My Aunt and General Noriega

Lots of snow had fallen by 6 p.m. that day. We drove along the hilly Connecticut roads flanked by magical scenes. Majestic trees, stone walls lining the slopes, the front porches of wooden homes - even the vast parking lots at shopping malls were beautiful under the snow.

I had lived in Amsterdam for a decade and my daughter was born there, so the New England winter scene was nothing short of spectacular for us both. Amsterdam winters are mild, and if it does snow, I rush to an upper-story window to watch the airborne flakes. More often than not, they melt before reaching the ground.

Another difference: the snow in Connecticut that day was heavy enough to weigh down pine branches and restrict car routes to those which had been shoveled free, but the point was - the roads and entrances to lots had indeed been cleared for traffic. The Netherlands leads the pack in protecting human infrastructure against the sea, but a light dusting of snow inevitably overburdens road-clearing resources each time.

Nevertheless, progress was slow on the drive back to my Mother’s home. By sometime after 6 o’clock, the rental van needed gas and we needed a snack, so on December 20, 1989, my daughter and I ate hotdogs sold at a roadside service station in the USA. This was possibly her first real hotdog. No one would dare serve second-rate dogs to Connecticut motorists, and these were really good. I kept the receipt, and used it to note the day's historic importance before tucking it into my wallet.

We drove on, happy with the warm food, the exotic setting and with each other’s company. The car radio was another source of pleasure, with Connecticut’s Hispanic stations a major attraction to both me and my half-Colombian daughter. That day, we listened to less music than usual because the invasion of Panama by U.S. forces dominated the news. I was appreciative of the listening time carved out by the car ride. My normal attention to radio and TV news is always interrupted on the road, especially during family visits.

The news was not surprising: another U.S.-backed agent in Latin America was being taken down. It took a few days to capture General Noriega, allowing time for the image of his face to take on a dartboard function in the press and on TV. All reports backed the notion that Noriega was big, nasty fish, that it was worth killing people to get him and that his removal would pave the way for government by virtue. Noriega’s pock-marked face drew derision nationwide.

Many, many Panamanians died as a result of the invasion. To the extent that I was able to tune into mainstream TV and radio during that period - I heard no one questioning U.S. motive or strategy. Friends and family, even those attached to critical, left-ish causes in the past - they were either indifferent towards or enthusiastic about the assault on Noriega. Articulate, well-educated individuals sneered at his bad complexion. The only exception was my Aunt, my daughter’s Great-Aunt, who we had visited that day in the Connecticut countryside.

My daughter had rolled in the snow like a pup, bending over to rub her long dark hair in the fresh drifts, shrieking with delight as she jumped up and whipped her head around. I was deeply happy, seeing her delirious in play, and remembering being a small child myself on those same hills, where my lanky woodsman Uncle would glide along on snowshoes in order to pull my sled. The final packing before moving from this home was happening that week in December. This chance at a final romp was pure coincidence.

My Aunt was my father’s baby sister. Clan complexities had imposed a fairly formal grid on our communications, and that day was not much different. While my daughter rushed around in celebration of all that was new and snowy and beautiful, I cautiously asked my Aunt what she thought about the invasion of Panama. She felt that truth was being withheld by the government, and she questioned the legality of propping up a leader elsewhere and then ferociously bringing him down, asking U.S. citizens to back both campaigns. Our conversations expanded into other fields after that day.

It Had to Happen Sometime Pt.1

Onward, Mississippi is not a rallying cry for this state in the southern USA, but rather the name of a location, a town at a crossroads. Not the crossroads of Robert Johnson and the Devil and the birth of the Blues fame, that's farther north in the Delta. Onward marks the spot where drivers of cars heading North anticipate entering the 'real' Delta, and where south-bound travellers leave the flat Delta fields behind. Either way, people stop for gas or food at the Onward market, becoming aware, if they didn't already know, of the site's true claim to fame: the mythology around the origin of the term 'Teddy Bear.'

At the heart of the legend is President Theodore Roosevelt's refusal to shoot a bear cub while on a hunting trip. A remarkable tale, as Teddy Roosevelt was so assertive at other moments: he championed the triumph over Natives in the American West as well as in other continents, where the ‘dominant races’ had pushed on bravely and avoided the shame of leaving these vast terrains as ‘nothing but a game preserve for squalid savages;’ he led key campaigns in the Spanish-American War, and he was the overseer of Panama’s ‘liberation’ from Colombia and the subsequent construction of the Panama Canal.

I remember staring in confusion (for quite a long time) at the signs in Onward. The only feeling I could identify was ambivalence: inspired by Teddy's legacy (other hunters have spared cubs, but few to none have been Presidents), the Delta's past and present and the unifying role of the sweet stuffed creature. At the time, nobody could have imagined that this, too, would change.

