Saturday, May 28, 2011

I love French newspapers

These two caught my eye the day after Bin Laden died and I felt compelled to clip them out. You would never find these published back in the States. Nobody has the guts

Courtesy of Charlie Hebdo
The death of the King of Pop


Porn videos in Bin Laden's hide-out

Saturday, April 30, 2011

Begging for Compliments

Ah, spring. When the birds take to the air and sing, and all the people in the restaurants below my apartment sit in front of the door and get really loud all night long.

A couple of minutes ago I was sitting in here with the window open, the sound of music playing and people talking in the background. It was about 1 AM. Then, a noise.

I'm not sure how to describe the scream other than primal. It made me think of Native Indians dancing around a camp fire. It was high pitched and started out with "Ayy-haaaaaayyyy..." and then got progressively louder until the it ended with a loud "-HIY!". It was funny the first few times because I assumed somebody was really drunk and loving it. The people outside started to mimic the screamer in groups and laugh.

It seemed he or she was making their rounds through the neighborhood and entertaining the onlookers who sat relaxed in their chairs, sipping on their beers until finally, somebody got tired of it. A man bellowed something in a deep, angry voice, as if he was trying to shoe away an animal from his garden. Seconds later a beer glass shattered to a chorus of "Ooooh!"s and "Hey!"s, and everything went quiet. Slowly the talking began again as normal.

And then, somewhere further into the neighborhood, barely audible...
"Hay-yi-yi-yi-yi-yaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa-YA!"

The crazies really do come out of hibernation in the spring time. Thawed and rested, they have an ample amount of lunatic energy to put on display. There's the guy who stands in front of McDonalds laughing maniacally and babbling to himself; the old man mysteriously called "The Professor" who likes to shake hands and then ramble nonsense with vaguely racist overtones, and that one guy who lies down in the middle of the sidewalk with all of his belongings splayed out in front of him neatly like on a bed side table: cigarettes here, lighter there, broken watch neatly next to those, beer always close by. Matonge's slogan seems to be "colorful" and well, they got that part right. It's not just the super bright peppers and exotic fruits on display...

It's the other exotic fruits on display. Of the cake variety.

Speaking of hot peppers, Africans like spicy food and they use those extremely hot peppers to make really good pimento sauce. Which I love. However, you have to be super careful with the things when cooking because they will burn the shit out of your eyes and any sensitive areas you touch, like your penis or vagina. Which I touch a lot while cooking.

Now, I've mentioned Maurice, our local homeless mascot who lives in a small one-car parking garage in front of a kebab shop. He keeps to himself normally and talks to no one unless approached, just a quiet "Merci" when given food or money. But lately I have noticed he's some how acquired a radio, which he uses to listen to non-stop 80's hits such as Phil Collins and Michael Jackson... and I don't know if rocking out to Nostalgie FM has bolstered his spirits or something but he's been up to shenanigans. On my way back from the store one day I saw him walk up to one of the many shops with fruits and vegetables on display, peer into the window to make sure no one was looking, and then snag three bright red and yellow peppers from the stand.

I wish I saw what must have happened next. I didn't hear any screams but I can only imagine his silent pain. If he didn't eat them and writhe around in excruciating pain, I have no clue what his plans were. Maybe he put them on his shrine to the statue that is perpetually "relocated for cleaning".

There used to be a statue depicting an African woman carrying her child made entirely out of bullet casings. It was dedicated to those from war torn places like Congo and Rwanda. Since it's been taken away, I've noticed random crap piled onto the concrete block where the statue used to be, like offerings to a God. Three rocks and a beer can. A backpack. Sticks. All stacked, some like pyramids. It's right next to Maurice's pad so I can only imagine it's him, but who knows. There are lots of weirdos around here.

The other night I was out running to get something for dinner and a guy asked me for some money. Yadda yadda, the whole routine in French.

Une petite pièce? Spare some alms for an ex-leper?

I said no, sorry. But I was going into a night shop for a drink anyway so I thought Ok, I'll get this guy something because I shouldn't judge people and just assume they're drug addict leaches or scum begging for a living, and I bought him a beer. So that he could be a drunken leach instead.

So I came out, didn't see him and said screw it, I'll just keep it. I walked two feet to the left and there he was in front of me.

"Oh, you have money to buy things there but not enough for..." and then I stopped him and offered him the can of beer to get him to shut up. He reversed his pity story, thanked me 10 times and I walked off.

I was outside waiting for my food to be cooked, just looking around, and there he was again asking for a light and to say that it really was nice of me, and then to ask if I wanted to have fun tonight and if I liked cocaine. You give a mouse a cookie, and soon enough he wants gay sex and coke.

"No," I said, "not interested in that stuff."
Then he asked me how much the beer cost. I told him.

Well, he said, can you go back and exchange it for this and that, I like it better and it has more alcohol. Blah blah. I was hesitant to walk anywhere with the guy, but it was close by and there were a lot of people around so I agreed. Fine, whatever, give the mouse his preferred cookie with sugar on top. I got it for him and he then asked, "Well, can I just have the euros for it?"

