It’s the Rugby World Cup. The New Zealand All Blacks are looking to lift the trophy for a third successive time. And don’t we all love their haka?
There are numerous hakas which have been passed from long-ago Maori culture. Many were war dances. The haka most frequently performed by the All Blacks is the Ka Mate. It was composed in 1880 by Te Rauparaha, war leader of the Ngāti Toa tribe in New Zealand’s North Island. Translated, the main body of the chant is:
I die! I die! I live! I live! I die! I die! I live! I live! This is the hairy man who fetched the sun and caused it to shine again. One upward step! Another upward step! An upward step, another… the sun shines!
The use by the All Blacks of the more aggressive Kapa O Pango haka was put on hold in 2006 because it included what was perceived as a throat–slitting gesture. However, it was resurrected controversially for the big match against Australia earlier this year.
Whilst best known in the context of rugby, these group dances are also performed on other important occasions such as funerals and welcome ceremonies. Many include women but the famous tongue-protruding aggressive hakas are only performed by men.
The connection of the haka to rugby dates back to 1888 when an all-Maori team toured Great Britain and before kick-off rather startled the Surrey county team. The Ka Mate haka was first performed in 1905 by the “Original All Blacks” prior to a match against Scotland. Help ma sporran!
The whole of an All Black team in haka-mode is so much more than the sum of its fifteen parts. As a ritual for scaring the living daylights out of the opposition and boosting one’s own morale, the haka is very effective. There is a debate in international rugby circles about how an opposing team might best counter the haka. Most adversaries choose to stand shoulder-to-shoulder in a bid to stare down the New Zealanders. The idea is to pass the message that we really are not intimidated, really… not one tiny bit. This passive choice involves looking like, in comparative terms, a line of vegan train-spotters. The other option is just to ignore it all and carry on warming up; just jogging around the pitch passing and kicking balls. But this apparent disrespect risks further inflaming that All Black passion. Dilemma! Whatever, the haka is there. It is centre stage in everyone’s mind. Neither opposing players, match officials, the crowd nor the millions of tele-viewers can ignore it. It’s as good as a seven-point lead at kick-off. And the truth is that every spectator loves the spectacle independent of allegiance. Personally, I think that the England team when next facing the All Blacks’ haka should dig deep into Anglo-Saxon culture and do a spot of pre-match Morris dancing!
Rugby has a near-religious place in today’s New Zealand. Whilst the haka was put on the world stage by the All Blacks, the ritual now goes way beyond rugby and bores deep into the psych of all New Zealanders. There is no politically correct tokenism here. I ask friends of different nationalities what words they associate with the haka. Answers include “powerful,” “intimidating,” “ferocious,” “awe-inspiring,” “up-lifting” and, most tellingly, “patriotic.” If you want to see just how the haka creates a point of unity between the European and Maori cultures of New Zealand, take a look at this school haka. Add “eye-watering.”
I’m in Tokyo for work. It’s my first time here. I’ve got a busy week ahead, but have booked a Saturday to look around and do some photography. Fuelled by my passion for games, technology and geeky stuff, the Japanese capital has always topped my list of places to go. I’m excited. I don’t want to get disappointed. I want to love this place.
With its top-ten listicles and user reviews, Google advises me to check out the famous Shibuya crossing, the Sensō-ji temple and the Skytree observation deck. I’m doing nothing of that. Instead, I have arranged to meet with Lee Chapman, a local photographer, who has offered to show me around. There is no set theme, but we have agreed to stay away from the must-see sights and rather look at some older parts of Tokyo and for ordinary people doing ordinary things. I’m not sure what to expect.
It’s late August. The weather app promises sun, heat and humidity. I grab my camera and a bottle of water, gobble down some breakfast and head to the subway. My hotel is located in Roppongi, a central district known for its nightlife and expat community. Last night, I found some good food and an interesting exhibition here, but it could as well have been in London or New York. I want local.
