Boggel’s Competition

b2Boggel’s Place has been the only option for many years. It’s the place to be. This is where you sit down with a cold beer to talk about the drought and the president’s wives – important enough to note, but way beyond anybody to influence. When the storm clouds gather on the horizon, these things will develop as they must – and watching them with a beer in hand is so much more sensible than wasting a lot of adrenalin in getting excited about it.

Then the rumour started. Ronnie – that famous, intrepid entrepreneur was considering opening a branch in Rolbos. Why? Because, like the restaurant and pub he established in the middle of nowhere, Rolbos also had nothing going for it. Snatching success from the jaws of failure has been Ronnie’s secret, and Rolbos provides the perfect backdrop for a venture that is sure to flounder.

Gertruida had to explain who and what Ronnie represents:

Of course, this news leads to a lively debate, increasing Boggel’s turnover with a considerable margin. Ronnie is, after all, a national figure of great importance. Although his bar was never designed or planned as a house of ill repute, the very name of the place ruffled many a conservative feather. Amongst the narrow-minded puritans, the place conjured up visions of carnal adventures and represented the gateway to the dark and tormented underworld made famous in a thousand sermons every Sunday. Of course, these intellectual giants have never (and would never, either)  even think of visiting the bar to enjoy one of Ronnie’s famous rose-water milkshakes. When such a person has no option than to take the R62 route, the children in the vehicle are told to inspect the carpet of the footwell until they are safely past the object of so much scorn.

Gertruida tells them about Ronnie, his long silver-grey ponytail and his establishment set in the dusty veld of the Klein Karoo.

“Originally he had a farm stall there, selling fresh produce and a few cooldrinks. Business was slow. And then one day, his friends added the dreaded ‘S’ word next to his name, and everybody stopped for a drink. It became a lovely, humorous joke –  a tongue-in-the-cheek place to stop for something cool in the heat of the Karoo. Ronnie has never looked back.”

“But then Boggel will have no chance. If Ronnie opens the Kalahari Sex Shop, even Oudoom will have to visit there to be one with his flock. You know how he feels about these things. He says it’s of little value to preach in the church  – everybody who goes there, tithes already. He maintains that the way the expand his congregation (the electrical wiring has to be fixed, after all) is to spread his message to the ‘other’ folk – you know, people who don’t attend church. And if Oudoom goes there, we’d have no choice but to follow suit. Talk about a bull in a china shop…”

“Ja, he’ll drink the place dry to show he’s one of the boys.” Kleinpiet eyes Servaas, who’s showing signs of severe agitation. “Even Servaas will be obliged to go.”

“Me? Never! A head elder in a place like that? I’ll be the laughing stock of Upington, man! Won’t ever be able to show my face in public again.”

“It’s just a name, Servaas! Nothing much ever happens there  – at least nothing more than in Boggel’s Place. And Ronnie also provides meals – which is more than we can say about Boggel’s. The name of his cafe is a bit misleading, but his hamburgers are delicious.”

b1

“So we’ll just allow Boggel’s Place to become a deserted ruin?” The very thought causes a shudder down Vetfaan’s spine.

“No. If Ronnie wants to expand his business, we’ll have to convince him that he can make more money elsewhere. I’ll simply write him a letter.” Gertruida frowns while concentrating hard. “Yes, that’s it! China! Millions of people, lots of thirsty throats and an expanding economy. He can even introduce them to Boeremusiek.”

***

And so it came to pass that Boggel still has the monopoly in Rolbos. Ronnie’s  性别 Shop could be the biggest cultural revolution to hit China since Mao Zedong proclaimed the People’s Republic of China in 1949. The peculiar penchant of the Chinese for Boeremusiek could be the start of a massive Chinese exodus out of Africa, back to where they belong.

