Albert Schweitzer

One has to admire the man. If that sounds as though I do so begrudgingly, let me say at once that I can't think of anyone I admire more. Out of a spiritual sense of obligation, Albert Schweitzer, musician, intellectual, abandoned the certainty of fame and success simply because he took scripture at its word and applied his love of God to the practical outworking of the Second Great Commandment in a demonstration of love in the shape of care and concern for his neighbour in the most dedicated and effective manner.

That he focused on his neighbour in the Cameroons, so far from his native Alsace, indicates the intensity of his commitment. As we read his straightforward, down-to-earth account of the manner in which he founded his mission hospital at Lambarene against incredible odds, we can only marvel at his perseverance. For a start, the climate was against him. Anyone who has lived under the shadow of tropical downpour, when the heavens open with a driving deluge that not only turns the surface of the ground into a sloppy mess of semi-liquid mud, but beats fiercely on any protective covering with demoniacal fury, stripping trees and bushes of their leaves, searching out the smallest roof-hole, sending exploratory rills along every cranny, into every nook, curling tentacles in every direction, until everything is sodden or swept away. Or, if it is not actually raining, the heat and humidity sap one's energy as if in organised onslaught, leaving all life dull and exhausted.

If that were not discouragement sufficient to stifle the enthusiasm of the most dedicated disciple, the seething abundance of insect life, much of it in apparently frantic opposition to every effort of mankind to improve his existence, makes its presence known, usually in a manner inconvenient or obnoxious and at a time when it is either too late or too impractical to take any steps to avoid or oppose it. Dr Schweitzer never complains. It seem it is just not in his character to do so. Indeed, to complain would sound a jarring note, altogether at odds with the tone of his writing and the reason for his being in Africa at all.

His willingness to pit himself against adversity is phenomenal. Admissions of extreme fatigue sound reluctant, casual, merely for the honesty and completeness of the record. The shortcomings of his workers he describes in tone of wry acceptance, tinged only slightly with the utter exasperation he must have felt as his best efforts to improve the lives of those he gave up everything to save were repeatedly frustrated.

He mentions them in the tones of a lovingly loyal parent aware of the limitations of his offspring, finding all manner of excuses for them, patiently adjusting his expectations accordingly. He paved the way for others to go out and serve.

Out of My Life and Thought (Albert Schweitzer Library) USA
Out of My Life and Thought: An Autobiography UK

by guest blogger: Brian Murgatroyd

Autumn Glory On The Bus Route To Hitchin

On an impulse, stirred by a stubborn resistance on the part of the weather to conform to the equally obstinate insistence by the Met Office that the idyllic warm sunshine, cool breezes and joyfully clear skies are over and the overcast, chilly, wet winter has come upon us, I went to Hitchin this afternoon. There were clouds, firm-edged, flat-bottomed cumulus like snow heaped on a transparent surface above us, floating almost imperceptibly as if reluctant to move, determined to bestow on the world below the full benefit of their glory. There was a coolness, more invigorating than uncomfortable. When the sun did disappear, it was never for long.

It was altogether an afternoon when it seems ungrateful to be indoors. Two days ago we heard from a friend in Harare, who said that Zimbabwe is experiencing a really serious heat-wave. She was not complaining. Rather she expressed her sympathy for those in the hot spots of the country, the Zambesi Valley and Lowveld generally, where even in a normal year all life outdoors slows to a pace of minimal effort and the only movement in the Bush is the odd bateleur eagle gliding high on widespread wings. Not for nothing was October known as 'suicide' month in Zimbabwe.

But here in Luton, today, it was alternatively comfortably warm and refreshingly cool. As I have been moved to do many times during this year's astonishingly benign autumn, I wondered again today whether there is anywhere else on the planet so blest in the matter of weather. If the term 'Whinging Pom', purportedly used in Australia to describe British immigrants to their country, has as it's origin the climate of the United Kingdom, then all I can say is that the Brits - we Brits - are a hard lot to please.

