When we moved here, we honestly didn't know. I had been to this town once or twice before, then the two of us had been here, in summer or in winter. There were no signs whatsoever. Everything looked pleasant, peaceful. A quiet rural part of France, you couldn't get much further east. Paris, and the other big cities are hours away. So are their problems.
Quelle surprise when we saw a small note stuck on the front screen of the car. What environment were we living in? Could we trust anyone? Would we ever be safe again?
The one note came from 3 different local bodies. First the local council, then the Police Municipal and Gendarmerie. So, it carried the full burdening weight of authority. It sent an unmistakable signal: read this, you have been warned. Having been put in our places we read on. Just to make sure that everyone understood, the document in our hands was written in two languages.
It appeared that we were living in the centre of a huge crime area. It may not be in the sights of the global terrorist organizations who are out to get us because we have the wrong religion. Not to mention the international media who do a far more effective job of placing the fear of terrorism into us unsuspecting citizens than the so called terrorists themselves. I can imagine Bin Sama ringing the offices of some rainbow press paper offering them an exclusive. Given the fact that phone calls are pretty much for free everywhere, the old boy won't even have to make a dent in the savings he's got stashed in his caves. But, again I digress.
Back to our little backwater. Shaking with fright, beads of perspiration forming on our brows, we proceeded to inform ourselves how we could protect ourselves from the threat of enemies lurking in the area, ready to pounce on us and make our lives a misery.
First of all, it seems, the car parks are a high risk zone. We shouldn't leave anything valuable in the car for all to see and to pinch. Given that nearly everybody has about two mobile phones, the desire to pinch them is low. Cameras etc. well, if I left the camera in the car, I wouldn't be able to be the perfect tourist and looking at the town through the lens while my over large stomach drags me to one of the 38 restaurants in town. Papers and money in the car. Well, that wouldn't work because as a tourist, I would want to buy all the tourist crap I can get, pay for the over priced meal and of course, fall into the illusion that the supermarkets are different than on the other side of the border. Oh and then I should switch on the car alarm. If I had one - but I am sure there is some enterprising person in town who would love to sell me one, just to keep my fears at bay.
So, as a Wilderbeast, having ensured that my most important possession, my car, is lovingly taken care of, I venture into the dark and dangerous alleys and streets that make this town such a tourist destination. I must clasp my handbag tightly under the arms. Should there be a massive demonstration by thousands of people protesting against globalization, aids, world peace or even a good natured throng of fellow Wilderbeasts looking at the local folklore festivals, I am to clutch my hand bag directly in front of me. Most likely my chest. This would surely indicate to everyone that I am carrying something valuable in my handbag and that I would fight to the death to protect it.
I might find that I had run out of cash in my spending spree here and would need to go to a cash point and acquire funds to support the underdeveloped local economy. But alas, I must be careful. I should act like a policeman chasing an armed thief and, whilst clutching my handbag to my chest or under my arm, constantly and sharply swivel around at 360 degrees to make sure that there is no surprise attack by an impoverished local wanting my €50. And, because every local shopkeeper is part of an international money laundering operation, we must keep all our receipts.
Unbelievable.
We rarely left the house. It had become too dangerous. Being highly security conscious and willing to accept my own responsibility, I decided it would be prudent to take on some extra training. Under the cover of darkness, at 3am, I slipped out to with the aim to borrow a Rambo DVD from the local DVD dispensing machine so that I could swot up on what my hero has to offer. After all, he is now a Governor of the most important State in that country promoting democracy and freedom in its own special fashion. Couldn't go wrong.
And then it happened.
As I slid along the walls, keeping to my own shadow, I saw that all the cafes hadn't bothered to chain their tables and chairs together on the footpaths. Why, I wondered, if we lived in such a hot spot of organized crime and money laundering, did nobody care whether expensive inventory was properly secured at night?
I returned home confused. We go out again now. The Wilderbeast may be unpleasant, may think they own the world, but they seem harmless enough. And let them spend their money on overpriced things here. They have enough of it.
Saturday, 9 June 2007
Friday, 8 June 2007
Notes from the provinces
The corn is coming on nicely now. After the warm April, the much desired rain came in during May and nature seems to have found its equilibrium again. We hadn't been to our garden for some time and the corn has shot up a good foot, from a small sapling beginning to poke its head out of the ground to a young child looking to see what else is out there. But in some fields, the growth is not so advanced. Down by the French monument, where the views are nicer, the growth is not so tremendous.
Rainy weather is not the sort of thing that suits a small town. There isn't so much to do in town to escape the rain. But the town is too big to justify what true country folk would do - get out anyway. One is stuck in the middle.
Reading about Proust helps that. It is so calming, the gentle orderliness of his life as he slips into his past memories and with enormous accuracy describes all the sensations which make up the fabric of our lives. From a 21st century perspective, reading such details must be tedious for so many..yet it is less than a 100 years ago that he wrote those passages.