Weekly Photo Challenge: Orange

Nowhere on earth (okay, it is a biased opinion!) does orange colour the sky as beautifully as in Africa, especially early in the morning.

sunrise

In the east, the endless Indian Ocean becomes a pewter-grey as the day is born. The clouds, however, celebrate the dawn.

earlyAn early bird flies inland to announce the new day. Its cry will wake those who slumber for the last few minutes of the night.

daybreakThis is a magical time on the continent. Light comes slowly at first, then it casts a joyous spell on all who celebrate the departure of darkness.

orangeThe waters of the great Makgadikgadi pans turn bronze in the heat of the sun’s harsh fury as it burns down on arid Botswana.

begin 2004 115aWhen at last the sun has spent its force, it is time to find a safe spot to spend the night.

fire

While Man, eternally fearful of the dark, feeds the fire, hoping the glow will keep danger away.

MAAN 004 mod 4Until…at last…the moon arrives to bathe Africa in an orange so unique, so special, that one wishes that dawn will postpone its arrival for just once…

elBut it refuses, and the animals gather once more, as they must, to greet the sun with joy.

The Bird that would be King

Albatross_Atl_YN_1_clive_harris_01_november“Fire,” Gertruida said, “is a natural phenomenon. Ever since the first thunderclouds gathered in the sky or the first volcano erupted, flames have been at work on dry grass and old wood. Fire isn’t there just to make light and cook food – nature needs fires to clear land, to help seeds germinate and then allow new growth to take over.”

“That may be true, but the fire in Cape Town destroyed much more than a few old trees. Houses, resorts, forests and the mountainside  will need a lot of time and money to recover. People have been left without homes. Animals were burnt to death. I can’t see the bright side this time, Gertruida, I just can’t.” True to her nature, Precilla dabs a tear.

“Nature – like Life – works in endless circles, Precilla. The forest of today is so often the burnt landscape of tomorrow. Beauty yields to age just like summer must bow to winter. Once we understand that, we know that the devastation we now see, will return to be the fairest Cape of all in the near future.”

“Does it always work that way? Even with people?’

Gertruida sighed. This question, she knows, leads to the one exception of the rule. “Not always. You see, Nature will recover from fires and floods and droughts – simply because Nature accepts the cycles of fortune it is subject to. In contrast, we are prone to overstate our importance, which may very well lead to permanent damage. Let me tell you an old African myth, Precilla. . Maybe it’ll help you understand…”

***

Once upon a time – long, long ago – the earth belonged to the birds. Not only were they the only ones who knew the secret of navigation and seasons, they also could fly high to look for fountains and rivers, forests to live in and safe places to nest. Over the years they became more and more numerous as they occupied the most fertile pieces of the land.

One bird, in particular, outstripped the others in wisdom. It was a  huge animal with beautiful plumage – the envy of all the other flying species.

“I shall rule over the land,” he said as he surveyed the vast continent, “for I am bigger and more beautiful than the rest of my family. And,” he added smugly, “I am so much cleverer than they.”

So this bird – his name I shall tell you in a moment – set about proclaiming his kingship. “I am of royal blood,” he cried, “and all the animals will pay homage to me. It is my right!”

While it was true that this bird could fly higher and remain in the air much longer than everybody else, the other birds accepted his claim and then addressed him as their king. For a while this brought great satisfaction to the self-proclaimed monarch and he bore himself in a manner befitting his new rank. He was gracious and kind and took a keen interest in all those under his proverbial wing.

Then, one day, the big king-bird soared high on the winds and looked down at the small animals grazing on the plains below.

“Is it right,” he mused, “that all the feathered animals proclaim me as their king, and yet those with hooves and paws ignore me? They are surely too small to oppose my rightful claim.”

So the big bird soared down to land next to a tortoise.”I am now your king. You shall respect me as such.”

And the tortoise, slow and small like he was, drew back into his shell to contemplate this.

Next, the bird approached a jackal, repeating his claim.

And the jackal, as clever as he was, slipped into a burrow under a rock to think about it.

Then the bird found a porcupine and informed him that he had to bow down before the new royalty.

And the porcupine rustled his quills and withdrew to analyze the situation.

Finally, the bird landed next to a lion. Before the bird could finish his proclamation, the lion smote it heavily with his huge paw, cursing the bird for being so forward.

“As the king of all the animals, I will not allow such foolish talk. You, who have inflated your importance to the point where you are deceiving not only others, but also yourself….you will henceforth not return to land. You will soar over the oceans, vainly searching for peace and rarely put your feet on solid ground again. Sailors will stare at you in fear, as you will be the symbol of misfortune and bad luck.  A king you shall never be, only a servant of the winds.”

