Things to think about on escalators

I was looking for a reference work on the fourth floor of the Central Public Library of Amsterdam. As spelled out on an English-language page produced for their website (http://www.oba.nl/): "The right to information is enshrined in law and in the Universal Declaration of Human Rights." An employee assigned to the fourth floor reference section had said that if there were any books with detailed info on the subject of drums from the Colombian Pacific rainforest, a key element in a text I was translating from Spanish into English, they would (probably) be on the shelves I was circling.

Coincidentally, the Colombian Revolutionary Armed Forces, the FARC, had reportedly just kidnapped (reportedly, because even with witnesses describing the culprits, their identity as FARC rebels has not yet been confirmed) a new group of people vacationing in the region referred to in the aforementioned text about the drums. The kidnapping itself was reported in international news sources but had not left what you would call a lasting impression. That's not surprising, as the new hostages vanished in the news shadow of another related event, the release by the FARC elsewhere, just days before, of two people who had been held for years. Those were high-profile negotiations. Colombia and Venezuela, the USA and France - just a few of the countries involved. The rainforest kidnapping may have now drawn Norway to the table.

I thought of this while scanning books for references to Afro-Colombian musical instruments. None were found that day, but a visit to this relatively new library is always fun. At the ground floor reception desk, visitors can pick up a foldable map of the ten-floor building, presented as Europe's largest public library. The classic library hush does not apply here, with scheduled and spontaneous piano performances audible on multiple levels, blending with escalator chatter from those en route to upper-level meetings, lectures, presentations or the view from the top-floor restaurant (n.b. the tuna sandwich displayed here upper right is no longer on the handy foldable map, perhaps in conjunction with the first recorded break-ins at the library, evidently carried out by individuals in search of restaurant cash).

Name as Gerund

http://www.boomerwolf.com/soundsmovies/single.au

The letter from Greece began with 'Deer Martha' and I imagined myself catapulted away from the computer, hooves clanging on bare floors as I struggled to stay in forward motion. I eventually found refuge behind trees and was thankful for the profound silence.

Martha Howley, Hooley, Ms. Horley - these arrived in the mail at later dates, with more boisterous connotations.

I completely understood the gender confusion and appeals to Mr. Hawley, Mr. Awley, Mr. Hawkey. Especially endearing was the message for Hans M. Hawley. My middle initial is actually "M," so it was impossible to know whether this was an encroachment upon my first or middle name. For a brief period I answered the telephone with "Hello, Hans speaking" to see how far this could go, but the Hans ID didn't really stick, and took up far too much time as I carefully screened callers, hoping to connect with the person who had called me Hans. I wanted to know why this had happened, but the story fizzled out in a series of exasperated explanations, and I let it slip away. There were other lines: Hauley, Hawkey, Hawky, Halwey, Hoawley, Fawley - it's astounding how many wrong names have reached me. I accept them all.

The freshest name has now come in clear black letters on a white surface. There was no address, and I missed the sound of the small package being thrust through the door. A beautiful new envelope arrived, bearing a gift and another new family sound, reminiscent of celebrities of our times. A gerund is a wonderful thing, releasing me from the still, dense forest.

Still, even or perhaps especially, under its own sounds: http://www.boomerwolf.com/soundsmovies/single.au

All Tar No Feathers

I tried to get a specific and clear appraisal of the roof problem from the plumber-turned-roof repairman still lingering in the doorway before he bolted down the stairs and vanished. I say ‘bolt’ because of his surname, which translates into English as “Rabbit,” and I imagined him, reluctant as he had been to use the ladder leading to the skylight roof access, applying equal strength of feeling to the moment of departure. We had climbed up onto the flat roof shared by adjoining buildings, hoping to see an obvious explanation of the new leakage once again leaving a delta of dark stains on my ceiling. There was in fact nothing at all ‘rabbity’ about the man, a lanky Dutchman with a broad, confident smile, unless one considers his enjoyment of conversation in a negative light. I did not. I was surprised, in several ways (mainly because he had initially politely turned down the customary offer of coffee/tea after descending from the roof and then suddenly said ‘Well let’s have that cup of tea’ when I persisted in my efforts to extract some meaning from this excursion to the roof, part of a long drawn-out sequence of viewings, assessments, e-mails, conversations and shoveling of roof debris into garbage bags), but my surprise diminished with the subsequent observation that his eagerness to converse found quite coherent expression.
The subject matter, it must be said, was changed almost immediately, from the roof dilemma to intercommunal frictions in the Netherlands. He asked for my opinion of an anti-immigration/anti-Islam Dutch Parliamentarian who attracts considerable attention with his inflammatory remarks about not only Muslims in general and their Holy Book in particular, but about most of his left-of-center colleagues and Her Majesty the Queen as well, remarks which have considerable following in the Netherlands, as demonstrated by his emphatic victory at the polls. In reply, I acknowledged that the Parliamentarian was successful in occupying the limelight but in the end must be seen as mostly destructive, prescribing more sanctions against those he did not like than solutions for problems facing us all. “Mr. Rabbit” revealed that he is a loyal Christian Democrat at election time, but one who is not indifferent to the persuasive arguments of the right-wing rabble-rouser, the only person addressing his anxieties experienced on the street where he lives when surrounded by roughly-hewn individuals of North African descent, most of whom do not appear to like him. Some of whom get away with very bad behaviour, when what is needed is severe punishment for their crimes, as demonstrated by the outbreak of extreme violence in Iraq following the defeat of the dictator Saddam Hussein. These people, he said, without wishing to offend anybody, clearly need to have the lid kept on tight, and if things do get a bit out of hand, force should be used to maintain order.
The conversation had shifted considerably from the moment in the doorway when I was intent upon gleaning something, anything, useful in thinking further about the roof. I tried in vain to return to the subject of repair, talking about the more recent efforts on the roof next to ours. I offered to show him the video I had made of the East European workers loading up the rubbish container under the supervision of a Dutch team leader, who became nervous when I popped up through the skylight and began documenting their labors which involved, with our permission, use of our roof space for their supplies.

The plumber didn’t want to see the video, so I tried to get him back on the topic of the disposal of roof rubble, which, in our case, had been left in our hands. The City Waste Collection Service, I had been told, will not retrieve roof debris containing dirt and vegetation as it could hold toxic waste. We had a dozen or so bags needing transport to a different kind of disposal lot, where the license plates of approaching cars are computer-checked as the driver approaches the entrance gate to verify the address of the owner and confirm eligibility for that particular dumping site. We never got that far, because someone bribed the city garbage collectors that same morning and they removed the whole lot. I don’t blame them for a minute. The garbage collectors receive little thanks for what they do, and the ultimate sham was perpetrated by the City itself, when a series of posters were printed in expression of gratitude towards these people. The words (in translation) “Thanks Joe!” (or other names, depending on the picture) accompanied images of smiling, handsome street cleaners and rubbish collectors - later exposed as male models! The workmen themselves weren't good enough? Some thanks. I had hoped to engage the plumber on these and other issues, but a pot of tea only goes so far.

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.