Tag: various

The Hammock

I wake with a start only to find an oval obscurely contrived object lying precariously some centimetres south of my navel. I am immediately baffled. I struggle to collect my startled thoughts when I hear a muffled thud on the ground. In my prostrate state, I curiously crane my neck in the direction of the sound. My eyes strain to gain focus. The light breeze carrying free-wheeling elements of grainy sand force my eyes to squint. “the book”, I whisper to assure myself of the blinding glimpse of the obvious. The pages turn crisply in the breeze as I lay bemused but vaguely assured of my power of observation. It is only then that I am aware of a remote pain in my groin. My focus is rapidly gaining traction as the reverie begins to dessert my lethargic stupor. In that eureka moment, I am surprisingly able to connect the UFO object gliding of my body with the uncomfortable feeling in my groin area. It does not require the deductive mind of neurotic investigator to link the diminishing pain, the UFO and a battalion of scruffy looking brats in their scanty attires starring me wide-eyed. They alertly stand eyeing my every move, high on adrenaline, equally distributed between fright and flight. My countenance musters a smile in their direction. So I thought. No sooner had my face muscles twitched, than the brats scamper screamingly in different directions only to recollect a meter further backwards with the focus of their interests squarely fixed on my face. Puzzled, I unsteadily shift the weight of my prostrate body in the hammock to a sitting position. At this time, something of a stringy object drops from my face to land on my thigh. I touch my face and could feel the indentation left on my face. The headphones appeared to have stuck to my face as I slept, and the sight of that funny ridged face must have struck the kids as outlandish. I roll out of the hammock, slip into my sandy flip-flops, bend to pick the oval object. The object, home-made, serving as ball was obviously the kid’s collective interest and I was the obstacle. Held hostage by a seemingly fatigued stifled figure; they looked in animated anticipation to rescue the ball. I stretch my arm – ball in hand- towards them as though extending an olive branch leaf. They looked suspiciously on without making a move. This Mexican stand-off requires a rapid and equitable denouement, I think to myself

Gingerly, I take a few steps backwards for effect. In an inexplicable moment of insanity, I take a couple more steps back, then proceed forward in a trot, accelerating by each step and assume a kicking posture. At the very moment of ball release for kicking, the foot supporting my weight slipped. A tripartite of objects is then simultaneously launched in sea-side orbit. My body flung up in an incomplete summersault, flip-flop hovering in a trail of sand, and ball flying in the opposite of the intended direction I cut for a pathetic cartoonish character! A chorus of epileptic laughter greets my soft landing on the warm sands of an idyllic Malagasy beach. I join in the laughter, and that was the icebreaker. As if to seal the nascent friendship, they creep cautiously towards me while I remain postured on all fours. They kick the ball in my direction in what can only be interpreted as a cajoling gesture of goodwill. Grabbing the situation to assuage my fall of shame, I sheepishly join the beach game of football with gusto. Tired but not exhausted, I walk back to the Hammock. The book lying next to the hammock was now half buried in sand. Pick it up and dust it, and sink lifelessly in the hammock. With a sigh of unbridled satisfaction of joy, I swing the hammock in motion by planting my foot into the sandy ground and releasing it into a pendulum. “This is paradise,” I think to myself as I am grabbed by an enthralling emotion of elation. The exquisiteness of the beach is magnificent. The finely grained sand mixed with grains of pulverised ocean fossils reflects an astonishing halo of white colour in the rays of a noon sun. The white beach then merges seamlessly into a hypnotic and transparent turquoise ocean blue extending far beyond the eye’s reach. The Palm trees hang lazily in the late-afternoon sun swinging synchronized with the whispering coastal breeze. Audible waves battering the coast increase in size, frequency, and ambition as the tide comes. The miniature debris deposited on the beach by the tidal waves attracts a frenzy of seagulls battling for ocean food before sunset. In distant ocean, I can make out the shape of a boat heading towards the coast. Expectantly, I sit up in the hammock, thus breaking the pendulum movement. I am curiously interested in the cargo. The involuntary smile creased on my face is a dead give-away. After what seems eternity, the boat finally makes it to the coast as the engine is choked off letting out black exhaust fumes in the air. Figures clad in tightly-fitted dark rubber suits emerge in bouncy spirits from the rocking boat on the shores jumping into the shallow waters and then waddling their way through the water on the beaches getting muddy as the tide rises.

