Brown City Camp, pt. 2

On our first morning, Karin & I sleep in. We skip the church service. Around lunchtime, we leave the cabin, and I see what the camp is really like.

There are no barracks, no neat rows of same-styled cabins. Rather, the camp is a dense jumble of tents and cabins and trailer-houses, each one uniquely decorated by its tenant (who returns to the same plot of land year after year).

Golf-cart traffic proceeds along the dusty streets. Some of the carts are used by the security guards, but most of them are rented by the tenants.

We stroll. Karin takes me to a section of the camp where there are only trailer-houses. “This was the last area to be built up,” she tells me. “You can see that the trees here are younger and shorter than in the front of the camp; there’s hardly any shade.” Indeed, this back area is like a squatters’ village appended to the better-established “main” section of the camp.

In the “main” section are the great civilizing buildings: the tabernacles (separate ones for grown-ups, youth, and children); the cafeteria; the general store; the bookstore; the ice-cream shop. The line at the ice-cream shop is longer than an airport security line. Karin & I stand in the line for half an hour on Saturday night (ice-cream is not sold on Sunday, and each person is gathering a double-portion). We move up five feet in the line before we quit.

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Our own cabin, in the camp’s posh section, has a pink exterior. It has a large sitting-room, a kitchen, a bedroom, and a loft. Karin & I sleep in a double bed curtained off from the sitting-room.

Karin’s mom and Brianna arrive at the camp. Brianna is reunited with her friends. They roam in packs of five or six.

One night, Brianna and her friends come to our door and sing Christmas carols to us.

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It rains. The streets are turned into mud.

The nights are cold. I am getting sick.

The church services occur twice daily, two hours at a time. Usually I arrive late. A famous Jamaican is the main speaker. Ruthlessly he cuts out the heart of prosperity theology, propounds the spiritual necessity of suffering.

Leg 2; “Esio Trot”; Brown City Camp; a new job

IDV lost 1–0 to Atlético Nacional, which was respectable enough to attract some more kudos from the continental and global journalists.

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Last night Karin & I drove to Brown City Camp, a church camp in eastern Michigan where Karin’s mother has a cabin (she’ll soon join us, along with Karin’s little sister, Brianna). The trip was tedious. I perked up when we got near to Lansing and Flint, which I wanted to see a bit of, but we zoomed past those cities. We listened to novellas and short stories by Roald Dahl: Fantastic Mr. Fox; “The Enormous Crocodile”; and a cynical piece called “Esio Trot,” which I’d never heard of. This story was brutal even by Dahlian standards. I think even Dahl must have felt uneasy about it, because he gave it a redemptive ending that was out of step with the rest of it. (I’m also reading The Stranger Beside Me, the opus of Ann Rule, about the serial killer Ted Bundy. “Esio Trot” is more unsettling.)

When we got to the camp it was close to midnight. Karin parked in the main lot, just outside of the front gate. Suddenly we were confronted by a golf cart driven by a feeble old man and a bored teen-aged boy. They were wearing bright green shirts that said “Security.”

“What are you doing here,” said the old man.

“We have a cabin here,” said Karin. “We just arrived from South Bend.”

“Oh, all right,” said the old man. “Let me open the gate for you so you can park nearer to your cabin.” The golf cart drove away.

“That was bizarre,” I said to Karin.

“It’s after curfew,” she explained.

As we went down to our cabin we passed two other “Security” golf carts, one driven by two old women, another by a middle-aged man and woman who were extremely fat. I figured that I could outrun any of these security guards.

(On the other hand, so many of these golf carts were creeping around in the middle of the night, I’d probably be caught no matter what.)

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Prof. Robby has asked me to teach a few Spanish courses at Bethel. So that’s what I expect to do this fall, along with my other two jobs. I’ve agreed to teach Elementary Spanish II and Intermediate Spanish.

The brave persons

Independiente are the best or the second-best team in South America, but not the best team in Ecuador. Last weekend my own team, Barcelona S.C., clinched the top place for the first half of the season in the domestic league. This means that at the end of the year, in the grand finale, we’ll play against the champions of the second half of the season (or, if we are the second-half champions, we’ll win the league by default).

