by Richard de Nooy on Apr 8th, 2012
Let’s face it, Harry, every fckn war we’ve ever
fought every nation squashed and generation
stolen each pre-fckn-cision bombing and
concentration camp the man-high heaps of
napalmed children grotesque decapitated
privates draped over barbed wire and women
raped for days on end the in-fckn-terminable
talks of peace and cease fires that only serve
to replenish and prepare for world war fckn
eight hundred and thirty-three the scorched
earth blacker than Satan’s arsehole into which
the orphans creep in search of cover and
AK-47s, grenades and mines to
blow their barren fckn world to kingdom
fckn come and every martyr strapped with
semtex every broken life and drop of fckn blood
endless inventories of collateral damage poorly
hidden mass graves that all reveal ma-fckn
-cabre human treasures displayed in grinning
rows and each and every other fckn act of
violence albeit somehow vague and indirect
was perpetrated for one reason only so
that rich men’s cocks would grow or stay erect.
So why only save the fckn rhino, Harry, why?
by Richard de Nooy on Apr 4th, 2012
In January, I wrote a blog about crazy tours and contests, asking you to share the more unusual customs and contests of your own countries. On reviewing your comments, I was surprised to discover that both Heloisa T. Ramos Roberto of Brazil and William Setiawan of Indonesia mentioned contests that involve climbing a slippery pole to grab a prize. On consulting the Great Online Oracle, I was even more surprised to discover that similar contests are held on almost every continent and that greased pole climbing and mud-slinging were even special events at the 1904 Olympic Games (for rather dubious reasons, I should add).
Of course, I immediately began wondering about the practical origins of such contests. Maybe our earliest ancestors were keen to test their skill at fleeing into trees, to ensure that the best climbers went up first and highest, so that they didn’t occupy the lower branches. In some instances, such contests may have started out as a test of fruit-picking or mast-climbing ability, to see who could complete these tasks with the lowest risk of injury. But there are also clear indications that pole-climbing is a test (a celebration!) of cooperation, because in most contests it is almost impossible to reach the top alone. And then I found the photo below, which is a comical reminder that pole-climbing was also a handy skill in wartime if you wanted to cut or install telegraph and telephone lines.
Telephone electricians training at the University of Michigan around 1918. (U.S. National Archives)
Clearly, the origins of such contests vary, but in almost all instances they are part of traditional festivals and celebrations. Considering the popularity of television series in which groups of madmen (and the occasional woman) risk their lives for no other reason than to entertain viewers, I think the time is ripe for an international competition featuring teams of greased pole climbers from different countries who put their courage and stamina against one another. To get the ball rolling (or the man climbing), here’s a provisional calendar of international greased pole events: [Read the rest on KLM.com]
by Richard de Nooy on Mar 26th, 2012
My father travelled all over the world exhibiting and selling medical instruments. He always took pictures of the cities he visited, as I’ve mentioned before. When my father passed away, I was lumped with the arduous task of selecting the best of his slides. I’m embarrassed to admit that I ended up throwing away two shopping bags full and keeping about 500 slides, which I then had digitised.
As a child, I loved looking at my father’s slides, partly because we didn’t own a TV, but also because it was so intriguing to be transported to places that looked so different from our own home town, Johannesburg. My father knew exactly where each picture had been taken, so there was never any need to mark the slides, because he always gave (extensive!) running commentary. However, I recently found my eleven-year-old daughter staring at the digitised images on my computer, just as I had done as a child. “Look at those old cars and the funny clothes,” she said. “Where was this taken?”
I was stumped. In most cases, all I could muster was an educated guess. I could almost hear my father laughing out loud from on high: “127 cities on five continents, boy! Why weren’t you taking notes?”
So, without further ado, I’d like to share some of the photos with you, in the hope that you can help me identify the cities and, if possible, the exact location where the photo was taken. Hopefully, this will help lay my father’s laughing spirit to rest …
Photo 1 – The above photo may have been taken in Paris, but I have no idea where. The vendor is selling “Marrons chauds” and “Cacahuettes” from what looks like the front end of a miniature steam engine cut in halfby a giant chainsaw. The sign on the building in the background reads “Pasoir”, I think.
