THE HEADLAND

Something on the internet reminded me of the area where I grew up. And though not a native of the place, my ancestors over five centuries ago came from that region. So there are still meaningful ties to to it, even though I've been back in the United States for decades.

Imagine a flat marshy boggy moorlike territory sparsely populated by smugglers and people only marginally sane. Plus painters, poets, and folks speaking gibberish.

If I had stayed there I'd probably be fat; eating fries everyday is one of the few things to do there. In addition to smoking, and consuming too much beer.


The one thing that would have been the same would have been my consumption of sambal, an essential condiment originally from Indonesia (the former Dutch East Indies). My handle on the Indonesian language would likely have been far better. Here in San Francisco there are far fewer people who speak it, and most of them don't really speak it habitually.

Many ex-Indonesians ended up in that area after the war.
For many of them it must have been a shock.
So much colder. And so much flatter.

DE KEMPEN (IN GREEN), BISECTED BY THE BORDER

Borders don't mean much to the natives. They're just something to smuggle stuff across.

And break laws on whichever side of that you find yourself.


The key difference is that you could find sambal in the shops to the north of the border, and if I remember correctly cheaper butter, booze, and tobacco, to the south. The food is better to the south. Nowadays life expectancy is ten years higher than the United States, but our average is pulled down considerably by the red states and their beastly habits and healthcare.
Literacy is also considerably higher over there.
In several languages.

The Kempen region is in its own way distinct, but not particularly unique. It's more or less a subcultural variant on the common Netherlandish pattern. In the west it fades gradually into Antwerpian mode, in the east it eventually becomes Limburgian, with better food and much greater tongue-jumble, at times quite blitheringly unintelligible.


*    *    *    *    *

This afternoon I spent a pleasant half hour at a bakery nearby in Chinatown, listening to Toishanese and Cantonese discussing Jung (粽), which are made of rice and a variety of other things wrapped into a conical tamale using bamboo leaves and steamed for several hours. The version most common here (a Canto area of the world) are made with glutinous rice, chunks of streaky pork, a preserved egg yolk, and peanuts or lok tau (綠豆), and quite stellar with a drizzle soy sauce and sploodge sambal. Great for a snack or lunch.

In both the Netherlands and Indonesia they're known as ba tjang (bacang), from the Hokkien pronunciation. Not uncommon in the big cities, mostly unknown out in the countryside.

Much like the United States, in other words.


Teatime was followed by a smoke.
An old Dunhill shellbriar.
Aged Virginias.



==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================