink known as the Robben Island Iced Tea.  This toxic conglomeration of various soft drinks, fruity bits, and a powerful array of alcoholic spirits is incarcerrific. Or convictastic.  Penalicious?  Penitentially enjoyable in any event.

Not Piers Anthony's Wretched Books

Finally, there is my little cousin Xanthe.  The daughter of my cousin Warren and  his wife Kim is a precocious and energetic wee bundle of enthusiasm who has solemnly pronounced that I must return to Cape Town this November for her sixth birthday.  I'm not sure how that might work in any sort of practical economic or logistical manner, but if she demonstrates the persistence of memory required to pester her parents, I'm sure that I'll hear about an appointment for which I may not be late.
Incidentally, the classicist in me always wants to pronounce the Greek "chi" as a "ks" sound, as in "taxi" or "nexus."  However, present day usage seems to dictate that as an incipient consonant sound, it is pronounced as a "zeta."  I blame that Warrior Princess show from the '90s.  I stand open to correction from contemporary and classical Greek pronunciation experts.
Right.  Now I should just need to summarize the England part of the trip, then summarize the developments in European football during my stay, and how they should impact club and international football in this, the even of the season preceding the next World Cup.  Those of you that hate sports may want to skip that entry.
Until then, goodnight England and the colonies.
Cheers,
—mARKUS

King of the North

Put me in Coach!

Greetings, gentle readers.

Having trudged through London under gloomy, overcast skies, and accompanied by the appallingly morose complaints of my father for the past few days, I was cast back to the carefree days of my last visit, when I only had to endure Julie and Carla’s whinging about their sore feet.  At least they didn’t incessantly complain about the nuances of hostel living (sanitation, privacy, heating, water, electricity, clean air — or the lack of all of the above), didn’t have to use the restrooms on an hourly basis, and didn’t blurt out virulently offensive things about people who are blatantly within earshot.  His rants about how much he finds London oppressively numbing and soul-crushing were entertaining for the first couple of days.  After that, every new observation that led to the conclusion that people would be better off dashing themselves into the Thames rather than suffer the purgatory of this cigarette-smoke-filled, baleful existence became just another figurative nail in the coffin in which my sense of wonder and excitement was interred.  

That being said, I have time to write now, since I`ve purchased a funky portable Wi-Fi hotspot.  At last, I am no longer dependent on little hotspots here and there.  I am a Wi-fild Party, as Kim Mitchell might have exclaimed, if he`d wanted to be beaten to death by punfriendly geeks the world over.  So, in effect, I`ve become one of those spoonheads from Doctor Who, routing mobile data signals into all sorts of sinister data centres.  Incidentally, if you ever see the Shard in London, I`m sure that you`ll agree that it would be greatly aesthetically augmented by the addition of Sauron`s lidless eye at the top.

So what we find is this:

My father and I walked through Hyde Park, past all of the monuments, halls, and museums in Kensington, past Harrod`s at Knightsbridge, past Buckingham Palace grounds, and finally past the theatres of Victoria Square to finally reach the Coach Station that would whisk us off to Merseyside.  Hours of walking.  Hours of belly-aching, moaning, and bathroom breaks. 

But at long last, we`re on a coach that had passed numerous signs covered with directions, distances, and destinations.  The one thing that they all had in common was the ominous descriptor worthy of a George R. R. Martin narrative:  ”The NORTH.”  Every other geographic feature was described in specific fashion.  That way to the Ring Road.  This way to Epping or Theydon Bois or Bumming Scroatley or whatever.  We`re going to Liverpool, and that way lies North.  Apparently.

And so I have time to write as the coach rumbles onward up the motorway and I`ve got my headphones on with Dire Straits dialled way up to drown out the obnoxious folk with overly loud mobile conversations around me.  And that means that I can do my quick film review of the brainless pap to which I subjugated myself during the 11-hour flight from Cape Town to London.  I`ll get that lot done and dusted, and then I can try and wrap up any dangling thematic strands from the South African portion of the expedition in my next epistle.

Seven Psychopaths

I imagine that if one had a small group of screenwriters embittered by the industry success of Quentin Tarantino, and they all self-abused themselves vigorously whilst watching “Barton Fink,” the puddle of cold wank left over would probably have more artistic merit than this film.  Sam Rockwell must have fun going completely over the top as a stupid and pointless character.  Oh, and Abbie Clancy gets a wet T-shirt scene, so I guess the film is rescued after all.  The next time you see photos of Peter Crouch being caught in another tawdry affair with some rancid prostitute, you can think of Abbie as his “gland slam” and despise him just a little bit more.  Oh, right.  The film.  0.5 jellybeans. 

Warm Bodies

This film was rather stupid, but thankfully, it became stupid in a profoundly less stupid way once I realized that this is not really a zombie film.  It isn`t even a bad zombie film with an abhorrently ghastly Shakespearean reference that made my oatmeal hit the wall.  It`s a clumsy plea for humanity to treat goths, fans of The Smiths, and Winona Ryder’s character in “Beetlejuice” with compassion and love.  Ultimately unconvincing, since it seems to imply that said self-ostracized groups require some form of rehabilitation, and I reckon most Morrissey fans are beyond that sort of treatment.   The soundtrack, Rob Corddry, the Canadian content, and wholly shameless plug of vinyl LP technology made the film tolerable.  Oh, and the actor who played the lad from “About a Boy.”  He does a good American accent.  Has he done any films in the intervening period between these two films, or has speech therapy conquered his adolescent years?  Two jellybeans.

