Aftermath – with thanks to William Golding

  1. Aftermath – with thanks to William Golding

    May 29, 2013 by Christopher Buxton

    Marooned on his Lord of the Flies desert island, ex-head boy, everybody’s  one time friend and Captain of all the school sports teams, Big Boyo, must wonder how quickly the conch has been seized from his muscled hands and handed over to that wimp ‘Sharski.

    In just a pair of fetching swimming trunks to show off his magnificent body, he sits alone on the beach staring out at the white crested waves that conceal the sharks swimming beneath the surface. He looks in vain for the storm tossed folk who used to love him.  They have swum off somewhere else. There is no escape ironically for the exile. Nobody likes me, everybody hates me, my only friend is….

    Somewhere behind him in the jungle, his most faithful follower is crying over a broken toy phone and tape recorder.

    Somewhere up on top of the hill, Mickey Five-Pints hangs from a tree, his body a crawling mass of buzzing flies.

    Everywhere on this side of the island former members of Big Boyo’s gang, the Crests, wander aimlessly down the well trodden paths, unable to decide what to do.  These paths are Big Boyo’s one gift to the island. But they bring no joy. The Crests have been ordered not to set foot on Council Beach, the place where decisions are made by whoever holds the conch.

    Council Beach lies at the opposite end of the island . ‘Sharski the new head-boy nervously holds the conch.  This gives him the power to speak. But no-one is really listening. Stan and Looffey have appointed his lieutenants and bodyguards.  Stan is wearing a suit that washed up on the beach a month ago. He’s humming his gang song: “When you’re a red you’re a red all the way from your first golden spoon to your mausoleum.” Loofey is still sporting the seaweed beard he put on for the Neptune and Mermaid party weeks ago.  His gang tells him it makes him look intelligent.  The members of his gang are called the Aliens; they have to stick together.  They’re busy now building sand-hotels on the virgin beach.

    Suddenly there are crashes from the jungle.   A white haired boy in a raggedy black cloak jumps out, followed closely by his gang of fat necks, who are all armed with sharp sticks.  This is Angry Soderov the school bully. Pausing only to kick over the sand complex, he marches straight  towards ‘Sharski, shouting and swearing.  “Hand over the Conch! And if you don’t apologize, I’ll beat you up. ”

    Stan purses his plump lips in disapproval and orders a lieutenant forward. Lieutenant Piggy feels very uncomfortable standing between Soderov and ‘Sharski.

    “Out of my way!” snarls Soderov.

    “But…” Piggy’s protests are cut short as Soderov thumps him on the chest.

    “How dare you strike a gang leader!” Soderov is beside himself with rage.  “You’ve assaulted my fist with your chest. You’ve broken the rules.  I’ll squeeze your pips. I’ll have you thrown to the sharks!”  His followers surround Piggy baying for blood. And Piggy finds that he is on his own.  The Reds have melted away along with the Aliens. He feels like an ambulance nurse called to a drunken party.

    While gang warfare rages all around this island the ordinary folk are floundering helplessly in the waves. Some stronger swimmers have struck out for the mainland but most are easy victims of jellyfish, electric eels and sharks.

  2. Email from Daniela and a wedding present

    April 10, 2013 by Christopher Buxton

    Dear Christopher,

    I was looking for help with translating Nedyalko Yordanov’s Усмихни се, Любов poem in English and came across your website, I must say your work is fantastic! I am getting married next week and have included the above poem in our Order of Service, and was hoping that by getting it translated our non- Bulgarian speaking guests will  have an idea of what’s being read. Unfortunately I only came across your site today, and I have to complete all texts for the Orders of Service by Thursday, I realise this is not nearly enough time but thought I should at least enquire.
    Many thanks in advance
    Kind regards
    Daniela

    My wedding present for Daniela

    Put a smile on your face, Love

     

    I asked you what you were thinking,

    and you told me:

    “I don’t know.

    The wind’s blowing my thoughts away like ladybirds.”

     

    And so I lifted my hand,

    I grabbed a thought

    and I closed it in my palm like in a matchbox.

