Great artists fancy that they have taken full possession of a soul. In reality, and often to their painful disappointment, that soul has only been made more capacious and insatiable, so that a dozen greater artists could plunge into its depths without filling it up.
(Nietzsche, in Human, All-Too-Human)
Old Fred describes them well enough, the feelings I experience with regard to books these days. Being a bum with lots of spare time, there is room, and also, luckily, ample inspiration for reading a lot. Sharing is caring, and thus I will try and recommend or warn against the books I read, for the benefit of my fellow women (and men) back home.
I have, quite naturally, devised a rating system so ingenious as to cover everything that can be said of a book in four simple parameters:
1. Charlie Chaplins: Entertainment value
2. Vidkun Quislings: Treachery and doom
3. Virginia Woolfs: Beauty, poetic value
4. Martin Heideggers: Food for further thought
Books will rated from one to ten in these four respects, as well as a final verdict not necessarily the mean of these but more indicative of my general, subjective impression. Five is meant to be the average book, but this does not include books by idiots. Thus I imagine three and a half to four as the mean of all books written, and six to be a good score. Such are the values ascribed, if anybody needs a guideline:
0 Utterly Worthless
1 Horrible
2 Awful
3 Half-Assed
4 Flawed
5 Fair Enough
6 Good
7 Very Good
8 Outstanding
9 Flawless
10 The Stuff of Legend
In general, I am happy to recieve suggestions as to further reading, especially within my priorities at the moment, which in addition to leisure, are transcendentalism and ethics.
Books featured below (and counting):
1. Tom Wolfe: A Man in Full
2. Phillip Roth: The Plot Against America
3. Ken Wilber: A Brief History About Everything
4. Inga Clendinnen: Ambivalent Conquests: Spanish and Maya in the Yucatán 1517-70
5. Thomas Merton: Thoughts in solitude
6. Jim Handy: Gift of the Devil: A History of Guatemala
7. Virginia Woolf: To the Lighthouse
8. Virginia Woolf: The Waves
9. Che Guevara: The Motorcycle Diaries
10. Granta Magazine of New Writing, volume #71: Shrinks
11. Jamie O'Neill: At Swim, Two Boys
12. H.D. Thoreau: Walden, or: Life in the Woods
13. Hermann Hesse: Siddhartha
14. J.D. Salinger: The Catcher in the Rye
Books read, not yet reviewed:
Books carried:
Spinoza: Ethics
Mark Twain short story collection
The portable Emerson
F.W. Nietzsche: Human, All-Too-Human
Thomas Merton: New Seeds of Contemplation
GG Marquez: El coronel no tiene quien le escriba
Virginia Woolf: The Years
Books in demand:
The Bible, pocket version, alternatively the New Testament
Leo Tolstoy: War & Peace (found it, but discarded because of weight)
Thomas Hylland Eriksen: Small Places, Large Issues
Anything by Ken Wilber
Evolutionary theory, both scientific and intelligent design authors
1. Tom Wolfe: A man in full
Fiction, ca 700pp
I was gifted this book by my friendly host Adam in Atlanta. Having been there added to the experience of reading it at it is set in Georgia and Atlanta, but regardless of knowing this place it’s no waste of time. A man in full is a witty story of different men (they’re all men) and their struggle for power, survival and identity in a state where ethnicity is a question never far from the surface. A little too long, but still a fairly light read, the book is accessible, entertaining and provides a better, although superficial, understanding of black and white in modern US, at least for a foreign novice.
Charlie says: 6
Vidkun says: 4
Virginia says: 7
Martin says: 4
Verdict: 5 - Decent
2. Philip Roth: The plot against America
Fiction, ca 350pp
Without revealing too much, at least no more than on the cover, this book fictionally explores a United States wherein the right-wingers take power in the crucial ’41 elections and the slide towards US fascism, seemingly never too far away in the first place. The prominent historical characters are real, and thus this is an alternative history as described by an author who was a young Jew in America at that point, seen from his own eyes as the young Philip. Although initially a somewhat disappointing affair because of high expectations, this keeps growing on me in retrospect and the ‘what really happened’ section in the back is great. The reflection upon and the urge to learn more about US history is better than the book itself, but the book inspires these urges.
Charlie says: 6
Vidkun says: 6
Virginia says: 6
Martin says: 6
Verdict: 6 - Good
3. Ken Wilber: A brief history of everything
Philosophy, ca 300pp
This relatively small book serves as an introduction to Wilber’s thoughts and heavier works for the general public. Among the most interesting books I’ve ever read, this one is possibly for people already occupied with – although not necessarily experts on - psychological, philosophical and spiritual questions. It is highly accessible for dealing with such deep matters.
Wilber outlines his all-level, all-quadrant theory intent on integrating different schools of thought regarding evolution and development in the physical, internal and cultural spheres (quadrants). He thus makes a stab at including both science and subject, a problem that has caused much confusion of theory since the enlightenment and the death of subjectivity. Highly interesting are also his descriptions of the higher stages of consciousness, the first of which provides the best explanation I’ve found so far of peak experiences I’ve had myself.
On the negative side, I don't immediately buy all the claims of Wilber, and some of it seems thinly argued for. This may be better in the more 'serious works' of his. Also, the book is poorly written and I hate the dialogue-form and the humour, as well as some of the attempts at eloquence and poetry. Hopefully this will not be as prevalent in more academic books by Wilber, and surely not in the scores of other writers he has inspired me to read up on.
Charlie says: 5
Vidkun says: N/A
Virginia says: 3
Martin says: 9
Verdict: 8.5 - Though flawed, intensely inspiring and bethinking
4. Inga Clendinnen: Ambivalent conquests: Maya and Spaniard in the Yucatán 1517-1570
History/Anthropology, ca 250pp
Focusing on the early years of the conquest and the changes it brought for the indigenous population, this book is much more than that. It is a work of beauty and interpretation, offering insights into the workings of both the minds and actions of conquistadors and the fransiscan monks trying to convert the population, as well as the power struggles (ecclestiastical vs secular power, bishop vs monk as well as indigenous vs the white man). Perhaps due to her anthropological background, Clendinnen, an Australian, by the way, goes further with regard to (qualified) guessing as to the thoughts and actions of the indigenous population than most historians would; the book is actually divided into different sections according to the two groups in the title. Much time is spent delving into the missionaries, their power, their mind and their work, especially explaining what would lead to the inquisitious proceedings that took place. It is an eerie and believable account of the evil actions of men with the best - although stupid and dogmatically religious - intent.