Hansel and Gretel:  Witch Hunters

This is a film with a single schtick:  what if the Grimm`s Fairy Tales used 20<sup>th</sup>-century cuss words?  The humour wears off before you realize that it`s the whole point of the film.  By then, it`s too late to laugh, and you`re stuck with a pack of nonsensical  action sequences, some gratuitous violence perpetrated on Peter Stormare’s character, and a plot so ludicrously stupid that Famke Janssen can almost be heard to stifle a retch as she does the voice-over narration of the flashback explanation of the conflict in the film.  Yes, she has to explain it to you in an expository flourish of cinematic incompetence.  Will Farrell produced this, and he seems like a nice sort, so I hope he didn`t lose too much money.  Just enough to prevent him from finding funding for a sequel.  I spent most of the film staring curiously at Gemma Arterton, whose artless and bland performance was matched by her face`s unnerving lack of any character or identity.  In “The Invasion of the Body Snatchers,” if you found a pod under someone’s bed while it was in the process of duplicating a human, you would find a pale, half-formed specimen that hadn`t fully developed into a replica of its target.  Someone needs to put the being attempting to be an actress back in its pod.  Zero jellybeans.

The Look of Love

I`m generally a fan of Steve Coogan, but his choice of characters begins to smack of the sorts of decisions that Emilio Estevez makes.  All of his characters are essentially himself with a twist or two.  His characters in “24-Hour Party People”, “Tristram Shandy”, “Alan Partidge”, etc. can probably be distinguished by their taste in red wine, but precious little else.  Even “Hamlet 2” contained the same mannerisms – dithering and rambling speech dotted with oddly juxtaposed historical and literary quotations, shrouding an insecure and neurotic individual who constantly operates in a state of disconnection between himself and the world of others.   The comedic impact of this is found in the repetitive deflation of any arrogant pretences the characters try to portray.

This film is a pathetic aggregate of anecdotes, bereft of continuity and development.  Something tragic happens to character C.  Flash forward ten years to find something good happen to Character C.  Flash backward to watch him meet a person.  Flash forward five years to see that they`ve become business partners.  Flash forward again to watch their relationship disintegrate.  These little vignettes are obviously well-documented and corroborated by witnesses, but there is no narrative to tie them together.  There is no reason to like or hate any of the characters particularly, because none of them develop.  Coogan`s character is self-involved and selfish.  That’s pretty much it.  He might love his daughter.  There`s some evidence, but nothing really substantial.  And much as “Leaving Las Vegas” was flawed because it would take a suspension of reality of Mitty-esque proportions to believe that Elizabeth Shue looks so trampy and dissolute that she would get ejected from a casino, it is equally implausible to believe that a male could be emotionally motivated by anything other than some sort of existential oblivion to leave and divorce Anna Friel.  One may as well reject the virtue of incandescence.  The film is thus neither engaging, nor particularly interesting.  Cameos by Stephen Fry and Dara O’Briain are thoroughly wasted – Fry in particular is squandered in a flashback courtroom re-enactment that made “The People Vs. Larry Flynt” look like cinematic masterclass.  A single jellybean.

Right.  Enough of my bitter ranting.  I`m going to relax for the rest of this coach ride and start thinking about other purposeless, rambling diatribes that I can foist upon unsuspecting dwellers of the interwebs.

Coming soon:  the Ballad of Paul Tagg:  Roland the Headless Thompson Gunner’s Pal.

Until then, goodnight England and the colonies.

Cheers,

—mARKUS

Country Rhodes

Sundown on South Africa

Greetings, gentle readers.
So we've left the southern hemisphere and are now situated in England.  There are a few strange anecdotes yet to be related from the Cape Peninsula and surrounding areas, but, aside from the one involving an odd American woman who kept taking my photograph at the Mount Nelson Hotel in Cape Town, very few of them are likely to hold any interest at all for a neutral observer.  I've also taken some panoramic photos from the Cecil John Rhodes Monument overlooking Cape Town, but I have no idea how that format will display in this medium.  So I'll take a break from the travelogue for a bit and instead hold forth on the Liverpool game at Craven Cottage that I attended yesterday.

More like Bob Denver

Compared to the last Liverpool game that I attended at Anfield, this was an affair characterized by a much greater degree of crowd intensity and participation.  Smoke bombs, banners, flags, flares, firecracker explosions, stomping, clapping... lusty, bawdy songs... the whole shebang.  Whatever a shebang is.  If it's anything like an interrobang, it might be appropriate.

♪ Take me home / Al-Fayed
To the place / where I come from,
Craven Cottage / by the river
Take me home / Al-Fayed ♪

Well, I don't know if it's possible for the thought of "Country Roads" being used to serenade an Egyptian billionaire to cause John Denver to turn over in his grave, but he might try and cleanse the stigma by washing up on shore again.
The game started brightly.  Literally.  Pink smoke billowed from five or six canisters in the crowd and the eighteen yard-box in front of the Putney End, where Mark Schwarzer tried to tend his net despite being out-of-contract at the end of the season, and wondering how his career arc will continue.  He's 40 years old, and he's got to be considering the option of playing out the string for some semi-professional Australian Hyundai A-League side.
As the ground crew cleaned off the flares from the scorched earth of the pitch, the teams walked onto the field.  Jamie Carragher, captain on the day, waved at the away end as we all bellowed out "♪We all dream / of a team of Carraghers / A team of Carraghers / A team of Carraghers."
Somehow, the lackadaisical and languid Dimitar Berbatov, despite looking as though he couldn't be arsed to break into a canter during 99% of the game, scored for Fulham during a ghastly defensive breakdown in the first half.  That caused a hiccough in the baying Liverpool support's torrent of song, sound, and vision. But soon there was cause for jubilation once more as Daniel Sturridge equalized for the Scouse side.
Sturridge went on to complete a hat-trick, and Fulham were deservedly put to the sword.  There were a few open goals that went begging — Jonjo Shelvey particularly profligate on one occasion — and some very selfish play on the break as Liverpool looked to run up a cricket score.  The final goal was particularly interesting, as Sturridge cut in from the left and chipped Schwarzer.  The entire Putney End stand was on its collective feet as we watched the ball go up, up, up... higher than the level of the crossbar... hang there interminably as our mouths dangled agape... until finally dropping under the crossbar to an ejaculation of celebratory screams and shouts, as well as the punctuation of firecracker booms.  The captain took some lessons in goal celebrations from the hat-trick hero and the "team of Carraghers" song echoed out through the grey, chilly afternoon.
The other cute point of note (aside from my comments on twitter: https://twitter.com/JdCilantro) was the late introduction of John Arne Riise on the left side of the Fulham defence.  His first act was to lash a free-kick at Pepe Reina.  Reina saved comfortably down and to his left, but from that moment on, the travelling Liverpool support sang his song (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hY4yUhjR6pk) several times, serenading him off the pitch after the whistle.  Great to see that everyone still treats servants of the club with reverence, despite their current allegiances.  Riise waved and clapped at the away stand as he left the field following the conclusion of the match, to the delight of the red-clad mob.
I've got to run, since I'm currently in the breakfast room, and people want to eat their dry cereal near the power socket that I'm using.
Goodnight England and the colonies,
—mARKUS

