An iconic sight in the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea is the Kimjongilia. This hybrid begonia was bred by a Japanese botanist and presented to Supreme Leader Kim Jong-il in 1988. It soon became part of the diplomatic toolkit. The North Korean government has sent the flower to a number of countries as a sign of friendship, and the Kimjongilia won the gold medal at the 1991 International Flower Show in Czechoslovakia.
The Kimjongiliia is displayed domestically as well. Like the Kimsungilia, an orchid clone presented in 1965 by Indonesian president Sukarno, the Kimjongilia forms part of an “international friendship botanic garden” in Pyongyang’s Central Botanic Garden. This garden also includes greenhouses dedicated to the Kimjongilia and Kimsungilia. And, as presided over by a 232-member Funeral Committee, Kimjongilia flowers were prominently displayed around the corpse of Kim Jong-il during his 11-day mourning period.
The North Korean state takes this flower seriously. As reported by the state news agency KCNA, the Kimilsungia and Kimjongilia Research Centre created a chemical concoction to extend the blooming period of the Kimjongilia by up to 20 days. And the DPRK State Administration for Quality Management notes that the Kimjongilia “is a rare bright and crimson flower that represents the personality of the energetic great man as dozens of corrugated evenly-arranged petals form a big, clear and lovely flower supported by heart-shaped leaves”. It’s not all flowery talk, however. The State Administration for Quality Management sets standard specifications for the plant – for instance, the female flower should have exactly four or five petals. Growers who deviate from these requirements are subject to legal penalties.
Apparently plans are afoot to breed a Kimjongunia. But, as with much that stems from North Korea, information about the new flower is nebulous.
According to a 1957 US government study entitled The Effect of Nuclear Explosions on Commercially Packaged Beverages, canned and bottled sodas and beers “could be used as potable water sources for immediate emergency purposes as soon as the storage area is safe to enter after a nuclear explosion.”
This information was provided by the Atomic Energy Commission, which placed caches of consumer beverages around the Nevada Proving Grounds then exploded one 20 kiloton and one 30 kiloton device there. The surviving beverages within a quarter mile of the blast were slightly radioactive, but “well within the permissible limits for emergency use.” As for the flavor, taste testers described the beers and sodas as “still of commercial quality, although there was evidence of a slight flavor change in some of the products exposed at 1,270 feet from Ground Zero.”
By the 1840s the British Empire was at full tilt, operating colonies on every continent apart from Antarctica. Key for Britain’s domination of world trade was India, which provided cotton, lumber, and one of the most formidable foes the Empire had yet faced. For all of its mercantile successes, the British Empire was nearly brought to its knees by the humble, irritating mosquito.
Malaria was rampant in the tropical colonies. Its initial onset was marked by high fevers, chills, and vomiting. In extreme cases it lead to seizures, coma, and death. Left untreated the disease resurged in prior victims, incapacitating those who had battled through a first encounter. The causal link between malaria and insects had been observed as far back as the Roman occupation of Northern Africa. Despite this, the parasitic protozoans that the mosquitoes carried—and that ultimately caused the disease—were not discovered until the turn of the 20th century. What was known was an effective, if gustatorially unpleasant, treatment.
Quinine, derived from the bark of the cinchona tree native to South America, was known to be an effective treatment for malaria as early as the late 16th century. The dried and powdered bark was shipped around the Empire to battle malaria and maintain British presence in the colonies. The unpalatable taste of the bitter alkaloid was a common complaint, and as a remedy, colonists began mixing the substance with water and sugar. This crude ‘tonic water’ took the colonies by storm. In short order the officers in the British military began adding this new, more pleasant dose of malaria prevention to their afternoon tipple. Gin, a favorite among the military elite, was the natural choice. And thus the gin and tonic was born.
It may never be known who was the first to mix anti-malarial business with pleasure, but the gin and tonic’s historical relevance should not be overlooked. So next time the summertime resurgence of mosquitoes proves to be too much, raise a G&T to your health. And perhaps add a wedge of lime to ward off that pesky scurvy.