“It’s for brave persons,” said our goalie, Máximo Banguera. “I am a warrior and I want it to be known that [here] is a warrior.”

Also:

“When we lost the Clásico del Astillero” – the game against the leaders, Emelec – “many mediocre persons gave us up as finished, but this was a time for brave persons and not for mediocre persons.”

Count me among the mediocre persons. I didn’t think we’d catch up to Emelec. But I’m glad that the games were played by the brave persons and not by the mediocre ones; that B.S.C. recovered to win its last six games; and that down the stretch Emelec stumbled just enough to be overtaken.

Tomorrow night IDV and Atlético Nacional will play the last game of the Copa Libertadores.

The final, leg 1 (Estadio Atahualpa)

For a long time last night I thought IDV would lose. Atlético Nacional were leading; they were imposing their rhythm; they seemed the better team. Very late, though, Arturo Mina poked a rebounded ball into the goal, and the game ended 1 to 1. Because the away-goals rule is disregarded in the final, the slate is clean for the decisive leg in Medellín.

The global press at last has caught on to IDV.

Goal.com says: “Move over Leicester and Iceland: Libertadores hopeful Independiente del Valle is true fairy tale of 2016.”

And here are some nice photos from Britain’s Daily Mail.

The Caribbean

In Doctor No, James Bond travels to Crab Key: a horrid little island, the base for a vicious tycoon who rules over the guano trade. Ah, the Caribbean. It would be nice to go back there (I was in Jamaica in 1993). I think of the various Caribbean books in my library. Cambridge’s Concise History of the Caribbean. Biographical and autobiographical writings about Marcus Garvey. A collection of Haitian revolutionary documents. A book about Fidel Castro’s wars in Africa. A book about the Cuba of José Martí. A Caribbean Mystery. A High Wind in Jamaica. Wide Sargasso Sea. V.S. Naipaul. Juan Bosch. Sweetness and Power: The Place of Sugar in Modern History.

The telephone rings: I’ve been selected for two cruise tickets to the Bahamas! The condition is that I answer a brief survey.

All rightie.

Should the United States make it a priority to get over its dependency on fossil fuels?

Yes!

If there were an electric car, sold for such-and-such a price, rechargeable every-so-many miles, would you buy it for the primary driver in your household?

Yes!

(I can’t remember the third question, but it, too, is an environmental one. Yes!)

Thank you. Now someone will take your personal information. Please stay on the line.

But I don’t actually wish to go to the Bahamas.

Besides, would Karin wish to go to the Bahamas? Could she take off from work to go to the Bahamas?

Besides, traveling on a cruise ship is, like, the worst thing that an ordinary person could do to the environment.

I feel a pang of guilt. I hang up.

Where were we, ah yes, the literary Caribbean. Better than the literary Middle Ages. Last week I talked to a guy who liked medievalish fantasy fiction so well that he enrolled in a Ph.D. program in medieval literature. He specialized in the late-medieval poets who were “responding to” Chaucer. I asked him which literature of the period he might recommend to me, to someone whose interest was very casual; and with a straight face he told me Game of Thrones. No, I said, something from the period. He told me I might like Beowulf or The Canterbury Tales. Later I told Mary about this. She was not impressed.

Semifinal, leg 2 (La Bombonera)

Last week our heroes, Independiente del Valle, defeated Boca Juniors in the home leg, 2–1: a decent result, but due to the away-goals rule hardly a safe one. (Having scored in Quito, Boca would be able to advance with a 1–0 victory in Buenos Aires.)

Fast-forward to Thursday night. Boca are in their own fabled stadium, the Bombonera, and they score quickly. But IDV score soon after. Now they’re helped by the away-goals rule. Should one other goal be scored by the visitors, the home team would be obliged to convert not two, but three more goals.

The Argentinians must send players forward; but also, for dear life, they must avoid being scored upon.

This tightrope is too daunting for Boca Juniors. They wilt like little flowers. Early in the second half, a long kick by IDV’s goalie is head-flicked, twice, and suddenly one of IDV’s flankers is in scoring position, running with the ball. There’s a lunge by one of Junior Mouth’s defenders, but it’s futile. In a lightning flash, IDV have seized a commanding lead.

