Azazia
09-09-2005, 07:55
[ooc: I've decided to spend some more time adding flavour to the United Kingdom of Azazia by, in this thread, beginning to detail "commonplace" events and daily life in the many territories, colonies, and republics of the Kingdom far from the political and commercial centres which are where most of the RPs concerning the UK are based. Enjoy./ooc]
Port Elizabeth, Royal Crown Colony of Port Elizabeth
The United Kingdom administered numerous, far-flung territories. Some more remote than others. Some more profitable than others. Some more strategic than others. Some more useless than a grain of sand in a desert. The Royal Crown Colony of Port Elizabeth fell somewhere in the middle of all those descriptions.
Situated in the Jipangunesian Archipelago in the tropics of the Pacific, Port Elizabeth had centuries before been a refueling station for the English ships sailing round and round the mighty ocean on their way to the Azazian Archipelago, which sat further north and offered a more agreeable climate and more readily accessible resources to be exploited. Eventually, as the Azazian ports began to surpass the capabilities of the refueling station, the small harbour and port was abandoned, leaving warehouses and apartments to rot and spoil in the persistently hot and humid climate, leaving weeds and rats to claim ownership of pseudo-mansions. The aboriginal peoples gathered in the remnants of the town, unable to make heads or tails of then modern society. Their stone and bone hunting tools were of no use in the town. Their hunter-gathering lifestyle did little on cobblestone streets, wooden palisades, and stone houses and shops. The town lay dormant.
Admiral Keith Jennings stood atop the watchtower of Dump Hill, named after its uncanny resemblance to a pile of feces and the utter wretchedness of a posting in Port Elizabeth. With a wry smile, he rolled the thought of a native watching the first landings take place just to the east at the mouth of the harbour. That first night, with the special forces arriving in rigid little rafts to secure the town from rebel guerillas only to find nearly emaciated natives fishing and crabbing in the harbour now filled with wrecks of what had been wholly un-seaworthy fishing vessels. That first night where the elite soldiers had hidden in tall palms to observe the movements of Kalashnikov-wielding rebels – rebels that simply had never materialized. In the following days, helicopters had landed in that mess of a town square, an old cobblestone plaza where merchants had sold fish to English sailors, where commerce had continued at a bare minimum with natives trading mangos for fish for crabs for an intoxicating narcotic that helped ease the hunger.
The town resembled far more than that today, Jennings reflected. Below him was a small harbour bustling with small merchant freighters and a few large ocean-going yachts. Along the waterfront docks had been rebuilt or simply built anew to accommodate the influx of raw materials for new construction. The dilapidated buildings of before had begun to be replaced by the new post-modern style evidenced in the Jackson Freight Facility. The JFF had been built by one of the first companies to move to the new city, taking advantage of the lenient taxes and loans. Along their long wharves they had built an indoor freight warehouse that extended into the cleared forests as if a ship’s prow had crashed through the seawall and run aground on the shore. The front end held the local offices whereas trucks moved out from the ‘starboard’ and ‘port’ side freight entrances. In addition to looking impressive, the facility also made sure the valuable goods were largely secured – as theft remained a problem in the city, a city plagued by an all too obvious gap between the new settlers and the aboriginals.
Further towards the centre of the city – Jennings chuckled at the thought of the town being officially called a city – the new administration building had begun to take form. Rising an impressive eight stories into the clear, unpolluted skies the building acted as a beacon for the impoverished and starving natives driving a rampant and wholly unsustainable population growth. Nevertheless, with one side sporting a sheer glass façade facing the harbour - the uncontested heart of the still dependent colony - the remaining three sides consisted of imported concrete that gave an impressive sight with the reflective green glass appearing in large tree motifs up the gleaming white sides. The building stood as a testament to the power of the United Kingdom in the untamed land, a land of a still Paleolithic people. A land Jennings had found extremely difficult to govern.
Yet, as he watched a distant Royal Navy outboard launch zigging and zagging towards the port, Jennings quietly sighed. He had been appointed several months ago as Royal Governor, until the civilian government appointed an elected official – appointed only because the infrastructure of Port Elizabeth simply could not support an island-wide election. And now, his tenure was rapidly coming to an end. The settler population of a merely 1,500 had voted in a wholly haphazard election and the governor-elect had been requested by Prime Minister Tetley for a full briefing on his obligations and responsibilities. With a final glance towards the approaching launch Jennings saluted the Royal Marines on duty and headed back down Dump Hill into the development known as Port Elizabeth
With his head held high and his bright sapphire eyes lit up on fire, the aged but distinguished Sir Tyler Prescott silently thanked the gods that he had safely reached land. In the typical fashion of a politician Prescott thanked those Azazian settlers who had come to welcome him to his new post while taking a moment to swat at a few mosquitoes already buzzing around him in his white linen suit. Prescott’s bald head, crowned by a ring of matching white hair, craned upwards to stare at the magnificent building soon to be his primary office. Prescott thanked the Royal Marines, who had arrived in a military vehicle with which Prescott would find himself hurriedly en route to his meeting with Admiral Keith Jennings, before taking a last giant wave to the assembled crowd and shutting the armoured door.
The new royal governor hailed from the city of Bristol and had served as mayor of the town for several years before his election to the House of Commons. The past thirty years of service for his hometown as mayor and MP had garnered him the attention of His Majesty, who had conferred upon the spry old man the honour of knighthood. The prior elections, however, had seen the retirement of Prescott in order to allow the Democratic Socialist Party an opportunity to introduce fresh Bristol blood. Although Prescott had far from been forgotten as the decision to place forward candidates for the royal governor had been made, Prescott was added to the list. Prescott realized that technically only His Majesty could appoint him as governor, contemporary traditions ensured that such appointments were almost always done with the consent of those governed. Finally, as the vehicle slowed to a stop, Prescott could look out over his new hometown.