The book is eloquently written, as well as inspiring; I love its somewhat informal tone, allowing for a language less boring and academic; also, among its sinews is its assiduity concerning the employment of locutions intent on assuaging even the most recalcitrant adversary of plain English. I imagine her editor; instead of emending the book in order to extirpate the apposite verbalisations and bridle her facundious penchant, he (or she) silently acquiesced. That being said, it's not so much about the inaccessibility of her language as a whole, rather about the infatuation with - and frequent use of - some unnecessary expressions which, once you know them, will be pleasing to you. By the way, here are the words I looked up, which will have you well on your way to understanding both the book and the previous sentences:
attrition - the wearing down over time by constant pressure
exigency - urgency
intrepid - bold, as in a person or undertaking
jealous - wary of losing position
assuage - relieve
deference - obedience/yielding/respect
extirpate - root out
the assiduity of their mortification - the insistency of their self-denial
sinew - source of strength (possibly one of many, from muscle fibres)
imputation - attribution
concupiscence - lust/desire
apposite - relevant/in question
recalcitrant - stubbornly defiant
emend - improve by critical editing
punning - light ramming
accretion - contribution to growth
acquiesce - agree/comply without question
Charlie says: 6
Vidkun says: 8
Virginia says: 7
Heidegger says: 6
Verdict: 7 - Recommended
Highly enjoyable for anyone remotely interested in the questions discussed.
5.Thomas Merton: Thoughts in solitude
Religion/Philosophy, short and handy (pocket-size)
Thomas Merton was a 20th-century Catholic monk writing scores of spiritual books and engaging in dialogue with such heretics as Dalai Lama, my wikipedia tells me. I came across this little book sitting alone, sick and miserable, missing the recently departed Loren; surprisingly, in this mix there was room for a contemplative mood as well: I was eating at the horrendously named D'Noz in beautiful San Pedro de la Laguna, Guatemala, as I realized that 'Noz carried a wide selection of interesting books, most of them novels; my eyes, however, fell on the very small religious section - I was actually looking up something in the Bible, wondering what the hell Jesus meant about the birds and the flowers in the sermon on the mount - when I spied this alluring title, apparently the literary manifestation of what I was, and to a wide extent, am on about these days. Part of its attraction was also its small size, to be swallowed over no more than a couple o' hours when drinking coffee and smoking and whatnot. The book, then; initially general, wise and inspirational, with regard to meditation and the benefits of occasional solitude, it soon turns too specifically religious for my tastes and thus is not the best choice for people not heavily into Christianity. This being said, I was sufficiently enchanted by parts of this book to give brother Merton a second chance when I saw a larger work, "New Seeds of Contemplation" in a used book store. I like liberal Christians and am interested in all approaches to spirituality; I look forward to reporting on the second book. As for this little baby:
Charlie says: 3
Vidkun says: 2
Virginia says: 5
Martin says: 6
Verdict: 4 - Hardly worth the time
For the especially interested, ie Catholic monks or students of theology.
6. Jim Handy: Gift of the Devil: A history of Guatemala
History, ca. 300pp
A Canadian and thus, presumably, a relatively trustworthy historian, Jim Handy has written an interesting and accessible introduction to the Guatemalan past, seen from different perspectives, repeatedly critical towards the US influence, both business and political (not that there is a difference in the case of the US) as well as the Guatemalan military regimes and the land-owning elite all the way up from the conquistadors. Of few weaknesses were the tendency to repeat oneself somewhat when discussing things from different angles, and that my version was published in '84 during the civil war and does not recount the post-war development - to the extent that the last word can be employed. As I know Clendinnens work to be, I believe this is a textbook in various university courses for some - lucky, I would say - students.
Charlie: 5
Vidkun: 6
Virginia: 5
Martin: 6
Verdict: 6 - Good
7. Virginia Woolf: To the Lighthouse
Fiction, ca 300pp
Now, to the eloquent lady herself. How to pay the respects due? Near-impossible. Actually, I was starting here on the review of 'The Waves', but found that I had to break my circle of chronologically reviewing the works I have read on my journey in order to insert this magnificent book, read this spring before my departure.
'To the lighthouse' is, among several things, a triumph of the use of the English language. Myself, I am far from being an expert in English literature; even so, as the keen reader of my blog may have noted, I have leanings towards both English in general and little-used, often archaic expressions in particular. Thus it is worth commenting right away that while some readers may find Mrs. Woolf's style excessive and complicated, inacessible even, I take pleasure in having to look up the odd word and having to read some sentences twice to decipher their meaning. For adamant haters of any pretentious or ostentatious or whatever you would call such a use of English, I recommend Hemingway, rather; more stripped-down and to the point language-wise, his prose is still decidedly inspired and beautiful.
The difficulty of tapping into the flow of words in 'To the Lighthouse' is twofold: not only does Woolf employ a large vocabulary, she also uses the stream-of-conciousness style allowing for the descripion of the constant, imperfect and impermanent ebbs and flows of our faculties, of our perception both external and internal. This all leads to long and flighty sentences, which in spite of themselves seem lighter because of the talent that went into their composition. The style also alters traditional narration, as we jump from one character to another, acquainting ourselfs with their interpretations of their world without and within. For readers in search of a plot and tangible transactions in general, they may have to look elsewhere.
Enough with the style. The book is, in addition to being a beautiful work of poetic prose, more than anything else a supremely insightful dive into the workings of our minds, the impermanence of memory, the subjectivity of perception and the ephemeral quality of life and experience in general. It is not without a certain melancholy air that this is described.
The shorter and middle of the three sections of the book, called 'the passing of time', breaks with the general narration (there is here a more obvious narrator) and describing just what the title suggests, it emphasises the impermanence of our existence and the changes a ten-year lapse can make, thus conveying the distance back to where one once was once the last section commences.
As Lily finally cries out for (the previously eminently described) Mrs. Ramsey long after her death I, the reader, am spurred to cry because of the beauty of it all, and because of the void that is transmitted. These are tears not of sadness, well, a tad melancholy it is, but foremost they are symbols of an aesthetic appreciation. Not the only time, I might add, that I've felt tears in my eyes when reading Virginia Woolf, as has not yet been the case with any other author.