    I stuck it to my ear and heard the voice of the captive ladybird:

     

    “I don’t want you to leave!”

     

    Put a smile on your face.

    So what if I’m leaving.

    Cranes set out on their long journey,

    but they will come back.

    The sun sets behind the red houses,

    but it will come back.

    And trains come back, don’t they?

    And people.

    Whatever the distances metre and kilometres.

    There are eyes which see through the high mountains.

    There are thoughts which fly over the endless steppes.

    There are people who never ever part.

     

    Put a smile on your face

    There are people who never ever part.

     

     

  3. Rashomon Lakeside Road Dalat

    March 10, 2013 by Christopher Buxton

    A continuous river of tooting motorcycles and scooters flows past us at plus or minus 20 miles per hour; the riders, with their friends, family, livestock and produce tentatively pinned at their backs, are so close to one another that a silk scarf could barely separate their elbows as they judder, rock, weave, spurt and slow.

    We are walking the long narrow 800 yard pavement beside this stuttering procession. Ahead of us are the only other pedestrians, a young mother carrying a two year old boy. We must assume them abandoned by their two wheeled countrymen.

    The disorderly life procession hates anomalies and suddenly this couple is challenged. A single rider swerves across his neighbours to halt his bike in the gutter.  He jumps off and begins to shout at the young woman.  She hunches up against the stone parapet that divides a grass slope from the pavement. Her challenger is a young man, no taller than her. She clenches her body, ready to resist. We sense the inevitability of a dramatic interaction. He looks briefly towards us, calculating that these tall foreigners will not want to get involved. We in turn look behind us to see only one old man fifty yards behind us. The stream of motorcycles drive past us – riders and passengers beep each other but are unperturbed by otherworld events. There is no room for cowards to sidestep into the road.  We can slow but each step brings us closer.

    Hesitantly he grabs her arm.  She shouts in protest. They seem to freeze, but only the child is looking at us, two impassive eyes framed by a thick balaclava. A slow ten seconds and then she straightens her back and shouts in his face. He begins to pull her arm.

    We are obliged to act. We shout as we enter that chasm that lies between languages, cultures and genders. He ignores us but he does let her go. He stands his ground though, expecting us to move on past his peripheral vision. We do pass him but choose to sit on the parapet just feet away.  Each of the four of us are now committed to an unfamiliar dance while they two wheeled multitude passes impervious.

    The woman now sinks to a defensive crouch, back against the wall. The child is dumped on the pavement. This does not surprise him.  He sits still and looks slowly about him. The young man is baffled. He looks back towards the old man who cannot now avoid the drama. On his arrival the young woman scoops up her boy and tries to use the old man as a shield. There is a quick maypole dance, with the old man as the confused post round which the one time lovers dodge, until she takes to her heels on down the pavement. The young man dodges his elder and catches up with her easily.

    Now she squares up to him, spitting fury in his face as we scramble off the wall. He clenches his right fist, but while he shouts his movements are hesitant. At last he reaches out to catch her arm again and tries to pull her back in the direction of his now distant bike.

    We are shouting for him to stop. Annie begins gesticulating to the passing riders, calling for them to stop. She adds to the spectacle; a red faced foreigner shouting from the pavement nearly causes three collisions as some riders do slow.

    As if from some pedestrian substitutes’ bench a second old man has replaced the first and joins the dance. He is wiry and his black leather jacket promises some effective action. He won’t be a maypole but acts as a wedge forcing the couple apart, before trying to reason with the young man. But sulkily the young man will not release the woman’s wrist. The child finds himself sitting on the pavement, a tight wrapped bundle of indifference.

    At last a bike actually stops in the road and a woman whose mouth is covered by an orange mask dismounts to offer some distant support. Annie is now shouting Police and miming a mobile phone. So now there six of us on the stage while the audience sweep by unmoved.

    There is more pulling and shoving – the old man cannot be dislodged. The young man will neither give up nor escalate the violence. The young woman is no less defiant.  As the least significant participants we are left to wonder whether Police has the internationally accepted meaning we assume it has.