Integration Tip

A friend gets the credit for planting the notion of "The International Grease and Starch Cookbook" in my brain. She was referring to the fact that everywhere you go, there's a favorite way of serving puffy, deep-fried flour: doughnuts, Indian fry bread, Latin American Buñuelos, Spanish Churros, Chinese You Tiao, and the list goes on and on.
I was once served the Corsican variant, to my surprise, by a fierce French-food-fundamentalist and health-oriented French Corsican who proudly introduced me to this tasty, oil-soaked treat. In the steamy Caribbean-rim zone, I watched traders from French Guyana disembark from ferries and water-taxi's on the Surinamese side of the river with bottles of European wine and trays of locally-fried German jelly doughnuts or "Berliner Bollen," as they are known in the former Dutch colony.
Simplify the Berliner Bollen recipe just a bit and you've got the basics for Dutch "Oliebollen" or "Oil Balls." With or without currants or raisins, the dough is plunged into boiling oil and dusted with powdered sugar. The scent from this operation is in the Dutch air from mid-Autumn throughout the Winter, whether or not the temperature drops. Next to tram-stops, on bridges, at intersections - anywhere there is a free rectangle of space, the cheery frying stalls on wheels, most with old-fashioned facades, take position.
I had consumed many oliebollen in my early years in the Netherlands before the moment arrived when I decided to produce a homemade batch, and I set out on the oil ball mission with confidence. Inside the supermarket, bent over the baking supplies, I found myself surrounded by smiling shoppers. I asked them for advice. These women were so nice, so responsive to my inquiry in accented Dutch. One woman reached into her handbag and found an envelope which she used to write down the oil ball ingredients: flour, milk, yeast, currants. She added that I could buy apples to produce the deep-fried beignets that are also part of the traditional New Year's Eve party menu. She even wrote it down in two columns, detailing amounts needed for smaller or larger efforts.
The sense of shopping urgency fell away and three or four of us continued the conversation. The experienced Oil Ball bakers traded tips. Just before a silence could fall at the end of their sentences I would insert another question to keep things going: does it matter whether you use currants or raisins? What's the best kind of oil to fry in? Are oil balls the same all over the country, or are their regional differences? I did want answers, but mostly, I just wanted to share their enthusiasm. The envelope meant a lot to me, and I saved it.
I had used shopping as a ruse in the past, as a new arrival, when I began learning the language. Standing next to Dutch shoppers in action on street markets, I listened to their requests and ordered exactly the same, repeating their words as well as possible. Shopping bags yielded remarkable results.

Global Local Something Like This Pt.1

The globe you see was made by imprisoned Sinhalese Marxists sometime before December 1993, when it came into my hands as a gift from a therapist in the Sri Lankan capital Colombo. This therapist worked with PTSD (post-traumatic stress disorder) sufferers, including combat and torture survivors. Among his patients were leftist Sinhalese nationalists seized during anti-government uprisings.

Once in prison, these Marxist-Leninists were encouraged by occupational therapists to make globes out of papier-mâché, an excellent paper and glue precursor to plastic, lightweight but sturdy. (Nevertheless, as a precaution I carried it in my hand luggage on the return flight home)

There is something supremely optimistic about mustering up the energy and curiousity from inside a jail on a war-shattered island to produce a replica of our planet. At the same time, this particular group was indeed part of a movement which ascribed to world revolution. Small-scale globe production could be seen as a valuable pastime behind bars. As you can see, Leningrad has not yet been renamed as St. Petersburg on this object, suggesting either that it was made before the name switch in 1991 or that a Trotskyite craftsperson chose to ignore this minor detail.

Many accurate placenames are correct, others are correct but misspelled, and still others attest to bold flights of the imagination: Algeria is fine, while Balgeria, Hungeria and Yogoslo are evidence of the will to try. Interrupted education shines through (in fact perhaps they hadn't yet heard about Leningrad being dropped from the list), with Switzarland alluding to imperial pasts, albeit not of the alpine variety. Unite Kingdom Britain, an irreverent amalgamation of often inaccurately interchanged names relating to the former colonial power, could be the opening verse of a church hymn. It’s not, of course, but then again, Protestant missionaries have run many a school on this isle, so they can't be ruled out.

No Coincidence

Had I remembered to take the book I was reading when I left the house, none of this would have happened. Recalling the events of that ride is as hectic as the journey through the over-built landscape of the Netherlands at locomotive speed is peaceful, or so one might expect.

The train sped through fields lower than the barges on the parallel waterway with its perfect border of trees. I held my small digital camera by the window and switched from photos to video, to record the conversation in the seats behind me, but the microphone is evidently not as good as the lens. (You'll only hear a cough, not the early evening chatter about mathematical theories.) Many people in Holland are concerned about the intrusion of industry throughout the countryside, as illustrated by the buildings seen from the train, but the family behind me laughed with delight, and recited the countdown out loud in three languages.

Halloween seems like only Yesterday

A Love Poem for Celebrating Halloween in China

We could just as well have been there,
celebrating Halloween in China.
It is large-scale. Entire highways of witches united in the tonal ‘boo’.
All the single-child families dress the babe
for the encounter with the spirits.
They are horribly proud of their offspring.
Toothless elders screech with delight.

Clusters in masquerade let people do
that clever Chinese thing of fulfilling yourself

without standing alone,
of not having to be
separate in the way we non-Chinese
are stuck with ourselves, because
we’re in our own disguise that we made,
which makes a double you.
There’s too much to recall in costume.

We always honour death itself, with ceremonies
and shrines, great tombs or the ash-paved path.
Why not equal awe for the great beyond?
No more posters on walls, fat photo albums
passed from lap to lap,
but images in motion on the streets,
cult characters set free
in the vague network of timeless feasts.