Charlie says: 5
Vidkun says: 5
Leo Tolstoi, on the aesthetics panel in Virginia's absence, says: 10
Martin says: 8
Verdict: 9 - Classic
Although open to the possibility of a book being better, I wouldn't need one to be, at least not aesthetically speaking. It might be added that this is my favourite book.
8. Virginia Woolf: The Waves
Fiction, ca 300pp
My only book before this by Virginia Woolf was the more famous 'To the Lighthouse'; that book, as even readers with anterograde amnesia may recall, blew me away. It made me swear that I would read all that she has written, and then cry because there is no more to be had. That is why I was happy to find several works by VW in a Xela bookstore - a short digression: you can't say touristiness is good for nothin' when used bookstores pop up in Latin America that sell great works in English for next to nothing, even giving you half the ridiculous price back when changing it in again. Not being too familiar with the authorship of Virginia, I just settled on two books relatively light to carry, 'The Years' (yet to be read) and 'The Waves', the latter described as among her most experimental works. Knowing that a challenge lay before me, I nevertheless dug in undaunted and found that there was much beauty to be found. Even so, after a 100 pp I stagnated somewhat, due to sickness I believe, and the rest of the experience was a broken-up affair, never quite re-entering my Virginial space but reading a few pages here and there with other books in-between, finally finishing it off in Todos Santos before I went to Mexico, not because I really refound inspiration but because I didn't want to carry it forever.
Let me comment on the book's form and theme; the waves of the title are the lives of men, growing from calm waters to their steady pounding of the shores midday to their ultimate recession come nightfall. Thus the book is divided into sections, numbering about nine I'm guessing, each of them introduced by a description of the passing of a day, with light, waves, birds and trees going about their business as the time of day commands, in beautiful, poetic passages of about two pages. The story itself is about six people, three men and three women, followed throughout their lives; they grow up in, as far as can be told, Virginia Woolf's contemporary England, but this is relatively unimportant. The narration consists of their voices taking turns to relate passages; although the form '..., said Bernard' is used, he far from said much at all, it is rather his own inner voice observing subjectively on feelings and events taking place, although brilliantly doing so, as if they were supremely self-insightful. The characters thus become everyday sages interpreting their lives perfectly and beautifully; despite their realizing the workings of their nature, to the extent that they themselves are 'speaking' and not a parallel self, they do not do much to alter the course of their lives, it seems untouchable, predestined even. But this, again, could be from themselves not realizing 'their' thoughts that we are privy to, as it seems more of a peek into their brain, their unconcious, even.
Struggling this book I realised one needs a certain amount of energy surplus when reading Virginia Woolf, and also that it can be very hard to - in the words used in the previous review - tap into the flow. This means this book is completely different depending on the reader being able to find the energy, the sentiment and the solitude, preferably, to connect with the flow of words and thoughts and sentiments conveyed in the book. Detached from this, it is boring and difficult, and suddenly Virginia seems more ostentatious (showy) and worthless, as I suspect 'To the Lighthouse' would if the reading conditions were not met. Obviously this goes for the reading of any book, but moreso with Virginia Woolf than other authors I've read, you must be in the zone to appreciate her fully, or possibly, at all. Drifting in and out of this zone it occured to me that the book's latter half was less inspired than the first, but this could just as well have been me. Again, Virginia Woolf offers beautifully written prose and provides ample evidence for her understanding of man. But no distractions are essential to a successful read, and thus to what might have been a review more in favour of this definitely interesting book. Even so, keen to exuse my beloved Virginia as I am, it is hard to disregard the possibility that the qualities inherent to the book, and not just me, were at least part of my problems. Such it reflects on the scoreboard, with the possibility of this book growing vastly on the next encounter; I imagine myself ploughing through the collected works of Virginia Woolf in 40 years time, pipe-in-mouth, feet clad in ridiculous but comfy checkered slippers, my deteriorating body lodged in my Chesterfield chair, the fireplace lit in the library of my castle somewhere on the British isles.
Charlie says: 4
Vidkun says: 4
Leo says: 8
Martin says: 6
Verdict: 6 - Good
9. Che Guevara: The Motorcycle Diaries
Sporadic Diary, ca. 5 hrs
Instead of the ludicrous number of pages, which says absolutely nothing due to differences in fonts and also the understandability and flow of the material at hand, I am now giving an estimate as to how long it took me to read the book. This, my friends, is short, and is read in an afternoon. It is the own words of the revolutionary hero we see, in a somewhat, to this reader, surprisingly poetic and intelligent pen, describing his and his friend's classic motorcycle journey from Argentina up to Venezuela, where some the bones of sympathy were shaped - from which the full-fledged revolutionary was later to be fleshed out. Not too original or too interesting for non-fans, but still a light and enjoyable read.
Charlie mimes a 6
Vidkun betrays a 3
Virginia eloquently conjures a 5
Martin doubts the genuineness of his 5
Verdict: 5 - Decent
10. Granta Magazine of New Writing, volume #71: Shrinks
- THIS REVIEW WILL BE SLIGHTLY DELAYED DUE TO NOTES IN REMOTE PLACES -
Short stories and articles, ca. 10 hrs
The Granta Magazine is, as the name indicates, a collection of new or just lesser-known interesting writers and writings, each edition loosely connected by a theme. Not all the entries in this issue stuck to the theme, though, without that mattering to me. Even so, I was hoping for some profound insight into psychiatry, but there was not too much of a serious approach to be found, just shrinks being parts of several of the stories in different ways.