Moments later, lightning strikes again. Boca’s goalie comes out too far, tries to pass to a teammate who’s too close to him, and watches another IDV speedster intercept the pass, go around him, and escort the ball into the net.

(At this point, the Junior Mouth fans turn against each other. Some try to leave. Others confront them, questioning their loyalty. There are blows.)

The home players don’t quite give up, but they hardly know what to do. Without much effort, IDV stymie them.

IDV concede a penalty kick – and block it.

One goal does arrive for Junior Mouth, at the very end. Three goals too few.

Bitter Argentinians discuss.

All of Ecuador is behind IDV as they prepare for the home leg of the final, to be played next Wednesday against Atlético Nacional of Medellín. Once more, the ticket sales will be donated to the quake victims.

(Thanks to Stephen for some of this information.)

Reading report; dreaming report

I await my $0.64 copy of The Sorrow of Belgium. I bought it online from Better World Books. It has passed from BWB’s warehouse in Mishawaka (5–6 mi from my house) to Cincinnati, OH, to Allen Park, MI – near to Detroit. Now I’m hoping it’ll come back west.

It’s dumb for stuff to be shipped so circuitously. Would the Pony Express have taken this route? I doubt it.

Meantime, I’m making good progress reading these books:

Inner Workings by J.M. Coetzee;
The Witches by Roald Dahl;
Doctor No by Ian Fleming.

Later this month, Karin & I’ll go on a long car-ride to a place called Brown City Camp. I don’t like to listen to audiobooks, but Karin does. I’ll compromise. The key is to pick out something funny and gruesome: for instance, a book written by Roald Dahl and narrated by Stephen Fry, or by Hugh Laurie, or by some other British comic person. (Maybe also some nice sermons.)

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I dreamed last night that I wasn’t very fat any more – but also not very limber; and that I was trying to play soccer on a tiny field with two dozen other people, and that the passing lanes were all blocked off; and that the overaggressive coach (or whoever he was) was telling me to “jab the foot in” more, and I was like, It isn’t necessary, Sir: on this congested field I can simply hold the ball carrier off; he will lose his control of the ball. And I dreamed that I scored my only goal by climbing up a chain-linked fence and waiting for the ball to come up to me and then tapping it in from above the other players; but everyone wanted to disallow that goal.

I dream a lot of dreams like this one.

Portugal … ?

Well, who’d’ve thought it? Portugal!

• A team that didn’t win so much as not lose.
• A team whose goalscoring hero wasn’t CR7, but an obscurer striker, Éder. (Not even the most distinguished Éder in the tourney. That striker was Éder the Brazilian; he dressed for Italy.)
• A team whose coach had been employed by Greece during the World Cup, and who brought over the grinding tactics of the Greek team. (Without him, the Greeks finished last in their Euro qualifying group, twice losing to the Faroe Islanders.)

I am glad for my cousins, Annie & Vickie, who grew up in Portugal and are loyal to CR7. After the final they walked around their housing co-op waving the Portuguese flag. I am not glad for CR7, who didn’t play especially well in these Euros; nor for Pepe, who did. I am glad that modest Éder got the winning goal. I am sorry for Moussa Sissoko, the Frenchman who played best against the Portuguese.

Semifinals

In their Quito leg, Independiente del Valle defeat Boca Juniors, 2–1. The Goodness Gracious moment comes at the end of the first half. IDV’s goalkeeper appears to step completely into his own goal, carrying the ball with him. But there is no goal-line technology to denounce him.

The Buenos Aires leg will be played on the 14th.

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Germany’s semifinals, these last ten years:

0–2 vs. Italy, 2006;
3–2 vs. Turkey, 2008;
0–1 vs. Spain, 2010;
1–2 vs. Italy, 2012;
7–1 vs. Brazil, 2014.

Not one drab contest among them.

This year’s semi against the French is, I think, hands-down the best game of these Euros. The Germans play artfully, airily, especially in the first period. But it is “Little Prince” Griezmann who puts in the goals.

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On a tip from Karin (by request of Karin, with Karin), I am watching Holes, a wonderful, strange movie about children forced to dig holes, for their own moral good.