The lion turned to go, but the badly injured bird pleaded for mercy.

“Please, Lion, do not leave me like this. I am but a poor bird and your curse will make me poorer still. Have you no mercy?’

And the lion turned to look at the bedraggled imposter and felt sorry for him. “I am, indeed, merciful. I shall grant you one wish.”

The bird didn’t hesitate.

“Give me something – anything – to help me?”

Lion thought about this and finally agreed. “I shall give you the sharpest eyes of all – so that you may gaze upon the land while you are flying over the oceans. You shall see the land and the rocks and the rivers. You shall observe the animals grazing and playing and hunting. But you, banished over the ocean, shall only see and only observe, for you have laid claim to what isn’t yours and tried to rule over what you have no right to. Your eyes, Bird, will be your punishment and your reward, which will be as one.”

And so the Albatross gathered his feathers and limped away. After he regained his strength, be flew to the ocean, where he resigned himself to his fate.

***

“That’s such a sad story, Gertruida. But…why tell it now?”

Gertruida smiled as she rolled her eyes.

“Don’t you see? It’s the story of South Africa. It is also the story of most countries. The rulers of today will one day – if they live long enough – wonder why they didn’t go about their tasks with more compassion and kindness. They’ll look back and see what they have lost.

“Sadly, it isn’t only the politicians and the rulers who suffer this lot. It happens to common people – like us – as well. And the source of this hardship, Precilla, is greed. It’s the ego. It’s the demand to be more important than we are.”

Precilla thought about it for a long time. Then: “The fire in the Cape has come. Now it is gone. And nature will recover?”

Gertruida nodded.

“But people who succumb to greed and ego will lose what they craved for? Rulers and subjects alike?”

“Yes, Precilla. The proud and unbowed necks of too many, will wear the albatross of their folly in the end. It’s in every newspaper, every day – radicals, extremists, fundamentalists – once you proclaim that you have not only all the answers, but the only one, the winds over the vast ocean awaits you.”

“The Cape is lucky, then. It’ll recover.”

“Yes, Precilla. That’s the message. Nature can complete it’s cycles. Humans don’t.”

A Telegram to the People of Cape Town.

IMG_1634capeFrom: The people of Rolbos

To: The people of Cape Town

Subject:

FireMessage: We, the scattered people who live in faraway places; united by the concept that Life is good, that kindness should dictate our interaction with others, and that compassion is the only way to overcome differences; hereby wish to extend our heartfelt sympathy to all Capetonians – especially those who suffered directly as a result of the fire that is still raging.

It is our prayer that you will be sustained by the love of people who care (from all over the world) in this terrible time. Be assured that you are in our thoughts and that we hope that you will emerge from this ordeal stronger and more beautiful than ever.

From: The patrons in Boggel’s Place.

***

PS: please share this thought amongst your friends. Sometimes just being there for somebody is worth more than material support. 

The spirit of Cape Town (Note the left hand….)

Survival of the Fittest?

images (11)“That was most unpleasant.” Gertruida goes harrumph and finishes her beer. “Imagine that? We’re being investigated for being honest.”

“What did you expect, Gertruida. Those poor men have to investigate somebody – and if not the criminals, why not us? We’re exactly the type of people that disrupt the peace and quiet in the country. The baddies sneak around and do their thing in silence, and at night. We, however, tend to get rather rowdy within minutes of Boggel unlocking the front door.” Servaas goes tsk-tsk and orders another beer. “We certainly have a lot to learn.”

The watch the black BMW drive off, not quite managing to miss the big pothole. The crunch of the chassis on the road causes the patrons in the bar to relax  a little, The visit by the three men had been as unexpected as unpleasant. Dressed in black suits and sporting Raybans, Gertruida immediately recognised the secret service attitude. However, after the two-hour grilling, she still isn’t sure whether they are from the police or some other government agency. True to the nature of these things, the men didn’t bother to introduce themselves properly.