11. Jamie O'Neill: At Swim, Two Boys
Fiction, ca. 25 hrs
It's a relatively huge book, and it's tough to get into; we're in Ireland in 1915, following events up to the Easter revolution in 1916 through some young Dublin boys. The boys are gay but when you're living in this place at that time most young gays would hardly even have the vocabulary to describe or understand what they are. It's a nice enough plot; there's growing up, there's the Irish history and being gay in a Catholic community that regards even sex for reproductional purposes with a wary eye. The thing is, though, that at least for this reader it's a rough ride in the beginning because the language, it seems, is very well kept in line with the times, and it's not so much it being advanced as it being different that puts me off, words meaning other things than they usually do and combinations of perfectly normal words being hard to interpret, or at least, hard to follow the flow of. For any connoisseur of the classic Irish literature, though, I doubt they would feel the same way, and also, I got better after a while. Actually, come to think of it, I am sure it would be helpful reading a novel like this before, for instance, Ulysses, making the latter easier to get through; I wouldn't know, but they say that classic's heavy, and the language issue discussed here could be part of it. Anyway, to round off, it's a fairly entertaining and interesting novel; well-written in its difficult way, to the extent that I can tell; a touch of Ireland and gayness it is indeed, but it's probably not going to change your life, as they say.
Charlie: 5
Vidkun: 4
Virginia: 6
Martin: 4
Verdict: 5 - Readworthy
12. H.D. Thoreau: Walden, or: Life in the Woods
Nonfiction/Philosophy, ca. 10 hrs
Now this time the expectations were way up. Thoreau builds this hut in the woods, living delivberately, sucking the marrow out of life, and not wanting to die having discovered that he had not lived and all that. Having said that much, I'm not about to slaughter this little American classic of the so-called New England transcendentalism, where the belief in the possibility of spiritual evolution and the importance of harmony with nature were central, the latter particularily the object of the book in question. The reason for my disappointment was rather that I thought it could be one of those few life-changers, when indeed it was not, just an interesting book. There are many ideas worth considering, among them about the necessity of a simple life and the stripping away of all that is superflous to pure living. There is also lengthy descriptions of nature and the communion with the same; this description of unity can also be said to reflect the next stage of consciousness described by Ken Wilber, as well as Arne Naess' foundation for deep ecology. 'What is good for the grass, is good for me', Thoreau says, words echoed by Arne Naess elsewhere. The endless descriptions of animals and trees and the depth of ponds, though, I could very well do without, perhaps partly because I know Virginia Woolf and how she can describe things in an infinitely more readworthy way. Anyhow, for those with romantic/philosophical/ecological leanings, this is time well spent.
Charlie: 4
Vidkun: 3
Virginia: 5
Martin: 8
Verdict: 6 - Good
13. Hermann Hesse: Siddhartha
Fiction, 5 hrs
Or even less! This beautiful little baby is read in a second, and I'm going to read it again. It is the story of Siddhartha and his search for enlightenment, very much like the one pursued by the Buddha himself and probably based on his story. Even so, it is not ment to be THE Buddha, which also figures in the book. What can I say? It is a lovely, inspiring little book that serves any Westerner well as an introduction to Eastern thinking, and is fairly entertaining in itself.
Charlie: 6
Vidkun: 4
Virginia: 7
Martin: 9
Verdict: 8 - Highly Recommended
14. J.D. Salinger: The Catcher in the Rye
Fiction, 5 hrs
Yeah, yeah, yeah. It's another classic, so they say. This one 'highly controversial to this day' one internet article claims. Let me tell you something, gramps: a disillusioned sixteen year-old boy using profane langue, dropping out of a couple of private schools and having drunken brushes with prostitution is no longer shocking to anyone, in fact, to the parents of inner-city school kids, this is the BEST they can hope for, as long as their kids are off crack they're happy. Jizz. Yeah, I'm sure it was shocking in the States in the fifties. This is Europe, 2007. It's a kid's book and a fairly boring American classic, but, I'll tell you what's good about it. It does put into words the disillusionment that many, especially young people, feel with the fakeness of most people and the apparent random conventions we blindly adhere to. It also has a peculiar style, a very simple, oral-sounding language that is interesting to come across and at the same time very easy for readers not too fond of, or used to, reading English. Unfortunately, there is no reason to believe this particular recommendation will ever reach any in the latter group.
Chaplin: 5
Quisling: 5
Woolf: 5
Heidegger: 6
Verdict: 5 - Decent
Saturday, August 25, 2007
Fútbol, parasites and other insults to long-standing conceptions of right and wrong
Not too long ago, Los Estados Unidos beat Mexico 2-1 in the finals of the Copa de Oro - the Gold Cup of Central and North America - playing well but undeservingly getting one of the goals off a ridiculous penalty decision. Such are the ways of football, or any other sport; every once in a while you get shagged in the ass by the ref. And that's fine. The referee's a human being and makes half-honest mistakes from time to time, you get pissed off but you also get over it; let's just hope the right side won.
Now, something completely different is the referee first strapping on his five-feet polished mahogany dildo enhanced with a blade at the point, not unlike the one seen in Se7en, then firmly telling you a) to remove those cute little footie shorts and b) that your shoelaces need to be tied. These were my sentiments as I was playing football for the first time with a local team of Todos Santos. ‘Twas an away game in Mash, a caserío (hamlet) half an hour away by truck. Impressively, no matter how small the place there will be a football team and a campo (field); not all the players suck, either, but the technical skill is generally lowish, and team coordination and strategy nonexistent. The campo was made up of hard mud, loose mud and a few playable areas, needless to say distributed much like the continents of the Earth: big, connecting patches with irregular shapes. Even so, the game started well, me dribbling my way forward into the centre from my left midfield position, then flicking it up to a meeting forward who headed it back to me as I was rushing forward; I hit the ball on the volley, and the hard but imperfect shot went in from about twenty metres thanks to an uneven field and inept keeper. The goal was still very decent; in my Swiss (neutral) eyes, the goal of the match.
The adventure began when it started raining heavily and the hard mud turned into ice, extremely slippery and bone hard to fall on; the loose mud, on the other hand, turned into the type of mud pit that some readers will know I am only too familiar with. It was soon completely impossible to play with any sort of finesse. The pit, being the worst for playing, nevertheless provided the only opportunity for sliding tackles, a fact I was the only one to take advantage of. Thus, somewhere into the second half, in need of an frustration outlet, I spied an opportunity when some fool clumsed the ball way into the pit; a defender of the opposing team soon collected it and started dribbling it as best he could out of there. I slid in with great force, and while my underwear got filled with mud in no time at all, this was no cost whatsoever compared to the revenue: the infinite satisfaction of ploughing through this unsuspecting fool, him soon on his back beside me even more covered in mud than I was, me lying there smirking, too devilishly pleased with myself to collect the won ball; the local spectators laughing their asses off at the sight of the gringo and their buddy in the mud, glad they were under umbrellas and not playing this hellish day. Everybody who's played football knows this, but for y'others: many a time a splendid sliding tackle can be more satisfying than a not-too-important goal.
