New Words in Dutch used in English

A credit card company offered me thirty free minutes on (in?) a golf simulator (I looked it up: a golf simulator [the Dutch word is formed by joining the two English words, and the Dutch word was used in spite of the fact that the advertisement was distributed in English], not surprisingly, creates a sort of virtual golf), thus engaging my brain in one of a myriad of wasted moments of alarm and desolation triggered by marketing campaigns.

Even though I have acknowledged feelings of being harassed by golf and its marketing campaigns since the final decade of the 20th-century, the point at which I created computer and paper files to accommodate my habit of holding on to all golf-related information which came my way, and in spite of the fact that the feelings of harassment have been toned down by my having recently embarked on a quest to find peace with golf, the truth is that it’s one of the few sports that really bothers me. I have chosen not to speak up until now, largely because a good number of individuals I like and even love are or have been committed to golf to some extent. For the time being I find it unnecessary to embellish upon the specific issues which might bring sadness to others.

It may seem that I have done everything possible to avoid talking about golf with that vulnerable group of devotees, but this is not the case. I have in fact actively pursued the subject of golf, in a manner that would allow me to learn more about the science of the sport, and explanations of certain golf-specific subjects, such as the handicap system, have invariably been complex and truly interesting. I have even gone out to play on a real golf course, dressed in golf clothes. It rained that afternoon, so the game was cancelled.

Some of the subjects in my golf files (which exist under the general heading of ‘The Rise and Fall of the Global anti-Golf Movement’ ) include: golf simulators, golf and globalization, fair pay for caddies, regional land disputes, farmland sold to golf course developers, farmers forced off their land to make way for golf courses, farmers who take up golf in their spare time, burial grounds excavated to create golf courses, environmentally-friendly golf courses, climate change and the future of golf, golf colors/fashions and accessories, the golf course as sanctuary, my Father’s private golf course in our back yard, growth and loss sectors in the golf industry, the history of golf, golf in China, golf etiquette, gender and race on the golf course, etc. Contributions to the archive are always appreciated. Thank you in advance.

All Lands are Homelands: a Headscarf Debate

I once knew a woman who longed to return to her country of birth, Canada, even after receiving this scarf as a present. It was intended as a joke, but, overwhelmed as she was by sentiment; she found it whimsical, much to her family’s chagrin. A friend of a friend of a friend of hers had once retrieved it from musty heaps of second-hand items, and so began its long trajectory through the closets and drawers of acquaintances and strangers, until it eventually found its way into her most secluded stash of usable items which lay safe and untouched.

To my knowledge, she never did wear the scarf, being far too fashion-conscious to do so. I on the other hand was willing to tie it around my brow and neck, in pursuit of an elegant Moslem headscarf style avant la lettre, and pose as an eager listener while she recited the poem that had become her favorite rallying cry for return to one's homeland: this excerpt from Scotland’s Sir Walter Scott’s The Lay of the Last Minstrel:

Breathes there the man, with soul so dead,
Who never to himself hath said,
This is my own, my native land!
Whose heart hath ne'er within him burn'd,
As home his footsteps he hath turn'd,
From wandering on a foreign strand!

I had learned at an early age to try and make her laugh, but not even my absurd posturing in an irreverent headdress could mask the grim shift in tone of this recitation, challenging to any listener within the first sixteen lines:

If such there breathe, go, mark him well;
For him no Minstrel raptures swell;
High though his titles, proud his name,
Boundless his wealth as wish can claim;
Despite those titles, power, and pelf,
The wretch, concentred all in self,
Living, shall forfeit fair renown,
And, doubly dying, shall go down
To the vile dust, from whence he sprung,
Unwept, unhonor'd, and unsung.

I understood that profound ties were being put to the test with these words, uttered in the original version not by the last Mohican but by ‘the last Minstrel.’ Sure enough, a celebratory tone enters this early ode to patria:

Not scorn'd like me! to Branksome Hall
The Minstrels came at festive call;
Trooping they came, from near and far
The jovial priests of mirth and war;
Alike for feast and fight prepar'd,
Battle and banquet both they shar'd.
Of late, before each martial clan,
They blew their death-note in the van,
But now, for every merry mate,
Rose the portcullis' iron grate;
They sound the pipe, they strike the string,
They dance, they revel, and they sing,
Till the rude turrets shake and ring.