The list of questions seemed endless. Who are they? Who funds them? Why are they constantly criticising the government in general and the president in particular? What are their plans? Do they have a stockpile of weapons? What’s this about them planning to declare their own republic? Did they not respect the high office of the president and other parliamentarians?

Oh, the men were friendly and never threatened the group at the bar in any way, except to discuss amongst themselves the expense of hiring a lawyer and how difficult it’d be for these backward people to meet such accounts. They also talked about the overcrowded jails, the gangs that are more powerful than the Minister of Correctional Services, and how popular a few white faces in the cells would be.

In the end they left, asking – nay, ordering – them to be more careful in their denunciation of the government that tries so hard to rule fairly over the obedient masses in the country.

“Well,” Boggel slides a cold one across to Servaas, “at least we never said anything about the president showering, the way he’s losing weight, or how one of his wives tried to poison him. If we start telling the truth, we’d be in deep trouble.”

“Stop moaning like that, Servaas. Lets concentrate on saying nice things about the way the country is governed. There has to be something….”

Silence.

“O-o-okay.” Kleinpiet scratches at his five o’clock shadow, staring at the ceiling. “Let me see. We can consider awarding prizes for the top performers in the higher echelons. Mmmm. Not a bad idea.”

Vetfaan catches on immediately. “Like the Order of the Hammer and Sickle for somebody who’s getting the Russians to build nuclear reactors here, and the plans to dump the waste somewhere in the Kalahari?”

“Oh. My. Word! Talk like that will see you sent to Siberia, Vetfaan! How can you make such statements? Those men will make a sharp u-turn in Grootdrink if they heard this.” Precilla is clearly upset. “It’s like proposing the De Klerk Medal of Courage to anybody who speaks out against the quota system in sport.”

“No, I’d like to see somebody brave enough to accept the Jan van Riebeeck Award for Responsible Thinking. You know? Somebody who can point out the cause of all the strikes, land reforms and Marikana.” Boggel smiles smugly at this brilliant suggestion. “And while they’re at it, they can have the ceremony to convey the Order of the Iron Bar – First Class,  to the architect who now has to bear the blame for the swimming pool at Nkandla.”

After this they consider the Weighless Award for the politician who loses the most weight, the Shower Award for the cleanest parliamentarian, and the Cirque du Soleil Medal for the best clown in the House. Surprisingly, they all go to the same person.

The group at the bar gets so deeply involved in the discussion that they fail to see the black BMW stop in front of the veranda again.

“These people are mad,” the man in the back says as he removes the earpiece.

“You are right, comrade.” The driver sets the air-conditioner to ‘Freeze‘.  “It is a common malady that occurs in such isolated places. These men and women have too much time to think, then they come up with these crazy ideas. Politicians try do it, too – but their ideas are harmless: they just talk. We’ll have to report this to headquarters.”

The man in the passenger seat remains quiet. He actually likes the drift of the conversation in the bar. Having a bit of fun amidst the chaos in the country shouldn’t be halted by the law. In fact, he’d want to see them encouraged; especially after the silly idea of establishing a university here. These Rolbossers, he reckons, could have had marvellous careers in Escom or Sanral. But, sadly, these people lack the drive and ambition needed to aim for such illustrious careers.

They’re just too honest to be employed, unfortunately.  And, since the survival of the fittest (or the most creative at factual gymnastics) is a law of nature and politics, these people won’t be a factor to consider in the near future.

He sits back to allow his compatriots to discuss – at length – their report. Let them talk, he thinks, and let them write that report. In the end nobody’s going to read it, anyway. The officials concerned have bigger fish to fry: like whose turn it is to pop out for KFC.

Rolbos University to Offer Postgrad Degrees

edukacja_1“They should be more careful.” Vetfaan points at the photo of our ambassador to Japan and grunts. “I mean: why claim you’re a doctor when it’s so much more impressive to say you’re a professor? The problem with our politicians – as I see it – is that they lack ambition. If you have to lie about your academic achievements, lie big. Tell the world you were the rector of some university, don’t settle for a mere PhD.”