The built-up frustration was in part due to the horrible conditions of the field and the entailing randomness of the game, in part because there was no team cooperation or formation, and nobody who whipped the idiots back in line when defenders suddenly fancied themselves forwards; also there were 22 players on a field more suitable for 14. We were winning though, leading 6-3 or something, but not if the ref could help it, which is what was really pushing me off my rocker. Of course, the tradition around here of employing home team locals as refs does not alleviate the bad judgement situation that one would have either way at this level; in fact, as they changed refs at half time I realised that the new ref had been playing in the first half and the old one was playing now. Fair enough, but a series of obscene decisions soon awoke my slumbering sports rage, which I had not felt in years. Sports is such a great way to vent aggression, but then again, as long as it causes it as well, I don’t know whether the therapeutic value necessarily is positive in the end. Hmmm... Anyway, we were in a slump, leading 6-5 or whatever, when the ref first whistled against us for an offside that wasn't even remotely in progress. Not like the normal urge to shout 'referee!' that one feels whenever a decision, not necessarily wrong, is passed against you; this was more like when the military comes into your house, burns it, slits your fathers throat and rapes your mum, with neither of you being members of the communist party. Thus depriving us of a goal, Mash was shortly after on the offensive, before losing the ball to one of our defenders, who was seeing the ball safely out of play when an attacker came from behind and kicked him in the legs once ('hey!'), twice ('referee, Jesus'), three times ('...?'), the defender falling, everybody on our team ceasing play, the attacker seizing the ball, passing it to another who 'scored'; the goal, to most people's complete amazement, was allowed. Our guy was unhurt, which did not excuse the foul play or the idiocy of the ref, and at this point, I forgot all my principles that had guided me through Guatemala thus far; this must have been in June after about two months in Guatemala, two months of careful non-imposition, not even taking any photos of locals as not to offend because the culture was still being mapped. I screamed whatever obscenities I knew in bad Spanish at the ref, like '¿cual es tu problema, cabrón?' and '¡pinche puto!', while walking briskly towards him, which ended up with the ref somewhat scared, members of the other team going 'tranquilo, tranquilo', at which point I snapped out of it, never intending to hurt the ref or anything, just wanting to yell closer to his face as to hit him with flying spit I imagine.
In the end, we won the game 7-6. The aggression experience somehow released the final bit of the fear I’d had about behaviour in the culture, thus making me more confident and relaxed in my relatively new surroundings.
On a different note; someone told me, several times, in fact, that people are not to be trusted in this country - not as in criminal; unless you are stupid enough to go to Guatemala City or volcano-hike alone near touristy places, it seems pretty safe so far - no, untrustworthy rather because if you ask someone a question, the concept of 'I don't know' apparently is nonexistent. Even epitomes of trust, like cops, will tell you to go five blocks down to catch the bus you're searching for, then a mean of the crowd down there - you need to ask at least six people and figure out an average response - will tell your confused self that the bus stop is, in fact, exactly where the cop was standing five blocks back. In general, what they don't know, even about their home town or daily habitat is sometimes unbelievable. Ask a guy in a shop where to buy cheese and he'll say 'saber' - who knows - even if the shop next door is 4000 square metres of QuesoRama 2000 (tm). Yes, as you correctly observe, this is at odds with my previous statement; let us revise; only when there is no way they could NOT know, they say they don't. Anyway, this peculiar behaviour is all good and expected by now, just bring a map, a guide, and buckets of time, and you'll get where you want in the end.
A thought related to the lack of precision in all of this is the Germans; they came in some numbers to Guatemala in the early 20th century or before to start up businesses, and did so with some luck - establishing a few breweries that still live, among other things, and among many traces of their activity (or is it via the US, perhaps) is the name for preschool: kinder and prekinder. However, they didn't integrate to well with the local people; they remained an isolated industrious click with schools and language of their own - as is often the case in imperialist tradition. Even bearing this in mind, they were surprisingly segregated. What could the reason for this be? Dr. Mangseth explains: with the previous theme of impreciseness in mind, they of course tried to have as little to do with the locals as possible; in spite of their segregation efforts, this was to prove itself too great a task, as business demanded some interaction. Weiter, any fastidious character - that includes some of my own leanings, as well - would go nuts trying to get shit done around here. Thus, eventually, the sudden recession of German influence in Guatemalan economy does not concern itself with political change (like WWII); I firmly believe they imploded from aggression and frustration, much like the renowned lemmings of the animal world.
In current affairs, i.e. today, ask any Peacecore – a US government organization sending young and intelligent people to help out in many parts of the world, often the same parts they scrupulously exploit (guilty conscience or brilliant PR scheme, who knows) – anyway, ask a PC volunteer, most of them young idealists, many with skills, banging their heads against brick walls of inefficiency for two years before going home in blood and tears, maybe having changed the world just a tiny little bit, at the dire cost of any future benevolence toward the underprivileged - those corrupt and/or, poor ignorant bastards sure have themselves to thank for their state - and at the additional cost of their Peacecore lungs - if you didn't smoke before the Core, you will when you walk out the door (as they say); the remote areas and the impossible challenges help insure that; in other words, Peacecore is a devious machinery created by the government Hawks, funded by the Ku Klux Klan, here represented by the tobacco business, all in order to convert the young and hopeful Democrats (or worse, Greens!) of America to cynics more likely to vote the not-so-empoverished-friendly Republican Party. Well done, Hawks!
That last bit there will put the US government blog-flagging computers to the test, I'm sure.
Now, I enjoy the fact that I can go on at seemingly infinite length without ever reaching the typical blogness of 'I went there, I did that'. Or blow small events like soccer - er... football games out of proportion. That being said, and although that type of blog sure can be a drag, there are also certain taxing elements to people going on in abstract and plentiful terms on the general blahblahness of whatever; the conclusion is you must all be starving for some hands-on action. Here follows the rundown on the few weeks following the last entry.