"No," I said "I can't do that. Here you go, enjoy."
"Are you Flemand?" he asked. I suppose my accent gave me away.
"No, I speak English."
"British?"
"No, American."

I don't really care if he knows where I'm from to be honest. It's pretty obvious when you see me with my various t-shirts or what have you.

"I have a sister in Washington, DC!"
It hits me that he sounds exactly like Tracy Jordan with an accent and I try to stop myself from laughing hysterically.

"Yeah ok, that's cool. I'm not from there. I'm from Tennessee, in the south" I said.
"They're racist there, aren't they? Are you racist?"
"No. I just bought you beer, so obviously not."
"You're not racist! Thank you!" he said.

Then, he motioned with his shoulders and arms and said,
"You're a very big strong man!  Lots of muscles!"
I told him not everyone agreed with him, but thanks, and went on my way with him giving me lots of "God bless you's".

Now, dude's a little creepy and I know his comments were to either get more from me (one way or another) but I took the comment and went on my way because I've been feeling like shit lately, especially after the mother in law's comments about how I've turned into a fatty over the winter months. So what if he just wanted a cocaine party with dongs everywhere? At least he thought I wasn't a fat bastard and said so. It was worth the price of a Leffe.

Now to just avoid him, forever.

Royal (Wedding) Twats

I was watching a BBC segment on the family tree of Kate Middleton, the girl that married one of the princes. Harry, Larry, Barry, who gives a fuck. Anyway, they traced her family tree and showed that her family worked in coal mines or, as one of her cousins does now, works at a fish and chips shop. Oh, how quaint! They focused a lot on her grandmother, I believe, who reportedly had great drive and aspirations and "always strived for more in life" or something like that, and noted that she died 5 years ago -- but not before seeing where her granddaughter was then. With a prince. Oh, let me wipe the tears from my eyes.



So, grandma, your goal was to be rich without merit? It was literally to win the national royalty lottery? Is this what people still want in the 21st century?

Where IS her granddaughter now? What is the point in the royal family and most importantly, who gives a shit aside from old British women with collectible Princess Diana plates? Really, it may be a "rags to riches" story, but don't try to inject it with a bit of working class spirit, American dream stuff -- she's literally just fucking a prince. He saw her one day and thought, "I'd like to get inside of that", and because he's a prince with a yacht he now has, and that's about it. She's done nothing except open her castle gates and let a rich novelty inside and well, good for her, I guess... Why this is on the BBC is my main question, along with How anybody finds this to be heartwarming or interesting aside from Britain's board of tourism.

At least Belgium's just got a shoddy king that nobody cares about and the Manneqin Pis to show off. The Belgians seem to prefer more important things in life like making delicious beers and fries. Leave it to the Brits to romanticise the class differences like life really is some fairy tale and it's worth being in the gutter because some day, you too, might live in a castle paid for by the underlings of the country.

Wankers.

Saturday, April 16, 2011

Use Your Head

When Marine leaves I often end up neglecting myself for whatever reason, and so I may not eat all day but then wait until the last minute, drag myself out the door, and eat something bad for me. It makes no sense, because when she's here she doesn't really cook that much. In fact, it's me making sure that she eats otherwise she will get angry and fatigued like a small baby. I just seem to lose all energy and I don't do anything, and today was a good example. I pushed through the hunger, gave an English class to an architect (which I couldn't avoid as he was coming to my house, there's not much else I could do), and then when I felt as though I might pass out I decided to descend the stairs and get something to eat.

I've talked about African food and how much I love it. Goat, chicken, rice, beans. Whatever. It's cheap and local and I know that when I move I'll probably not have the opportunity to eat it again, so I decided why not, 5 bucks, I'll go get some African. As is normal in Belgium, the place I frequent decided to close for no reason other than that they did not want to open that day. I backtracked and thought about the place across the street from me -- it's good but I prefer a specific type of chicken with sauce called moambe and, not being from Congo, the guy doesn't usually make it. But again I said screw it, I don't have the energy to be bothered looking for anything. Went there, got some goat (it's odd to use that casually, like for example he was telling me what was available and I said, "Mmmrrr.. I think I'll have the chicken -- wait no, the goat." -- you don't get to say that often) and he speaks fluent english so I had a little chat with him.

It's a new place next to a parking garage and he has nice new glass doors, but one was put out of commission and he had a chair behind and in front of it with a giant sign saying, Do Not Use This Door, as if a lot of people had tried and he had to barricade the thing in to stop them from shattering it and hurting themselves. I asked what had happened, just out of simple curiosity. I mean, he's basically a neighbor and I'd like to know the goings-ons in my neighborhood. "Well," he said, "They broke it and so I went and replaced the door. Then they broke it again the very next day. I said to them, It's ok, but give me the money to replace it!" He laughed and I tried to imagine it in my head.With the parking garage, I just made an assumption and asked "Did a car back into it or something?"
"No, with his head! He pushed the door open with his head".
That made no sense to me so I asked him and he explained a guy was coming in, twice, and broke it with his head. That simple.