The figures make their way on the sandy part of the beach. They gather their gear in one place. As if at a camp fire, they exchange what seems to be thrilling stories. I know this because even though they are beyond earshot, their gesticulation as they talk is animated. There is wanton laughter, and facial expressions of stunned pleasure. Spontaneously the group disperses in different direction laden with diving paraphernalia and not before embarking in an orgy of hugging and hi-fives! A sole figure however, heads towards my direction. It is this cargo I was waiting for. Sauntering towards me with effortless grace, yet each step with purpose, I jump out of the hammock and place the book down as I rush to help carry the diving gear. Her face appears cast in a permanent and charming smile. Hazel brown and enchantingly warm, her eyes has something angelic and yet devilishly magnetic that pulls one willingly and the draws them into her stunningly natural beauty which leaving the heart palpitating. She has such tender-looking lips that look gorgeously aloof and inviting. Her eyebrows are set an angle which gives away a guile acumen and fast-working mind. It is how all these elements fused that produces such mind-boggling beauty evoking the word goddess! “How was it?” I ask. Her smile accentuates further as he she hands me part of her diving accessories. Her hand beautifully curved show a scar making the imperfection seem even more perfect. Then she looks me in the eye, “I cannot put it words. You have to learn diving to see the beauty of the underwater creatures yourself.” We move under the palm tree where the hammock hangs and dispose of the luggage. She elegantly unzips the rubber suit unveiling body contours of breath-taking and ravishing features. I smile in schoolboy appreciation, whereupon one of her eyebrow rises in playful disapproval of the ravenous look in my eye. Seizing the initiative I carefully place my body back in the hammock. With my hand patting the space next to me, I invite her to join me. Resigned, she acquiesces. Just as she makes herself comfortable next to me, the sun is dancing teasingly in alternating colours of symbiotic orange and vivid red in the distant horizon. The glittery and golden rays hit the blue of the ocean to create a spectre of unimagined splendour. The waves continue unabashed to crash on the beach sending the foamy water further up the beach.

She makes a move to jump out of the hammock, but I frustrate her abrupt movement. “I need my camera to capture this” she demandingly implores me. “Use your natural lens,” I urge her. “Sometimes the best snaps are taken with your own eyes and are indelibly marked on your retina and then stored forever in your memory. You don’t need the camera for that.” With that assurance, she watches as the ocean marries the sun in a kaleidoscope of enticing colours. As the darkness finally engulfs us in the hammock, the croaking crickets break into incoherent symphony as if to announce their presence. I take the cue and swing the hammock into a pendulum, crashing our bodies together, like the waves crash into the beach.

Napoli – A City without half-measures

Close your eyes. Imagine not hearing the sounds of the rushing motorcycles meandering in a chaotic web of synchronized mayhem. Open them. The breath-taking Belle Èpoque architecture, tinkering on the verges of dereliction, merges almost seamless, into the amazing ancient well-maintained baroque styled buildings. A true shopping paradise where fashion follows current trends. It is packed with shops and shoppers with serious commercial intentions, punctuated only by the obligatory gelato and a shot of double espresso. It would be wild to think you are in an African city. Oh yes, the unusually high numbers of beggars of African descent adds to the conviction that Naples could quite easily be a city trapped in a burgeoning West African enclave that has outgrown the Delphic ambitions of its city planners.

