Cool Things In Random Places

The Republic of Molossia has a population of four.

It is presently in a state of perpetual martial law, courtesy of the ‘foreign menace over the border.’ This border encompasses all of fourteen and a half acres, most of which can be found just outside Dayton, Nevada. There resides President Kevin Baugh, his wife, two children, three dogs, one cat, and a bunny.

The Republic of Molossia celebrates Norton Day on January 8th, in honor of the famous San Franciscan, Emperor Norton. Emperor Norton declared himself ‘Emperor of the United States and Protector of Mexico’ in 1859, issued proclamations and his own currency, and examined city sidewalks while dressed in an old Army uniform and a beaver hat. He was embraced by the city and its citizens, and his funeral was attended by 30,000 people.

A role model for micronations everywhere, the Republic of Molossia is presently eight and a half years old. It created its first colony in 2003, and won its first war in June 2006. And if you were to stop by, you could probably have lunch with the President.

It was founded by a psychiatric nurse, on the site of a former whiskey factory.

The Visionary Art Museum now stands as a testament to the self-taught. Exhibited here are the creations of street people, farmers, scientists, and the occasional eccentric loner in a mountaintop cabin. Who else, really, would take the time to forge a scale replica of the Lusitania out of toothpicks, or film a claymation epic in their basement.

A healthy percentage of these pieces were made by the insane. One carving, of a emaciated and lonely man with a caved-in chest, was etched out of a single tree, by a catatonic tuberculosis patient – catatonic, that is, until he found that fallen apple tree on the hospital grounds. It was his only work, ever. He later committed suicide.

The ‘art world’ didn’t care for it, at first. Successful ‘art’ is often more about who you know than any troublesome measure of ‘talent.’ Said one art dealer: ‘It gave people immediate bad vibes… The museum did things its own way, without coming to anyone else.” This was, apparently, a bad thing.

It’s called a ‘rocketbelt.’ Not a ‘jet pack.’

This is not a misnomer, really. Your average rocketbelt consists of two tanks of ‘rocket-grade’ hydrogen peroxide, which you attach to your back. Add nitrogen, and the fuel suddenly expands in volume by a factor of 5,000. The whole mixture then gets converted to steam, which reaches about 1300 degrees Fahrenheit as it erupts forth as barely-contained propulsion. If you’re very, very good, you might fly for about thirty seconds.

To some people, this is incredibly appealing.

Hence, the Rocketbelt Convention, in Niagara Falls. Although only four fully-functional rocketbelts are known to exist, it seems that countless others are ‘95% complete.’ The first ever rocketbelt pilot, Harold Graham, made a debut flight in 1961. Only ten men have free-flown a rocketbelt since.

Rocketbelt engineers are a somewhat unique bunch. They tend to have large garages, and perhaps a patient spouse. They also seem to have a well-developed sense of the absurd: during his speech at the convention, Harold Graham played a ukulele.

It might be the best Indian food you’ll ever have.

The langar is a staple of Sikh worship – and is absolutely free, to everyone. No creed, color, nationality, or even religion is turned away. You sit on the floor, in rows that may stretch as long as a football field, as volunteers dish out ample amounts of lentils, rice, and later even deserts. The langar is supposed to remind you that everyone is equal before God.

At one temple in Delhi, they serve 10,000 people in a single day. By necessity, the place is a factory of human hands: the pots are as large as oil drums and are stirred with shovels, and the dishwashing sinks look like deluxe bathtubs. And despite the scale, hygiene and cleanliness are actually strictly maintained.

Serving everybody equally was, and is, a revolutionary concept in caste-ridden India. But langars have long since expanded beyond India’s borders: most Sikh students in London don’t know how they’d live without them.

It’s like the world’s largest jungle gym.

The City Museum in St. Louis has been pieced together with scraps of the past, all culled from within city limits. Fire engines, school buses, and aircraft fuselages are fused to the outside of an old shoe factory. Wrought iron slinkies, four feet wide, stretch from castle turret to ball pit three-stories about ground. There are, obviously, slides.

Grown adults and children alike play to their heart’s content. The inside is laden with old bank vaults, circus performances, and rope swings. There is at least one gigantic set of underwear pinned to the wall, and an exhibit about the corn dog’s role throughout history. There are pinball machines, and a statue from Big Boy Burgers.

You will get lost. The basement consists of an epic labyrinth, a faux cave system where children escape their parents with ease: some passages are barely a foot wide. Adults squeeze through with effort and the occasional strain on old, aging knees. They’re usually too busy laughing to notice.

Over twenty million people live in Mexico City.