Dragon boat races set the tone: ancestral vessels
flushed downstream by brawn.
Then somebody’s beauty interrupts, stronger
and bigger than the race.
It could make you wander around the edge of the crowd
pretending to buy a mooncake or two
to get a better view.
The boat flashes by. You’re certain the eyes caught yours.
Take the coloured banners as a good sign.
Waving on the horizon, they greet you.

But here we go again, meeting on clouds.
They can be anywhere, hiding half a moon above,
hanging low, above altars, taking on incense and
ghost money fumes, absorbing flakes
rising from Phoenix-brand cigarettes.
The charcoal fires would look great inside
hollowed-out pumpkins. That’s how we lure people to our doors,

by the way, on Halloween.

Candles behind smiles, that inner glow.

The mysterious exterior
that Oriental evenness of feature.
It’s like a mask already -
I’m sure it would work:
An entire continent afoot with paper bags
held open for treats.
After unleashing tricks:
Hungry ghosts no longer in hiding,
chocolate-crunching hordes,
a potential 100-million impostors
in one province alone.

Maybe we should just search,
together, plainclothed,
for the unspoken thrill,
for the tiny gifts,
or the big reward, love when the truth is out,
without martial posturing,
without that ritual fear of nights
with the unknown.

I'd like to bring this up now because tomorrow is Halloween

I do appreciate good use of the Subject Line in e-mails, but this one caught me off guard.
I was taken aback, even though I had indeed been corresponding with the General Manager of the cemetery where a number of family members are buried. Most significantly: my parents are there. When these four words popped into view on my computer screen, awareness of previous communications failed to sustain me.
The cemetery had generated anxiety in the past. My father was buried there over thirty-five years ago; my mother's ashes interred in the mid-1990's. My mother's ashes, I should say, were partially buried there, as other family members had, to my dismay, requested small portions of ash for transfer (at their discretion) to other sites. Anyway, the anxiety to which I refer had been triggered by difficulties in acquiring a new headstone for the plot which had originally been occupied by Dad alone. When Mom died, and it was decided to have her join Dad underground, it seemed appropriate to order a new headstone which they would also share, rather than add a second marker for her which could either match or clash with the marker already there for him. A design with text was eventually agreed upon and the order placed. No one involved in ordering the new marker lived nearby, so the cemetery Management promised to send a photo when the marker was ready.
A picture was indeed eventually sent by the mason, depicting the new marker in place on the plot, surrounded by the older stones of Grandparents and Great-Aunts and -Uncles who had departed this earth long before our times. The problem was: the stone set in place bore other names entirely, not ours at all, so that our parents were identified as "Mr. and Mrs. Byrd" or some such thing.
I welcomed the hilarity, imagining laughter from them both in the great beyond. The mason, however, was an elderly Italian man who took great pride in his work, and he was hugely ashamed of his error in placement. We reassured him and asked him to please not worry about the mistake. In no time, the correct marker was in place. From time to time, I pass by to share a few moments on that hill. At some point I left my e-mail address with the Manager's office, in case 'anything came up.' I had once inquired about the term 'perpetual care' which applies to family plots like this, confirming my suspicion that this implied little more than lawn-mowing and general up-keep of the grounds. I wondered about stone cleaning and maintenance, and was told that most people preferred the ‘old look’ and that virtually no marker scrubbing was carried out. After that, a long silence ensued.
So when a 'Question from the Cemetery' appeared, my eyebrows remained on high for several long moments. The question was not at all what I expected: in anticipation of my next visit to the cemetery, the General Manager was hoping I might be willing to bring special stockings for a ‘lady friend.’ To be honest, I really did not want to build up this type of relationship with his office. I imagined an infinite number of Subject Lines in the future, injecting, without warning, the shock of a 'Question from The Cemetery' on my screen.
I sent a reply: "Your request ... is indeed unique. If this is an item which is easily identified (size, color, material, quality, strength, price limit) then I am willing to look if I find myself in appropriate stores before travelling..., but without details to simplify the search, I'm afraid it cannot be done. I am not a 'shopper' and do not spend time comparing goods."

The Manager eventually replied, thanking me for my response and informing me that he anticipated visiting Amsterdam (with his ‘lady friend’) and would take care of the matter himself. I shuddered, alarmed at the prospect of seeing 'Visit from The Cemetery' in e-mails to come, but so far no such bulletins have materialized.

Eventually I visited the family plot again, intending to pass by the Manager's office to clarify the issue of perpetual care, but as I started down the green burial slopes on that afternoon in May, I saw his car moving slowly down the flat driveway to the exit gate. The gleam of afternoon sunlight on the car’s black surface was extraordinary.

This Presents So Many Possibilities

The Rugby World Cup 2007 is over now, and South Africa won. I was reminded that it was on when I walked by a French fast food establishment and saw that one of France's star rugby players had agreed to the placement of his signature on top of their seasonal cheeseburger variants. The man who signed the cheeseburgers is France's fly half Frederic Michalak.

I bought the cheeseburger so that I could create photographs for this series on ambient text. After taking the picture I took a bite of the burger only, being careful to avoid the rest. The beef product was not really any better or worse than other fast food combinations on the market, but the apparent poor quality of the bread and cheese was a disappointment.

The most heartening aspect of this innovative take-out idea is that it could trigger countless printed matter campaigns in the sector. There's no need to repeat the platitudes passed around in fortune cookies (although - shortly after learning about the Michalak burger - when I received an encouraging text about imminent uplifting encounters, I wondered whether I was being too harsh in my judgement), and texts resembling cookie copies would not be fun to eat.