It is a city so unlike most Western European cities. Inconceivable yet, that it is Italy’s third largest city after Rome and Milan. Yet Naples defies reasoned thinking. Until its annexation to the Kingdom of Italy in 1861, the Kingdom of the Two Sicilies, it was the wealthiest and most industrialized of the various Italian states. Naples was the third most populous city of Europe (after London and Paris), and certainly one of the most opulent. Even today, a visit to Naples would not be complete without seeing the royal palaces in and near the city. It is the birth place of Pizza, one of many Italian contributions to the world’s cuisine next to pasta, cappuccino, risotto & limoncello.

Naples is a city characteristic of schizophrenic contradictions. For the Bella figura, it offers a myriad of impressive outspoken fashionable styles in clothing. Yet litter lingers, side by side, with the eye-catching style in garb. It has a high density of pickpockets  adding to a sense of impending peril only further heightened by the carefree motorcyclists crisscrossing at shocking velocities. For assurances of the hereafter, there are countless churches of all sizes and splendour but little charity. Wide streets give way to narrow ones sloping downwards and upwards at acute angles but shared with cars, scooters, and pedestrians. Amazing friendliness, but countervailed by volatile Mediterranean temper. It is not ironic that it is a city built on the valleys clinging close to the slopes of the active and volatile Vesuvius.

In short, either you love it with passion or you hate it passionately. Either way, I adore passion. A city to fall in love with. Passion is what I see in the eyes of the Neapolitans. A city that makes you feel something, is a city alive!

“Vedi Napoli e poi muori!” It was a phrase coined during the reign of the Bourbons of Naples, considered by historians to have been the city’s Golden Age. Paraphrased, before you die, you must experience the beauty and magnificence of Naples.

UK elections

The electoral advance of JC – not to be mistaken for Jesus Christ – seen by many on the far left as The Messiah – was propelled in large by the disenchanted youth vote. Contrary to the popularly held credo, they turned out en masse. Their turn-up not only registered and signalled their displeasure with the Brexit debate but in the process delved the Tory government an embarrassing electoral blow. The restive youth, inhabitants of the post-industrial Britain, belonging to the world of Netflix, skinny Frappuccino, and all-you-can-eat-buffet, cannot recognize themselves in the version of Hard Brexit being floated about as the preferred negotiating stance to reflect the knife-edge result of the Brexit plebiscite. On the balance of a democratic outcome, the victory for the leave campaign was unequivocal. The conquest however did not put the Europe debate to rest. Certainly the echoes of the referendum wrangles resonated during the June elections.

Rewind to last year. Dig deep into the 2016 summer referendum results then a narrative takes shape in part to explain the unexpected electoral shock result. By a breath-taking majority, the demography of 18-35 years old overwhelmingly chose to remain part of the European Union, dysfunctional as it may be deemed to be. The majority of the older generation voted to leave. The majority with the least to lose in the future voted to leave and majority with the most to lose chose to stay with the EU.

Despite this demographic age schism on a question affecting future generations, Mrs May, the phlegmatic UK Premier,  interpreted the result as a wholesome mandate to gamble on a Hard Brexit – exit from the customs union and common market. Easy to see why. Choosing not to be outflanked by UKIP, immigration formed the guiding mantra for the Brexit debate. How to manage the exit became the pink elephant in the room during the elections campaign – Brexit is Brexit. Immigration was the singular focus of engaging with the remaining 27-members of the EU based on the narrow wishes of the 52 per cent leavers which stifled any real considerations for the 48 per cent remainers.

Complicating an already difficult political situation, real parliamentary opposition was feeble. The Labour Party was engulfed in an existential infighting between the Left-wingers and centrist Blairites. The Labour Leader Corbyn, a hard-core lefty, unrepentant Marxist and totally ambiguous on Europe , was pushing further for a more socialist agenda. The soul of the party was the prized stake. Two Machiavellian attempts to dislodge Corbyn failed. As revenge for the failed coup, the Trotskyites were conspiring to purge the party centrists.

