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Unik & Informatif, Jakarta (2025)

20/08/2025

In 1974, in Los Angeles, Rosendo Cruz decided to buy a brand-new Ferrari Dino 246 GTS as a luxurious gift for his wife to celebrate their wedding anniversary. The car was a masterpiece on four wheels, with its stunning Italian colors and head-turning design, embodying romance and luxury at its finest.
However, the family’s joy was short-lived. Just days after the celebration, the car mysteriously disappeared following their anniversary dinner and was reported stolen. What no one knew was that Rosendo himself had orchestrated the disappearance, planning an insurance scam. He hired a gang of thieves to “steal” the car in exchange for money, but the plan quickly spiraled out of control. The thieves buried the car in a secret location, and over time, they forgot where they had hidden it, leaving the Ferrari lost beneath the streets of Los Angeles.
The scam eventually caught up with Rosendo, and he faced serious legal consequences. The authorities uncovered the fraud, and the family’s name became linked to a sensational scandal that dominated local media. Four years later, in 1978, a shocking discovery occurred when two children digging in their backyard stumbled upon a glimmering object in the dirt—it was the buried Ferrari. Though partially damaged, expert restorers brought it back to life. The car was later purchased by Brad Howard, restored to its original glory, and remains one of the most famous Ferrari Dino 246 GTS vehicles in the world, with a license plate reading “DUG UP” as a testament to its strange saga of deception, burial, and rediscovery

11/08/2025

Hirta, the largest island of the remote St Kilda archipelago, has been inhabited for at least 2,000 years, with archaeological traces of Iron Age and Norse settlements.

Its extreme isolation—40 miles from the nearest land in Scotland’s Outer Hebrides—shaped a unique community reliant on seabirds, sheep, and limited agriculture.

The islanders lived in traditional blackhouses for centuries, later replaced in the 19th century by stone cottages built in a single village street.

Life revolved around the seasonal harvest of gannets, puffins, and fulmars, which provided meat, oil, and feathers for trade.

Contact with the outside world increased after missionary activity in the 19th century, bringing education, Christianity, and profound cultural change.

Despite these influences, the community maintained distinct customs, including the Parliament of St Kilda—a daily meeting where men discussed work and decisions.

Harsh winters, food shortages, and a declining population made life increasingly difficult in the early 20th century.

In 1930, at the residents’ own request, the British government evacuated the remaining 36 islanders to the mainland, ending millennia of habitation.

Since then, Hirta has served as a military radar station and is now managed by the National Trust for Scotland.

Today, the island is a UNESCO World Heritage Site, celebrated for its cultural history, dramatic cliffs, and vast seabird colonies—the legacy of a vanished way of life.

11/08/2025

A pair of cool details from my favorite Cedar Mountain battlefield photo, August 1862 looking northwest with dudes chillin’ at an overview toward the Wheatfield in the distance. That’s the old Culpeper road along the fenceline. Modern Route 15 cuts right through this photo. Link to the full plate in the comments.

11/08/2025

Walking on the frozen-solid Mississippi River, February 1905.

11/08/2025

A country girl on her way to Buckeye School in Pocahontas County, Marlinton, West Virginia, 1921.
Photograph by Lewis Hine.

11/08/2025

Nestled within the expansive Nazca Desert lies an extraordinary find housed in the Maria Reiche Museum: a meticulously preserved female mummy, showcasing the remarkable craftsmanship and reverence of the Nazca civilization. The mummy’s impeccable state, embellished with intricate tattoos, highlights the unique environmental conditions and burial practices that have enabled this ancient artifact to survive through the ages.
The outstanding preservation of this female mummy is truly an impressive achievement, facilitated by the harsh yet accommodating environment of the Nazca Desert. The dry, arid climate, combined with the specialized burial methods utilized by the Nazca, has led to the extraordinary conservation not only of the mummy’s physical form but also of the delicate tattoos that adorn her body. These tattoos, once vibrant representations of cultural identity and spiritual beliefs, have been preserved in astonishing detail, creating a tangible connection to the artistic and cosmological traditions of the Nazca people.

05/08/2025

Teenagers in the Warsaw Ghetto in 1943.