Lee and I meet at the subway exit. His handshake is firm and he greets me in a noticeable British accent. He travels light, with a small backpack and a Leica rangefinder. “This city is made for walking,” he tells me. “There are lots of interesting stuff you can only find when you’re on foot.” I tie my shoelaces and tighten my camera strap.
Lee grew up in Manchester and made his own Brexit in the late 90s. In the search for change and adventure, he boarded a flight to Tokyo for a one-year gig as English teacher. He bought a camera, fell in love with the city and his wife-to-be. For over two decades, Lee has documented life in the megapolis he now calls home. “The longer you spend exploring this place, the more there is to find,” he tells me.
We make our first stop at a peaceful market in Minowa, an older district of Tokyo. It seems like this place hasn’t seen a lot of change in a long time – in particular when you notice the shop owners and their clientele. “I love this place,” Lee says with a smile. “Most people here are in their 80s or 90s, still running the family business as they’ve always done.”
I can see that Lee has been here before. As we walk through market, he stops to chat with the people we meet, points out interesting stuff to photograph, and explains how the area demonstrates one of Japan’s greatest challenges – an ageing and shrinking population.
As I move around, compose my shots and press the shutter, I realise how Lee’s presence, acceptance by the community and fluency in Japanese are giving me both confidence and access to snap photos of people and places I would not have discovered on my own.
We leave the market and continue our walk towards Ueno. I notice a difference in the shape and state of the buildings we pass. Some look patched-up, others deserted. An old bicycle embraced by nature invokes a feeling of tranquility and loneliness. “It’s expensive to inherit a property here,” Lee tells me while showing a photo of an elderly woman standing on the porch of the now-abandoned house in front of us. “So, when someone passes away, the house might just be left as it is.” Is this really Tokyo?
Some would probably describe Lee as an urban explorer and street photographer, but I think there is much more depth to his character and to what he does. His photos commit moments to eternity. By returning to the same streets for over two decades, documenting the people living there, Lee is a preservationist of life and his work is a longitudinal study of the ever-changing Tokyo. I’m impressed.
Evidently, his work has been published in several top-tier media, most recently in The Guardian. I ask Lee if he ever thought of exhibiting his photos in a gallery. “If I did that, I’d like it to be in the setting where they were taken,” he answers. “Perhaps in a small shop or bar, providing context through the people working there, the ambiance.”
We grab a quick bite, stroll through the remnants of a post-war black market and make our last stop in Golden Gai. Tucked away in a corner of the red-light district, this maze of tiny bars connected through narrow passages is a relic of the past. “The area rose from the ashes of the Second World War,” Lee tells me. “I hope it won’t be bulldozed to make room for another skyscraper.” I peek into a few bars and notice how guests laugh and trade elbow space for drinks. Despite the rather dodgy feel, this seems to be a happy place.
Talking Beautiful Stuff is about the human impulse to create. You find beautiful stuff in people’s homes, in galleries, by the roadside and – sometimes – where you least expect it. When I woke up this morning, I thought I’d spend the evening writing about some jaw-dropping installation or an eccentric street performance, not about the photographer who would show me around. By sharing his wealth of experience and eye for photography, Lee has helped me discover a Tokyo I didn’t expect. I feel privileged and I’ve made a friend.
All photos in this blog published with kind permission from Lee Chapman himself. You can find out more about Tokyo photo walks on his website. Should you like to see any of the photos I shot during our walk, please check out my Instagram post.
It’s summer holiday and we’ve just arrived in Indonesia. We’re on our way to Labuan Bajo in the eastern archipelago, but we’ve decided to spend a few days in the capital to beat the jetlag. I’m not too fond of the bustling and congested megacities of the Far East, but Jakarta is the hometown of my wife and a good reminder that life is not always as comfortable and peaceful as in Geneva. This time though, the reminder is a little starker than usual.
The Big Durian has just been hit by a massive power failure, with big parts of the city completely blacked out, paralyzing the traffic and forcing buildings to run on back-up generators. As we enter a mall to buy some necessities for the kids, Twitter tells Sari that “the blackout has affected some 30 million people in Greater Jakarta” and that the “recently established metro system was evacuated this morning.” Should we be worried? I’m not sure.