I write this because I too was a victim of the lack of observation. The small world that surrounds us changed and we hadn't noticed it. It was during an evening stroll down the main street, just to see what, if anything had changed. Of course, the activities currently taking place in "oh my sunshine" have been barred from public curiosity. A peek through the open front door reveals little visible progress. Some houses down, at the Place de Republic, another shop is undergoing a change - and no sign of what it will be, whenever it opens up. These are small events which take on greater significance. They of course arouse curiosity, the town gossip. It seems like Christmas or birthdays, eager anticipation. Something new. But lots of new things happen, should we notice it. So our surprise when we noticed that even further down, the local stationers and bookshop had stuck paper on its windows announcing a "liquidation total". Not that we did much shopping there, but it was handy to know it was there. Somewhat amazed, not only because we now had a third shop development to monitor, but also to answer the question of what happened to the original shop. Upon closer inspection, a notice revealed that the proprietors were moving to our neck of the town. Stunned, we tried to figure it out. Was the "oh my sunshine" undergoing a massive upgrade - it didn't seem feasible but who knows. This important development kept us busy for the rest of our walk. The answer presented itself to us when we came back. The old proprietor had moved into a stationery shop which we walk past every time we go to the bank or elsewhere. We hadn't noticed. I wonder what Proust would have said.
Another development at the supermarket. But before telling this little story, a small digression. I guess with the strong economic growth taking place on the other side of the border, a variation Parkinson's law comes into effect. The stronger the economy, proportionally the more loud and horrible it's inhabitants become, the more they have to prance around like absolute twits. While your average French person quietly and leisurely strolls down the aisles to do his shopping, the Wilderbeast adopt a slightly different style. First they form a battalion and invade the premises and then swarm out all over the place. Instead of an orderly procession, they shout across the entire supermarket what there is and should anybody need it. The answer is shouted back. Then they depart and peace returns.
Today's culture test centered around 34 bottles of orange juice. Same principle. One on top, 33 in the trolley. I was deeply shocked. Not only were the bottles allowed to remain in the trolley, but the cashier had counted and confirmed the number to the couple while dealing with the payment of the customer in front.
The orange juice people came from about 100km away. In a BMW. Shopping in discount supermarket. How strange, I say. What would Proust say to that.
Rainy weather is not the sort of thing that suits a small town. There isn't so much to do in town to escape the rain. But the town is too big to justify what true country folk would do - get out anyway. One is stuck in the middle.
Reading about Proust helps that. It is so calming, the gentle orderliness of his life as he slips into his past memories and with enormous accuracy describes all the sensations which make up the fabric of our lives. From a 21st century perspective, reading such details must be tedious for so many..yet it is less than a 100 years ago that he wrote those passages.
I write this because I too was a victim of the lack of observation. The small world that surrounds us changed and we hadn't noticed it. It was during an evening stroll down the main street, just to see what, if anything had changed. Of course, the activities currently taking place in "oh my sunshine" have been barred from public curiosity. A peek through the open front door reveals little visible progress. Some houses down, at the Place de Republic, another shop is undergoing a change - and no sign of what it will be, whenever it opens up. These are small events which take on greater significance. They of course arouse curiosity, the town gossip. It seems like Christmas or birthdays, eager anticipation. Something new. But lots of new things happen, should we notice it. So our surprise when we noticed that even further down, the local stationers and bookshop had stuck paper on its windows announcing a "liquidation total". Not that we did much shopping there, but it was handy to know it was there. Somewhat amazed, not only because we now had a third shop development to monitor, but also to answer the question of what happened to the original shop. Upon closer inspection, a notice revealed that the proprietors were moving to our neck of the town. Stunned, we tried to figure it out. Was the "oh my sunshine" undergoing a massive upgrade - it didn't seem feasible but who knows. This important development kept us busy for the rest of our walk. The answer presented itself to us when we came back. The old proprietor had moved into a stationery shop which we walk past every time we go to the bank or elsewhere. We hadn't noticed. I wonder what Proust would have said.
Another development at the supermarket. But before telling this little story, a small digression. I guess with the strong economic growth taking place on the other side of the border, a variation Parkinson's law comes into effect. The stronger the economy, proportionally the more loud and horrible it's inhabitants become, the more they have to prance around like absolute twits. While your average French person quietly and leisurely strolls down the aisles to do his shopping, the Wilderbeast adopt a slightly different style. First they form a battalion and invade the premises and then swarm out all over the place. Instead of an orderly procession, they shout across the entire supermarket what there is and should anybody need it. The answer is shouted back. Then they depart and peace returns.
Today's culture test centered around 34 bottles of orange juice. Same principle. One on top, 33 in the trolley. I was deeply shocked. Not only were the bottles allowed to remain in the trolley, but the cashier had counted and confirmed the number to the couple while dealing with the payment of the customer in front.
The orange juice people came from about 100km away. In a BMW. Shopping in discount supermarket. How strange, I say. What would Proust say to that.
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