05/08/2025

In a small Canadian town better known for horses and hard winters than for whispered love stories, two men lived a quiet romance that defied the odds. Len Keith and Joseph “Cub” Coates weren’t famous, but what they shared was quietly radical. In a time when being openly gay could cost you everything—your job, your home, your safety—they carved out a life together in the margins, capturing moments not for applause, but for memory.
Len, the well-bred son of a prosperous businessman, was no stranger to opportunity. His life could’ve followed a conventional arc: war hero, local entrepreneur, respected citizen. He even owned a garage in Havelock during the 1920s, a practical trade in a rural place. But beneath the surface of that respectability was a man with a camera—and a gaze that lingered on another man. That other man was Cub.
Cub’s life came from more humble beginnings. He was a harness racing driver with rougher edges and likely fewer choices, but just as much heart. He served in the military like Len, though what he did or saw there has been largely lost to time. What remains are the photographs: candid, quiet, occasionally playful. Two men posing together at ease, their bodies comfortably close in ways only possible in private. In another world, they’d have shared a mortgage, a dog, maybe matching monogrammed towels. But this wasn’t that world.
Their story wasn’t written in love letters or confessions—it was hidden in plain sight through Len’s photographs. Those snapshots, black and white windows into decades past, are some of the rare evidence we have of men like them. John Corey, their friend, would later donate these images to the Provincial Archives, preserving something that might’ve otherwise disappeared. He called them boyfriends. And that single word reframes everything.
It’s not clear when things ended—just that eventually, they had to. The homophobia of the time wasn’t casual; it was institutional, suffocating. Len was forced to leave Havelock sometime in the ’30s or ’40s. The photographs stop. Cub married by 1940. We’re left to wonder how much of that was survival, and how much was heartbreak.
From a book called Len and Cub: A Q***r History by Meredith J Batt and Dusty Green. GayFamilyValues publisher is Goose Lane Editions and year of publication is 2022. A great read.

05/08/2025

Hog killing on Milton Puryeur place; He is a Negro owner of five acres of land. He used to grow to***co and cotton but now just a subsistence living; These hogs belong to a neighbor landowner; He burns old shoes and pieces of leather near the heads of the slaughtered hogs while they are hanging to keep the flies away.
Marion Post Wolcott November 1939

05/08/2025

The Weight of the Wall": A Hod Carrier’s Tale from 1905
In the cold spring of 1905, in the heart of Birmingham’s industrial sprawl, a 17-year-old lad named George Mallin started his first day as a hod carrier.
He’d lied about his age to get the job. Said he was 19. The foreman didn’t care — he just looked George up and down, spat on the ground, and pointed at the hod leaning against the scaffold:
“If you can lift it, you can stay.”
A hod back then was a heavy wooden box mounted on a splintery pole, designed to carry bricks up to the bricklayers working on the scaffold above. It held six to ten bricks per trip — more if you were desperate for coin, less if you were weak. George had to carry it on his left shoulder, head tilted, neck twisted, one arm wrapped around the pole to stop it tipping.
The first lift nearly broke him.
The bricks dug into his collarbone. His knees buckled. His boots slipped in the muck. But he didn’t stop. He climbed the narrow ladder with no harness, no guard rails, and no help, bricks swaying above his head, breath shallow from the dust.
He made over 100 trips a day. That was normal.
There were no cement mixers — George had to shovel sand and lime into a pit, mix it by hand with a paddle, and carry that up too. Rain or frost made the job even worse. The wooden scaffold would get slick, and many a lad fell trying to prove himself. Some never came back.
His hands bled. His shoulder swelled up like a melon by the second week. But every Friday, when he collected his few shillings, he’d nod to the bricklayers and say nothing. Because in those days, a good hod carrier was a man who kept going, no matter what.
By the time George turned 25, his spine was curved from the weight. He’d carried bricks through snow, strikes, and scaffolds that should’ve collapsed. But he was proud.
“Every wall in this city owes something to the hod boys,” he used to say.
And he wasn’t wrong.
Today, we lift with machines, we mix with motors, and we build with pride. But men like George?
They built it with their bodies.
゚