Photo 2 – This could be almost any city in Spain or Italy, or perhaps even somewhere in South America. Madrid? Rome? Buenos Aires? There’s an interesting cross hanging above the street, behind the “Globus” sign. Or is it on top of the church in the background?
[Read the rest on KLM.com]
by Richard de Nooy on Mar 15th, 2012
In lean times, elephants will eat their own dung over and over again until they fart dust.
A crocodile’s death roll may be largely attributed to indecision as to whether it prefers eating on its back or belly.
When placed end to end, a zebra’s black stripes are exactly twice a long as its white stripes.
The Brazilian mucous spider (Brachypelma vulgaris) collects the snot of animals and humans to trap its prey.
The rock hyrax (Procavia jaggeri) has a preference for rolling stones in its habitat, to which it beats a hasty retreat.
Rhino horn enhances virility by causing the human penis to shrivel to the size of a shrew’s clitoris, thus easing stimulation.
Follow me on Twitter (@RicharddeNooy) if you feel the need for more frequent updates.
by Richard de Nooy on Mar 7th, 2012
“People always seem to have time for brunch in Cape Town.”
That was the answer I gave to a journalist who asked what I thought was the main difference between Cape Town and Johannesburg. I could have mentioned the climate, the spectacular scenery, or even the inclination to uphold (Cape Town) or ignore (Johannesburg) traffic laws, but I chose brunch.
I hadn’t visited Cape Town since the launch of my first novel in 2006. That time, I mainly attended events and explored the city with fellow authors from Johannesburg who were keen to give me a full tour of Cape Town’s kaleidoscopic nightlife, ranging from salsa clubs and poetry hotspots to quayside restaurants and pool halls. That was a fabulous experience that reopened my eyes to the country of my youth.
Table Mountain from Bloubergstrand (Anton LeRoux-Marx)
After my book tour in 2006, I began writing a blog on a South African literary website, which put me in touch with a large group of South African authors, poets and other bookish folk. I had met some of these people over the years, because I visit Johannesburg regularly to see my family. But I hadn’t met the Cape Town set before this most recent trip. This explains why there was a whole lot of brunching and cocktailing and dinnering going on while I was there. It was an overwhelming experience, partly because my friend and editor Helen Moffett had taken it upon herself to arrange a two-page social itinerary alongside my other work and promotional commitments.
Fortunately, I kept a record of my observations and experiences, and I would like share some of them here. The first set describes my visit to Noordhoek, a lovely village just south of Cape Town, where I stayed with author Sarah Lotz, who is also a collector of stray dogs and cats.
The house lies snuggled into the back of the mountain like a crooked dog in a comfortable, tree-lined basket.
With names like Kanga, Charlie and Teddy, the crooked dogs are assured of eternal youth but not immortality.
The vineyard is squared and slotted in verdant geometry into the jagged jigsaw of the mountainside.
The bedroom’s rondavelled roof spirals skywards like a reed pyramid promising boundless African feng shui.
I also spent a day talking and walking in the centre of Cape Town with poet Rustum Kozain, who has kindly allowed me to include some of his own observations of his hometown, which vividly capture its colour and dynamism.
[Read the rest on KLM.com]
by Richard de Nooy on Mar 7th, 2012
(Irregular updates from the embattled city of Homsterdam)
Update 1
Up early to phone the kids, who have been with Nanna since the fighting started. They hate their new school. Feel unwelcome.
We have been reduced to rats, scuttling along walls, diving into holes whenever shots ring out, crawling through the sand.
Glad I emptied our accounts. Cash is handy when you have nothing to trade. A barter economy favours those carrying a gun.
We dragged the oven into the basement. Four days to get a 10kg bag of flour, which cost 200 euros. Now we pray for fckn power.
Heading out to buy a cigarette. Smoking can harm your health, especially if you have to cross the fckn Bridge. More soon, I hope.
Update 2
The Hood Vigilantes have lifted all the paving to build machinegun nests, but even when they sit down you can see their heads.
‘Help us make sandbags,’ they say when I tell them the state snipers are going to blow their brains out. But I refuse, again.
The strange thing about this civil war is that you’re never sure who you’re fighting or what they’re fighting for.
Two of my neighbour’s sons disappeared and then turned up on TV, dead, across town where they’d joined the Hooligans.