Go West (where the skies are blue)

The Return of the Cape Crusader                                    

Have been in Cape Town for almost a week now, and this is what we find:

It’s been a hectic week, compounded by a group preponderance toward total paralysis when it comes to any sort of decision-making or consensus-building.  Everyone is passive-aggressive, and no-one wants to assert any sort of preference for any alternative presented.  So we end up discussing which museum is the most interesting until they’ve all shut for the night, or pull over by the side of the road to discuss which direction we should take until the sun sets.  It all seems very busy and crowded, but nothing much is ever actually accomplished.

Oh, and information control is an issue.  It’s a bit like something out of Commedia Dell’arte or “Three’s Company.”  No one really says the entire situation to anyone else, and all confusion remedies are garbled, mumbled, misunderstood, or grossly misinterpreted.  Rather than say “we’re going out for dinner, we’ll be back after eight,” people would rather say “we’re not sure what’s going on, please don’t make any arrangements.”  This dissatisifies everyone, and clarifies nothing.  All plans suddenly become tentative, and no plans ever come to fruition because there is never consensus, so the people who were trying to make contingency plans are unable to have any impact. 

So there you have it.  Clear as mud.

Megamegamcmuffin

Stopped by Cavendish Centre (big shopping mall) for breakfast.  Apparently, McDonald’s in South Africa has something that Canadians don’t enjoy – the MegaMcMuffin.  In a nation that has just been afflicted by the Double Down, someone has taken the EggMcMuffin, Sausage McMuffin, and Ham McMuffin and wrapped them all up in one big colossal and architecturally unsound tower of muffinness.   My blood’s LDL increased when I saw the picture.  I hesitate to venture what it looks like after I consumed one.

Flight of the condiments

Incidentally, the least-attractive thing about the breakfast monstrosity that attacked my circulatory system was the ghastly tomato sauce.  For some reason, South Africans don’t understand the concept of ketchup.  Or catsup.  Even at McDonald’s, where ketchup is used for transfusions for medically uninsured minimum-wage employees.

Instead of the concoction that first-worlders enjoy, with puréed onions, salt, vinegar, sugar, and a host of mysterious other ingredients, South Africans get tomato sauce that contains… tomatoes.  And precious little else, including flavour.  I’m not a big fan of ketchup, but I’m downright opposed to ketchup-esque slimy red scum that looks a bit brighter and shinier than it ought to be.

Oh, and thanks to Elizabeth Brits for the word of the week.  The word of the week is:  hectic.  I had no idea how versatile the term could be.  It can be fairly applied as an adjective to a sequestered American congress, an unreleased Disney film, a pool game between two women wearing chequered flannel shirts, or a particularly tasty spoonful of soup.

Simon Says Town

Unusually for our merry band, we actually went for a drive around the peninsula south of Cape Town.  Some lovely beaches and landscapes.  Oddly enough, the really curious incident occurred in a little place called Simon’s Town.  Simon’s Town has a pleasant naval base with training vessels and large numbers of very snappily-dressed sailors (male and female) moseying about amongst the tourists in the sunshine.

As my travelling companions milled about amicably, nibbling on foodstuffs and visiting the public toilets,  I went looking for a milkshake.  It was a hot day, I was thirsty – it seemed harmless and appropriate.  Sure enough, a rather jolly, friendly Boer fellow popped out of a restaurant called The Quarterdeck and asked me if I’d like to see a menu.  I responded that I was simply looking for a milkshake.  Within seconds, an eager black lad had teleported in front of me with a menu.

“Mint.”  I said.

“This lad,” said the Boer fellow, gesturing to the vapour trail where the black waiter has been, “makes the best milkshakes in the Western Cape!”

“Oh, I’m sure.” I replied.

“Where are you from?” asked the man, taking a step back.  I responded that I’m Canadian.

“Oh!  Oh!”  he yelped.  He turned and started to shuffle inside the restaurant, squeezing past the bar, the hallway leading to the toilets, and down a narrow corridor. “Al-something!  Al… Al… Albequerque?”

I followed him through the door, turned right, dodged a waiter coming from behind the bar in the opposite direction.  The Afrikaaner guy was standing in the corridor, hunching towards a world map tacked to the wall. 

“Alberta!”  he finally blurted, poking at the map.

“Yes,”  I said, sidling closer and pointing to Edmonton. “Right there.”

We went back outside, and he explained at length how he talks with all of the tourists, and he’s made it a hobby of trying to pick their geographic spot of origin from their dialects.  Apparently, asking a black American woman if she is from Louisiana or Alabama is an awful idea if that woman happens to be from California.  He received a torrent of abuse on that occasion.  After chatting for a couple of minutes, he asked me what I did for work.  I mumbled something about IT and Oil & Gas stuff.