05/08/2025

Punic cothon of Carthage was truly one of marvels of ancient world, a testament to Carthaginian naval power and engineering prowess. Its appearance in 3rd Century BC would have been vastly different from what we see today....
In 3rd Century BC, during height of its power and period of Punic Wars with Rome, Carthage's cothon was a highly sophisticated and secret military harbor system. It was designed for maximum efficiency, defense, and concealment.
The cothon consisted of two main basins: Outer Rectangular Merchant Harbor: This was commercial port, where merchant ships would load and unload goods, facilitating Carthage's vast trading empire.
Inner Circular Military Harbor (Cothon proper): This was heart of Carthaginian naval might, reserved exclusively for warships. It was connected to merchant harbor by a narrow channel.
The entire complex was heavily fortified and designed for secrecy. The military harbor was likely not visible from sea, and its entrance could be closed off by iron chains to prevent unauthorized entry or attack. Circular military harbor was astonishingly efficient. Historical accounts, such as Appian's, suggest it could house an incredible number of warships – some estimates claim up to 220 ships.
Circular basin was surrounded by an outer ring of structures divided into numerous triangular-shaped docking bays, like spokes on a wheel. Each bay would have housed a ship, often on a raised slipway for easy access and maintenance. In the center of circular harbor was an artificial island, often referred to as "Admiral's Island" or "Admiralty Island." This island likely contained additional docking bays and, crucially, a raised tower or "cabin" from which admiral in command could observe entire harbor and surrounding sea. Surrounding docking bays were multi-story structures housing warehouses where oars, rigging, wood, canvas and other naval supplies were stored. There would have been workshops for ship maintenance and repair. It would have been an incredibly bustling, technologically advanced and awe-inspiring sight, a clear symbol of Carthaginian naval dominance in Mediterranean.
Today, Punic cothon of Carthage presents a much different, and far more subdued, appearance. The vast majority of original Punic city, including its elaborate port facilities, was razed to ground by Romans in 146 BC after 3rd Punic War. While Romans later rebuilt Carthage as a major Roman city, original Punic structures were largely destroyed or built over.
What remains visible today are primarily basins of two harbors. You can still discern the distinct rectangular shape of the merchant port and the circular outline of the military cothon, along with faint trace of the central island within circular basin. Over two millennia, harbors have largely silted up or been partly filled in. Their original depth is gone and water is shallow.
The towering walls, radial docking bays, the admiral's observation tower, and all the warehouses and workshops that once surrounded the ports are gone. There are no standing ancient structures associated with the Punic cothon. The site of the cothon is now integrated into the modern urban landscape of Carthage, a residential suburb of Tunis. Small, modern boats might use parts of the basins, but it's a far cry from the bustling military and commercial hub it once was.
While not as visually impressive as some other ancient sites, for those with an understanding of history and archaeology, the outlines of the cothon are still a powerful reminder of Carthage's past glory. It's an archaeological site, rather than a living port. There are typically no admission fees, and it's openly accessible.
In essence, in 3rd Century BC, cothon was a thriving, cutting-edge naval base and commercial hub. Today, it is an archaeological footprint, a subtle depression in the landscape and water, requiring imagination and historical knowledge to fully appreciate the monumental scale of its past.

04/08/2025

"The Shawl from Prague"
Date: October 1944 | Theresienstadt to Auschwitz
Marie Hermína Metzlová was 46 when they came for her name.
She had once been a librarian in Prague — quiet halls, quiet voices, the rustle of pages. Her favorite books were the ones that whispered truths too soft for the world to shout.
At Theresienstadt, she found no books. Only rumors and roll calls. But she found something else — children. Orphans, frightened, silent. She told them stories. Stories without paper. Fairy tales, remembered poems, Czech legends of brave girls and clever foxes. Her voice became a refuge.
Before the deportation in October 1944, she folded her shawl — pale green, the color of spring leaves in Prague — and wrapped it around a small boy’s shoulders.
“You’re not alone,” she said.
She gave him her last story. Then she stepped onto the train to Auschwitz.
She did not survive the arrival.
But in some child’s memory, there remained a voice that spoke gently in a storm — and a shawl that smelled faintly of home.

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