As mentioned in the previous entry, a few weeks back in Xela I had a serious case of diarrhoea that left me bereft of power and liquid for days. I then got better and went on to coordinate Hispanomaya for two weeks; upon termination of the coordinator-job at the school (June 15th), I again experienced unwanted bowel movements, as well as a general feeling of inexplicable lowness that had to a varying extent gone on since I got 'better' in Xela. That night, as I proceeded to sacrifice my intestines at the holy altar of crap – a routine process by then – I also experienced a novelty: the need to vomit. Well, the urge an sich had been there two weeks before in Xela, but it didn't happen then. Now, there was no way out. And I was sitting on the toilet, emptying my other end. Quickly finishing off as best I could while holding back the vomit, I got off the stool and proceeded to flush down. Yes, we have a water closet - but it ain't exactly nuclear powered, now is it; so in order to purify the basin, there was the need to wait for the hellish-brown shake to settle before flushing anew. I had reached the limit of my vomito-suppressive ability, and there was no way I was going to toss my cookies into that mass of loose shite and thus befoul my gentle appearance (not the face! not the face!), that was for sure. Alas, where? Where? Shower? Sink? Floor? I opted at last for the bin: the omnipresent receptacle for toilet paper in this country of poor plumbing. And let me tell you, 'twas no picnic sticking my head down there either, but at least the shit there was dry and the paper does not backsplash as easily. A feeling of emptiness prevailed in the end.
After this horrible night, my keen instincts told me there might be a colony of illegal residents in the good ol' intestinal system. Reading up on amoebas and parasites, I learned that there are kinds who penetrate the intestinal walls and go on to settle in the blood system, liver, brain and so on if left unchecked for extended periods of time. Upon deliberation, I thus settled for the classical stool sample and doctor option; Kelsey, the wonderful coordinator, escorted my weak self to Huehuetenango, the regional city, and to a lab testing shit and piss and stuff. They found a couple of parasites in there, Endolimax Nana and the unfriendly-sounding Blastocystis Hominis, and I went on to see the doctor, a Cuban woman volunteering in the shittiest doctor's office I've ever seen. Take a ten square metre student residence from 1930s Albania, in operation ever since, divide it in two and you have the waiting room and the doctor's office. Let it be noted that I could have gone to a place where one pays and got higher-standard facilities, but that's no fun, now is it; it was wonderful sitting in line with the locals, some of them packing small babies with fevers, some poor-looking, others more like I felt myself, city-people who could've afforded to go somewhere else but enjoyed a free doctor's visit. The doctor was all about speed, five to ten minutes on each patient, it seemed. In an accent and a tempo new to me I barely understood that the parasites were present in just about every local and were mostly harmless, but that tourists could be affected more severely and there was no point in going for acclimatization. Thus, I bought two packs of the aptly-named Ex-Amoeb, with Secnidazol as a working-agent (for those with medicinal leanings). One now and one in 21 days, was the message, the latter dose yet to come. I felt a lot better taking the first, strength regained, but would sure like to see the second dose kill off the lingering flatulence and slight stomach pain I experience after meals.
That weekend, Friday 23rd, I started hiking again, maybe a little prematurely, still dizzy after my long period of being energy-drained, but what the heck; I explored the southern ridge without a map with Carlos, a Bostonian with some hiking skill, on a seven-hour hike that pushed me to the limit of my decent-but-recently-sick walking endurance, and provided one of the most beautiful hikes yet, with views on both sides of the ridge before the fog and clouds closed in, as they always do this time of year, and which is why it is no walk in the park exploring new paths. However, we found a viable route through the fog and down to Todos Santos and were very pleased with ourselves.
The day after Carlos was gone but I went on a five-hour, medium-demanding hike to San Juan Atitán, the town centre of the neighbouring municipality of the same name, with Carly and Diana. You can see them getting friendly with the insanely drunk local with the flat hat in some of my pictures, the guy whispering in bad Spanish and a not-too-low voice in Diana's ear that he'd been searching for some gringa sex but that it'd been hard to come across up there in the middle of nowhere; so why don't ya come home with me ferr some action? I'll let the rest be up to the reader's imagination. Anyway; this was my second time in San Juan, the first one being with Huge (Hugh) Harkin of Ireland upon my arrival in Guatemala and Todos Santos. Me and Huge stayed for the night and walked back the next day, but since there was the fiesta of John the Baptist (San Juan), this time me and the girls were counting on taking the bus back the same day since there probably wouldn't be room in the hostels during the fiesta. And so we did.
A couple of weeks went by without, as far as I can recall, much incident, until lovely Loren of California showed up and caught my slumbering fancy. It was a very good feeling to be interested in someone again; that was something I sincerely thought wouldn't happen during my travels, for reasons of old age as well as shallow encounters losing (I thought) their charm at some point during previous years of semi-debauchery, sort of a marriage-or-nothing being my MO. That obviously ridiculous sentiment soon cast aside, I was happy to learn that I seemed to have some effect on her as well, possibly amplified by my supremely fortunate position as only man in the school, as well as hiking guide, at that particular, star-blessed point in time. And so we acted on our interest after only five days or so, becoming holiday sweethearts for her tiempo restante in Guatemala, which was three weeks. What can I say; a sweet and lovely girl with more depth than my shallow, infatuated self initially spied; thus later a girl who I would have liked to know better, had the situation not been adverse to such exploration. She has now resumed real life in California, getting a good job in public health, I believe. And with that being that, this entry ends.
Now, something completely different is the referee first strapping on his five-feet polished mahogany dildo enhanced with a blade at the point, not unlike the one seen in Se7en, then firmly telling you a) to remove those cute little footie shorts and b) that your shoelaces need to be tied. These were my sentiments as I was playing football for the first time with a local team of Todos Santos. ‘Twas an away game in Mash, a caserío (hamlet) half an hour away by truck. Impressively, no matter how small the place there will be a football team and a campo (field); not all the players suck, either, but the technical skill is generally lowish, and team coordination and strategy nonexistent. The campo was made up of hard mud, loose mud and a few playable areas, needless to say distributed much like the continents of the Earth: big, connecting patches with irregular shapes. Even so, the game started well, me dribbling my way forward into the centre from my left midfield position, then flicking it up to a meeting forward who headed it back to me as I was rushing forward; I hit the ball on the volley, and the hard but imperfect shot went in from about twenty metres thanks to an uneven field and inept keeper. The goal was still very decent; in my Swiss (neutral) eyes, the goal of the match.