So it was that I felt constrained to go somewhere today. Anywhere, out of doors, as much in grateful obligation as for the joy of it, for surely the Met Office cannot persist much longer in being so wrong. Weather this good, like all special treats, can't go on to the point where we take it for granted.

Among its other good points, and there are many, Luton is conveniently placed to travel by bus or by coach, to London, Oxford, or Cambridge, three prime destinations in the U.K. In addition, there are frequent services to not a few other centres, St. Albans, Bedford to name only two. But since it had taken me all morning and a good part of the afternoon to decide on abandoning my planned programme and making the move, and since the evenings are noticeably drawing in, I chose a closer venue - Hitchin.

It would have been worth the effort just for the drive. No less than three local buses run frequently to Hitchin, each by a different route. I boarded one at random, which called in at several little villages on the way. It would have been worth the trip for the drive alone. We left Luton in mid-afternoon

Autumn, "season of mists and mellow fruitfulness, close bosom-friend of the maturing sun", inspired Keats to express his appreciation in an ode specifically for all that the season meant to him. I first heard his lines with an almost scveptical wonder as a schoolboy in the heat and boredom of a classroom in Rhodesia and marvelled that a poet could be so eloquently moved. Today I understood. Maybe this year's exceptionally warm, sunny autumn has something to do with it. Never before have I seen the trees so ablaze with colour, from deep maroon to brilliant yellow, with all shades in between, and greens and browns in endless exuberant yet delicate gradations. On the ground beneath, the thick carpet of fallen leaves was a joyous riot of stupendously variegated colours, shapes, designs. If elves and pixies had bobbed up among them to make merry and cavort about it would not have been in the least surprising, just wonderfully appropriate.

Nature, God, vibrantly alive and rejoicing in a final fanfare before winter sets in. Who can, who dares, doubt the significance of all this glory?

The Complete Poems of John Keats (Modern Library) USA
Complete Poems of John Keats (Wordsworth Poetry) (Wordsworth Poetry Library) UK

By guest blogger: Brian Murgatroyd

A Day Out In St. Albans

A bright, warm sun, chilly breeze, sky a clear blue except for scattered cotton-wool clouds that seem to complement the perfection of the day - on days like these it seems only proper, sometimes imperative, that one should spend as much of it as possible in locations befitting the weather, suitable venues for the feelings of joy, the surges of energy and optimism that the conditions call forth. Too often the decision to act upon such emotions is deferred through the intervention of events trivial in themselves but significant enough to require attention. Too often too much time is taken up in trying to get these details out of the way so that they will not prey on the mind to the extent of detracting from one's enjoyment of a change of environment or hover in the background, necessitating an early return. Today I acted convincingly enough to board Bus No 321 at the end of our street in Luton, bound for St. Albans, but forgot to equip myself first with the customary flask of coffee and sandwiches.

These items are by no means a luxury. Hot, sweet coffee accompanied by biscuits or sandwiches have become an essential component of such pleasure outings. Their omission caused considerable distress, since one must then decide whether the £2.90 one would have to spend on coffee would be well spent. Obviously it would not, since even at the Oxfam bookshop, few books of quality are priced below £2.00.

The matter then becomes a choice between book and coffee. The book will always win in this unequal contest, since a book can be read over and over, coffee must be drunk before it gets cold! So today I bought a paperback that caught my eye, entitled 'Writing a Spiritual Journal". for £1.99 and wandered back to Bus Stop No. 10 on the main thoroughfare through the city, where I would catch my bus home. (This after a brief wander about the town centre, gawking in disbelief at the cost of notebooks, the size of a slim pocket, selling at £6 purely because - as far as I could see - of its moleskin binding.)

At Stop 10 I sat on a bench near the edge of the street and regarded with nothing more than mild interest the slow stop/start progress of traffic almost nose-to-tail, and marvelling at the restraint and courtesy of drivers in this very civilized community. Perhaps the fact that it was a sunny spring day had something to do with it, but no driver, at any time in the afternoon, sounded his horn.

