Posts Tagged ‘Germany’

Goodbye Germany

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And suddenly it is time to go. The last day dawned on us with sunshine and bird song. Sneaky bastard. We were hoping for some sort of reprieve, some sort of exculpation, exoneration, absolution, call it what you

want. We urgently wanted to stay longer, very much longer, maybe even indefinitely. This is what a postmodern society looks like. This is me, the world famous, sophisticated Red Cap. This is where I belong. This is what I deserve. All the technology, all the luxury, the rich and mind boggling culture, the sophistication and level of civilisation. An authentic, thoroughly postmodern society.

Duitsland 2014

Duitsland 2014

Ye gods, I stand (or rather hang) mortified in the midst of all this splendour at the side of my moron, who is beaming with devastating ignorance at all of this, and mumbles weakly; ‘This is nice. I think we should perhaps come here again sometime’. NICE! NICE! Domkopf! Saumensch! I swear his befuddled little brain cannot fathom the splendour and intricacy of this sophisticated civilisation he suddenly finds himself in. Shame, it must be completely overwhelming for the bird brained poor sod. As the saying goes; the light of one single candle is just there to show you the darkness, presuming of course that there is even one single, tiny little candle burning in that empty, pitch black cavern of his skull.

For a last treat our hosts take us for a walkabout and a cup of tea in the Englischer Garten. Strange thing this English garden in the woods of Germany. Why, one wonders, did a proud German nation bother with an English garden in the middle of a German army camp? But I am willing to forgive them this faux pas, because they at least had the common sense to erect a shrine with a statue of Apollo in one corner of the garden, it could just as well have been a statue in honour of some or other Royal English prick.

Duitsland 2014

Duitsland 2014

And then it was off to the airport. Said our goodbyes, au revoirs, happy landings and what not, and we were off. And this time I was treated with the respect due to me. I travelled with the moron in the passenger compartment of the plane and not in the cargo hold like before. Disgustingly dirty and cold as hell it was down there. I felt humiliated beyond words. I will never forgive him that indiscretion.

But my happiness was short lived. The cargo hold was indeed cold and dirty and disgusting, not exactly Schloss Neuschwanstein, but, as I soon realised to my horror, to be herded together in this cramped space with this lot vulgar, wheezing, coughing, spitting humanity, was an ordeal comparable to Dachau. The air was hot and humid and teaming with the most horrid bugs of all kind, competing with each other for the most suitable host to penetrate where they multiplied to be coughed out into the liquid air to infect more people who were happily smiling and talking and laughing. This was driving me out of my mind. I was not going to survive this madness.

Duitsland 2014

Duitsland 2014

We stop over at Dubai, a splendid, modern, shiny airport, not designed to accommodate weary, bone-tired world travellers. We survived ten agonising long hours of waiting for the connection flight back home amidst drooling men in long white frocks ogling innocent young girls (hateful Western unbelievers) in miniskirts and hot-pants. They, the white frocked, towel headed men, are not interested in a famous, albeit dishevelled Red Cap, sitting atop the greying bald head of an equally dishevelled elderly man. Regrettably, nor are the pretty young ladies.

Eventually our plane arrives and we shuffle on board, being welcomed by pretty stewardesses and a new wave of exotic, noxious germs. After an eternity in the belly of our flying beast, crammed in like sardines in a tin can with these vulgar, sweating, wheezing bipeds, we arrive back home. We disembark, taking our aliens, now in permanent, hostile residence, with us and picking up a couple of the local variety on the way to the arrival terminal.

Duitsland 2014

Duitsland 2014

If there is such a thing as fifty shades of grey, then I am sure I achieved a remarkable 51 shades of crimson during our flight back home, arriving at Aandblom Street in the palest shade of red imaginable. My poor germ infested moron (now poor in every sense of the word, especially the sort of word bank managers understand best) and his equally poor spouse, sported a very dark shade of green and promptly went to bed, and stayed there for the rest of the week, and half of the next week, telling each other what a fabulous, unforgettable trip they had had. And, I believe, in their feverish delirium, started to plan the next trip to Europe.

And now, fully restored to my old exuberant, charming and witty self with a healthy red colour, I must admit that it was worth it, every moment of it. Yes I do sport a few permanent scars and lost a stich or two like a seasoned traveller, but I loved it and will do it again, and again for as long as I live. To that end, we are working on a scheme to rob a Bank. Watch this space, we will keep you posted.