Sensing a lack of pushback in parliament and polls showing a potential annihilation of Labour, erstwhile “Remainer” May did the most politically expedient thing to undertake. Snap elections were triggered. It was a calculated Machiavellian plot to – once and for all – obliterate Labour swimming in shallow waters of mediocre polls and embroiled in a useless civil war. How could she lose? After the Cameron lost wager on the referendum, chances of another loss seemed remote. The Tories had morphed into UKIP, labour was self-disintegrating and the Lib-dems marginalised.

Yet, one could sense a perceptible shift in the public mood especially among the youth. “Remoaners” and “Bregretters” alike felt excluded from the debate decidedly pushing for an exit into the precipice of the unknown. With the elections called, an opportunity was glaring to upend the results of the referendum campaigned – both sides of the referendum – on blatant lies. To further explain the surge, there was mounting anecdotal discontentment among the youth particularly because the government was pressing on an agenda that did not take them into consideration given the results affected them the most. They further developed austerity-fatigue. Quite frankly, they scarcely cared for the conservative fiscal budget lecturing flying around by an elite force unaware of the price of a pint of milk. Who cared, the youth don’t vote, right?

The Stage was set.

Copious amount of humble pie was dealt out when the exit polls pointed to a hung parliament. Arguably the most humiliating results suffered by a sitting government dizzy on sky-high polls prior to triggering the election, it exposed not only the disconnect between the electorate & government, but also that the democratic process can sometimes yield brutal results if political hubris is the underlying driving force. Besides this, the idea of deciding an issue of such profound significance by a simple ‘yes’ and ‘no’ by Joe Public seems like a fools errand combined with an exercise in futility.

And so it was that on the hottest day of June ever recorded since 1976  – a harbinger of what lies ahead – the Queens speech was delivered by a minority government devoid of manifesto ambitions  or policy clarity on the greatest subject facing the U.K. Mrs May called a snap election under the guise of getting a hard Brexit mandate ala Macron. Instead she was doused in bucket of ice cold realism. The mandate she required was flatly rejected. Pretty much the entire manifesto can be seen as the longest suicide note in recent British political history.

May’s political clout in tatters, Brexit in disarray, Corbyn in ascendency, a new way ahead is required. Though the referendum is a blunt democratic tool to be respected, it is fair to suggest that bogus & outlandish campaign claims were made on both sides. It is a matter of deep courage to pause and question if the result fairly reflects the informed choices made in the elections which was indirectly brought about by the referendum. One wonders if the referendum result can re-run purely on the basis of misguided decisions. If not, whether or not the rights of the 48%, a majority of whom will have to contend with the consequences when the majority of 52% Leavers have gone. Can the  zealous Brexiteers dictate the contours of a future relationship of U.K. and The EU?

The way ahead calls for a sensible exit. A cross-party approach without tribal affiliations must prevail to safeguard UK’s interests. The scale of the challenge going forward should not be underestimated. The incessant ideologically-driven propaganda suggestion of the inevitability of the Brexit by the right-wing cartel spearheaded by the The Mail, The Telegraph and The Times is dogmatically misguided. It calls for a balance where the concerns about immigration and fear that hard Brexit would reckless vandalism are addressed with sober minds. It requires a concerted war on austerity that has worsened the divide between the rich and those just getting on in life. The dangers of  deficit-cut fetishism are all apparent for everyone to see. Austerity is not sustainable in an age where it affects more people on living wages and there is cap on public pay wages.

The unexpected election result is a cry to reset the political discourse in the U.K. Simultaneously an opportunity for the EU to get its house in order. Bold and pragmatic thinking must inform the politicians’ negotiating positions on both sides of the Brexit table. Practical visionary leaders with a deep sense of value transformation are what is required to deal with the quagmire of Brexit and its ensuing challenges. Konrad Adenauer, Joseph Bech, Johan Willem Beyen, Winston Churchill, Alcide De Gasperi, Walter Hallstein, Sicco Mansholt, Altiero Spinelli, Robert Schuman, and Jean Monnet, laid the foundation of the EU. It is time for a new breed of leaders to take the project into the 21st century.