“But that’s the problem, Vetfaan. To make it stick, you have to have a legit university. Putting a fake degree or a fake university on your CV is stupid. Ellen Tshabalala, Pallo Jordan, Carl Niehaus, Tembakazi Mnyaka,  Mninwa Mahlangu and Mohau Pheko have all tried hard to hoodwink people into believing they were cleverer than they are, just to expose their lack of insight when their claims were investigated.”Gertruida adjusts her glasses like the president does to emphasise her point.”Mind you, it shouldn’t be that difficult….” She allows the unfinished sentence to hang in the air.

“What?’

“How difficult can it be? Why can’t a group of individuals get together, establish a university, and dish out certificates. Instead of our politicians having to send out thousands of dollars to some fake institution overseas, we can make it so easy: keep the money in the country, issue the degree in one of the eleven official languages and create new degrees. No politician worth his salt will be able to withstand a degree in Culinary Sciences – they have to know how to make KFC in the office. Think about the time saved if they don’t have to stand in a queue at McDonalds? ”

Kleinpiet’s suggestion that he be appointed as Senior Lecturer in the Dept of Sport raises a few eyebrows until he explains. “Stretching the Truth 101 should be an obligatory course before being allowed in parliament. Jumping the Queue will be popular too, as will Slight of Hand as an advanced course. Running for President, Shooting the Breeze and a Certificate in Nepotistic Relay will surely draw many students.”

“I still think the way to a politicians heart is through his stomach. A PhD in Advanced Sushi will see you right to the top.”

“Even better,” Boggel adds, “will be a legal faculty to issue degrees in Parole Law, Advanced Dossier Misplacement and Legitimate Corruption.”

“No, you guys. This is wrong in so many ways. Shame on you for joining our leaders in their quest for dishonesty.” Oudoom seems genuinely upset. “Any form of fraud is a crime, you should know that by now.”

“But that’s the point, Oudoom. Instead of tempting our esteemed politicians to lie about fake degrees, we are going to help them stay on the straight and narrow by offering them a honest alternative. We’ll offer nice certificates” They all crane their necks to see Precilla’s drawing.

stanton_degree copy_edited-2 copy

In the end, they all agree that this is, after all, a good idea. If all the fraudulent degrees originated from a central source, the government would save millions by not having to pay agencies to do background checks on ambassadors, senior officials and other political appointees. One simple telephone call would be all that is necessary. Servaas even suggested that they be made the official fake university, which earned him a round on the house.

“Look, we advertise it the way it is: a discombobulate faculty for incongruity. That way, everybody will know what it’s about.”

Oudoom grudgingly accepted the proposal on the condition that they replace the words ‘Rolbos University’ with something more academic, like ‘The African School of Learning’.

They are still arguing about it…

The Sad Moon of Solitude…

Sir Philip Sidney, 1554 - 1586

Sir Philip Sidney, 1554 – 1586

One should be careful when asking Servaas about solitude: his answer is too brutally direct and honest if a sensitive soul should dare being so inquisitive. As a confirmed introvert with his own set of rules, he does adapt to living amongst others…but only just. Oh, he can spin a yarn and debate the issues of the day as well as anybody else (provided you accept his narrow-minded conservative approach and offer the obligatory tot of peach brandy), but deep down he is a loner. Has been all his life, will be until they lower him into the ground. And, as  a man comfortable with his own way of analysing issues, he does tend to be a bit overbearing – which doesn’t bother him in the least. He doesn’t like pretence: if you don’t like what he says, it really isn’t his problem at all.

Oudoom, naturally. disagrees with his head elder on this matter. People need people, according to the pastor, and that’s why we need many, healthy relationships. No man is an island, he’s fond of saying – but Servaas likes to remind him that as the Lord created continents, so too did He make islands.

It takes all kinds…

breekyster 2010 153But a passer by – a few years ago – did venture to ask the question. She was the sprightly widow Violet Hancock; a kind and sympathetic woman who toured the country, taking photographs of isolated places. She said it was her way of managing her sudden change in social standing – from being the wife of a famous actor, to being…well, nobody at all. Whereas before the maitre d’s and the photographers would do anything to please her, she found herself stranded on that lonely island called Isolation. Photographing the wide expanses of the country, the old ruined farm houses and the dilapidated windpumps, reminded her that all life – like all fame – was but a fleeting moment. These pictures, she said, made her feel better: she wasn’t alone in her lot.