Ps. watching the news last night made me change my mind. I have a feeling that the moron is going to botch up our planned bank robbery, and we will all land in jail, thus I suggested that the moron and wife paint themselves black, we get a boat and head for Europe as refugees. That way we will get VIP treatment and permanent residence in the country of our choice. We get food, a house, medical treatment and a job. Once inside, we can start demanding better treatment, free housing, free meals, and if we don’t get what we demand, we accuse them of racism and discrimination, and we burn down their towns and cities.

This is going to be so exciting. Just can’t wait. The Red Cap is going to go on a rampage!

Juliet verona

See you soon darling Juliet.

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The Red Cap and the Fairy Castle

In a desperate bid to absorb another miniscule part of European history, we dash excitedly towards one of the most beautiful, albeit unfinished castles of Germany, Schloss Neuswschanstein, the fairy tale construct in the foothills of the magnificent Alps. We are tourists, we must see, we must take pictures. We must, like heroes, partake in the glory and agony of dead people.

We are blessed with another beautiful day filled with vibrant sunshine. The gods have been very generous towards us with exquisite days of sunshine during our little tour of Europe so far. We are humbled for we are unworthy. In the meantime, like mad King Ludwig II who built this place, we keep an eye on the dark clouds gathering on the horizon.

Duitsland 2014

The country we travel through is heavenly gorgeous, and greener than the greenest envy of the most envious man or woman on earth. You can almost hear the fairies giggle in the tall grass and shrubs along the way.

We travel through the sleepy town of Hohenschwangau, consisting mainly of upper class guesthouses, rundown pubs and posh restaurants. A quiet heaven for weary tourists and popular hunting grounds for bloodthirsty preachers and witch hunters of years gone by, all of them, thank God, eventually hunted down themselves by the relentless hunter in black with the unwavering scythe. Were they glorified on arrival up there, or were they mortified like they should have been the bastards, one wonders.


At the foot of the Alpine foothills we stop to admire the Romanesque Schloss Neuschwanstein high up in the Alpine mountains (or then Alpine foothills, if you like). And it is here that I, the world renowned Red Cap come to my glorious right with an admiring crowd of photographers going on their knees around me to immortalise me against the backdrop of the preposterous dream that King Ludwig II of Bavaria dared to dream. I just loved it and revelled in the attention showered onto me. I felt like a king.

Duitsland 2014

Then it was all excitement as we move on to buy tickets for a tour of the castle while a light drizzle of rain started coming down to try, without success, to dampen our high spirits a bit, but then our spirits were really dampen when no tickets were available for any immediate tour. After much deliberation it was decided that, due to time constraints and concerns that my moronic old man with his bad leg, bad heart (and if you ask me, his serious lack of precocity) would not be able to climb the couple of hundred meters uphill to the castle, the project be abandoned and to return to München.


What a waste. I so wanted to visit that way-out mad castle, built by that mad King. People regarded by the high and mighty as mad (especially mad kings), are my favourite historical figures. Kings, by definition, are a mad lot and this King Ludwig sounds to me like the most sane king in the history of Bavaria. Thus, to my mind, to be regarded as mad by people even madder than himself, he must have been an exceptionally, insanely sane man. He loved art, he loved peasants, and most of all he loved Wagner. Think Tannhäuser, think glorious Lohengrin, think Tristan and Isolde. How mad must you be not to love this music!

But of course he was a fool, an incurable optimistic one. He did not want to make war, he hated it, and when he did succumb to pressure, he lost the war and virtually his kingship. The next time he did, he won the war but finally lost his kingdom and his sanity. Serves him right the retard, believing like a fool in the goodness of all people, and trusting politicians to be honourable servants of the King, the Country and the people. He lost everything, even his optimism and started to concentrate on the building of his exorbitantly lavish castles, his dream world where all was good and noble and beautiful. Of course he was mad. In a world filled with brutal men who loved bloody wars and plundering, Ludwig II’s world was a vulgar intrusion.

So we went home and drank some wine, and pondered the madness of the word, and drank some more wine to be able to sleep through the darkness of being. Tomorrow will be our last day in Munich. We will be going home late in the afternoon, back to an equally dark future in our beloved, blood drenched Africa.

Me, I am sitting pretty on a badly balding head, looking, listening, judging. I exist on this planet to teach wrong-headed optimists the error of their obtuse convictions.