[Ed. Note: We do not endorse gin and tonic as a sole means of mitigating mosquito related diseases. See your medical professional for more details.]
Götz von Berlichingen (1480-1562) was a German knight and warrior for hire in the first half of the 16th century. In 1504, at age 24, he lost the lower portion of his right arm to cannon fire during the siege of Landshut. Upon his recovery, rather than retiring or taking up a less violent profession, Berlichingen commissioned an Austrian blacksmith to construct an iron prosthetic hand.
The result was no mere hook; rather it was a sophisticated apparatus with articulated fingers that could be clamped tightly upon a sword or delicately upon a feather quill. With this prosthesis he continued to fight in wars and feuds for another 20 years or so, and ultimately participated in at least 15 armed conflicts. He lived to 82 years old, an unusually long lifespan for the period, and he wrote an autobiography in has later years.
Berlichingen’s story has been embellished by legend, and he is often portrayed as a brave hero in later retellings. In reality, he was an unscrupulous mercenary who fought for the highest bidder and engaged in kidnapping and sea piracy to make ends meet when no convenient wars were afoot. The modern vulgarity “he can lick/kiss my arse” is also thought to have been coined by Berlichingen; it was attributed to him in a 1773 play based on his life.
Today, Berlichingen’s prosthetic arm is housed in the Götzenburg castle museum in the German town of Jagsthausen.
The introduction of non-native species can be a tricky business. The feral camels of Australia are a case in point. They were brought to the country in 1840 to ease exploration of the Outback, and the hardy animals soon proved useful in the construction of railway and telegraph lines.
From the beginning, however, camels and Australia made for a precarious pairing. During one of the first Australian expeditions to use the beasts—John Horrocks’ 1846 journey into the Outback—a camel was responsible for the expedition leader’s death. Horrocks was unloading a rifle while standing alongside a prone pack camel when the camel suddenly lurched, hooking part of its pack into the rifle’s action. The gun discharged, and the slug severed Horrocks’ middle finger, then entered through his left cheek and knocked out a row of upper teeth. Horrocks died within the month, but not before ordering the camel executed.
On a large scale, Australian camels started to create trouble in the 1930s, when automobiles rendered them increasingly obsolete. The thousands of no-longer-needed animals multiplied rapidly, given plenty of space and camels’ suitability for the dry climate. Their population approximately doubled every eight years, and by 2008 they numbered an estimated 600,000. Australia is now the only country with a substantial feral camel population.
The huge numbers of wild camels have become a major ecological and financial liability. They deplete vegetation and water sources, creating scarcity for other animals. The feral camels are particularly ravenous when searching for water, tearing up water spigots and toilet blocks in the process. They also destroy other types of infrastructure, from fences to windmills. Camels have even become a traffic hazard, both on highways and on airplane runways.
Efforts are underway to de-camelize the continent, a program that has met with some controversy. Researchers have started using “Judas camels” to thin the camel population, which involves placing a tracking device on a sociable camel, who then unwittingly leads the trackers to groups of feral camels. Riflemen then thin the herd from helicopters. Wild camel meat is exported to the Middle East to help offset the cost of the culling. Since 2008 camel populations have been reduced considerably.
The self-castrating devotees of Inanna in ancient Mesopotamia are evidence enough that religious fanatics can demonstrate their faith in uncommon ways, but surely few have done so as appallingly as Second Adventist (not to be confused with Seventh Day Adventist) Charles Freeman of Pocasset. In 1879, Freeman was certain that he was receiving revelations that demanded a great sacrifice. Recalling the tale of Abraham and Isaac, he came to the conclusion that he must sacrifice one of his children. His wife Harriet was not especially pleased by this proclamation, and attempted to change his mind, but no argument succeeded. When in the middle of the night Freeman awoke to announce that God had given him the name of the victim—Edith, her father’s favourite—the tearful Harriet made one last attempt to dissuade him. But on being assured that this was the will of God, she assented.