I suggest: sports trivia, haiku, short fiction, library addresses. "No reading at the table" might become a rule relegated to the past.

Ramadan Began with Angels

I wanted to stay close to the Bakery window, where otherworldly cascades, ornamental sugary creations seemed to grow towards the glass. The sweet twists were white, golden, copper and orange in color. For a moment it was like being inside the miniature magical world of a sugar eggs with peep holes, a present I had received on Easter Sundays as a small child. I felt so close to that inedible, sweet display. Through the window I could see that mountains more filled the glass case and topped the long, narrow counter, glittering from the street towards the back of the store.
The man behind the counter was curious about my interest, as was a lone male customer inside. I turned away from the window to avoid their gaze and saw their sidewalk advertisement: a sawhorse stand provided by a well-known multinational. The sponsor background featured a young white woman with clear skin and rippling hair, angel wings in view behind her naked shoulders, two pre-packaged ice cream cones held in white- and black-colored gloves crossed carefully in front of her chest. The cones had also been produced to contrast: the cone appearing to be vanilla-flavored bore a light-colored wrapper; dark paper surrounded the presumably chocolate version held, of course, by a darkened hand. One wing was white, the other covered by a sinister shadow, as was half of her enchantingly pretty face. Still visible behind a large yellow sheet inserted by the shop-owners - a question printed on the poster by the multinational: Angel or Devil?
A thick plastic covering on both sides of the stand allowed the retailers to add their own hand-written news, which, in this case, in red marker, informed me that the Bakery was actually a take-out restaurant: Special Menu for Ramadan. By now the shop employee was frowning through the window at me while I studied the heaven and hell cone-eater image. Everyone was rushing along this busy Parisian shopping street. Observant Muslims from all continents might be walking past the sign, I thought, but nobody actually needed to stop in order to read it. The man inside wanted to know why I had. I stepped up and in off the street. The shop employee and I had to peer around the sugary towers on the counter to see each other and converse, while a tall, skinny local boy listened intently. He looked like a hip-hopper, with his baggy pants and cap.
I told the man that the sign was interesting, and asked if I could take a picture of it. He was suspicious and twisted on the balls of his feet, as if he wanted to consult, but could find no consultants within range. The boy asked me where I was from. The mention of Amsterdam brought a contented (conspiratorial?) smile to his face and he called out to the troubled shop employee: “Laisse la faire!” “Let her do it!”

Line 7, should be my lucky number

As I entered the Metro I bumped limbs with a young woman who held 1 arm bent at the elbow and raised like a spear to apply lipstick - just as I was pulling down a seat next to her in the central section of the car, where 8 people in total can sit down in combinations of 2, at the crossroads of the long main aisle and the short alley running between doors on both sides of the car. This open space offers standing room and several chrome poles to hold onto when it's crowded. At mid-morning there are empty seats. About 6 in the central block were occupied.
The young woman smiled at me to indicate that it was alright, she took no offenc(s)e at being jarred, and she was confident that I was not only not offended by having met her elbow while sitting down but that I understood that her efforts to finish applying make-up in this setting had a particular significance which would not be revealed. I returned her look with a reassuring but controlled grin and saw that she was probably in her 20’s, scruffily dressed in various layers of black. In the moment after the collision when she looked away from her compact mirror and at me, I couldn’t help noticing that her eyes glistened too much for this time of the day. She returned her gaze to the mirror and continued with the lipstick operation.
I secured a position of balance and comfort on my seat and looked straight ahead at the man across from us. He wore a suit which I will not easily forget: the fabric of both jacket and pants was green & yellow hound’s tooth. He was already looking across the aisle at the 2 of us in a kindly way. There was something about the random pair we formed, suddenly together, that caught his attention, as though he found meaning in our shared seating arrangements and contrasting height, hair, eye and skin color, style of dress. His stare was persistent but without malice.
Then the bottom of a large square-toed leather shoe came into view as the man sitting nearest to him across the main aisle swung his left foot up onto his right knee and commenced with a rapid shaking movement. The socks extending up the ankle from the shoe were lemon-colored, short with 1 dark rim at the ankle periphery. His suit was light-colored, his white skin tanned, his hair cut to military precision.
The hound's tooth suit smoothly rose and exited at the next station, gently vacating his fold-up seat by slowing the upwards motion with 1 hand as he stood up, all of which prompted lemon socks to spring from his seat to the newly vacated spot in 1 noisy sideways jump, after which he flung his right foot over his left knee and found a resting point for that foot on the chrome pole which had no other takers at this relatively quiet hour of the day.
The young woman and I got off at the same stop. She walked ahead of me to the exit, the spike heels of her pointy-toe boots clattering on the platform. Her eyes, shining a bit less, perhaps more glazed over than before, met mine again for a second before we boarded an escalator for the ascent to the street. I settled in 1 tread below her, staring directly into the red numbers on her back: 55. At street level she was received and embraced by a tall young man. The cobblestones interfered with a boot heel as they drifted off together, and she stumbled. I think she regained her balance with assistance from her companion, but it was hard to tell.