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The old man, my moron, is fading. Traveling all over Europe at a hectic pace is taking its toll on his old bones. So much to see, so much to do and so little staying power. Pathetic. We set off early in the morning again, this time into the heart of Munich for an exquisite cultural experience. We are going to visit some very old masters living in the Alte Pinakhotek. This is really up my street, something my artistic soul can appreciate. This will, as it were, put the cap on our little tour of this part of Europe. We meander, we gape, we drool, we admire, but we do not touch, though the urge to do so is sometimes overwhelming. Duitsland 2014

Me and David next to a great piece of art by the great old man Rembrandt van Rijn

Duitsland 2014

Resting in front of these eternal works of art by van Dijk, (I think) halfway through the museum. It is indeed overwhelming. So many works of art to see, so little capacity to store for later retrieval and rumination, but an experience not to be missed by any one with but a pinch of feeling in his soul for the finer things in life.

Duitsland 2014

Elsewhere my moron wrote extensively on our visit to Alte Pinakhotek. He even made a slide show of the event. I hate to admit, but his story and show was not to bad. You can go and look for it here on this site if you really have nothing better to do.

Duitsland 2014Just look at this one. No not the damn tits, look at the man on the extreme right. The man with the red cap. Doesn’t it just give him that distinguished look! Must be an ancestor of mine adorning the head of a philosopher.

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Outside the museum we say our farewells to the masters of art. We will probably never see them again. We are extremely thankful for the opportunity awarded us to enjoy this memorable experience. We will go to our graves remembering this … unless Altzheimer’s gets to us to claim our memories, before the man with the scythe turns up to claim our souls.

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“One fun day in Dachau

Duitsland 2014

What can one say? Not so long ago it was brutal reality for some. Now it is simply part of the insane history of humanity. Genocide; the art of killing people you don’t like, by the million. And by my humble observations as a traveling Red Cap, I came to the conclusion a long time ago; people do not like other people and are willing to kill them by the drop of a hat, or a cap, or practically anything. They just love to hate, and to kill. Brilliant bastards!

Duitsland 2014

“There was a place called the ramp where the trains with the Jews were coming in. They were coming in day and night, and sometimes one per day and sometimes five per day . . . Constantly, people from the heart of Europe were disappearing, and they were arriving to the same place with the same ignorance of the fate of the previous transport. And the people in this mass . . . I knew that within a couple of hours . . . ninety percent would be gassed.

Rudolf Vrba, who worked on the Judenrampe in Auschwitz from August 18, 1942 to June 7, 1943.”[124]

“Extermination camps are frequently confused with concentration camps such as Dachau and Belsen, which were mostly located in Germany and intended as places of incarceration and forced labor for a variety of enemies of the Nazi regime.”

Dachau was the first concentration camp and thus not primarily an extermination camp, but it became the model for all future camps to deal with “the Jewish problem”. People were starved to death here, stripped of their dignity, their humanity. People were murdered and burned here by the thousands.

Dachau as tot as

“By the spring of 1944, up to 8,000 people were being gassed every day at Auschwitz” (meer…)

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Trail of blood


Early morning and we are off to Italy while I am excitedly but softly humming: La donna é mobile, Qual piuma al vento, muta d’accento, e di pensiero, …. Ahh my beloved Verdi and his Rigoletto. I can hardly keep myself from bursting forth in full volume: SEMPRE UN AMABILE, LEGGIADRO VISO ….. We travel, me and my moron and his companions. Not like the fool Perceval on a quest for the Holy Grail, but more like bloodhounds, nose to the ground on the bloody trail of murderous men.

Duitsland 2014

First stop Pischiera, that benighted little town on Lake Gerda. Long past her splendour, with her drawbridges used for keeping barbarians out, now permanently down and tarred over, inviting a new breed of barbarians into her fold. The moat and massive protective wall around the inner city is still intact, but now serve as beautification and curiosity respectively. But the wall still remembers its bloody past. It still remembers the war cries of the defenders and the counter cries of the bloodthirsty attackers. It still remembers the cries of the wounded and dying. It still remembers the putrid smell of blood and the desperate cries of war prisoners being tortured in the prison deep inside its innards. Once a proud wall, playing its part in the violent history of a moronic humanity. Today it is a sad wall with no function, only nightmarish memories.

Late that afternoon my traveling companions were sitting in the shade of the wall, laughthing and drinking wine, and eating pizzas. They were having a good time celebrating their trip to Europe. I was furious. Have they no shame? I shouted at them at the top of my voice: Do you not smell the blood? Do you not hear the desperate, terror filled cries of woman and children amidst the roar of battle embedded in this very wall, in the soil at your feet?

And what did I get back in replay? From the table next to us, a discussion on the aesthetics of the sword, and the fine art of swordsmanship. Even the crude old metal shield became, to their bemudled brains, a thing of beauty! Instead of an intelligent discussion on the morality of war, I got a passionate technical overview on the merit of the crossbow over and against the conventional bow and arrow and how the crossbow was the predecessor of the modern missile. I wanted to cry. I wanted to puke. I shouted: But people were being brutally butchered, and for what!