Port Elizabeth, Royal Crown Colony of Port Elizabeth
The United Kingdom administered numerous, far-flung territories. Some more remote than others. Some more profitable than others. Some more strategic than others. Some more useless than a grain of sand in a desert. The Royal Crown Colony of Port Elizabeth fell somewhere in the middle of all those descriptions.
Situated in the Jipangunesian Archipelago in the tropics of the Pacific, Port Elizabeth had centuries before been a refueling station for the English ships sailing round and round the mighty ocean on their way to the Azazian Archipelago, which sat further north and offered a more agreeable climate and more readily accessible resources to be exploited. Eventually, as the Azazian ports began to surpass the capabilities of the refueling station, the small harbour and port was abandoned, leaving warehouses and apartments to rot and spoil in the persistently hot and humid climate, leaving weeds and rats to claim ownership of pseudo-mansions. The aboriginal peoples gathered in the remnants of the town, unable to make heads or tails of then modern society. Their stone and bone hunting tools were of no use in the town. Their hunter-gathering lifestyle did little on cobblestone streets, wooden palisades, and stone houses and shops. The town lay dormant.
Admiral Keith Jennings stood atop the watchtower of Dump Hill, named after its uncanny resemblance to a pile of feces and the utter wretchedness of a posting in Port Elizabeth. With a wry smile, he rolled the thought of a native watching the first landings take place just to the east at the mouth of the harbour. That first night, with the special forces arriving in rigid little rafts to secure the town from rebel guerillas only to find nearly emaciated natives fishing and crabbing in the harbour now filled with wrecks of what had been wholly un-seaworthy fishing vessels. That first night where the elite soldiers had hidden in tall palms to observe the movements of Kalashnikov-wielding rebels – rebels that simply had never materialized. In the following days, helicopters had landed in that mess of a town square, an old cobblestone plaza where merchants had sold fish to English sailors, where commerce had continued at a bare minimum with natives trading mangos for fish for crabs for an intoxicating narcotic that helped ease the hunger.
The town resembled far more than that today, Jennings reflected. Below him was a small harbour bustling with small merchant freighters and a few large ocean-going yachts. Along the waterfront docks had been rebuilt or simply built anew to accommodate the influx of raw materials for new construction. The dilapidated buildings of before had begun to be replaced by the new post-modern style evidenced in the Jackson Freight Facility. The JFF had been built by one of the first companies to move to the new city, taking advantage of the lenient taxes and loans. Along their long wharves they had built an indoor freight warehouse that extended into the cleared forests as if a ship’s prow had crashed through the seawall and run aground on the shore. The front end held the local offices whereas trucks moved out from the ‘starboard’ and ‘port’ side freight entrances. In addition to looking impressive, the facility also made sure the valuable goods were largely secured – as theft remained a problem in the city, a city plagued by an all too obvious gap between the new settlers and the aboriginals.
Further towards the centre of the city – Jennings chuckled at the thought of the town being officially called a city – the new administration building had begun to take form. Rising an impressive eight stories into the clear, unpolluted skies the building acted as a beacon for the impoverished and starving natives driving a rampant and wholly unsustainable population growth. Nevertheless, with one side sporting a sheer glass façade facing the harbour - the uncontested heart of the still dependent colony - the remaining three sides consisted of imported concrete that gave an impressive sight with the reflective green glass appearing in large tree motifs up the gleaming white sides. The building stood as a testament to the power of the United Kingdom in the untamed land, a land of a still Paleolithic people. A land Jennings had found extremely difficult to govern.
Yet, as he watched a distant Royal Navy outboard launch zigging and zagging towards the port, Jennings quietly sighed. He had been appointed several months ago as Royal Governor, until the civilian government appointed an elected official – appointed only because the infrastructure of Port Elizabeth simply could not support an island-wide election. And now, his tenure was rapidly coming to an end. The settler population of a merely 1,500 had voted in a wholly haphazard election and the governor-elect had been requested by Prime Minister Tetley for a full briefing on his obligations and responsibilities. With a final glance towards the approaching launch Jennings saluted the Royal Marines on duty and headed back down Dump Hill into the development known as Port Elizabeth
With his head held high and his bright sapphire eyes lit up on fire, the aged but distinguished Sir Tyler Prescott silently thanked the gods that he had safely reached land. In the typical fashion of a politician Prescott thanked those Azazian settlers who had come to welcome him to his new post while taking a moment to swat at a few mosquitoes already buzzing around him in his white linen suit. Prescott’s bald head, crowned by a ring of matching white hair, craned upwards to stare at the magnificent building soon to be his primary office. Prescott thanked the Royal Marines, who had arrived in a military vehicle with which Prescott would find himself hurriedly en route to his meeting with Admiral Keith Jennings, before taking a last giant wave to the assembled crowd and shutting the armoured door.
The new royal governor hailed from the city of Bristol and had served as mayor of the town for several years before his election to the House of Commons. The past thirty years of service for his hometown as mayor and MP had garnered him the attention of His Majesty, who had conferred upon the spry old man the honour of knighthood. The prior elections, however, had seen the retirement of Prescott in order to allow the Democratic Socialist Party an opportunity to introduce fresh Bristol blood. Although Prescott had far from been forgotten as the decision to place forward candidates for the royal governor had been made, Prescott was added to the list. Prescott realized that technically only His Majesty could appoint him as governor, contemporary traditions ensured that such appointments were almost always done with the consent of those governed. Finally, as the vehicle slowed to a stop, Prescott could look out over his new hometown.