IMPRESSSIONS OF FOGG
A Log Book
26th July -5 August 2013
I cast my eyes up from the jetty and can just make out the wild- haired, top-hatted figure of Phillipus Fogg. He’s standing at the ships prow: palms planted on the railing, one big- booted-foot crossed over the other and a hand-rolled cigarette dangling from his cursive smile.
His faithful Jack Russel- Vlooi sits at his side, a little pissed at having to portion her master’s affection with a new travel companion: a Grey Lourie which now sits and shits upon his shoulder.
I watch Fogg take in the shabby harbour side-city for a final time, squinting into a sun made spectral by the morning mists.
His imagination pushing now beyond the reaches of the skyline. Beyond the tangle of washing lines and satellite dishes.
Out to the next continent, the next wondrous wilderness…. uncharted terrain.
He had a nose-bleed one night in his sleep. I found the stain on one of our pillow cases the morning after. At first it seemed the blotch was in the shape of a dancing man but when viewed from upside down it came to resemble a map: a undiscovered island dissembling into a series of splattered archipelagos.
I first met Fogg at an expedition-planning meeting in Cape Town. Upon our first introduction you might say I found him both enthralling and galling. Certainly I was impressed, impressed by his age (he was 21) and, considering his relatively short time spent on the planet, the vast quantity of information he had managed to cram into his skull.
It seemed he was versed in most subjects: music, travel, mythology, literature, cinema and could talk with genuine authority on them when most his age might simply regurgitate Wikipedia summaries to impress.
Dostoevsky,Tarkovsky and Miyazaki he would bandy about as if they were mere contemporaries of his and while I greatly admire all these artists, I am cautious to raise them in conversation for the fear of mispronouncing their names.
Fogg spoke with an insight that befitted his title of General Knowledge Quiz runner-up in his final high-school year.
In that instant, watching him from across the table, I felt like Kerouac might have when first confronted by the cocksure audacity of Cassady.
When our meeting finally concluded (and Fogg had found a reason to disagree with almost 95 % of everything I had to say) I was left with a rather disconcerting urge to scalp him like a hard boiled- egg and consume the content of his brains for breakfast.
He was fond of ellipses.
. . .
His boots had once belonged to his grandfather who had spent a large part of his days hunting in South- West Namibia. After his grandfather’s passing, Fogg ensured he never embarked on an expedition without them. He honoured his ancestor by planting his feet daily in them. This way soles would forever mingle and new generations stroll in tandem with the last.
After days of trekking through the abandoned suburbs and cities we tear away foliage to uncover the lost Monument. We are met by imposing bearded guardians sculpted into the structures four- corners.
Men resting disillusioned chins on the barrels of their shotguns. What thoughts lie cemented into their skulls we wonder? Do they stand vigil contemplating -for all eternity- whether to pull the trigger or not? Are they concerned that the splatter of their granite brains might sully the monuments exterior.
Inside our torches scan walls to reveal a chronicle of this odd tribe’s history. Embroidered hangings transform their tales into primitive pixels. Each tapestry resembling a screenshot from some 80’s video game. Let’s call it Boer–Fighter (Similar to Street- fighter) only with characters gleefully belting natives with over-sized bibles.
Sculpted tableaux’s along the walls depicts the tribe’s journey to the Southern continent: their escape over mountain passes, run-in’s with the coal-skinned savages (an orgy of flesh and livestock he had aptly titled it) and the almighties imperishable promise to them.
It was on this promise that the monument was founded centuries ago. The date of the vow and victory is carved into a cenotaph which is sunken into the floor of the temple.
Once a year (on the day of the battle) the sun aligns with a hole in the ceiling and pours forth to illuminate the phrase: ‘Ons Vir Jou Suid Afrika’
Earlier that afternoon we had observed a tour-bus slug into the monument parking-lot and unleash hoards of Japanese explorers. We watched them stumble out one by one, wrestling with a series of sequinned umbrellas which when opened splintered shards of sunlight in every conceivable direction.
I am of the understanding that satellites registered this flash-mob-brolly-refraction from space.
On one of the temple walls we sight a woman, let’s call her Anna Maart. Anna is sculpted into the same tableaux I mentioned moments ago.
Anna has her lap-top open while the men busy themselves, setting up camp in the background. Light from the screen spills across her fretful face as she checks the GPS co-ordinates for the following mornings Drakensberg crossing. A daunting descent lies ahead.
Anna pens an email back to the fatherland. Pens a mail back to her loving Ouma who whiles her days away in Holland chain-smoking and cursing God.
Anna writes of the week’s dismal string of tribulations. She doesn’t imagine her and the kids making it out alive but she dare express this to her husband Willem. Willem with his Boer- maak- a-plan demeanour. Willem the eternal fucking optimist!
After spotting a Grey Lourie in a tree outside the Monument, Fogg had crouched down to sketch the specimen in his travel- journal (A journal titled: The Motherfucking Essence of Progress). Once the drawing was complete I watched him coax the bird to his shoulder with fig pressed between his concert pianist fingers. Vlooi growled when the Lourie took residence on her master’s shoulder. Shot them both a disapproving eye.
“Go-way….. Go-way” Fogg’s pet Lourie cried out as the Deco Galleon (Queen Anstey’s the First) set sail into the turbulent surf.
“Come back….Come back” I want to yell but resist.
Fogg was seventeen- stories up with his ear-phones in, lost to the swathes of mortar and mist. Besides what chance does a lone human-voice stand against the all-consuming cacophony of Animal Collective?
After his departure I couldn’t quite bring myself to relegate the bloody pillow-case to the laundry basket. I had not the heart to end the man’s dance or lose my secret map to that unconscious island.
Perhaps I admired Fogg’s ability to never once look back. If he did he might too often see companions and friends left on the shore, staring at their shoes, just a little stupefied with love and awe.
“I’m sure to warn people not to get too attached” he had cautioned me shortly after our first introduction.
… Extended ellipses…
I should have heeded his advice.
Alone I sat (His ship a spec on the horizon) my feet dangling off the edge of the pier. Smoking another cigarette and setting a new date to quit, in-between contemplating the fate of trash-bloated fish eddying around the jetty legs.