The Retired Elite

The throaty, throbbing roar of a dozen panheads devoured the tinkling of bellbirds waging war over nesting territory, and spread through our township as the sun rose into the pale grey of early morning. I was walking briskly as four of, "The Great Hairy Unwashed" arrested me with a growl of implied threat, "Where do you think you're going, Old Man?" "Back to my camp," I replied, "You can follow if you like? I care not." They laughed with mirthless, cock-sure glee, and herded me forward with their bikes. They had no idea; and few knew of this, out of the way, high country, enclave. Or, that behind its painted facades, it's paintball, lasertag and mythbuster clubs, lived a retired elite; former members of a nation's once proud volunteer militias. The alarm had finally been sounded, and like the peel of the start of some boxers' bout, the game was on, now it was time for some fun.

The Water Carrier

"Hummel, Hummel!" yelled Dirk as he ran across the street to join me. "Morrs, Morrs!" I chorused in reply. "Who do you think will win the match today?" I asked, as we continued to jog the crowded path that flanked the edge of Hamburg's Binnenalster. "St. Pauli, of course!...?..." shreiked Dirk, as he stumbled and fell down, stone lined, stairs and into the water, disappearing under the bow of the docking 'Saselbek.'

Hot!

Hot! 53 degrees Celsius, in the shade, and a thunderous torrent, falling from the sky. Hot! Too hot, even to stand out in the rain! Hot! The sweat pools in every fold of my skin: I cannot move and my electricity supply has inexplicably stopped.

Emptiness

Blistering under  a sweltering heat, impaled on a vertical shaft, the pork bleeds beads of sizzling fat with every rotation. The Doner Kebab attendant is absent, and all 'round the streetcar there is an uncanny silence.

The Wait.

For the third time this week, I sit by a window at Cafe Goethe whilst a dark pedestal fan carries out sentry duty. Students of the Institute, occupy the pavement between classes but when the break is over, and the pavement empty, there is an suffocating quiet, a quiet, disturbed only by the propeller beat of this oscillating fan. I am waiting.

Harvest Time

A warm, brisk, breeze blows across dry, paddy fields carrying with it the smokey stench of dead rats and the smoldering ruination of shredded, rices stalks. Old men swing the sickle in timeless rhythm whilst the less experienced gather up sheaves to be hauled away, two by two, from the fields by foot, cart or boat, prior to being threshed at some designated collection point. It is late May and the Harvest has to come in.

Fisherman Paul

"Moin, Moin!" said Paul in a deep, gutteral growl through his beard and whiskers; his fisherman's cap leaning lopsided over one ear. I waved as he continued, "Na, wei geht's?" "I'm good," I replied, "so, Paul... what's got you dragging me out of bed at 3 am in the morning?" "The fish Bettina, they're glowing! You've got to see the fish!"