Your Daughter is with Us Pt.3

In parts 1 & 2 (see May and June archive) Hua was introduced as the 9-year old illegal Chinese immigrant, picked up by police on the streets of Paris, taken into custody, and released into the custody of her parents that same evening thanks to the intervention of alert neighbors and experienced social activists in the ‘quartier.’ An estimated 50,000 illegal children are in France, where solidarity with their plight is strong in this country still saddled with the memory of Jewish children lost through collaboration with the Nazi’s. Hua and her family - now four in total, following the birth of a baby boy - still live behind the last door on the ground floor of an old apartment complex at the end of a stone lane which extends from the street and runs past several stairwells providing access to separate buildings.
Hua lives with her brother and parents in a space owned by an absentee but not unknown landlord, who lives well renting properties - at least 80 others, he says - such as this box-with-a-skylight and other more conspicuous and more profitable premises in the red-light district. They won’t, however, be there much longer: the landlord is selling the property, claiming that electrical and other features are sub-standard. Selling allows him to avoid either a fine or the costs of renovation. Acknowledging the defects allows him to evict, and illegal tenants have no recourse.

Before Hua and her family lived there the space was a 24-hour work space for seamstresses. So now, for the neighbors, the idea of a noisy sweatshop with new streams of human traffic replacing the family is unappealing. Hua’s mother told me that she hopes to be able to stay in the neighborhood so that her daughter doesn’t have to change schools. I told her I understood her predicament, having faced deportation and eviction notices in the Netherlands when I was a new immigrant there.

Typed Like He Talked

He was the most professional newsreader on the night shift at the radio. His colleagues preparing to read the news (to other listeners, in other languages) routinely entered the soundproof booth way in advance to shuffle papers, sift through the news items to locate pronunciation hurdles and to fumble with the soundboard knobs in the minutes leading up to a broadcast. Throats were cleared, tissues and water set near the mute button by the microphone, the double doors firmly secured to increase the intensity of the concentration. But he always strolled in at the very last minute, never late, slipped into the chair and found the bulletin on the table. A swift flip through the sheets of paper as if separating a deck of cards, and he read the stories on air, sight unseen, without hesitation.

A veteran sports announcer back at home in the Southern Cone, he survived for a time as a dissident and eventually fled to Europe where he was granted political asylum in Holland. Presiding over broadcasts to his continent of origin provided steady work, but it was too easy and what he really wanted to do was to return to live football commentary. When the opportunity to apply for this work arose in Spain, he was nervous for the first time in years. To prepare for the interview and announcing test, he sat in front of his TV during a live football game, turned off the sound, and recorded his own roared commentary on the players, their moves, the scores, prospects for the season and club histories, all of which he understood profoundly. There was no hesitation here either, and the only word which received extra time and, astoundingly, even more volume, was ‘GOOOOOOOOAL!’ The neighbors in his Dutch apartment building were concerned, and they called the police, who were relieved to discover that the man who had been shouting non-stop was unaccompanied. They silenced him that day, so there really was only one practice session, but he got the job in Spain, and sent a few letters, which rang true.

Unable to Exclude: Papyrus Store on Pyramids Street

Nothing about my physical appearance suggests that I am Egyptian. Nevertheless, while in Egypt, I passed as a resident foreigner. My clothing evidently created that impression: loose-fitting garments covered all limbs. More importantly, I was unaccompanied on the streets, heading for specific work-related destinations, except for the final day, when I visited the Great Pyramids and bought papyrus at a souvenir store.

A protective cardboard envelope for this fragile product was supplied by “New Pharaohs Papyrus,” a shop near Cairo selling papyrus to tourists. We were released into the store’s cool interior from a mini-bus with airco. The store was quiet, the personnel solemn in countenance, particularly so when the non-Egyptian visitors opted to purchase the least expensive papyrus on offer, a single sheet bearing colorful hieroglyphs.

We glanced at the hieroglyphs before they were slotted into the cardboard sheath. The personnel stepped back from the counter: the envelopes carried an image which appeared to study the buyers even before the cash transaction had been completed. Thanks to Dr. Maarten J. Raven, Curator for the Egyptian Department of the National Museum of Antiquities in Leiden, in the Netherlands, I now understand more about the packaging placed in my hands that day.

The design on the envelope has no immediately available exact parallel in antiquity, but Dr. Raven was ‘unable to exclude’ that the motif had been copied from a coffin or papyrus writing from 3,000 years ago. This could mean that the “New Pharaohs Papyrus” design was drawn from a rare sample as yet unavailable to scholars, or, that the design was a somewhat incompetent replica of what is a ‘well-known combination:’ the Eye (Sun or Moon) of Horus, who was the Falcon God of Heaven, the Cobra, who warded off evil, and the Wing, a sign of Horus’ status as a deity.

Horus’ eye represents ‘wellbeing and survival,’ as the waning and waxing of the moon are said to represent harm caused to his moon eye and subsequent return to full ocular health thanks to intervention by other deities. The image on the cardboard envelope also contains the hieroglyph for life, the Ankh Cross, dangling from the Cobra’s body. All in all, an encouraging logo.

The text underneath the image includes hieroglyphs which, according to Dr. Raven, are not written in orthodox fashion. The word for ‘eternity’ emerges clearly, but again, he cannot exclude that ‘even this detail was faithfully copied from an original.’

