It is now more than a year ago that we went to Germany on our famed pilgrimage. I think I, the famous Red Cap went into a severe depression shortly after our return to this dark, disorderly, violent and bloody country. Isolated from the rest of the world by a desert to the North and an ocean all the way around the rest of it, she is only now, about a thousand years later, getting to the “let’s-kill –all-the-other-buggers-before-they-kill-us” blood and gore phase that Europe went through.
Yes we saw it all. From the brutal Roman occupation and their Gladiator blood sport arenas for their own amusement, to the Prussian wars, and Napoleon’s bloody conquest of most of Europe, the one hundred year war, the madness of the Crusades, and other small local skirmishes as well as two world wars culminating in atrocious, vulgar Dachau and Auschwits. Yes it happened and it will happen again, and it is now happening in Africa. It is enough to make you ashamed of humanity and send you into hiding for the rest of your life, praying that some or other Bubonic plague or alien invasion will wipe them out for good.
And that is what I, the famous Red Cap was doing most of the time since our return. Hanging out with some shady characters, trying to minimise contact with these despicable human beings as much as possible. You never know when they will turn on you and shoot you (they like to shoot things), or stab you (another great fun thing they like to do), or stone you (great stoners they are ever since Biblical times).
We did go on sporadic excursions all over the place, like visiting great cultural spots to hang out with the forefathers, those brave men and women who should have stayed in the good old Netherlands or France or whatever seedy corner of the world they ran from, mainly because they could not get along with ‘thy neighbours’. Question is, why travel all this way just to kill or be killed by black savages, while you could have stayed home and be killed by your own savage, moronic people over trivialities like how a loving, almighty God should be worshiped. It does not make sense, but then again, do these bipeds ever make sense?
We did some work out in the bush and was joined by some crazy guy (photo herewith) who helped us handle some crazy cows that kicked my moron into a blue swearing rage while doing a perfect tango out there in the bush. First ten steps forward with his injured hand pointing towards the sun, and then two steps back with both hands held between the knees, then again marching on the spot clutching hands in front of his face as if praying, and all the time he is talking earnestly to some of the 5000 gods currently being worshiped all over the world.
Sadly the general trend of the conversation was not in the spirit of thanks giving, reconciliation, or of the endearing kind. The moron was calling down death and destruction by thunderbolt on these deities. He can be such an amusing man. Stupid but amusing.
Strangely enough, Abraxas the poor sod of a demiurge, god of the Gnostics of old came in for a good verbal thrashing. Serves him right the interfering old archon, two-faced creator-destroyer of limited intelligence. Why, oh why do they always create these stupid gods for themselves and then complain about the unfairness of those same, self-created gods? Because they are themselves of limited intelligence?
On another excursion, on a snail hunt somewhere in the bush on a deserted farm we found the old ruins of a once humble home, the crumbled dream of a poor young farmer and his family. Me, being of a sensitive nature, could still hear the laughter of children at play under the shady trees. People used to live here, used to love life here. Abandoned, the house, like all abandoned buildings, died of loneliness. You can feel the sadness emanating from the broken walls. Even the wind sings a sad song through the leaves of the trees growing in the middle of what once were bedroom and kitchen and bathroom.
So we travelled. We trekked out into the bundu up North to a place called Polokwane or Pietersburg or whatever. (That is another jolly trend of man; to constantly change names to assert authority, or to humiliate, or just to confuse tourists and mapmakers, but mostly, it seems, because they are by nature a terribly confused lot.) It is no wonder they get confused. You travel to Poloburg (or is it Pieterskwane? Or perhaps Pieterspolo?) and all the time you travel in a northerly direction, and the next morning when you are forced to get up at this ungodly early hour so you can “experience the thrill” of the glorious rise of the glorious bloody Sun, you realise that the World has turned around overnight and the bloody Sun is all of a sudden rising from the West. It is quite confusing, I can tell you. Indeed so confusing I immediately wanted to return to bed.
We spent the best part of seven days in the bush. We saw a lot of blood being spilled to feed the insatiable lust for meat of man, the supreme carnivore. We saw some blood spilled for sport. Poor Egyptian Geese got shot amidst joyful shouts of “got him, and him and him”. Abraxas is alive and well and living in this part of the World. Sadly enough, there is no obvious sign of my beloved Sophia. But gladly, as if to make up for the absence of dear wise Hagia Sophia, I met this beautiful young lady, so cute is she, I was immediately smitten, and then rudely reprimanded by my moron. ‘Behave yourself,’ said he the holy Saint. ‘For Heavens’ sake, she is only 21,’ said he indignantly. And right he was, I mean she is a lovely, innocent young girl, and I am a mere two, at most three years old. It is indeed insane, even deliciously immoral. But see how beautiful we are together, as if we were made for each other.
I seriously considered staying here with her for the rest of my life. But I am a wanderer, a lifelong pilgrim. I know I cannot stay, I cannot love but one. I love them all wherever I meet them, be it Verona, be it Saltzburg or Matjiesfontein. To quote old Plato: “Love is the joy of the good, the wonder of the wise, the amazement of the Gods”. I am sure this wise old man wore a red cap, his thinking cap (a distant relative of mine) to help him formulate all these wise sayings.
And off we went, me and my moron, to explore new horizons, to conquer, to love, to live, to learn. To quote the wise old Plato again: “To be a philosopher is to learn how to die.” Me and my moron still have a lot to learn, so we travel, we listen, we observe. Or at least I do while my moron fools around like … a moron. And if you don’t believe me, listen to this. On our way back from the North he kept his family up to date about his progress back home … by singing to them where he was! Listen and despair. This man is totally insane. (Sorry, the soundtrack is currently unavailable. Will post as soon as possible.)