“Libran,” he declared.

“I’m sorry?” I replied.

“Your astrological sign.  Libra.”

“Oh, erm… no.  I’m a Scorpio.”

A number of things flashed through my head.  If one considers that the galactic equator has shifted since the creation of the original horoscope, and that there are in fact 13 signs of the zodiac according to the International Astronomical Union, then within the definitions established by sidereal astronomy, I’m technically a Libra by date of birth.  Of course, I also have a tendency to over-analyze things, though I can never remember which zodiacal sign is associated with that characteristic.  Is that a symptom of forgetfulness or just a complete disregard for bizarre and unscientific explanations of behavioural psychological phenomena?

“… and you would need a more creative space to express yourself,” the restauranteur was finishing.  I made affirmative nods and murmurs and collected my mint milkshake from the obliging and helpful waiter.

It was an odd exchange, but there were other strange interactions to come.

But it’s lunchtime and I can always continue this later, can’t I?

Cheers everyone, and good night England and the colonies.

—mARKUS

The Import of Sport

And so, in the final hours of my time in Port Elizabeth, this is what we find.

My last visit to South Africa was thematically inseparable from the global sporting spectacle that was attracting the attention of billions of humanoids and psychic cephalopods worldwide.  This time around, there is no World Cup to dominate and occupy conversations, newspaper column-inches, online photo galleries, twitter feeds, and waking nightmares.  That being said, it find it odd how various sports seem to form a metronomic foundation of my life on the road around the southern tip of Africa.

Like Sands Through the Hourglass

While everyone else here has to work and toil and do all of those sorts of things that people do to make ends meet, I’ve been drifting through the African scenescape like some sort of diaphanous transient.  It’s very easy to lose track to the days of the week when the only real milestones are the previous and the next flights.  That’s where UEFA comes in.  I just need to think back to the last match that I watched, since all UEFA competitions are broadcast everywhere, and I can navigate my way through the murky temporal waters that way.  Only one German team has qualified for the Champions’ League Final?  It must be Wednesday.  Barcelona just been humiliated for the second time on the trot?  Thursday.  Fernando Torres scored a goal last night?  Friday.

I am Ozymandias, King of (the Sport of) Kings

Horse racing form books are filled with a nigh-hieroglyphic set of condensed information.  It took me a while to reckon up what all of the numbers, letters, and symbols represent, and what meaning they hold in relation to one another.  Eventually, these little discrete crumbs of data form elaborate mosaics of pixelated reference points, like a Magic Eye picture.  Adjusting your perspective so that those virtual pixels can be seen in the context of a larger graphic narrative gives a series of patterns and trends that can be used to predict the outcome of each race.

Twenty-to-one odds?  No big deal.

So I’ve got a working hypothesis that allowed me to pick the winners of two races from three.  I didn’t even try with one because the data set was scrawny and the field was inordinately skewed upon first inspection.  So I made a bit of money, and earned dark, vile stares from everyone in the bookie’s parlour.  There were an awful lot of aging and bitter blokes hiding behind ramparts of cigarette butts and conjuring permutations of inordinate proportions that might possibly turn six rand into ten.  I just pick the winners and take the money.

I’ll be just like Buddy Holly

I always liked cricket a bit.  The fifth Doctor wore a cricket get-up most of the time.  Of course, he also had that celery thing going, presumably so that he’d be prepared for any Bloody Marys that came his way down the pub.  That being said, I rarely had the time or the patience to watch a five-day test match in its entirety, or even keep track of the proceedings using whatever media coverage was available.  I essentially knew the rules, watched a few extended lengths of the stuff when at John’s pub in Blantyre, and could even drop the odd name, like Brian Lara or Shane Warne.

Then I discovered the wonder and the glory that is T20 cricket.  My oath.  It’s gripping stuff.  It’s like concentrated cricket highlights pumped full of electric juju and fired from an orbital ion cannon.  If anyone knows what that drug-rehab recreational activity known as baseball is, this is like telling each team that they get 120 pitches at the other team, and that one team’s batting order goes through before the other does.  No alternating innings or any of that rubbish.  Every thrown ball counts for something, and no movement is extraneous. 

Just this week, a lad named Chris Gayle shattered a cricket record that now seems likely to remain shattered for any time in the foreseeable future.  He smashed 100 runs out of 30 balls thrown at him.  The baseball equivalent would be mind-liquifying.  American stattos get all moist when they think about batters with a season average of 0.400 or over.  Well, imagine if the average wasn’t per at-bat, but per pitch, and then imagine someone that belts the ball out of the park 70% of the time, and you might start to understand.

The big T20 cricket league is (unsurprisingly) in India, and it’s a big production.  There are terribly fit cheerleaders, a stadium DJ spinning tunes, fireworks, mega-jumbotron graphic displays, internationally-renowned commentators, several different hats analogous to the Tour de France peloton, television advertising timeouts, fanatical stadium-packing crowds, and bonkers corporate sponsorships.  To my amazement, it works.  NFL games are a bunch of potty-breaks and naptimes interrupted by the odd 2-yard run play.  People at baseball games long for the seventh-inning stretch to break the monotony of watching pitchers throw to first base idly between conferences on the mound.   NBA fans have long ago forgotten what “travelling” is, and are so jaded that slam dunks receive as much attention as the colour of the popcorn vendors’ socks.

Cricket manages to incorporate the chess-like strategies and machinations of the NFL with the pop of an unexpected superstar highlight-reel bit of action, as well as some beautifully orchestrated teamwork and coordination.  It just took me a while to find a format of cricket that really brings all of those elements to the fore and distills them to their essence.