Very Brief Technical Reference

My bank's website provides information which is apparently legal in one language and 'without legal force' in another. I do not immediately understand what is so 'convenient' about this arrangement, but I'm sure there's a very good explanation. Previous correspondence with the bank concerning their designer use of Arabic texts led to an impasse (please see blogs of May 25, June 5), and I will not pursue this particular point any further with their offices.

We did not say "Hello? Is anybody there?"

I was really looking forward to the heat of the Florida Everglades, to seeing a 'gator or two, and to talking to the locals in one of the few towns around. We drove into such a town center one day.
“We’re all white, five-hundred and thirty-six people, and twenty-five blacks.”
“No Seminole?”
“One [man], and his wife is white.”
We could tell that conversation was going nowhere, even just a minute or two after wandering into the town hall office which was located at the end of a hallway with doors opening onto a playschool, the one-room local library and other civic sites. They had all been united into a tiny, eloquent municipal mall in this large, solid building. Outside the front door, columns and flowers adorned the front steps, which we quickly saw again. No one asked where we were from or how we liked it there, poised at the end of a road which led back into the old route running between Miami and Naples. Up-scale properties are close by, and landscapers sometimes take their customers into the Everglades to select plants for their gardens from the steamy plantations.

But this felt more like a frontier town, with swampland behind it and the Gulf of Mexico in front. Normally there are boat services for ricocheting through the water around the coast islands. There was nobody at the docks or at the ice cream stand.
We tried to acquire a cool drink at a local restaurant, where a large sign on one of the club doors caught my attention. Considerable time and energy go into arriving at that door, and when you do, you read the sign and get the feeling that they don’t appreciate all the effort that has gone into your trip. I was left wondering what was most important about the club’s history, whether rowdy sightseers had disturbed the atmosphere in the club in the past, or whether burglars had caused damage. Was a dress code firmly in place? I posed all of these questions in an e-mail, but so far there has been no reply.

Nobody Asked

My bicycle remained unused and inert while I was out of town. The tires needed air, so I stopped at the pump hanging outside of the bicycle store around the corner from where I live. Anyone can use it. I forced the kickstand down with my right foot and squatted to unscrew the tiny, black cap on the valve, coming face to face with a poignant world on the tire, its hub, the spokes: ladybugs stood out on the chrome center, tiny spiders hurtled through the dark, oily recesses of the chain guard. These and more bugs I couldn't name had colonized my bicycle in my absence. They would be forced to take refuge on the inner fender, I imagined, when I took off and built up moderate speed. I unhooked the air hose from the wall and bent down towards the valve as I connected the pump with the tire - and then I was knocked backwards by the blast of an exploding inner tube.

To passers-by who provided commentary, it sounded like gunfire, an attack. I felt the air pressure hit my body, finding it strange how even such a small blast could have a physical impact. A young woman came over to see if my ears were alright, explaining as she walked off that "these days you don't know what might happen." An elderly man said that he had been through 'the War' (WWII) and was used to everything, but that people today in Holland were only just starting to sense a connection between their own circumstances and today's far-off battles. I referred to internet options, both for getting news on wars and for getting closer to the war. Web-pages advertise jobs galore in Iraq, for example, such as on http://iraq.jobs.monster.com/ Car repair could just be a growth sector.

We chatted as I walked my bicycle in the direction of the repair shop. He was retired, receiving a pension. I mentioned this year's revelation of Dutch retirement funds being invested in companies producing cluster bombs. The money came from salaries paid to a wide range of professionals, including many thousands in the public broadcasting sector. The man shook his head and told me that he was proud that his tax money was going to pay for today's wars, because at least he knew where it was being spent, because with internet and all: "these days you can't tell where your money is going." We had different perspectives on whether or not it was a good thing to produce cluster bombs, but agreed on a bottom line: people expressed indignation about their money being used to support the arms trade, but nobody paying into the fund had bothered to ask until now.

Your Daughter is with Us (Pt.2)

In pt. 1 (see May 2007 archive), the young Hua was last seen walking, nearly skipping, down a boulevard in Paris, hand-in-hand, with a tall police officer. She had been found alone on the street, or perhaps inside the metro, it wasn’t clear, and with no parents at home to receive her, she was taken into protective custody by the authorities who said she would be held at the Office for Minors.The neighbors witnessing her departure agreed that the law preventing the police from turning Hua over to non-parental adults was a good one.

But the neighbors also knew that the parents were illegal aliens. When the father arrived, he struggled to understand where his daughter was. He understood almost no French. One neighbor had called a businesslike woman to the scene: a representative of a local solidarity network, offering support and assistance to illegal aliens. She was good at sifting through incoherence and despair in search of factual information, anything which could be used to weave a story. No story meant anonymity and deportation. This woman’s network operates as a buffer zone between the shady practices of human traffickers and the grim world of detention cells.