    The old man is certainly determined. Vietnam must retain some face in front of these foreigners who have inconveniently escaped from a bus or hotel, With his right hand, arm and shoulder the old man is struggling to detach the young man while with his left hand he’s been rummaging in his pocket. Still wedged between the circling couple he manages to fish out a wallet, flips it open and thrusts some identification under the young man’s nose.

    This distracts the young man sufficiently for him to release the girl who once again scoops up the imperturbable child so she can fly down the pavement and this time dive into the slowing river of bikes. Brakes screech and horns hoot.  Two back seats are on offer to her.  She rejects one and jumps up behind a rider with a scornful moustache.  We just have time to pick up the child’s fallen shoe and return it to her before she disappears.

    When we look back, the young man has already disappeared, probably already on his bike in hot pursuit.  The old man in the leather jacket prefers to risk the traffic and cross to the opposite pavement.  Only the woman in the orange mask gives us a wave as she passes by.

    The larger story is unknowable.

  4. Job Swap 11

    January 20, 2013 by Christopher Buxton

    The story so far: As part of a European Union Inclusivity Initiative, British Prime Minister David Cameron and the GLB (Greatest Living Bulgarian) have swapped jobs. 

    David Cameron writes

    For the love of Boris will someone tell me what this word chalga means.  My cocktail party was completely ruined by beardy theatre folk and otherwise hot ballet babes accusing me of orchestrating the chalgafication of  Bulgarian society. Someone suggested that I was more interested in silicon enhanced tits than the Nessebur sand-dunes. Did we survive the Turkish yoke, Fascism and Communism to be smothered by boobs and arses?

    Scandals in Bulgaria are like the number 11 bus.  You wait and wait and then three of them turn up at once. You can be sitting by the steamy indoor pool in the Boyana residence for weeks, thinking that being in charge of Bulgaria is a doddle,- just like Boyko said it would be and then bang, bulldozers are demolishing sand-dunes in historic Nesebur, there’s a referendum on nuclear energy that’s worded in a way that no-one understands and your finance ministry has awarded a massive EU grant to a company called Piner that plays folk music on two TV stations.

    Now I quite like folk music. I remember quite fancying Maddy Prior, before I met Sam. And wasn’t Bulgarian folk music very much in vogue in the eighties? I can’t get enough of Kate Bush. So I couldn’t understand what all the fuss was about.

    Reluctantly I consult my shadowy minder, Tsvetan. He looks apologetic, mutters something about Bulgaria’s pride and offers me his ipod.  I give it a listen and I get warbling ballad after ballad that would get 5 points on a Eurovision night. “Is this chalga?”  I demand. “No it’s Vesselin Marinov.” “So what is chalga?” But he’s done one of his vanishing tricks.

    I phone up Boyko. He gives me his dirty laugh. “You’re on your own there, Dave!” He does offer me an address of a nice matska who’ll teach me a dance called kyuchek. Very clean, very reasonable, very discreet. I say “No way Boyko, learning the horo was bad enough”

    He changes the subject to Europe. “Why are your MPs getting in such a lather? The EU normally sends me to sleep.” I know Boyko.  I saw the picture of you at the Nobel ceremony. His final words are:  “Don’t worry about referenda Dave.  I know a way of wording them so that nothing changes. Europe is a big pie.”

    Europe is a big pie. Typical!  I must remember to check Boyko’s waistline against Ken Clarke’s when I get back.

    Meanwhile the chalga debate is getting hotter. My minister of culture made a comparison with rap.  Gangsters, sex, drugs.  But as he points out a really vital part of Bulgaria’s economy and a driver for ethnic integration. I remember chatting with Prince Charles about rap. He always wears earplugs when he visits one of his youth projects. I say it’s a shame black people didn’t stick with blues and jazz. He shrugs and says he’s always liked Elgar.

    On the advice of my new media expert a Mr Trifonov, I consulted two experts in the field. But Aziz and Martin Karbovski didn’t hit it off.  They hit each other.  It ended up with them both grappling on the floor, calling each other pederasts. Mr Trifonov suggested they should be stripped to their underpants, greased and locked in a telephone box together.  It would make great TV.