So they turned to the exciting topic of the enemy scaling the walls, and the defenders pouring boiling tar on their heads from above. They considered this for a while, and to my relief I noticed the faintest signs of distaste to this barbaric practice … and then they decided that molten iron would have done a better job! I almost fainted.

They drank a toast on this brilliant idea, and then started discussing the next day’s excursion to Verona, city of the scandalous Scaligeri family and the besotted Romeo and his beautiful, stupid Juliet.

Yes, true to form these bi-pedalled excuse for a life form blunders ahead, knowing all the answers, but like Perceval, they do not know the question. They stumble onto holy ground and into holy abodes blabbering and drinking and having a good time while the Holy Grail is sitting right in front of their eyes, but they cannot see it even if it is paraded up and down for their benefit. Afterwards they have this vague feeling that they missed something, even something very important, but they blunder onwards into the dark forest of their emaciated lives.

Forwards to Verona with me humming: Libiamo, libiamo ne’lieti calici, … the drinking song from Verdi’s La Traviata. How I love these passionate Italians!


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Red Cap on a Trip to Germany

Been there, done that and all that crap. Yes, I have been around, met some people (and things) head-on you can say. Rather, I have been unceremoniously dumped onto things (and heads attached to things called people), mainly against my will, and mostly to my horror.


So I decided to go into hiding for a while, and then maybe ask for asylum in that African heaven called Zimbabwe on the grounds of physical and emotional abuse by a white man. I even talked to old Robert about my plan and he was rather excited about the prospect of having an authentic Red Cap in that rotten banana republic of his.


But then, Oh Glory of Glories, I heard about my moron’s intention to go to Europe on vacation! I could hardly contain myself. I almost voluntarily jumped onto his head to make sure that I did not stay behind. We are going to Germany, to the land of the Furher. I am so excited, I almost shouted Zig Heil, but then remembered what happened to those stupid Potchefstroom students that got themselves investigated and transformed just because they did not know about the man who single handedly caused the greatest havoc on Earth since Jesus kicked those tables to smythens in that Temple so many years ago.

I hopped into the moron’s suitcase so fast he only saw a red blur before he slammed the lid on me. Bastard, he was going to leave me back home, on my own and play the smart ass know-it-all world traveller. Well, not without me buddy, you won’t. “I will follow yooou, follow you wherever yooou may gooooo. I’ll follow, I’ll follow” and oceans too deep and all that crap. You know the tune. You get my drift? We are going to Germany.


Next thing I knew, we were on the plane, me squeezed flat and freezing to death in the luggage compartment while His Lordship, the moron, were sitting snug and comfortable, and drinking Whisky somewhere above me. It was a ghastly flight, with a ghastly eight hour stopover in Tinker Town in the middle of the night in the middle of a ghastly dessert. By the time we reached Munich, we were in tatters. If this is what holiday feels like, I shudder to think what Hell must be like. I vow never to go there ever. That is a trip my moron will do on his own, thank you. And go there he will, no bones about that. Child of Saturn!

Munich, glorious Munich. City of kings, and playgrounds of a little man named Adolf. I can hardly believe I am here. Tonight we sleep. Tomorrow we start on our first adventure. We are going to explore Italy, land of leaning towers, pizzas, Gladiators and of course wine, woman and song. I do believe that I will not be able to sleep tonight, being as excited (and sensitive of natural inclination) as I am. We will count the hours to daybreak. Lo amo l’Italia!!


Are we visitors to these far lands? I believe not, because visitors come and drink tea (or coffee, or whatever), and chat about this and that (mostly gossip), and then go home. We want to see, and intend to drink a lot more than the casual cup of tea, thank you. Are we travellers? I believe not. Travellers go from point A to point B on business, mostly. Our business is not business, not on this trip, no. Our business is to observe, to watch, to learn.

We are not wayfarers either, for we will do our traveling not on foot, but primarily in style by luxury motorcar. But of course we will walk, or rather, the Moron will do the walking. Lots of it. Me, I will be sitting pretty, watching.

Pilgrims, that’s what we are. We will walk on holy ground, we will visit holy sites, but, being human made and trampled by human feet, and soaked by human blood, it will by default be more unholy than holy. Different from travellers or visitors, we will not only see or hear, we will experience, we will feel, we will immerse ourselves in the culture and history of our surroundings and the people who lived there, or are still living there. And I will judge them. I will judge them severely, for they are merely human, and to my experience, mostly brainless, amoral, brutal and unworthy. I hate the bastards.


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