More colourful details are supplied on the intimate mingling of the revelers, and, while she would have read those in private and blushed in public, anyone fishing for the core idea of home could skip over the rest. She thought she longed for Canada, when in fact her poignancy led her back to the people who had raised her on the nectar of homesickness, the people who harked back to their own native land, Scotland.

The woman began reciting these verses like a sermon. On gentler days, the verses were chanted like a prayer. Everyone knew that she expected you to eventually agree with the idea. No one could foresee that she would pick up and go home, and, having arrived, perhaps more upset by the first verse than anyone ever knew, would take her own life. Everyone carried on; we all learned the poem and longed for the homelands of all mothers; we swapped stories about the woman's other peeves: bullying in politics and society; the drab and claustrophobic landscapes in local villages, all built with money by the new post-war bully who bothered her the most. This could explain why she was not amused by the scarf.

I don't anticipate being able to uncover details on the origins of the scarf – the tags with shredded corners lost almost all faded print long ago. If you take a closer look at the scarf, you will see (deliberate) Anglo-misspellings of the French word ‘oui,’ dating this probable souvenir item to a time in Canada’s history when the French language was still struggling for recognition.

Let me count the ways

When I first caught sight of it, the sign was tacked to a wall in a shady corridor of the Municipal Judicial Authorities building in Kandy, கண்டி, a Sri Lankan mountain town. The three alphabets were graceful together; the colors enhanced by age. The message seemed either absolutely effective (the setting couldn’t have been quieter) or perfectly located, like a stage direction conveying a desired atmosphere which had been attained long ago.

A third possibility was to read it as a confirmation or announcement: This is silence, or as close to it as you’ll get for the time being. We walked into the building before office hours began, just passing by the Judge’s office for reasons which had remained unexplained, slowing down after a pre-dawn rush to the Buddhist Temple in Kandy where the faithful protect a tooth relic from the Buddha himself.

The Judge, the kindest person you could ever hope to meet, had picked me up at the guesthouse and run alongside of me in his loose sandals to the temple. He did this as a favor to his sister, a close family friend of a friend of mine in Colombo, but still, I had anticipated an element of formality in the temple expedition: a dignified stroll at the end of the night, slipping into the temple by a narrow entryway where religious supervisors would screen visitors with practiced looks.

Instead, the Judge rushed up to the guesthouse and bumped into the edge of the wooden porch several times as he greeted me, his crisp, white shirt contrasting with dark curly hair which even careful grooming with coconut oil, evident in the gleaming parallel locks, could not prevent from tumbling onto his forehead and cheek. In the dim light he looked like a schoolboy, ready for anything.

We said Must run! simultaneously and bounded across the garden lawn, arriving nevertheless too late at the temple, where the staff presumably recognized the Judge and allowed us to rush along the corridor as quietly as possible, only to reach the inner chamber housing the tooth relic just as the golden casket was again being sealed, leaving us to share this moment of disappointment with the smiling priests still bent over the treasure.

Which brings me to the fourth possible interpretation of the sign – which I fell in love with at first sight – hanging on the wall when we entered the Municipal building. Option #4 was conveyed by the figure of the apologetic man, a respected figure in this town who probably seldom failed in the execution of his duties. He shrugged just once and showed me inside without saying a word, the look of boyish anticipation gone from his face. As early as it was, we were warm from our exertions, ready for the cool interior, but the fine air seemed to cover the scene with a tinge of sadness rather than relief. The Judge padded around his office, with less urgency now, opening and shutting drawers and cupboards. I understood that this was a time for no conversation. I didn’t know how his relationship with his sister, his stature as a Judge, his religious convictions and relationship with the caretakers of this most sacred of sites were intertwined and how they all weighed in the balance.