Hua’s mother rushed in, and the ‘Uncle’ appeared. The more that was said, the more muddled the tale. The ‘Uncle’ produced the parents’ passports (and collected them again at the end of the evening). The solidarity worker called the Office for Minors and spoke to the social worker, who promised through the phone that the girl would be returned to the parents if they could show papers proving their status as father and mother. The social worker, proceeding on the assumption that the parents were illegal, also promised that no immigration-related questions would be asked. The social and solidarity workers shared the view that it was better for the little girl to be returned to her only home in Europe, with the people who were possibly her parents, than to remain in police custody, terrified and alone.
The social worker kept her word: the English-language Chinese-stamped ‘document’ identifying Hua as the daughter of the two Chinese adults present was accepted as valid, vague accounts of the parents’ work in ‘sausage sales’ were polished up for a report drawn up for the Office for Minors files, and signatures were collected from the mother and me, registered as ‘official interpreter’ for the occasion.
Little Hua entered the room, burst into tears and collapsed into the arms of the ‘Uncle,’ who comforted her and whispered soft words over the side of her head. Until that moment, he had been allocated the role of the scheming trafficker in the story. The solidarity worker and I had been exchanging subtle furrows of the brow as the evening wore on, but now, we watched him in the role of affectionate elder.
The ‘parents’ barely reacted to Hua’s return. Although relieved not to have been handcuffed upon arrival at the police station, they were still cowering from all the questions posed, unable to hide their anxiety. The social worker and the police who offered full assistance in arranging Hua’s return continued to lean towards the ‘couple’ and to repeat ‘Don’t be afraid!’ in a language the parents did not understand, in loud tones that made them lean back to avoid the sound, eyes wide open in fear. The message conveyed by their body language was insulting to the helpers, who could not tolerate being viewed as mean people. But rather than express anger, they displayed sarcasm, indifference; resignation to their inability to set anyone at ease. As Hua and her entourage were hurrying out of the Office for Minors that night, eager to treat their helpers to late evening refreshment at a fast-food restaurant, the police guards at the door had simply looked bored - this happens all the time.

Thanks for Calling

Several years ago, I found part of Steve Walker’s boarding card in a hotel room.

I had been surprised to find the stub on the floor of the large closet when I pushed open the folding doors. The room appeared to be spotless, with only this fairly substantial paper scrap on the floor. It seemed to me - in this new era of heightened security - to be a significant discovery. Steve, the passenger, had evidently stayed in this same room a few days earlier, and the stub confirmed that he had flown into town. I say 'confirmed' because of the hand-written number covering the printed data, indicating the positioning of ground crew at a point where they observed progression of passengers into the actual body of the plane, as the only physical alternative to either remaining in the Gate area or vanishing back into the airport with a boarding pass, intact or otherwise. Passengers with hand-written numbers on their stubs were presumed to have boarded the flight and disembarked at the destination.
The most likely conclusion to be drawn after finding the stub on the closet floor was that he had stayed in this room. The chances of someone else having acquired his boarding stub were slim. Printed data included his name, date, origin and destination, so I found a telephone number for a person of his name in the location of 'origin' and I called him. I didn't call him to have him either confirm or deny having stayed in the hotel; I called him to ask whether he objected to me posting the image of a boarding stub with his name on it. He could have suspected a scam or a call center and slammed the phone down, or he might have wanted to keep me on the line long enough for a trace. I had no way of knowing.

Instead, he listened to my introduction and said yes, he had a moment for a conversation, and no, that wasn't him in the hotel room, and he had no objection to the transfer of printed data which didn't actually refer to him. Steve was relaxed, uninterested in internet activities. He laughed, and bid me farewell with the words ‘take care.’

He was very friendly, and I could imagine him using the stub as a bookmark, perhaps leaving the paperback on his seat by mistake, or giving it to the person seated next to him, who then checked into the hotel and left the stub behind in the closet.

No Vocabulary This Time Around

Finding myself illiterate in Poland, I followed a color scheme. Racially, Warsaw appeared to be almost completely white, like me. The parks added a strong element of green.

In the late 20th-century, multinationals had moved into office buildings around public spaces, and the adjacent hotels for business travellers were marketing those recreational zones. The welcome folder in my room included the message that jogging was possible next door in the park. One day, after returning from a meeting, I changed and trotted on out, only to discover that the circuit was very short, and that nobody else was on it. Instead, locals strolled or sat on benches. Others moved briskly along the paths, carrying briefcases, books, shopping bags.

Also green was the luminescent soaking fluid poured into the footbath at a mid-town beauty salon, which I visited during a lunch break in an effort to mesh with daily routine. The manicurist was wearing bright green open sandals. Features on her face, chest and toes seemed to be pushed into points. Her lips were also pursed into a cone. The apron she wore was absolute white, and her hair was bleached to match. She spoke to me in Polish, trying to determine the color of nail polish to be used. I wanted clear polish, but I had trouble convincing her on that point, and finally, after giving me a slow once-over, she made a final offer: "Blue-ski?"

I remembered my friend, the manicurist, while strolling through Warsaw Airport on the day of departure. Turning back for a final look at a gleaming shop, I saw vacuum-packed sausage being sold by women in uniform. Their platinum hair glistened; their long nails were flawless and blue.

So Far This Much is Known - Not Allowed to Show You Pt.2

I had written to the bank requesting a translation, should they have it, of an Arabic text on a plastic file given to their clients. In response, the bank sent me another product for clients: a paper file (which tucks inside the plastic one) with relevant design background information on its inside cover. Eight examples of bookkeeping techniques throughout the ages are depicted, including the 11th-century Egyptian customs book with the Arabic text. Five or six lines of introductory text accompany each image. I thanked the Communications Department for the reply and repeated, very gently, my interest in viewing an actual translation.