The Penthouse Snipers have picked off a couple of crossers, their bodies lie like hurdles just short of the cover of the arcade.
A tram offers cover for the 1st part of the dash across the square. I reach the arcade safely, lungs longing for a cigarette.
Update 3
How swiftly we have been reduced to self-sufficiency and survival of the biggest and best armed.
300-plus people jostling outside the bakery at 5am. Equality and fraternity dive out the window when there’s only one loaf left.
Words are worthless now. Only action speaks. The promise kept. The food delivered. The safety catch released. The friendly nod.
The supermarket – not so super anymore – demands cash at the door and has armed guards that monitor your every move.
Within days all ‘deviants’ had disappeared. Perhaps the next witch hunt will target addicted intellectuals. Need. Nicotine. Now.
Update 4
Seven lodgers in the basement: 2 gay friends; a Muslim mother with 2 children; 2 homeless junkies who killed their schizo mate.
We all smell alike when showers and toiletries are in short supply. A herd of sweating humanity who all need the same.
The trick is to look as un-dangerous as possible. My hair and beard have grown out grey. I fake a limp lope towards the Bridge.
The Bridge Boys are probably still sleeping off their hangovers. Or they’re sitting behind the barricade. Am dying for a smoke.
Update 5
A sniper picks off a crosser ahead. Blind volleys ring out above. Eight of us in a doorway. Jabbering humanity. Robbed of logic..
Behind every door there is a person who believes their needs are more important than yours. What binds us? Is fear our cement?
“Now you know what our lives were like,” sneers a woman. “Angry fckn men with their little guns going squirt, squirt, squirt.”
Three of us, all men, break cover and sprint towards the mountain of garbage on the corner. We dive in together. Merge.
We don’t want more, or a lot, or even happiness. Okay, safe, relatively comfortable would be fine. Just one cigarette, please.
Update 6
If there is an omniscient, omnipotent god out there, we are one of his old marbles, lost in space, forgotten.
Crawling through the garbage, my hand touches segmented steel. I’ve never held a grenade, but my fingers recognise it instantly.
The cold steel immediately replaces my pacifism with the urge to blow the living shit out of the first fckr who gets in my way.
Here’s a recipe for disaster: bored boys, alcohol and guns. I can see smoke spiralling up from behind the barricade on the bridge.
The whole city is rotting away. The canal is logjammed with barges abandoned in an undulating blanket of vomitous flotsam.
I slip the grenade into my underpants, feel it scraping my scrotum as I limp towards the bridge. Unhandy for a quick draw.
Update 7
I crouch down behind what’s left of the big tree by the bridge. If I get sniped, I’ll die with the aroma of charcoal in my nose.
“Yo, smokers,” I call to the boys behind the barricade. A barrel rises then disappears again. “Gimme the helmet,” he says.
“Whaddayawant?” he shouts almost inaudibly, his gun aimed at my chest. “Put the visor up, wanker,” says his hidden buddy.
He’s nervous. Eyelids flutter. If I had to choose between a raving psycho loon and this twitching teen… But I have no choice.
I stuff the money in the matchbox and throw it across to them. They open their gate – a gutted fridge with the back removed.
The retailers in sniper alley have built barricades for their waiting customers, who are still more valuable alive than dead.
Update 8
Home decoration gets a macabre twist in civil war when people start boarding up their windows with parquet flooring.
Dog owners have seen their prized possessions relegated from pets to delicacies within months.
Urban foragers and hunter-gatherers – adept in the art of survival – swiftly moved up the pecking order when war broke out.
Because uniforms are easy to fake, warring factions use custom-made ringtones played full blast to distinguish friend and foe.
At the tobacconist’s, I wonder if the grenade might be worth a full carton of fags. Swift death for slow death. Sounds fair.
Update 9
Once upon a time, long before the invention of the AK-47 and semtex, writers believed that the pen was mightier than the sword.
The first casualty of war is not truth, it is trust. The first law of survival is not ‘doubt the truth’, it is ‘trust no one’.
Civil war offers endless opportunities to practice debating skills and swiftly confirms that firepower is key in any argument.
Within weeks it became apparent that the impatient die first. Then the slow and careless. And so we wait our turn.
The sun is shining, which is unfortunate when there is a month’s worth of garbage piled high on every corner.