I would recommend that all sports fans check out some of the action here:  http://www.iplt20.com/

I’ve been fortunate to see matches every afternoon for the past week, and they’re always entertaining, particularly for a neutral.  If this sport ever makes it big in North America, I’ve got dibs on being the hipster who liked it before it was cool.

More news as it becomes available.

Cheers and good night England and the colonies.

—mARKUS

Last Days of PE

The Wagers of Sin

So Cousin Joey finally took us to the Boardwalk Casino, and this is what we find:

The net result of four hours of studious effort resulted in a transformation of a couple of R100 notes into a stack of R20 notes.  No big bonanzas for me, since I’m rather fiscally conservative about such things.  Since I’ve been gone, apparently the casino has built a monstrous great five-star hotel where the parking lot used to be.  The mind boggles when considering how Joni Mitchell could rewrite “Big Yellow Taxi” to accommodate such a development.  Oh, and the slot machine that brought so much joy three years ago has apparently been binned, obviously in retribution for enabling a Canadian to purchase and sneak a classified piece of technology out of the country.

The day started off far less auspiciously.   Joey had an appointment with his automotive specialists to deal with the tyres on his Mazda, so after an enormous breakfast, he dropped myself and the two elder Chans off at the nearby shopping centre, Zsa Zsa Gaborishly named Greenacres.

I found myself lending my uncle R200 to buy a pair of short pants.  Yes, you read that correctly.  Consequently, I needed to find an ATM so that I could buy some more cash for myself.  After spending some time in the food court, waiting in line behind a Gogo (elderly, matronly Xhosa) for a bit, I walked up to the machine to discover that she’d set the language to Afrikaans.  I found that odd, since there were numerous other language options available.  Quick history lesson:  whereas East London was always predominantly English-speaking during the Apartheid era, Port Elizabeth has always been a bastion of Afrikaans.  English has been gaining headway as a lingua franca, but Afrikaans is still very deeply ingrained.

As I walked away from the terminal and toward my father and uncle, I noticed that my father’s face was fixed in an unusually perplexed expression.  Turning to look behind me, I noticed that an elderly fellow, stringy grey hair and beard cascading about his head, had given up the ghost.   It may sound like an odd way to phrase it, but a human being had suddenly turned into a limp conglomeration of tissues.  Any animus had gone.  A young man was hefting the late gentleman out of his chair, while three women gathered around to give assistance.  The man’s eyes were closed, his jaw was slack and his mouth hollow and agape.  As the body was lifted from the chair, the flesh drooped and sagged from the bone.

The paramedics confirmed what was painfully obvious.  There was nothing to revive or stabilize.  They cordoned off the area with black, collapsible panels, and wrapped the body in foil before putting it on a stretcher and taking it away.

I was tempted to ask that the entire area be sealed and cordoned off, since anyone in that food court could have poisoned his eggs, and that one of the people in the room could be the killer.  But that would have been in awful taste.  Ironically, it may just have been the greasy, fast-food taste of his last meal that did the old lad in.

In any event, Cousin Joey drove up to the mall in a motorcar scene that could have been stolen from “Wind in the Willows.”  His forehead is just barely visible over the steering wheel.  Somehow, I keep getting the impression that he could whup my ass at basketball despite all intuitive knowledge about height advantage available.  He’s also a bespectacled accountant, and some of the stories from his youth paint a portrait of a typical shy nerd who has since blossomed into a life-of-the-party, how-d’ye-do man about town.  Personality goes a long way.

As we drove back to the house for lunch/second breakfast, I noticed a Hyundai Atos and wondered idly if that car had been the inspiration for the Doctor Who episodes “The Sontaran Strategem” and “The Poison Sky.”

As a quick aside, the only person in the past six months to tell me that I’ve lost weight has been my cousin Florrie.  I suspect that she’s just trying to find an excuse to feed me more of her wonderful but overwhelmingly plentiful culinary concoctions.  The practical upshot is that, when in Port Elizabeth, one eats like a hobbit in the more advanced stages of malnutrition.

Speaking of which, it’s almost time for tea.

Cheers everyone, and good night England and the colonies.

—mARKUS

Port Elizabeth, Approximately

Hunter’s Village

So it’s been three days in a happy little suburb in Port Elizabeth, and this is what we find:

I still haven’t gone down to the Boardwalk Casino with Cousin Joey.  This is not a case of extraordinary willpower or a sudden puritanical urge to avoid all sorts of diabolical temptation.  In fact, I don’t seem to recall any biblical references that prohibit gambling.  Judeo-Christian scholars amongst you may correct me, but wasn’t there a parable wherein three servants were given some talents, and the servant that saved and did not risk his wealth was slapped down very roughly?  Matthew 25…

24     Then he which had received the one talent, came and said, Lord, I knew thee that thou art an hard man, reaping where thou hast not sown, and gathering where thou hast not strawed:
25     And I was afraid, and went and hid thy talent in the earth:  lo, there thou hast that is thine.
26     His lord answered, and said unto him, Thou wicked and slothful servant, thou knewest that I reap where I sowed not, and gather where I have not strawed:
27     Thou oughtest therefore to have put my money to the exchangers, and then at my coming I should have received mine own with usury.
28     Take therefore the talent from him, and give it unto him which hath ten talents.
29     For unto every one that hath shall be given, and he shall have abundance: but from him that hath not, shall be taken away, even that which he hath.
30     And cast ye the unprofitable servant into outer darkness, there shall be weeping and gnashing of teeth.

Not that I want to start a biblical debate, but I want to play the “Young Frankenstein” slot machine again, and I reckon that a person can use the Bible to justify anything, if you find the right citation.

Economics

For those of you interested, I've tried to keep track of what things cost over here.  Although there is nothing mind-bogglingly astonishing, it gives you an idea of the commercial spending power of a travelling Canadian. Very roughly, these are the exchange rates...