The response from the bank was that the translation had already been sent to me. In the bank's view, the summary is the translation. I don't expect to hear from them again and may never learn about the full content of the writing on the plastic file. At this stage I am proceeding on the assumption that the bank does not have a translation of either the Arabic text or the Hieroglyphics on another image I inquired about: the hat-shaped papyrus scrap, which, as it turns out, is not papyrus at all, but an unglazed pottery shard known as an ostracon, from the Greek 'ostrakon' meaning a shell or earthenware fragment used as a voting ballot, among other things.

According to the bank's blurb, the Egyptians used these shards for taking notes. The terra cotta roof-tile fragments which are smashed onto the streets of Amsterdam by heavy wind storms in the winter are sometimes quite beautiful, but I'm pleased that I do not have to carry them around as my notepad. In the old days, papyrus cost money, whereas an ostracon could be picked up off the streets anytime you wanted to jot something down. The actual hieroglyphics in the bank design seem to constitute a note declaring Taurine's intent to repay his debt to Papnoute. That's all I know.
Both the ostracon and the customs book images are on my computer, and perhaps one day I'll learn more.

Your Daughter is with Us (Pt.1)

Hua was a nine-year-old girl from Eastern China who had joined her parents in Paris just two months before we met. I was their neighbor, and they passed by my window twice a day. Her mother described, whisking a clenched fist over an outstretched palm, how she paid twenty-thousand euros for the necessary travel documents. Hua lived with her parents on the ground floor of an old apartment complex with several stairwells rising through two five-story buildings, home to hundreds. A stone lane runs from the gate at the street straight back to the last ground-floor door. In the evening, before the parents got home from work, there was often a knock on Hua’s door, and a voice echoed back along the lane. Hua? Are you alone? Have you eaten? Hua managed the five-minute walk to and from school alone, doing homework or sleeping until somebody came home to cook. The neighborhood has a leftist legacy, and the primary school, named after a Latin American revolutionary hero, offers a special adjustment class for the new arrivals who do not yet speak French.
One day Hua forgot to take her key. She couldn’t go home, so she decided to look for one of the three people she knew: her parents and an ‘uncle.’ She negotiated a route into the metro between the Chinese squatting in line for the sidewalk pay phones, Africans in flowing dress, Jews and Muslims opening their couscous restaurants and shops. Somehow in the jostling mass, this small, silent girl caught the eye of a transport system employee, who placed Hua in police custody. Hua lead three male officers back to her door, where they waited for the parents to return. The Police were firm about not leaving the girl behind in the care of friendly and concerned neighbors who appeared on their way home. A light rain fell; everyone waited under the stairwell arch near the letter boxes. A stoic Hua leaned against the wall, unable to understand anything that was said until I happened to come down the lane and speak to her in elementary Chinese. Hua explained that she had left her key inside, and that her parents would be home soon. I got a hint of a smile when I showed her pictures on my laptop of me in China.
The police scribbled a note to the parents (‘Your daughter was found alone in the metro. She’s with the police. Call this number’), slipped the paper into their mailbox and left. Hua’s black ponytail swung over her bright red backpack as she trotted along, keeping pace with the tall officers.

Not Allowed to Show You

How long should I have remained standing in silence, waiting for answers from a man frozen in concentration as he stared at a page of words I did not understand? I had asked this local consultant for help in translating a text. Interrupting the meditation to apologize for trouble caused before swiftly departing might have been offensive, indicative of a lack of faith in this person’s willingness or ability to decipher the blurred script. A compromise became possible when the reader looked up as another matter called his attention, allowing me to express gratitude and leave.
I do not yet have the wanted details. This much I do know:
The 11th-century text is in Arabic, covering two pages of an open book depicted on the front of a plastic file supplied by my bank for storing monthly statements. The other recognizable object on the file cover is a scrap of papyrus with hieroglyphics running horizontally across the fragment, suggestive in form of a rimless high hat with a commanding lower V which would run across a forehead down to mid-nose. I read neither Arabic nor hieroglyphics, so I called the bank to request a translation, and was informed that the Arabic text is from the 11th-century Egyptian mathematician Ibn al-Milli. Employed as a Customs Official in Alexandria, he hoped to be succeeded by his son Mohammed and wrote a textbook dealing with the math-related aspects of Customs work, such as calculating foreign exchange rates. The hieroglyphics on the papyrus scrap - not a hat at all, but apparently used as legal tender - would take longer to translate, but the Communications Department has promised to get back to me on this one. I requested permission to display close-ups of these graceful texts as they appear on my plastic file, but the bank said no.

Hold Down Pages

Certain libraries allow visitors to photograph books as long as the camera is silent and no flash is involved. This is terrific when the library you are in is far from home and the books can't be checked out. I hadn't thought of it myself until spending about ten days printing out microfilm copies from a special collection in the basement of an otherwise attractive building. At one point I left the room for a break and passed a young woman, quite Goth, photographing page after page from a book laid out on the main table. I got myself a decent digital camera and in no time I was I was having new library experiences. In a university library reading area, I brushed aside peanuts, potato chips and chocolate bar wrappers, cleaned the surface of the table, and captured the pages needed while surrounded by other visitors who chatted, composed text messages on their phones and snacked. In a Municipal library in a different city, a sweet, smiling librarian supplied me with a tome-shaped white pillow to rest the book on and a matching string of white beads to lay across the open book, thereby holding down the pages. He demonstrated the technique, and explained their library policy in a whisper.