I have no idea how someone does that and doesn't horribly maim themselves in the process, to be perfectly honest. He just continued to smile and said "It's Matongé, you never know what's going to happen!" I laughed with him, cause, well, it's true. People push open doors with their heads.

Sure it spices life up, but lessons should be learned here. Just as you shouldn't throw stones if you live in a glass house, you shouldn't own glass doors if you live in Matongé. There's plenty of evidence of that, unfortunately.

I just wished him good luck and went home and ate my goat.

Wednesday, April 13, 2011

Show Me Your War Face

We recently had to take our end-level tests at the EPFC, and as usual we had to pair up for the oral tests (heh heh). A lot of the time, if the teacher has a stick up their ass -- and a lot of them do -- they choose who will pair with who, or at the very least they'll veto your request and tell you to choose a different person. For example, I met a Canadian a few courses ago and since then we've been taking the classes together, sitting next to each other so if we're totally stumped we can try to help each other out, etc. But since we're both anglophones, we've had the profs try to split us up. I don't really know why, because listening to some of the eastern Europeans or Spanish speak French is grating and difficult to endure let alone understand. Not that my friend's accent is any better, but at least we can practice speaking to each other and feel prepared. The tests are also really stressful, in that it's you in a room with a professor, speaking in front of him or her while they sit there staring at you fumbling along. It's a little more comforting doing it with a friend -- I mean, it can be embarrassing and of course you hit the mental blocks because you get nervous, everyone does. Some more than others, like me. I have to actually be sedated for them.

Anyway, a few weeks back we had to decide who we were pairing up with and for whatever reason I was absent and the Canadian was off doing Canadian things like skiing in the alps, so neither of us signed up. Now, there's only one black girl in the class and she's Rwandan. My professor knows I live in the African district so I suppose she just assumed we'd be happy to do it together or something. I have no idea. But when she asked the girl, she refused, saying that she was scared of me and that I looked mean. Apparently, the other people in the class agreed. They told me so after we had some drinks and they realized I wasn't going to murder them or something. We all laughed about it, or at least they did -- I was just surprised. How often do you get feedback like that from people you barely know, let alone an international jury?

I just don't believe in false advertising.And so what if I don't come into class and greet all 18 people individually, or smile like a vacant jack ass all day long? I'm not going to kill you and rape your corpse during the oral examination. Well, I wasn't going to...

Tuesday, March 8, 2011

Ah, Matongé

They're renovating the area that I live in now. Tearing up the streets to create a larger walking space for the tourists that like to come through the area, I guess. Normally, there would be a constant amount of traffic passing by, but since the street I live on is currently blocked, people have decided to use it as free parking space . The problem is when someone gets blocked in -- which is what happened two minutes ago.

This is the Congolese or "African" district mind you, and the solution to any problem is to honk your horn. A lot. Bite your tongue? Honk. Angry at the world? Honk. Happy? Honk too.

 In this case, somebody came out of one of the bars and found themselves shut in, so they honked. And honked. And honked some more. My frustration started to grow after about 5 minutes until a car, a street or so over, decided to start honking along in solidarity. Like two ships lost in the fog, they communicated in slow, defiant beeps. I have no idea what they said, other than "Get me the fuck out."



 The common struggle of Matonge. Or maybe people just like honking. I've been told that it is just the way to get things moving in Africa: you honk, they move. Nevermind the noise.

I haven't been to Africa yet, but I'd guess it would be an interesting visit after living here, a place modeled after a city in Congo. The only way that I can describe the Africans I've met since living here is... relaxed, to the point of not giving an absolute shit. A cop came to verify my existence when I applied for my ID card here, and when I answered the door he gave me a run down of my new neighborhood. He said,

"Most of the people around here will tell you if they have a problem. They will say it to your face, that's their culture. Except for the Moroccans, they'll stab you in the back".

A little racist-sounding, and he was a Flemish cop (managed to insult my wife, too), but the point I got out of it was that the cultures are very different, and the majority of people who live or frequent the area bring their culture along with them. It's true. It's not even a question, really.

A lot of the people living in this area are first generation immigrants. The streets that compose Matonge are lined with fruit and vegetable shops that sell things like plantains, and the "really fucking hot peppers", as I call them, that tend to grow in Africa... not to mention weaves and other hair products. All at the same time, in the same shop, sold by Pakistanis (Chris Rock should have come here for his documentary. I have literally seen TumbleWeaves).

That's why I love this place; the fusion of cultures is exactly what you would expect from "big city" life, as my grandparents would probably call it. Yet it works -- Matonge isn't Dante's Inferno, like everybody seems to think it is. (The last article I looked up online was some racist bullshit about gang violence)

Despite everything, Brussels is a melting pot full of all sorts of people who manage to get along under almost any circumstances. And there's not even a government! Maybe that's why it works?