1 Canadian Dollar = 8 South African Rand 

1 South African Rand (ZAR) = 11 Canadian cents

Here are some quick snapshots of prices:

• Pack of 20 cigarettes =  R30
• Lamb loin chops = R100 per kilogram
• Case of 24 bottles of lager = R140
• DVD Player = R200
• Top-loading clothes washer/dryer = R1700

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Those of you that don’t own a copy, I would suggest that you purchase a copy of the Alberta Biology 20 SNAP study guide from Castle Rock Research.  A lot of blood, sweat, tears, and toil went into the creation of that book, and I would venture to say that a lot of professional pride hinges on its contents, particularly some of Richard Yeoman’s illustrations.

One of the more interesting chapters of the book dealt with hypereutrophication and hypoxia in freshwater and estuary bodies.  The central case study was situated in Hartbeespoort, South Africa, and having been to the spot, I can say that the problem is not solved. Point of interest, the first "t" in the name is pronounced as its own syllable, so the place name sounds like "Har-te-BEES-port."

Basically, all of the fish died and the entire lake became filled with bright green scum.  Turns out that if you’ve got a bunch of agricultural land and you fertilize the snot out of it, a lot of the phosphates gather in the water table.  If you dam off a whackload of little tributaries to make a lake, you give a spot for all of these nutrients to pool.  There’s an explosion in the population of algae and cyanobacteria, and they choke the life out of anything else in the lake.  After decades of studying and attempting various types of remediation, the lake isn’t quite as nasty as it once was.  I’m still not going to go swimming in it, though.

That’s all for this morning.

Until next time, good night England and the colonies,

—mARKUS

The Eastern Cape, Part II

The Windy City

Well, Port Elizabeth is certainly more accommodating than it was in 2010.  For one, we’re not here in the dead of winter, merely autumn.  Thus it is that I can type in the A.M. without being uncontrollably wracked with shivering fits, swaddled in blankets, and crouched near a 60-watt desklamp bulb for warmth.

We’re also being housed and fed by my uncle Joey Gin, a man with either the sagacity or the foolhardiness to have married my grandmother’s niece.  We’ll soon find out how his domestic Wi-Fi works, so that my uncle Melvin can use his magic Apple iPod to initiate videoconferences with the family back in Ontario.  We all get our own bedrooms, and aunt Florrie cooks food on an industrial scale, so a greater amount of exercise is going to be necessary if we are to avoid bloating into distended caricatures of ourselves.  My weight loss program begins today… with a trip to the barber.  I reckon that I’m lugging around a bonus kilo of wiry and unruly follicular growth that would be better used with some resin to reinforce a canoe.

The big family dinner last night upon arrival at the airport involved about a dozen people that I recognizes, and a couple dozen others that I don’t.  Since no-one else seems willing or able to do it, it looks as though I’ll have to draw the diagram of the inordinately complex and convoluted family tree that interconnects these disparate individuals.  Through conversations over the past couple of weeks, I’ve discovered the sources of much tension, conflict, anguish, suffering, and angst.  One of the big ones, and perhaps the nexus of most of the genealogical madness, is my great-uncle Hugh, who died just over a year ago.  The last time I met him, he was a charming, battle-scarred, ex-swashbuckling pirate with tales of high adventure, inordinate risks, and heroic derring-do.

At some point, I’ll have to distill Hugh’s story into a country and western song, since, as Harry Chapin would have noted, there are important themes of motherhood and trucks woven through it.  First, I’ll just jot down the details as I’ve assembled them thus far, and we’ll fret about a C₇-G_min lyrical structure later.

The Ballad of Uncle Hugh

At first glance, uncle Hugh looked a mess.  A large portion of the left side of his face was missing, and the outlines were scarred and jagged.  He was missing a thumb and two fingers, shuffled about with a painful and pronounced limp, and hoarsely rasped out breath after breath.  Strangely enough, his eyes still twinkled, and his mouth continually twisted into a mischievous grin.

He had been collecting accounts from business clients back in the day.  There were several things wrong with this entire activity.  First, walking around with a brown paper bag and collecting accounts receivables in cash is just poor accounting practice.  Second, to do so on a regular basis whilst open to observation and scrutiny from all and sundry seems a bit unwise.  Finally, to wander around alone and on foot on a regular route through neighbourhoods of questionable safety and security seems downright suicidal.

And so it was.

Faced with five assailants, one armed with a shotgun, one with an AK-47, and one with a pistol, Hugh responded to demands to hand over the cash with a combination of braggadocio and machismo.  No one knows what his exact words were, but they were something to the effect of “Go fuck yourselves.”

Luckily, the brigands were a little on the incompetent side.   Not really expecting any resistance, and thrown off guard by Hugh’s cavalier sneer, the one with the shotgun swung the barrel up and let go with both barrels.  Since he wasn’t holding it properly, the gun bucked and twisted in his hands.  One barrel of shot flew harmlessly over Hugh’s left shoulder.  The other cloud of pellets struck him between that shoulder and his clavicle.

The pistol went off ineffectively and missed with the first shot.  The second shot caught Hugh in the left calf muscle.  Meanwhile, the AK-47 belched out a stream of 7.62mm bullets that blasted through Hugh’s outstretched hand (which was quite possibly flashing the middle finger at the time), and into his cranium, blowing through his left cheek, shattering bones and blinding him in one eye.  He wore his eyepatch for a reason other than pirate caché.

Hugh survived by leaping off to one side and rolling under a truck.  Somehow (and this bit I don’t get) the thieves made off with some R12,000 out of the R50,000 that Hugh was carrying before police and other authorities came swarming onto the scene.  Whether Hugh fought for each bill individually from his prone position, or the paper bag burst in some strange manner, we don’t know.  And likely never will, since Hugh’s demise.