I might be able jump the queue for fags if I let people know I’m carrying a hand grenade in my scants.
Update 10
Rumours breed fear and hate, spreading through queues like a malignant virus that feeds on common sense.
Vampiric ambulance drivers are stealing half pints of blood from victims to sell online.
Hooligans are mugging elderly people and tearing out their gold teeth to sell online.
Doctors in clandestine basement hospitals are secretly harvesting organs to sell online.
Snipers are shooting video footage of their kills to sell online, which explains their omnivorous predation.
by Richard de Nooy on Feb 14th, 2012
(voor mijn beminde op ons twintigjarig jubileum)
Over honderd jaar zijn wij
Vergeten ik en jij, zei zij
Bij ons eerste echte treffen
Spaghetti stolde op het bord
De wijn bleef ongedronken
Brokken liefde in ons strot
Alsof het heden even niet bestond
Omdat het opging in de eeuwigheid
Waardoor ook de toekomst
Werd bepaald, wellicht betoverd
Zo werden twintig jaar een dag,
Een uur in twintigduizend
Een zucht in twee miljard
Zo zijn wij blijven leven
Gevangen tussen eb en vloed
Jij de rusteloze zee
En ik het droge land
Onze namen telkens weer
Geschreven in het natte zand
Haastig, haastig ons gedicht
Voor altijd bijna ademloos.
by Richard de Nooy on Feb 14th, 2012
(for my beloved on our 20th anniversary)
In one hundred years, you said
We’ll be forgotten, you and I
Not bad for a first date
Spaghetti frozen on our plates
The wine a patient witness
Love clawing at our throats
The present briefly non-existent
As if absorbed into eternity
Which realigned the future
All sense of time was lost
Twenty years became a day
An hour in twenty thousand
A sigh amid the aeons
And there our love remained
Trapped between ebb and flow
You the restless sea
I the stubborn land
Ceaselessly we scrawled
Our names in the wet sand
Hurried our forgotten verse
Forever almost out of breath
Hurried our forgotten verse
Our names in the wet sand
Ceaselessly we scrawled
I the stubborn land
You the restless sea
Trapped between ebb and flow
And there our love remained
A sigh amid the aeons
An hour in twenty thousand
Twenty years became a day
All sense of time was lost
Which realigned the future
As if absorbed into eternity
The present briefly non-existent
Love clawing at our throats
The wine a patient witness
Spaghetti frozen on our plates
Not bad for a first date
We’ll be forgotten, you and I
In one hundred years, you said.
by Richard de Nooy on Feb 6th, 2012
The wind has torn a wreath of ivy off the wall, leaving it helpless on its back, pale underwear exposed. She stops, key already in the lock, glances over her shoulder, tugs at the leash.
“No, dear lady, I assure you, despite my fearsome canine countenance, I have no intention of raping your dachshund.” All the mind’s a stage.
Still playing the tall, dark, couldn’t-care-less stranger, I round the corner, startling the Puzzling Man, standing at his window staring down the street. He reels back, wide-eyed, when I wave, as if death was closer than he thought. He has seen the signs. This morning the 12 white geese at the bread drop zone were fatter, noisier and more confident than all the coots and ducks and gulls put together. Goose. Cooked. A dozen deaths. Overhead a high jet carved a vapour trail, like a cosmic knife tip slicing sky-blue paper. God. Watching. Waiting.
“So, my little smoking writer, do you have a book for me?” asks my neighbour. She is 93 and often sees me, thinking, from her balcony.
“I’ll give you my reading copy. It’s the last I have,” I lie.
“Is it special?” she asks, taking my arm.
“Would you like me to carry that?” I ask, taking the grocery bag from her hand.
“Thanks. Looks like I’ve survived another festive season,” she says, nodding at the miniature Swedish forest that has been released into the wild to die a pitiful death on the nearest street corner. How swiftly twinkling joy becomes garish nonsense.