The adventure began when it started raining heavily and the hard mud turned into ice, extremely slippery and bone hard to fall on; the loose mud, on the other hand, turned into the type of mud pit that some readers will know I am only too familiar with. It was soon completely impossible to play with any sort of finesse. The pit, being the worst for playing, nevertheless provided the only opportunity for sliding tackles, a fact I was the only one to take advantage of. Thus, somewhere into the second half, in need of an frustration outlet, I spied an opportunity when some fool clumsed the ball way into the pit; a defender of the opposing team soon collected it and started dribbling it as best he could out of there. I slid in with great force, and while my underwear got filled with mud in no time at all, this was no cost whatsoever compared to the revenue: the infinite satisfaction of ploughing through this unsuspecting fool, him soon on his back beside me even more covered in mud than I was, me lying there smirking, too devilishly pleased with myself to collect the won ball; the local spectators laughing their asses off at the sight of the gringo and their buddy in the mud, glad they were under umbrellas and not playing this hellish day. Everybody who's played football knows this, but for y'others: many a time a splendid sliding tackle can be more satisfying than a not-too-important goal.
The built-up frustration was in part due to the horrible conditions of the field and the entailing randomness of the game, in part because there was no team cooperation or formation, and nobody who whipped the idiots back in line when defenders suddenly fancied themselves forwards; also there were 22 players on a field more suitable for 14. We were winning though, leading 6-3 or something, but not if the ref could help it, which is what was really pushing me off my rocker. Of course, the tradition around here of employing home team locals as refs does not alleviate the bad judgement situation that one would have either way at this level; in fact, as they changed refs at half time I realised that the new ref had been playing in the first half and the old one was playing now. Fair enough, but a series of obscene decisions soon awoke my slumbering sports rage, which I had not felt in years. Sports is such a great way to vent aggression, but then again, as long as it causes it as well, I don’t know whether the therapeutic value necessarily is positive in the end. Hmmm... Anyway, we were in a slump, leading 6-5 or whatever, when the ref first whistled against us for an offside that wasn't even remotely in progress. Not like the normal urge to shout 'referee!' that one feels whenever a decision, not necessarily wrong, is passed against you; this was more like when the military comes into your house, burns it, slits your fathers throat and rapes your mum, with neither of you being members of the communist party. Thus depriving us of a goal, Mash was shortly after on the offensive, before losing the ball to one of our defenders, who was seeing the ball safely out of play when an attacker came from behind and kicked him in the legs once ('hey!'), twice ('referee, Jesus'), three times ('...?'), the defender falling, everybody on our team ceasing play, the attacker seizing the ball, passing it to another who 'scored'; the goal, to most people's complete amazement, was allowed. Our guy was unhurt, which did not excuse the foul play or the idiocy of the ref, and at this point, I forgot all my principles that had guided me through Guatemala thus far; this must have been in June after about two months in Guatemala, two months of careful non-imposition, not even taking any photos of locals as not to offend because the culture was still being mapped. I screamed whatever obscenities I knew in bad Spanish at the ref, like '¿cual es tu problema, cabrón?' and '¡pinche puto!', while walking briskly towards him, which ended up with the ref somewhat scared, members of the other team going 'tranquilo, tranquilo', at which point I snapped out of it, never intending to hurt the ref or anything, just wanting to yell closer to his face as to hit him with flying spit I imagine.
In the end, we won the game 7-6. The aggression experience somehow released the final bit of the fear I’d had about behaviour in the culture, thus making me more confident and relaxed in my relatively new surroundings.
On a different note; someone told me, several times, in fact, that people are not to be trusted in this country - not as in criminal; unless you are stupid enough to go to Guatemala City or volcano-hike alone near touristy places, it seems pretty safe so far - no, untrustworthy rather because if you ask someone a question, the concept of 'I don't know' apparently is nonexistent. Even epitomes of trust, like cops, will tell you to go five blocks down to catch the bus you're searching for, then a mean of the crowd down there - you need to ask at least six people and figure out an average response - will tell your confused self that the bus stop is, in fact, exactly where the cop was standing five blocks back. In general, what they don't know, even about their home town or daily habitat is sometimes unbelievable. Ask a guy in a shop where to buy cheese and he'll say 'saber' - who knows - even if the shop next door is 4000 square metres of QuesoRama 2000 (tm). Yes, as you correctly observe, this is at odds with my previous statement; let us revise; only when there is no way they could NOT know, they say they don't. Anyway, this peculiar behaviour is all good and expected by now, just bring a map, a guide, and buckets of time, and you'll get where you want in the end.
A thought related to the lack of precision in all of this is the Germans; they came in some numbers to Guatemala in the early 20th century or before to start up businesses, and did so with some luck - establishing a few breweries that still live, among other things, and among many traces of their activity (or is it via the US, perhaps) is the name for preschool: kinder and prekinder. However, they didn't integrate to well with the local people; they remained an isolated industrious click with schools and language of their own - as is often the case in imperialist tradition. Even bearing this in mind, they were surprisingly segregated. What could the reason for this be? Dr. Mangseth explains: with the previous theme of impreciseness in mind, they of course tried to have as little to do with the locals as possible; in spite of their segregation efforts, this was to prove itself too great a task, as business demanded some interaction. Weiter, any fastidious character - that includes some of my own leanings, as well - would go nuts trying to get shit done around here. Thus, eventually, the sudden recession of German influence in Guatemalan economy does not concern itself with political change (like WWII); I firmly believe they imploded from aggression and frustration, much like the renowned lemmings of the animal world.
In current affairs, i.e. today, ask any Peacecore – a US government organization sending young and intelligent people to help out in many parts of the world, often the same parts they scrupulously exploit (guilty conscience or brilliant PR scheme, who knows) – anyway, ask a PC volunteer, most of them young idealists, many with skills, banging their heads against brick walls of inefficiency for two years before going home in blood and tears, maybe having changed the world just a tiny little bit, at the dire cost of any future benevolence toward the underprivileged - those corrupt and/or, poor ignorant bastards sure have themselves to thank for their state - and at the additional cost of their Peacecore lungs - if you didn't smoke before the Core, you will when you walk out the door (as they say); the remote areas and the impossible challenges help insure that; in other words, Peacecore is a devious machinery created by the government Hawks, funded by the Ku Klux Klan, here represented by the tobacco business, all in order to convert the young and hopeful Democrats (or worse, Greens!) of America to cynics more likely to vote the not-so-empoverished-friendly Republican Party. Well done, Hawks!