In any event, Hugh was (according to most stories) forced into an arranged marriage in his youth with a girl named Daisy.  Hugh was never happy with the marriage and was often away from his family as a travelling salesman.  He and Daisy had a difficult and strained relationship, and yet they managed to have five children together.  Or as together as they wanted to be.  Unsubstantiated tales are told of Daisy’s possible post-partum depression, and a total deterioration of her union with Hugh.

In his travels, Hugh found companionship apart from his wife, and managed to start a second family.  The fruits of that liaison were two boys, who have apparently gone on to become successful professionals.  Meanwhile, Daisy pushed for and eventually received a divorce.  As soon as the marriage was dissolved, Daisy remarried and bore another daughter.

Meanwhile, Hugh had built a fuel supply company, based on petrol and paraffin distribution throughout South Africa.  When he brought his son Neville into the business in the 2000s, profits soared and growth was never better.  Roughly seven different factors were responsible for the downfall of this enterprise, but as always, Hugh seemed to emerge from all of the shananigans with something to show for them, even if everyone else involved was impoverished and diminished.

When Hugh died recently, his children and grandchildren gathered to pay their respects and thought long and hard about what the man had meant to them.  Then came the reading of the will, and none of the previously mentioned children or descendants were named as beneficiaries.  Of any sort.

The old pirate had found a selfish way of using his assets in such a way that he alone of his family would reap the benefits.  But that is a story for another day.

In other parts of the news…

Meanwhile, I’ve just gotten a haircut from down the street from the sleepy suburb of Port Elizabeth in which I’m staying.  And with apologies to any gay or queer readers, it really doesn’t matter how much a gay man pretties himself up, prances about, or does things with a mincing feminine affectation… as soon as he starts speaking Afrikaans, the fairy tale is over.   You just can’t have a Y chromosome and speak floral, delicate Afrikaans.  It doesn’t work.  It’s a rough, snarling, guttural language best spoken when gutting warthogs or torturing prisoners.  Thank heavens my hairstylist was multilingual, or I would have been fearful for my well-being.

I’ve got to run and do other things before Bayern München emulate their countrymen and boot another storied Spanish team from the Champions’ League, setting up an all-Deutsch final for the first time.

So until then, it’s cheers from me.

Good night England and the colonies,

—mARKUS

The Eastern Cape, Part I

Buffalo City

So after leaving Joburg behind without a whiff of regret, what we find is this.

It seems a bit odd to say that my first impression upon setting foot on the tarmac of the East London airport was that the weather finally seemed to be warming up.  It wasn’t cold up on the plateau in the north, but the warm, moist coastal air with just a hint of a sea breeze was a welcome feeling.  After leaving the terminal building, it really started to steam.  Much as it had in Toronto, London, and Joburg, our arrival had been preceded by cold, damp, and other symptoms of meteorological misery.  Each place has hitherto rebounded from such unhappiness, but none with quite as much zest as East London.  The searing sun punched through a cloudless powder sky, blasting the temperature into the +30°C range.

It was also a refreshing change to see my Uncle Reuben again.  His sense of humour is a whole different tangent apart from the rest of my father’s side of the family, and it’s nice to hear some irony, sarcasm, and litotes once in a while.  Keeps the metaphorical literary juices flowing.

Of course, this is the part of the journey where a lot of the pieces are intended to fall into place.  Thus far, there have been rumours, hints, subtexts, and clues about a series of familial condundra that underpin the actual reason for this whirlwind tour of South Africa.  There have been deaths in the family, wills, title deeds, and murmurs of dread legal battles.  Joburg only entailed meeting Uncle Sid, my grandfather’s younger brother, who through an overlap of generations common in societies where families strove for double-digits of children to have a solid household workforce, is actually younger than my uncle Melvin, despite being my great-uncle.

Sid talks like Mathazar.  It’s not really a factor until your mind makes the connection.  It’s like reading Emily Dickinson’s poetry.  Until you sing one of her poems to “The Yellow Rose of Texas,” it all sounds quite deep and meaningful.  As soon as you hear that tune and read her words, every single poem that she’s ever written becomes trivialized.  Subject to floccinaucinihilipilification, one might say.  Hey.  I finally used that word appropriately in a sentence.   I give myself bonus points.

In any event, Sid is a bit of an eccentric fellow, but given the context of my family, that’s eminently forgivable.  His driving skills are a bit terrifyingly unorthodox, and his analyses of South Africa’s socio-political landscape should probably not be mentioned in polite company.  They should certainly not be mentioned in impolite and unruly company.

Now that we’re in East London, we get to hear all of the various other sides of the stories that Sid spun over many long hours of coffee shop refills.  Joy.  This just seems like a preamble to a frenzied series of diplomatic negotiations and mediations.  Having an inordinate number of far-flung relatives that spin stories and bandy them about like some kind of transatlantic gossip telephone game just lends itself to artificially-created crises and conflicts.

In the meantime, East London meant one specifically important thing to me:  laundry.  Considering that I’ve only got my computer bag and a single carry on for luggage, the continually diminishing amount of clean socks and/or underwear acts like a countdown doomsday clock.  And we were pretty nigh close on midnight, dear readers.  Damn nigh.

But before we could reach the shelter and clothing-purifying sanctity of Villa Radloff on Browning Street, we first had to take my father and uncle on a tour of old memory lane.  Considering that my uncle Mel hasn’t set foot in South Africa since 1963, a few things may have changed from his perspective.

The first thing that I noticed is that every block had some sort of family name associated with it.  Every time the car hit an intersection, my aunt Jenny or uncle Reub would gesticulate toward some structure or other and indicate that it used to belong to, house, or was frequented by some family or other.  That family would invariably have moved away, sold the place, left it to some ungrateful children that wrecked it, or cursed the place from the afterlife after the entire family line was extinguished by a particularly virulent strain of tooth decay.