I busied myself with a long, close stare at the sign. (This must have been when without a sound he slipped a small object into his pocket, producing it much later in the morning when he finally smiled widely again and opened his hand and peeled back tissue paper, which no longer crackled in the considerable heat, to reveal a small carved elephant, the beast central to the magnificent annual Perahera procession which appears to go on in spite of all extenuating circumstances) The Judge emerged, closed his office door and noted my focus on the wall, whereupon he offered to give me the sign without the slightest hesitation. They wouldn’t miss it in this quiet place, he assured me.

Fortunately I usually carried then as I do now a protective folder for flat, loose sheets of paper or objects, and I was able to slip the flaky cardboard rectangle into a cool, dry case for transport in my cotton shoulder bag. This was not the first time that I was able to make off with a sign.

An Extremely Brief Technical Reference

From left to right:

Who wants to answer a call when the number is withheld?

For the duration of a 23-minute skype call with a far-off friend, Skype tried to lure me to their online store by saying that the audio wasn't working.

Another Martha Hawley on IMDb has stolen my only film role and I want it back, but so far no luck.

(for a 'Very Brief Technical Reference,' see August 4, 2007)

Not Barefoot in the Park / No Naked Flames on Pentecostal Weekend Ferry

Drought warnings are in effect in parts of the Dutch countryside. But in Amsterdam, a city of canals, the sunny weather has been highly appreciated over the past week, since before Liberation Day 2008 - that's May 5th. Liberation Day marks the release in 1945 from Nazi occupation during World War II. Things have gone pretty well in Holland since then. Holidays are considered a basic right for all inhabitants of the Netherlands, and more than 20% of the Dutch population has reportedly been on vacation in the first half of May. This is good. It helps relieve the congestion in Amsterdam. Most city parks, and some waterways (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9OfMOHdlpP8), sponsor holiday activities, with vendor markets, games for children and live music.

In one park in eastern Amsterdam, the activities reflect the local population: the merchants selling clothing, music and handicrafts are Dutch, Indian, African, Surinamese, Antillean and so on. Potential buyers reflect the same lines of descent. Many take their small children to the park’s wading pool, a large, clean circle of water surrounded by grass. One of the signs around the area warns of broken glass and other dangerous objects on the ground. The visual warning hangs too high for children to notice. I was interested in the policy at the city office responsible for this park so I called and asked whether language (multiple, in this neighbourhood) considerations played a role in deciding to feature the pained foot above glass, with no verbal reinforcement, on the sign.

A receptionist thought that it was a message discouraging people from leaving glass in the area. The person in charge of all park signs was out of the office, possibly all week, on vacation, as I said, and perhaps into next week as well, as the third major holiday in May (the first was Remembrance Day, on May 4th, honouring all War Dead, including WWII and all other conflicts) is today, with Whit Sunday or Pentecost, a Christian holiday which is an official holiday for all inhabitants of the Netherlands. The event is recalled differently in separate churches, but it all ties in with the idea of the Holy Spirit returning to man – according to certain groups: as tongues of fire settling on top of the Apostles’ heads! Extraordinary! This allowed them to speak in tongues, to all who would listen. The subject remains highly controversial in our times. It's an issue with, for example, the “Glossolalia Movement.”

No Naked Flames suddenly appeared as an apt warning on the ferry which carried me over a river yesterday, at the start of this holiday weekend.

Security Measures in Spain

The Future: The bicycle path in Seville extended into a traffic circle. I was impressed by the exclamation mark serving, I assumed, as a warning to cyclists along this route which I walked several times a day. Another point which caught my attention was that, in fact, I never saw any cyclists. Several times a day for less than a week – that is not enough to argue that there were no cyclists, so I imagine that there were, or will be in the future. I asked locals who frequented the shops and cafés whether the punctuation was meant to assist a multi-ethnic and or illiterate population of cyclists, but I did not manage to find anyone who felt qualified to respond.