As we venture deeper into the mall, a rather odd-looking installation catches our attention. Squeezed between Guccis and Pradas is a little shop, with its ceiling covered in odd-looking, colorful and sparkly stripes. At a closer inspection, we learn that the stripes are made of plastic waste recovered from the Indian Ocean, and that the shop is the entrance to an exhibition. How exciting!
Benji finds the installation amusing. He pulls and rattles the plastic bottles, treating them like an instrument. Josi looks rather concerned and tries to curb her little brother’s enthusiasm. I take a few photos. The ocean-like glittering caused by cold light meeting plastic translucence reminds me of a dive in Bali. Just after rolling off the boat, we found ourselves looking up at a surface covered by a thick layer of plastic bags and trash, probably dumped by a nearby boat. At the time, we didn’t do anything about it. Today, I feel embarrassed.
“Laut Kita” (“Our Ocean”) is an installation by Sejauh, an Indonesian fashion brand, attempting to educate the general public about the importance of reducing the use of disposable plastics and protecting the environment. The curator has juxtaposed images of Indonesia’s coastal beauty with stacks of plastic waste and recyclable bottles installed to mimic a kelp forest. “Indonesia is the second largest plastic waste producer with a total of 3.2 million tons per year,” Sari reads on the info board. “About 40% ends up in rivers and the ocean.” Ugh.
At the end of the installation, a group of kids has stopped in front of sign posts equipped with catchy slogans and data on how plastic pollution is destroying the ocean. I wonder what they think. Are they contemplating how to save the world, or are they just appalled by the extent to which their parents and friends have lived their lives at the expense of the environment? Perhaps a bit of both. I don’t dare to ask. As we leave, Josi writes a note about sharks in the guest book and Benji adds some color. Proud papa moment.
I didn’t expect that our trip to the mall would turn into a cognitive journey from consumerism to sustainable living. I’m glad it did. As the fluorescent lights of the mall continue to flicker and the ventilation system struggles to keep us cool, most shops and restaurants remain empty. The setting reminds me of a scene in Dawn of Dead, where people are looting the pharmacy for medicines, scavenging the supermarket for food and arming themselves in the hardware store. Let’s hope our current path of destruction won’t take us there. In the meantime, we can all do something to save the ocean. Why not start by recycling one plastic bottle at a time?
My father, Michael, was a medical student at Guy’s Hospital, London during World War II. I recently found an extraordinary letter that he wrote to his mother describing his part in the celebrations when the cease fire and Allied Victory in Europe were declared.
He was a part of the massive crowd that partied for three days and called the Royal Family out onto the balcony of Buckingham Palace. His letter gives a fascinating insight into those events and people’s behaviour.
I can’t help thinking that World War II was the raison d’être for European unity; something that the UK is on the point of moving away from.
Talbot House, 42, Trinity Square, LONDON E.C.3 14th May 1945
God, what a week ! Three days and three nights of jubilation, revelling and indulgence followed the “cease fire.”
Monday afternoon began it and I thought Wednesday would see the end of it – I left my heart, soul and voice in Trafalgar Square. But Thursday was the most strenuous of the lot.
On Monday night – the night of V.E. day, flags were going up everywhere. People were waiting – and tired of waiting – for the word “go” to begin their celebrations.
I arrived from Guy’s to find Miss Coulson brushing what the rats had left of what Coronation Day had left. A little bunting and a Union Jack were put up on the front of 42.
An old fellow with very blue eyes and a palid skin came up and asked me “Is it necessary ?” He went on – “I’ve lost my family…. Do you expect me to hang one out ?” Some would rejoice, having experienced the loss, that no more should die – others of course would not. The obvious remark was “Please yourself !” but I had not the heart to make it.