But a stranger pattern began to emerge.  These were shops.  On every corner.  Every family owned a shop.  Or two.  Or three.  It was like Napoleon’s “nation of shopkeepers” remark come to fruition.  With this sort of density, the only way that all of these shops could have been profitable would have been for a swarm of consumers desperate for tomato sauce, pilchards, and mangos to descend on these sleepy areas on a regular basis.  The only other economic model would involve some an odd ouroboros-like series of transactions in which all of the shopkeepers bought one another’s stock in turn.  Surely you can’t have a community in which everyone owns a cornershop.   Or perhaps you can.  And I’m looking at it.

In any event, it’s great to be back by the sea.  The salty hint in the air is refreshing, and the powder-silt-fine sand feels almost like a liquid between one’s toes.  There are also animals frolicking about in these environs that I don’t recall from my last visit here.  For example, there’s this little fellow that I spotted from one of the beach boardwalks:

I wondered what this sort of sand rat might be until I realized that I was taking a zoomed-in photo.  Zooming out, it is readily apparent that there is an explanation of exactly what this little duffer is, and all of its various characteristics. 

Interesting point:  phylogenetically, these little beach bunnies are closer relatives of elephants than they are of any fuzzy rodents.

Aside from driving around and looking at the shops that everyone used to own, monkeying around at the beach, and dropping into Hemingway’s to do some shopping and casino-dwelling (thanks to Platinum VIP Ted Radloff), the other port of call to note near East London is the old farm, which my great-grandfather owned, and was the seat of the family in this part of South Africa for a while.  This means that my grandfather, two of his brothers (including uncle Sid), and three of his sisters grew up there.

The place was a bit more desolate back in the 1920s, with more dirt and scrub than trees and grass, but time and care have made the place a lot more habitable since great-grandfather first started to scratch out a living on dry and poorly moisturized soil.  There is one thing that tips me off that this dirt farm undoubtedly belonged to my family or some of their friends.

Unsurprisingly, my great-grandfather built a shop on the corner.

Until next time, good night, England and the colonies.

Cheers,

—mARKUS

Where are those Meerkat Things?

Greetings, gentle readers.

After a couple of journeys into the bush, what we find is this:

Apparently, there is some sort of numerical preoccupation within African zoological circles involving the number five.  The elephant, rhino, hippo, lion, and leopard apparently make up “The Big Five.”  Apparently, some sort of Musk Ox can be substituted for the rhino in some circles, but I find myself diametrically opposed to those circles.  Leaving that tangent, there are “The Feline Five,” numbering the lion, panther, leopard, cheetah, and ocelot.  According to bush guide Lizzy, there are also “The Ugly Five.”  She didn’t list them, but she did say that the blue wildebeest was a prime example.

In keeping with that spirit, I’ll nominate my “Fascinating Five,” which would be my list of African creatures with cool back stories.  Anyone who heard me babble about this sort of thing before can attest that I dig on zebra mussels, stone martens, tarantula hawks, etc.  This lot may not be quite as super-dynamic as others, but I’ve got pictures of these ones and they’ve got charming back stories.

The European Bee-eater

Like Homer Simpson, this organism loves doughnuts.

I don’t know if this wee fella is a European bird that eats bees or an African bird that feeds exclusively on European bees.  I have the same problem with Dutch Elm disease.  Apparently, this brightly-plumed bird knows no fear of humans and eats ravenously.  This is an obnoxious and extroverted animal with a cry that resembles fingernails on the chalkboard of your soul.

The Maribou Stork

No one likes him, and he doesn't care.

Described by guide Godfrey as a species that “does some cleaning-up,” this is a good example of nature’s loathing of a vacuum.  Apparently the trees in this particular valley are too low-slung to make vultures comfortable, so some other avian needed to fill that niche.  Niches love avians.  When there is no other scavenger about to pick bones clean as they bleach in the sun, the Maribou will step up to the plate.  They also do an Easter impression every morning and evening, spreading their wings to perform some thermal solar collection.  They also find safety in branches poking out of shallow lakes.  They also don’t know that they’re Jersey-ugly and that’s the real reason no-one likes them.  Poor things.

The Baboon

Those dam-dirty apes.

The troop that I saw was composed of rather ingenious little bounders.  To protect the troop, the females, the weak, the sick, and the young spend each night on top of the concrete dam near the middle of the reserve.   The bigger males stand guard at each end of the dam, preventing any sort of threat from reaching the troop by land.  Besides that, they are apparently prime pickings for leopards, and their continued existence in the land of stealth ghost cats bespeaks enormous improvisational skills.

The Giraffe

As I alluded in a previous blog, giraffes have exactly the same number of neck vertebra as humans.  Or dogs.  Or platypi.  Or any mammal, regardless of venomousness or egg-laying predilections.  It’s another piece of that wondrous and fabulous tapestry of evolutionary biology that furnishes the exotic palace of scientific and rational endeavour.

The Hippo

OK, so the hippo is a part of the big Five, but then, two of the Big Five are also members of the Feline Five, so cross-pollination is permitted.  The most homicidally murderous creature in Africa (with the exception of insects like the mosquito, tse-tse fly, or other vectors for fatal bacteria and parasites), the hippo has been dodging attention for generations while racking up huge kill numbers of people.  Great White Sharks?  Minnows compared to these behemoths.  Snakes?  Kill a remarkably small number of people.  

Hippos trample people, smash their canoes, absent-mindedly amputate limbs, and are generally unrepentant about the whole deal.

Off to East London now.  More thoughts on things on the Eastern Cape when I land.

Good night England and the Colonies.

—mARKUS