Only four of them live in a gigantic nautilus shell. A Mexico City couple, and two small children, have moved into their new home – one inspired by the humble cephalopod. Its walls are held together with steel-reinforced chicken wire, and coated with a cement composite that makes the place not only flexible, but just about earthquake-proof.

The result is absolutely stunning. Spiral staircases, A stained glass wall. A view of the mountains to the west. Greenery and comfy cushions. The architects meant for the family to feel like they were mollusks themselves, traveling inside from one chamber to the other. And they provided just that, for only 160,000 euros – as much as 100 average Mexicans make in a year.

There is no word on whether this family will ever outgrow it.

In New Orleans, they send you off in style.

The ‘jazz funeral’ starts off sombre. On its way to the cemetery, the brass band plays soulful, sad funeral hymns called ‘dirges’: ‘Nearer My God to Thee’ is a popular choice, but it can be anything that reminds mourners of the ups and downs of life. This sombre tone lasts until the procession reaches its final destination, at which point they ‘cut the body loose’ – send the hearse off into the cemetery.

It is at this point that the mourners, themselves, cut loose: the band suddenly breaks into a rendition of ‘When the Saints Go Marching In,’ or ‘Didn’t He Ramble,’ or maybe ‘Lil Liza Jane.’ Relatives and mourners – the ’second line’ – dance with wild abandon. They would often be bedecked with umbrellas, which they would twirl with joy and smiles. Random bystanders are invited to join the celebration: it is considered good form to dance a stranger into the afterlife.

This funeral harkens back to old African traditions – a belief that life wasn’t over at ‘death.’ The Dahomean and Yoruba of West Africa thought that death, in this world, meant that a spirit could now run free into a new one. Those still living would mourn, yes – but then they could revel in the knowledge that their old friend would be dancing his heart out, on the other side.

In central Scotland, boats take the elevator.

The Falkirk Boat Wheel is the world’s only rotating boat lift. Boats that travel along the Union Canal have to transfer to the Fort and Clyde Canal – an eight-story drop. Thirty-five meters wide, the Falkirk Boat Wheel scoops boats up like playthings, and deposits them below.

It uses barely as much electricity as a washer and dryer: not even half a kilowatt per minute. This creation is powered by perfectly balanced caissons – a watertight retaining structure – which can carry over three hundreds tons of water, each. This massive balancing act moves the arms along, completing a full, gentle rotation every eleven minutes.

It has been designed, on purpose, like a Celtic double-headed ax. It is one of Scotland’s most prominent engineering achievements, at a cost of about $150 million. They offer one-hour, round-trip tours that they call ‘The Falkirk Wheel Experience.’

It’s been called ‘the worst building in the history of mankind.’

And Kim Jong-il would have been so proud. The Ryugyong (“Capitol of Willows”) Hotel stands 105-stories tall in the dead-center of Pyongyang, the capitol of North Korea. At its inception, it was hoped to have 3.9 million square feet of floor space (and seven revolving restaurants), at a total cost of $750 million – 2% of the entire country’s GDP. It was created as North Korea’s answer to a renaissance of Asian skyscrapers.

It was never finished, and never will be. Money ran out – as did, supposedly, electricity. All that is left now is a shell, empty and uninhabitable: the quality of concrete is so poor that building probably couldn’t be restarted even if they tried. But North Korea is still looking for a few hundred million dollars of foreign investment to do just that – instead of, say, fighting the country-wide famine and drought for which North Korea is far more famous.

The hotel is not featured on official maps, and even tour guides will deny knowing where it is. This is a rather impressive oversight: it is visible from throughout the entire city.

Once upon a time, off the coast of Turkey, a gigantic rock sat in the middle of the ocean. Unable to budge it, the local villagers summoned a man who was known to possess the ‘evil eye.’ ‘My,’ he said. ‘What a big rock that is.’ And with a deafening crack, the rock split in two.

This Turkish legend has given rise to nazar boncuk – the ‘evil eye stone.’ Forged out of an amalgamation of water, salt, iron, copper and molten glass, this deep-blue stone is used to keep ‘the evil eye’ at bay. When some people fall sick – even today, in the 21st century – people say, ‘Nazar touched them.’

In Turkey, these stones are everywhere. In major cities, you will see them over the tellers at Citibank. Mothers attach them to the lapels of newborns. It is actually the color itself that it supposed to deflect evil: even in the absence of the stones, doorways will often be painted blue.

These stones have been made for three thousand years. One small shop south of Izmir, for example, sells thousands of them, and nothing but. This shop is also home to a small zoo, including an albino peacock that will peck inquisitively at your Achilles’ heel.