    Talking about TV spectacle, I’ve just seen some bloke in a shiny suit trying to shoot Ahmed Dogan. It just goes to show the need for strict dress code rules at party conferences.

  5. Job Swap 10

    January 13, 2013 by Christopher Buxton

    The story so far: As part of a European Union Inclusivity Initiative, British Prime Minister David Cameron and the GLB (Greatest Living Bulgarian) have swapped jobs.  In London Boyko Borisov is coping with the latest twist in the Andie Mitchell saga.  In Sofia Cameron has to deal with a sandstorm.

    The GLB writes:

    What an up-turn! Police conspiracy got my chief whip to resign. I can hear Tsvetan having a snigger right now. These upper class English close their eyes when it’s just ordinary folk getting their heads busted.  But when it’s one of their own.…

    I just had that Michael Gove in my office, Adam’s apple in full throttle and pink around the gills.  What am I going to do about police fabrication of evidence? I say: calm down Micky, it’s normal isn’t it? We put our police above the law – that’s what happens. Didn’t you read about Steven Lawrence’s brother getting stopped and searched everyday?  Yes Micky I read the Daily Mail too.  Now in my country….

    Reference to my beloved Bulgaria where we take corruption – especially by the police – in our stride just makes him even pinker. What am I doing about the EU renegotiation? Calm down Micky, wait for my speech. He goes off muttering in some ancient lingo.  I must look up the Latin for fucking Balkan peasant, before I ring up the Race Relations people.

    Just imagine if we had a Race Relations Act in Bulgaria! I see my mucker Bozhidar is in hot water for saying Brigitte Bardot and Gerard Depardieu would make better Bulgarian citizens than a thousand Stolipanovo gypsies. Well at least we provide them with dustbins.

    Just had a White House official on the phone. They always sound like happy clappy missionaries.  Gee, how’re you doing Dave? Isn’t global warming just a fantastic box of tricks? Be sure you’re in our president’s thoughts.  He saw the pictures of the floods and just wanted to come straight over and give you a hug. So sorry to hear another of your boys got caught by a rogue Afghan. Just don’t be too hard on that guy Kharzai, even if he don’t know his arse from his wallet.  Anyway Barak wants to tell you that you should stay in that Europe clubby thing. He’s just off the phone from Angie and she’s saying you’re trying to blackmail her. And have a nice day.

    You’ll ask why I don’t get a word in edgeways.  I’m not known for being a shrunk daffodil, but last time I opened my mouth, first they thought I was Gordon Brown then they assumed Downing Street had been occupied by terrorists.

    Dave has certainly put me in a bind over this Europe thing.  Not a day passes but my ear gets bent by some angry Europhobe or Europhile. My attitude to Europe couldn’t be simpler. Take as much of their money as possible, use it to build stuff like roads so Turks can get to Germany quicker.  Turkish firms give good money too. And when corruption shit hits the fan – which it inevitably will, sack folk, blame the previous government. promise to overhaul the legal system, and remind Angie that you’re not Greece. Actually Greece did Bulgaria a big favour. I told Dave to make sure he gets photos of himself in all the Bulgarian newspapers. Finger to lips.  Headline SHHH!  Don’t tell the Greeks we’re doing better than them.

    I still have to mollycoddle Dave.  Yesterday I get a panicky email from him about some sale of sand dunes near Nessebur. I had to tell him what to do. So what if members of your own party sold off a chunk of ecologically delicate protected seashore to some hotshot oligarchs. Sack them. Change the law and above all send in the police to impound the diggers. Then while everyone is stunned by your action, go out on all the TV channels and blame the previous government for the  Mafia culture they created.

    I get another e-mail.  What about the investors? One of them’s a former goalkeeper with a famous wig. No problem I tell him. They can apply for compensation through the courts. I send him a smiley face and he knows enough about the Bulgarian legal system to send one back.

Older Entries
Newer Entries