“You see,” she told Servaas on the afternoon she visited Rolbos to take shots of the Kalahari at sunset, “my husband used to be the reason for my importance. Because he was such a huge figure in the public eye, everybody was nice to me. After he died, there were a few bouquets of flowers, a stack of sympathy cards, a ton of calls…and then it stopped. Society had settled their account –  they owed me nothing. Being nice with me wasn’t important any longer – and the public eye roved around as it must, and found somebody else to idolise. Here today, gone tomorrow.”

The two of them sat, discussing the fickle nature of mankind in general and fans in particular, and later a comfortable silence settled between them. Servaas could feel her eyeing him and started feeling really uncomfortable. Did she think…? He dismissed the thought immediately.

“And you, Servaas? Don’t you feel lonely at times? How do you handle it?”

It was a trick question – he could feel it. Still, it was only right that he should answer it honestly.

“You know? Only people who aren’t comfortable with themselves feel lonely. They need company to prop up their self esteem. They love having people around, especially if they make a fuss about them. Now, according to my reckoning, that’s more than 90% of the population.

“They play this game, see? You tell me how special I am, and I’ll be nice to you. Now for some – your husband might have been one – it is an easy game because society elevated them to star status. Actors, politicians, some pastors and a few businessmen are like that. For them it is the way to remain on top of the heap – but they seldom ask what the heap is made of.

“I’ll tell you: it’s all pretence. To be popular, you have to understand Pavlov’s dog. You have to know how the psychology works – and then use it to manipulate others into thinking you’re different. And people fall for that all the time.” His bushy eyebrows rose high as he got got excited about the subject. “Why be different? Why increase your bust size, wear outrageous clothes and makeup to try to draw attention to yourself?” He paused and, seeing she remained quiet, answered on her behalf. “Because people can’t accept the way they are. They feel they have to stand out to be noticed.  Better to hear them say ‘oooh’ and ‘aaah’ than to endure the silence of being considered only average.

“So they start pretending. They play to the audience. They build up a fan base. They have lots and lots of people they call ‘friends’, but who – in actual fact – rely on the friendship only for what’s in it for themselves. It could be money, or recognition or simply bragging rights, but in the end those ‘friends’ are social parasites, feeding off  the noticed in the hope of becoming memorable.”

“No friends at all – is that what you’re saying?'” Violet seemed exceptionally sad when she asked the question.

“No, my dear.” He softened his tone. “True friends are rare. Anybody who is honest with himself, will realise you only have a handful of real friends – if you’re lucky. These are the people you can phone at two in the morning or simply share silence with. These are effortless relationships because the commitment to respect and kindness is so natural, so spontaneous, that it sustains itself. These are very special people who can tell you what they really think without being afraid that you’d either reject them or play them along. It’s a non-judgemental association between two persons who’ve accepted each other just the way they are.”

“But…” she hesitated, “…that doesn’t exist, Servaas. I’ve never experienced that type of friendship – and believe me, I had a million friends back then.”

“And where,” Servaas asked, “are they now?”

***

IMG_0140They sat on Boggel’s veranda until the full moon managed to light up the veld from behind some rare clouds. Mrs Hancock sniffed loudly at times, but refused the handkerchief Servaas offered. Then she glanced up at that moon and addressed it with a bit of Sir Philip Sidney’s poem: To the Sad Moon:

Are beauties there as proud as here they be?
Do they above love to be loved, and yet
Those lovers scorn whom that love doth possess?
Do they call ‘virtue’ there— ungratefulness?”

Servaas, of course, had no idea what she was talking about. He nursed his peach brandy and listened to the cry of a distant jackal. Still, he felt he had to say something.

“Love, like friendship, is a rare joy, Violet, just like the moon you see over there. Search for it  when the season is right. Cherish it when you find it. Nurture it when you have it…. And appreciate it when it’s gone.”

“Full moon. Dark moon. And yet, even when I can’t see it, it is still there?”