On 01 May 1879, having sent his elder daughter out of the children’s room, Freeman prayed over Edith, hoping that she would sleep through what was to come—or that his hand might be stayed at the last moment by God, just as Abraham’s was said to have been. Edith opened her eyes; and since no divine hand held him back, Freeman stabbed his five year old daughter. She had just the time to say ‘Oh, Papa’ before she died.
After he had suffered ‘a good deal of agony of mind’ over what he had done, Freeman came to feel at peace, certain that he had proven his piety. He called a meeting of his co-religionists, to whom he gave a rambling sermon presaging the imminent arrival of Christ, before displaying his daughter’s body to them. However shocked they might seem, he reassured them that in three days she would be resurrected. And reassured they were. Edith’s grandmother insisted that there was no need to tell the murdered girl’s sister Mildred about any of this, since Edith would be back in three days and the knowledge would only disturb the girl. The other Adventists all went home and continued with their daily lives, Freeman’s secret presumably safe with his fellow church-goers.
The next day Freeman and his wife were arrested for filicide. News of the crime, not to mention the fact that a number of the Adventists openly approved of what Freeman had done, caused a wave of fury. Pulpits bristled with denunciations of Adventism and fanaticism, and the New England Adventist Association was forced to quickly dissociate itself from the Pocasset congregation. Freeman remained unconcerned, certain that he would be vindicated when God resurrected his daughter on the third day.
The day of Edith’s anticipated resurrection came and went with nary a stir from Edith. In lieu of a resurrection there was a burial—accompanied, to be sure, by some mutters about God breaking his promises. At the grave side, Alden Davis, now the leader of the Pocasset Adventists, jumped onto a nearby grave and began to give a speech eulogising the murderer, until the cries from the crowd of ‘Choke him!’ and ‘Bury him in the open grave!’ led to something of a brawl over the coffin.
Freeman was found insane and therefore incapable of standing trial, but he rejected that diagnosis. He was “the spirit of Truth,” he proclaimed. “I represent Christ in all his parts, prophet, priest and king. All good is represented in one person, and that person is me. I feel sure that my name will be honoured above any other name except Jesus.” As for Edith, “I feel perfectly justified. I feel that I have done my duty. I would not have her back.” To his surprise, he was immediately committed to the State Lunatic Asylum.
It took four years for Freeman to acknowledge the horror of what he had done, at which time he finally stood trial. Found not guilty by reason of insanity, he returned to the asylum, where he remained until he was set free some years later as representing no further danger. And there he vanishes from view.
Ancient Israel was renowned for its date palm plants, which were widespread in thick forests and reportedly bore delicious fruit. The dates were a staple food for dwellers of the Judaean Desert. Sometime around the year 1300, however, a confluence of catastrophes—agricultural, economic, and climatological—killed many of the trees, and over time the palms became so uncommon that a French explorer in the 16th century doubted that the ancient date trade could ever have been particularly noteworthy. Within the following few centuries, that particular variant of date palm was extinct, and became entirely the stuff of legend.
In the mid-1960s, archaeologists at the clifftop palace of Herod the Great in Masada, Israel uncovered a 2000-year-old jar containing seeds. These turned out to be seeds of the long-extinct date palm. In 2005, researchers treated three of these seeds with fertilizer solutions and planted them in pots to see whether they were still capable of germinating. One of the seeds did indeed sprout, and it yielded a large, healthy date palm that the researchers nicknamed ‘Methuselah’ (not to be confused with the famous bristlecone pine of the same name). Within a decade Methuselah was almost ten feet tall, and producing pollen.
Date palms come in separate male and female plants, only the females being able to produce fruit. Methuselah is unfortunately male. However, scientists speculate that Methuselah could be used to fertilize a female plant of a closely related Egyptian date palm, resulting in fruit as soon as the early 2020s, offering humanity access to a legendary flavour that has not been tasted in centuries.