On a tip from Coetzee, I am reading and re-reading “Death Fugue”:

Black milk of daybreak we drink it at evening / we drink it at midday and morning we drink it at night / we drink and we drink / we shovel a grave in the air there you won’t lie too cramped / A man lives in the house he plays with his vipers he writes / he writes when it grows dark to Deutschland your golden hair Marguerite / he writes it and steps out of doors and the stars are all sparkling / he whistles his hounds to come close / he whistles his Jews into rows has them shovel a grave in the ground / he orders us strike up and play for the dance

Black milk of daybreak we drink you at night / we drink you at morning and midday we drink you at evening / we drink and we drink / A man lives in the house he plays with his vipers he writes / he writes when it grows dark to Deutschland your golden hair Margeurite / your ashen hair Shulamith we shovel a grave in the air there you won’t lie too cramped / He shouts jab this earth deeper you lot there you others sing up and play / he grabs for the rod in his belt he swings it his eyes are blue / jab your spades deeper you lot there you others play on for the dancing

Black milk of daybreak we drink you at night / we drink you at midday and morning we drink you at evening / we drink and we drink / a man lives in the house your goldenes Haar Margeurite / your aschenes Haar Shulamith he plays with his vipers / He shouts play death more sweetly Death is a master from Deutschland / he shouts scrape your strings darker you’ll rise then in smoke to the sky / you’ll have a grave then in the clouds there you won’t lie too cramped

Black milk of daybreak we drink you at night / we drink you at midday Death is a master aus Deutschland / we drink you at evening and morning we drink and we drink / this Death is ein Meister aus Deutschland his eye it is blue / he shoots you with shot made of lead shoots you level and true / a man lives in the house your goldenes Haar Margarete / he looses his hounds on us grants us a grave in the air / he plays with his vipers and daydreams / der Tod is ein Meister aus Deutschland / dein goldenes Haar Margarete / dein aschenes Haar Shulamith

Zaza

In their quarterfinal, Müller, Özil, and Schweinsteiger erred their penalty kicks. Luckily for them, Simone Zaza’s miss counted for three, it was so terrible.

Zaza without music;

Zaza with music;

Zaza with horsey music.

At least he’s contrite. Brave Zaza, I understand your pain, and I wish you future success.

Other Italians erred. The Germans, KO’ing them, advanced to play against the French, who defeated the Icelanders. Here are the Icelanders back at home, doing their rigid cheer (which I like to think of as their “Ent” cheer).

On a lark I’ve begun to write a story called “The Nephew of Poirot.” It’s set during the present day, i.e. during these Euros. It tells of a collaboration between the Englishman Henry Hastings (the grandson of Captain Arthur) and the nephew of Hercule, the Belgian Claude-Luc Poirot. They must come to terms with Brexit, with their countries’ respective footballing crises, and with the past. Following a tip from Coetzee, I am going to have to do some research into Hugo Claus, the author of The Sorrow of Belgium. Dame Agatha, like Chesterton primarily a commentator on the soul, had absolutely nothing to say about Hercule’s homeland – which was all to the good; but nowadays a responsible writer can’t ignore fiction’s geopolitics.

Wildflower

Another upset: the Welsh KO’d the Belgians. In their semifinal they’ll face the Portuguese, who’ve yet to win in 90 minutes.

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On July 8 the Avalanches will put out their first album since, what, 2000? – and to my great delight the tracks released so far are distinctly like certain passages of Since I Left You.

Ignore for a moment the sounds, the samples, and consider how, structurally and rhythmically, the new tracks parallel the earlier ones.

“Subways” condenses “Close to You,” “Diner’s Only,” and “A Different Feeling”;

“Colours” is like “Electricity”;

and of course in many ways “Frankie Sinatra” is like “Frontier Psychiatrist.”

(All these tracks – old and new – are mid-album. We’ve yet to learn how Wildflower will start up or wind down.)

I don’t think these parallels are accidental (“Fr”-“S”; “Fr”-“Ps”). The Avalanches have been trying for sixteen years to make something that approximates the feel, the mood, that was so loved about Since I Left You, and this goal has proved most elusive. And so here and there they’re making the albums’ similarities extra-conspicuous.

The new tracks are quite good in themselves, but they also show how difficult it is to re-do what first was achieved with comparatively little effort. It is no small victory to copy, accurately, what was done by free association.