I set off to Charing Cross in perhaps a more philosophical mood which, however was soon lost when I came across a University of London procession which had been marching since 3.30 – it was now about 10.0. We marched round the Victoria Memorial several times and for an hour waited for the King who did not appear that night. Not many people had waited for the official proclamation and when our number had dwindled to about thirty we split up. Some of us went to Piccadilly – a bunch of men and women from UCL and Bedford. The place was a riot, and until late at night – probably early morning – people were dancing the very wildest of dances – singing and shouting.
I crawled in pretty late but was up early the next morning. I was a little tired. However, no stopping, it was V.E. day.
Everywhere people’s more sober feelings presided in the morning. A service at All Hallows at 11.0. A pint of beer, lunch at Lyons and a service at Southwark at 1.0. Just after 2.0 a bunch of us met some Royal Free people outside St. Georges and strung across the street we marched to Buckingham Palace.
There, crowds were gathering and for the first time I saw thousands herded and directed by mounted police with their wonderful horses under perfect control. It was too crowded and we went on to hear Churchill speak in Parliament Square – it was worse here.
That night we made a famous raid on Kings College, Strand, and captured – without opposition – Reggie (a stuffed lion), the best mascot in London – only once before stolen. Having seen it safely to Guys, Alan and I went to see the King and Queen at Buckingham Palace and hear his speech.
There were masses and masses – an ant hill disturbed was not in the picture. We managed to get to the Victoria Memorial and then lost each other. We waited nearly an hour amongst the panting and sweating crowd which was fainting in parts but growing all over. Big Ben and God Save the King were barely heard ; in fact, I doubt they would have been were it not for a sailor sitting right away up on one of the warriors of the Memorial. His position had temporarily endowed him with leadership. For once in his life he could control the reactions of people, he had the feelings of thousands (millions ?) in the palm of his hand. No one would have deprived him of his temporary glory – but, God how we cursed him later.
A great hush fell on the people, a lull in the storm, death to the struggling – indescribable, intense and intoxicating. “His Majesty the King” – that bloody sailor yelled and clapped – so, therefore, did very many others. We missed the beginning – not much it was true, but at the climax of the hour – two or three hours in some cases – the crowd nearly burst with anxiety.
The King said what was needed and very well – we waited in suspense to see him. Had the Royal Family appeared straight away things would not have been so bad. But we had waited close to half an hour after the speech and when they came out there was a swell of hysteria – a turmoil and each one fought for a fleeting glance. I had never seen any of the Royal Family before – they seemed far off and unreal – but there they were – there they really were ! It was tremendous. I was to get a closer look the next night. Once again I went up to Piccadilly and by amazing coincidence met a crew from Toc H. and together we entered the hilarious spirit of the masses. Tonight being “The” night – rejoicings were madder still. People were climbing up lamp posts, shouting, singing, dancing on shelter roofs and round great fires. These fires were built in the middle of the street from boarded up shop fronts, fences round bombed areas and mainly “To Let” boards and anything else to be found. Eventually we wandered back putting “one foot in front of the other.” If I remember these days for anything, it will be the dire shortage of anything to drink anywhere near the celebrations. This in spite of the fact that I drank more these last few days than ever before.
The next day was quiet in the morning and afternoon – apart from a drink or two on the wards at 12.0 Before the fun began in the evening Alan and I went to a show at the Princes called “3 Waltzes” with Evelyn Laye – a very good show. We had 2/- gallery seats – most successful. Later we found 3 others from Guys and between us found a Wren each. Wrens make good land marks – they are always decent girls and ready for some fun (I tried my hand at some A.T.S. but they were not so forthcoming.) These Wrens were grand. They marched with us, where they helped us shout for Guys until we were 100 strong. Then down the Mall to Buckingham Palace where they danced with us, where they helped us raise the cheers of the crowd – always there – where we brought the King and Queen out of bed and let them know who we were. I saw them closer this time. They really were the King and Queen and no impersonating member of the kitchen staff – no picture in a paper or on a screen. The King and Queen in flesh and blood.
Yes, these Wrens were with us when we marched back again, when we swarmed up the side of the Royal College of Physicians and demanded to see our doctors and when we marched through the crush in Piccadilly to Trafalgar Square and drained our last ounces of energy singing on the steps of Nelson’s Column. Indeed they had to come – we had got their hats on our heads !