The Recent Past: seguretat in the sign is meant to reassure rabbits and inform hunters that they are not allowed to shoot anyone or -thing beyond this tree. I entered this ‘no hunting’ zone in Catalan country feeling only mildly reassured. The old hunting rifle as depicted on the sign is evidently still in use here and there. The sign itself has become redundant, however, left over from an era when hunters stealthily slipped past this tree on the edge of a small but famous settlement to track down animals in the fields beyond. The fields have since given way to a highway and railroad line, so that the tree is now wedged between a car park and the modern traffic circuit, uniting metropolitan Barcelona on the East with suburbia on the West. The sign has so far survived all transitions.

Timeless Legend, Present Practice: April 27th is the Feast Day of the Black Madonna of Monserrat, not far from Barcelona in Catalonia. While still said to work miracles, the Black Madonna has a disputed history. Described sometimes as a 12th-century sculpture and in other contexts as a work carved with Joseph’s very tools in Jerusalem two-thousand years ago, the statue was said to have been transferred across the Mediterranean to Monserrat by Saint Peter in 50 A.D., amazingly hidden away from the invading Saracens and miraculously found first by shepherds and later by monks, to be fully reinstated at the time of the reconquista, when power was recovered from the Muslims by the Catholic monarchy. Those who believe that the Madonna is a 12th-century sculpture suggest that its inertness led monks to build a sanctuary around it and eventually a church. The Black Madonna is of interest to others because she is black (African), while other sources claim that x-rays prove that her skin color was originally white, turning gradually darker because of lead in the paint. Clicking on the picture will enlarge text offering still another explanation. Whatever the origins, the Black Madonna and Baby Jesus attract Catholic Pilgrims from all over the world. They believe that it is beneficial to file past the Madonna and touch or kiss the glass separating her from the crowds. Distance is not a problem; she will heal and protect.

Colonial Origins of the Non-Acquisitive Lifestyle - Global Local Pt.2

The first time I met a Zimbabwean was so long ago that he was in fact still a Rhodesian, the chief tenant in an apartment nestled, not far from my new job, into one of colonial Hong Kong’s residential neighbourhoods on the mainland, extending between dense, coastal commerce and farmland running north to the People’s Republic of China. The Rhodesian was a short, slight figure, a young white man with dark blonde hair and fierce eyes. He never set out to kill me, but his actions could have done just that.

The three-bedroom apartment in question included a shared living room and kitchen, which was almost never in use. If I ever met or even saw the third tenant, I don’t recall the event. There are two aspects of that home which I do remember well: the view out of the window from a horizontal position on my bed (the image was that of huge wing-tips of jets landing at the nearby airport - the audio was equally unforgettable), and the Rhodesian’s many Chinese girlfriends. One of those women provided the image recalled in greatest detail, a scene which confirmed my doubts about the wisdom of prolonging this living arrangement. The sights that day were followed by my final departure from the apartment the next morning.

When I went to view the apartment, I flashed my employment contract and spoke with just the slightest bit of exaggeration of my extensive connections in the local business community. In fact in those early days I knew only two people, but I referred to them and their community as my own secure circle, where people were watching. The chief tenant mentioned working at a bank - but the deal-clincher for me was the proximity to work. I moved in and began a hectic routine which included a bit of time (almost every day) at the apartment, where I rarely met another living soul. It didn’t last long.

After a weekend away, I returned home one Sunday afternoon to an apartment filled not with people, but with gas fumes. The purple curtains in the living room were drawn shut, and green candles were lit on the coffee table. While staring at the bizarre scene I became aware of the hiss, which I traced to the kitchen, where I found the gas on full force. At some point between that moment and my final departure I stood looking at the Rhodesian, seated on the sofa nursing a beer, explaining that while ‘all Chinese are dogs,’ he had never expected this particular Chinese girlfriend to be so vindictive as to set a death trap for him in his own home, only because he left her waiting for him all night long.

I also remember that packing was a simple affair: clothes and books into the backpack, one garbage bag for the overflow and another bag for the items going into the garbage. I left so quickly that by mistake I moved the rubbish with me and threw out the overflow, thus reinforcing an early adherence to the non-acquisitive lifestyle.

For the story of this globe, please see LBN post on November 26, 2007.