“Yes Violet. It is still there….and alone. And you know what? It’s okay. It waxes and wanes without complaining, ever spinning around an ungrateful world. That moon,” Servaas pointed, “is the keeper of a secret – although it is a constant companion to the earth, it needs distance to remain what it was created to be.” He sighed softly, patted her shoulder and smiled. “You’ll be alright, Violet, if you remember this.”

Violet Hancock left Servaas there, on the veranda in front of Boggel’s Place. Drove off and eventually settled in a cottage she rented on a deserted farm. Her photographs have won national and international prizes, but she never attends these ceremonies. She maintains – according to the single reporter she allowed an interview – that her solitude is more gratifying than recognition. This remark caused quite a debate in a popular weekly magazine in South Africa, with most readers commenting on such selfish behaviour.

Servaas saw the article, read it twice, and sat down on the bench on the veranda in front of Boggel’s Place. He smiled proudly, blew his nose, and waited for the moon to appear from behind the dark and distant horizon.

Weekly Photo Challenge: Reward

More than a century ago, John Masefield sat down and penned a dream – he simply had to get away from it all and reward himself with me-time at the sea. He wasn’t (and isn’t) alone in this quest.  Don’t we all – from time to time – wish we could sit on a deserted beach and watch the waves come rolling in? Is it not an apt reward (and a great escape!) for pretending we actually like life in the crowded cities?  Come on, join John Masefield in his famous poem – Sea Fever.

aa1

I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by,
And the wheel’s kick and the wind’s song and the white sail’s shaking,
And a grey mist on the sea’s face, and a grey dawn breaking.

aa3
I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;
And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.
aa2
I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,
To the gull’s way and the whale’s way, where the wind’s like a whetted knife;
And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover,
And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick’s over.

aa5

Thank you Mr Masefield  – for sharing a precious dream. Now I can listen to Kris Delmhorst singing while I close my eyes and dream…of a precious reward.

They’re Killing the Wrong Past

Credit: ibtimes.com

Credit: ibtimes.com

“It’s a disgrace,” Gertruida says as she folds the newspaper, “an absolute tragedy. Imagine destroying those old artifacts? What on earth will that tell the world about Isis?”

“Not much more than we already know, Gertruida.” The bushy brows knit together as Servaas sits down with a sigh. “I’m not opposed to Islam, but this makes them really look bad. Would God really command the beheading of people and the destruction of statues? No, I don’t think so – not in the way I think of a loving God, at least.”

“You can’t blame Islam, Servaas. It’s not the religion – it’s the people who interpret the Quran in a certain way.”

“Oh, and now you’re an expert?” The remark sounds more aggressive than he intended, so Servaas hastens to add: “No offence, Gertruida, but you know we don’t know much about the Quran as such. Few Christians read it, after all.”

“I’ll have you know that the Quran does have a lot to say about how believers should conduct themselves. It says: ‘They enjoin good conduct and forbid wrongdoing, and they hasten to do good works.  These are among the righteous.’  And it says something about religious tolerance, too. ‘Certainly, those who believe, those who are Jewish, the Sabians, and the Christians, whoever acknowledges God and the Last Day and does good, will have nothing to fear, nor will they grieve.’.  The problem isn’t the Quran or Islam – it’s far more complex than that. It’s about the Sunni and Shia groups that simply won’t let the sun shine on each other.”

Servaas is silent for a while, impressed by Gertruida’s knowledge. “But why? Why can’t they live together?”

“It goes back to the death of the Prophet, Servaas, in the year 632 AD. a Caliph or successor was chosen – a man named Abu Bakr. Some thought he was the wrong choice and under the leadership of Ali, the Shia movement started. Well, Abu Bakr was assassinated and eventually Ali became the fourth caliph in 656. Again there was revolt over this choice, and the Sunni’s gathered against him. Ali was assassinated in 661 – and since then the fighting never really stopped.

“Today the Sunnis claim – as part of their perceived rightful heritage – portions of Iraq and Syria as land that belongs to them. The fact that there’s a lot of oil underground, is  – according to them – of no consequence. But you and I know: logic whispers, money shouts. And sometimes, it shouts louder than religion, too.”