“Old fool,” she huffs as her even older neighbour cycles by, unaware that the running commentary on his own progress is not just in his mind. “Did you enjoy the fireworks, last night? They’re a lot like life, you know – a couple of bangs, a few bright flashes and vast quantities of junk that no amount of rain can wash away. Speaking of which…”
A black dog drags his stumbling master through the lashing rain, reducing him to dog-food mule, two tins of Fido stacked against his arm. Wind and rain conspire to vaporise the heads of cyclists and pedestrians, so that their limbs can labour mindlessly. We cross the road as fast as her crooked legs will carry her. It always rains harder in the beams of headlights and just beyond the edge of shelter. We stop and hope the shower will pass, watch the drenched parade. Rain is a critical inspector, ruthlessly exposing design flaws with its puddles. Surfers paddle out to the break line, where passing cars raise perfect crescent tubes that break upon the flagstone beach. Dutch cyclists have children so that they can strap them to the handlebars, providing shelter from the rain.
“I should have worn my bikini,” she chirps, giving me a sly wink. More than 30 years have passed since she last wore one. At the “recreational facility”, where they re-enact creation, stripping down to their loincloths to rejoin the other primates in the gene pool. Hell on earth. All species must shower before entering the chlorinated toilet with its bobbing human flotsam and jetsam. At every pool on every continent, humanity finds common customs and archetypes – the handstand, the bullfight, the wanker with the beach ball. Too many fathers still contravening the United Nations Speedo Limit, causing serious ocular trauma. Meanwhile, behind one-way mirrors psychologists study the transition from incredulity to rage as they monitor who-the-fuck-used-my-towel behaviour.
I give her my thoughts and hand her the groceries. “Thanks. No need to bring them up. I’ll take the rollercoaster,” she smiles, nodding to her chair lift. “Don’t forget that book, now.”
“I won’t,” I promise, waving.
Already the tinnitus of traffic has gone from hushed holiday whisper to steady roar, echoing the combined feelings of commuting humanity. But tranquillity is just around he corner. Having a coffee shop in one’s street assures one of a steady parade of shuffling, smiling zombies. Even in the early morning. The outsized gnome under his little red roof leers his unrequited love at the blind Greek nymph half-hidden, armless in the ivy. Like human gulls, the Bulgarians have cornered the garbage assessment and extraction market. They sniff among the outmoded furniture, splintered on the sidewalk, testimony to the slow demise of utility, an industrious life discarded.
I must remember to give her that book.
by Richard de Nooy on Jan 5th, 2012
I distinctly remember my first New Year’s Eve in Amsterdam, marking the start of 1987. My new Dutch friends invited me round and, as we watched the TV clock ticking towards midnight, people stood wrestling with champagne bottles in an attempt to pop the corks at exactly the right moment. All this was vaguely familiar. But then the kissing began. And the shooting.
I was about to take cover under the buffet table when I noticed that my new friends were rushing out to the balcony or up to the roof or downstairs into the street, carrying bags full of fireworks. And so I put on my jacket and made my way out into the freezing night, seeking shelter behind a parked car until I imagined what might happen if a stray rocket were to hit the petrol tank.
When I was growing up in Johannesburg, we celebrated Guy Fawkes Day (5 November) with fireworks, but I don’t recall ever having been treated to such incredible aerial displays or hearing such an ear-shattering barrage of bangs on New Year’s Eve. Fireworks were banned in South Africa sometime in the late 1970s, so all this was new to me.
When I explained this to a couple of my friends, they immediately suggested that we should go to the Nieuwmarkt, a square in the oldest part of town renowned for the Red Light District but also for the many Chinese restaurants and businesses that line the surrounding streets. Every year, the local Chinese community put on a spectacular display of firepower, transforming the square into an ankle-deep red sea of firecracker paper.
“And it isn’t even really new year for them!” shouted one of my friends.
Only later did I discover that the Chinese celebrate the start of the new year sometime between mid-January and late February to mark the end of the winter season. And only today did I discover that this is because the Chinese calendar is lunisolar, which is why the date varies with the coming of the new moon and why Chinese New Year is also referred to as Lunar New Year, which usually falls about four to eight weeks before spring begins.
Only later did I discover that the Chinese celebrate the start of the new year sometime between mid-January and late February to mark the end of the winter season. And only today did I discover that this is because the Chinese calendar is lunisolar, which is why the date varies with the coming of the new moon and why Chinese New Year is also referred to as Lunar New Year, which usually falls about four to eight weeks before spring begins.
(Fireworks on Nieuwmarkt, Amsterdam. Photo by Roel Brals)
Read the rest here…