That last bit there will put the US government blog-flagging computers to the test, I'm sure.
Now, I enjoy the fact that I can go on at seemingly infinite length without ever reaching the typical blogness of 'I went there, I did that'. Or blow small events like soccer - er... football games out of proportion. That being said, and although that type of blog sure can be a drag, there are also certain taxing elements to people going on in abstract and plentiful terms on the general blahblahness of whatever; the conclusion is you must all be starving for some hands-on action. Here follows the rundown on the few weeks following the last entry.
As mentioned in the previous entry, a few weeks back in Xela I had a serious case of diarrhoea that left me bereft of power and liquid for days. I then got better and went on to coordinate Hispanomaya for two weeks; upon termination of the coordinator-job at the school (June 15th), I again experienced unwanted bowel movements, as well as a general feeling of inexplicable lowness that had to a varying extent gone on since I got 'better' in Xela. That night, as I proceeded to sacrifice my intestines at the holy altar of crap – a routine process by then – I also experienced a novelty: the need to vomit. Well, the urge an sich had been there two weeks before in Xela, but it didn't happen then. Now, there was no way out. And I was sitting on the toilet, emptying my other end. Quickly finishing off as best I could while holding back the vomit, I got off the stool and proceeded to flush down. Yes, we have a water closet - but it ain't exactly nuclear powered, now is it; so in order to purify the basin, there was the need to wait for the hellish-brown shake to settle before flushing anew. I had reached the limit of my vomito-suppressive ability, and there was no way I was going to toss my cookies into that mass of loose shite and thus befoul my gentle appearance (not the face! not the face!), that was for sure. Alas, where? Where? Shower? Sink? Floor? I opted at last for the bin: the omnipresent receptacle for toilet paper in this country of poor plumbing. And let me tell you, 'twas no picnic sticking my head down there either, but at least the shit there was dry and the paper does not backsplash as easily. A feeling of emptiness prevailed in the end.
After this horrible night, my keen instincts told me there might be a colony of illegal residents in the good ol' intestinal system. Reading up on amoebas and parasites, I learned that there are kinds who penetrate the intestinal walls and go on to settle in the blood system, liver, brain and so on if left unchecked for extended periods of time. Upon deliberation, I thus settled for the classical stool sample and doctor option; Kelsey, the wonderful coordinator, escorted my weak self to Huehuetenango, the regional city, and to a lab testing shit and piss and stuff. They found a couple of parasites in there, Endolimax Nana and the unfriendly-sounding Blastocystis Hominis, and I went on to see the doctor, a Cuban woman volunteering in the shittiest doctor's office I've ever seen. Take a ten square metre student residence from 1930s Albania, in operation ever since, divide it in two and you have the waiting room and the doctor's office. Let it be noted that I could have gone to a place where one pays and got higher-standard facilities, but that's no fun, now is it; it was wonderful sitting in line with the locals, some of them packing small babies with fevers, some poor-looking, others more like I felt myself, city-people who could've afforded to go somewhere else but enjoyed a free doctor's visit. The doctor was all about speed, five to ten minutes on each patient, it seemed. In an accent and a tempo new to me I barely understood that the parasites were present in just about every local and were mostly harmless, but that tourists could be affected more severely and there was no point in going for acclimatization. Thus, I bought two packs of the aptly-named Ex-Amoeb, with Secnidazol as a working-agent (for those with medicinal leanings). One now and one in 21 days, was the message, the latter dose yet to come. I felt a lot better taking the first, strength regained, but would sure like to see the second dose kill off the lingering flatulence and slight stomach pain I experience after meals.
That weekend, Friday 23rd, I started hiking again, maybe a little prematurely, still dizzy after my long period of being energy-drained, but what the heck; I explored the southern ridge without a map with Carlos, a Bostonian with some hiking skill, on a seven-hour hike that pushed me to the limit of my decent-but-recently-sick walking endurance, and provided one of the most beautiful hikes yet, with views on both sides of the ridge before the fog and clouds closed in, as they always do this time of year, and which is why it is no walk in the park exploring new paths. However, we found a viable route through the fog and down to Todos Santos and were very pleased with ourselves.
The day after Carlos was gone but I went on a five-hour, medium-demanding hike to San Juan Atitán, the town centre of the neighbouring municipality of the same name, with Carly and Diana. You can see them getting friendly with the insanely drunk local with the flat hat in some of my pictures, the guy whispering in bad Spanish and a not-too-low voice in Diana's ear that he'd been searching for some gringa sex but that it'd been hard to come across up there in the middle of nowhere; so why don't ya come home with me ferr some action? I'll let the rest be up to the reader's imagination. Anyway; this was my second time in San Juan, the first one being with Huge (Hugh) Harkin of Ireland upon my arrival in Guatemala and Todos Santos. Me and Huge stayed for the night and walked back the next day, but since there was the fiesta of John the Baptist (San Juan), this time me and the girls were counting on taking the bus back the same day since there probably wouldn't be room in the hostels during the fiesta. And so we did.
A couple of weeks went by without, as far as I can recall, much incident, until lovely Loren of California showed up and caught my slumbering fancy. It was a very good feeling to be interested in someone again; that was something I sincerely thought wouldn't happen during my travels, for reasons of old age as well as shallow encounters losing (I thought) their charm at some point during previous years of semi-debauchery, sort of a marriage-or-nothing being my MO. That obviously ridiculous sentiment soon cast aside, I was happy to learn that I seemed to have some effect on her as well, possibly amplified by my supremely fortunate position as only man in the school, as well as hiking guide, at that particular, star-blessed point in time. And so we acted on our interest after only five days or so, becoming holiday sweethearts for her tiempo restante in Guatemala, which was three weeks. What can I say; a sweet and lovely girl with more depth than my shallow, infatuated self initially spied; thus later a girl who I would have liked to know better, had the situation not been adverse to such exploration. She has now resumed real life in California, getting a good job in public health, I believe. And with that being that, this entry ends.
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