“So…you’re telling me they simply can’t let go of the past? And have been killing each other for 1500 years for that and the wealth under the ground?” He gets a nod from Gertruida. “Then, Gertruida, we’re in big trouble.”

“How so, Servaas?”

“Look at us, Gertruida. Look at what’s happening in the country. Poor old Jan van Riebeeck gets blamed for all the problems in the country – much like this chap…what did you call him?…Abu Bakr. And now the fight is on for land reform, just like in Zimbabwe. Or Iraq and Syria, if you like.  Here, they change names of towns and streets to reflect only a certain heritage, to emphasise the history of just one portion of society – while over there they destroy statues that are ‘foreign idols’. What’s the difference? It’s the same thing.”

1502574_689750454457656_4131447609257149473_n“You’re right, of course. But it’s not ‘them’, or ‘they’…it is the leaders of the organisations that keep on festering hate and intolerance. Do you think the average man in the street wants xenophobia or racism or violence and abuse…in any form? Of course not. Mister Average wants a job, a loving wife and obedient kids. Two out of three isn’t bad. Hell, one out of three will do. But then the so-called leaders; the ones people perceive to be on their side; start considering other issues – like money and status and more wives and grand homes. The foot soldiers get lost in the less important matters of the day while Mister Big thinks out clever things to say to impress voters”

john“But why do people bother listening to such leaders, Gertruida? That John fellow didn’t behead people on his own accord – he belongs to a movement and that movement has a leader. Once he was an innocent-looking schoolboy, now he’s turned into a monster. Why did he allow himself to be turned into a despicable being? Surely even the superficial grasp of religion teaches us that all life is sacred, coming from God?”

“Ignorance, Servaas, is the pillow on which the uninformed head rests. Listen to what the Prophet said: ‘O you who acknowledge, one people should not deride another, for it may be that they are better than them; nor should some women deride others, for it may be that they are better than them; and do not insult each other or ridicule each other with nicknames.’ He warns against false leaders: ‘And if you obey most of those in the earth, they will lead you astray from Allah’s way; they follow but conjecture and they do but guess.’ And the Prophet writes: ‘Surely the worst of beasts in God’s sight are those that are deaf and dumb and do not reason.’. 

“But, my friend, people have forgotten how to think. They follow blindly and do not listen to all sides of the argument before making up their own minds. They’ve become, just like the Quran says, deaf and blind.”

“And destroying statues help to promote the goals of a few leaders?”

“They’re killing the past, Servaas, in an effort to establish a new future. What they don’t realise is that they’re keeping the wrong past alive by alienating the rest of humanity. Just like the continuous accentuation of the wrongs in any history will keep on dividing people, so the beauty of coexistence will make people want to forget about the atrocities of Huns and the Nazis and all the horrors of the past – every nation’s history is riddled with wrongs, after all. And I don’t mean forgetting like in totally wiping out the memory – we have to learn from history, after all. What I really mean is that we must take note – and not make it the basis of an ongoing, neverending struggle.”

Servaas sighs and sinks back in his chair. “Sometimes – just sometimes – I wish that all the energy going into evil could go into something positive. What a world it’d be! But then I realise how many people rely on the past to justify their present, and then I know: people will use scriptures to promote the most weird ideas. From fighting wars to beheading people – if you want to justify evil, you can quote verses completely out of context – and some fools will believe you. Evil, sadly, is part of everybody. If you feed it, it will grow.”

They fall silent after that – there really isn’t much more to say. Mankind has been created with both evil and good lurking inside every heart – and for some reason, evil will always – like love sometimes – find a way.

That’s why the Wrong Past will continue to spawn Evil next to the hearth of Greed, while love and friendship will huddle outside, shivering in the cold reality of a world where care is just another four-letter word.

Three Shots: Waiting for Sunrise.

Daily PromptTake a subject you’re familiar with and imagine it as three photos in a sequence. Tackle the subject by describing those three shots.

Waiting for sunrise in Africa.

The old lion was tired. After a lifetime in the desert, it was time to move on.

b

He glanced around, appreciating – for the last time – the company of his loved ones.

c 4It’s getting lighter. A last drink, a last moment…

IMG_4029dAt last…release! Time to join the others in a magnificent display of light.