Nelson was fine. Serene and aloof he was lit from many different angles. The centre of fun, he was the emblem of England’s gallantry. The Admiralty Arch was flood lit in green and violet, as light as day – as also was Big Ben. The sky was red with flames and streaked with rockets and later a pale shimmering spider-work of shifting search lights. St. Paul’s was beautiful, but the Tower was transfigured ; a fairy tale brought to life ; history on a modern stage ; standing right out in its greyness, baked by the deep purple of night – even Toc H’s roughest soldier was impressed.
I’ll remember these days as examples of England’s reverence – churches were packed ; of England’s love of peace when it’s time for peace – the mornings and afternoons were still ; of England’s solidarity and loyalty, of her good fellowship and joyousness when it’s time to rejoice – and last – her dryness on those nights !
These were some of my doings and impressions – I hope they haven’t bored you – Great Scott ; 7 pages ! You might keep ’em – I might want to read them later – poor reading, though, they’ll make.
Tired, foot sore and sleep wanting we all rolled up for work the next day, but not for long. King’s College raided us. Seven hundred swept into the Hospital. They wanted Reggie. Outnumbered though we were – and taken by surprise – we pushed them right out beyond the gates. This fight was colossal, I’ve never seen so much water – the fire apparatus was a useful weapon – but the details are too many to give you now. From my point of view my shirt was torn by their women, and my beautiful tie taken as a trophy by them. I was thrown down some stairs and tore my best trousers – needless to say I soon changed into a suit from the linen department. In the afternoon we had to take Reggie back – we did ! A half mile procession took him back and the Strand at 3.0 was a mass of fighting students which only subsided when Reggis was in many little bits.
Of course this sort of thing is not without its casualties and it will have far reaching repurcussions. Call it “boyish” if you like – but my goodness it was dashed good sport.
And yet, do you consider we have the right to celebrate like this – after all, one political move leads to another – a war merely means its come to a head, anyhow our troops are still fighting ?
Too, late, the deed is done and there are 50 million people in Great Britain feeling the better for it.
I have missed four days of work so I shall have to work next week-end. I think I shall have to go to the Wells to do it, so unless you hear to the contrary, Alan and I will appear on Saturday afternoon if it’s alright by you.
Terre Blanche Golf Resort describes itself as a “Land of Inspiration in Provence.” In my mind, a reasonable claim. Even though it’s the French equivalent of Saint Andrews, I’m not only here for the golf. The club house and elegant surroundings are crammed with stylish contemporary sculpture. And big names too. However, despite the best efforts of the helpful staff, nobody can tell me the provenance of something that really captures my attention: a huge silver-steel-shiney orb sitting among some stunted oak trees that line the path down to the first tee. It is entirely out of place and all the more intriguing as a result.
The object’s surface is covered with randomly spaced indentations of varying size; they are clearly meant to recall craters. It reminds of the first time I used a high powered telescope to look at the moon the surface of which is entirely covered by evidence of asteroid impacts. I read once about the “impact events” that have affected planet earth. Apparently, every 500,000 years an asteroid of more than 1km collides with earth; one of over 10 kilometres hits us every 20 million years (and extinguishes most life forms.) The reason that these craters are less obvious on earth as compared with the moon and other planets is simply because of water; many hit the sea and the signs of those that have had a terrestrial impact are slowly ground down by atmospheric erosion and plant life.
Fascinated, I wander around this lonely planet. I lay on a hand; the brilliant surface is smooth and very cold. On touching it with the tip of my nose, I detect a faint but definite metallic odour. I tap this beautiful sphere with my knuckles and am treated to a deep and distant resonant clang; it’s not a forest noise. Finding this sculpture here, completely discordant with it’s earthly surroundings, augments the other-worldly feel it gives out. Form and placement together result in an immensely satisfying piece of work. Does anyone know whose work it is? Or did it fall from the sky?