St. Albans' main thoroughfare is narrow, due to the layout of the town having been established long before the days of the motor car. Traffic lights keep the progress of vehicles of any size in any direction to either a slow crawl or a stop. No-one seemed to mind. An enormous dark blue pantechnicon stopped in front of me, the whole of its monstrous side covered by a vivid painting of a knight in full armour astride a furiously determined white horse, charging with lance levelled at the traffic ahead. Underneath the galloping hooves a banner bore the proud legend: "Knights of Old - Service with Honour". The whole display seemed right and fitting in this old town of history, sanctity and bloodshed for a worthy cause - until I saw painted on the door of the cab the firm's address, in Northampton. It stopped, with the rest of the traffic, opposite me as I sat on the bench, about three yards away, the comfortable grunting of its exhaust probably belching forth any amount of toxic, invisible gases.

A lady of formidable proportions, her considerable bulk accentuated by multiple layers of warm clothing - there is a chill, challenging breeze despite the warm sun - approaches from behind me, pushing a species of four-wheeled, upright trolley, from which three small, vividly coloured toy monkey-like creatures dangled, suspended on short elastic bands, jiggling gently, two of them wide-eyed with excited wonder, the third doleful, apprehensive, expecting the worst. The good lady makes her way with a slow, rolling, purposeful gait to the far end of the bench, commences to unload from her trolley more than a few carrier-bags, crammed with supermarket groceries, on to the bench. Bags of 2kg sugar, at least four of them, were stood together on the rough tarmac surface of the street. Something else in moderately-sized cartons also formed their own pile. She blockaded her position on the bench with a stockade of groceries. Then a little tower of cartons feel outward, spreading themselves in random disorder. She ignored them, went on unpacking. It would require, I surmised, no small amount of effort on her part to get up from her seat, clear a way through the barricade of jumbled tins, boxes, packets, bottles, to retrieve the fallen cartons. I did the gentlemanly thing, salvaged them for her. "Thank you very much," she said. I am sure she meant it, but the flat absence of any emotion in her voice discouraged further communication or even eye contact, and the opening for just a smile or simple conversation-opener along the lines of "weekly groceries" was gone. I returned to the book from Oxfam, she continued to busy herself with re-arranging her purchases, discarding the carry-bags, packing the articles sensibly and efficiently into her trolley, heavy sugar bags at the bottom, lighter items placed compactly on top, maximizing the use of space. I went back to my book. Surprisingly quickly everything was satisfactorily arranged in her trolley, the cover battened down, and she sat back to enjoy a cigarette. The wind was blowing my way as she exhaled. I pretended not to notice. Soon she got up and went away.

Was this an opportunity missed to share our common humanity? Is advanced age - full three-score years and ten - and the sensitivities that go with it, in combination with a white beard, wrinkles, unsupple joints, slowness of intellect and faulty diction no excuse, no reason even, to be hesitant about making the first moves toward communication? Maybe not, but they don't make it any easier either. So there lumbered off, out of my life, in a lingering whiff of tobacco smoke, another stranger who might well have been the legendary friend I do not know.

Writing the Sacred Journey: The Art and Practice of Spiritual Memoir
Deep Water Passage: A Spiritual Journey at Midlife (UK)

by guest blogger: Brian Murgatroyd

Let's Face It. Is It Worth It?

'Oh that I had wings like a dove. I would fly away and be at rest; truly I would flee far away; I would lodge in the wilderness' Psalm 55 vs 6,7.

It's not pressure of a job that makes one feel this way. It is in fact the opposite. It's the lack of a meaningful purpose for living. If I said that aloud to the family at the breakfast table (What am I saying? There is no such thing any more.) I know exactly what their response would be. 'What about us? Don't we count? Don't we mean anything to you at all?' All of which, of course, is nonsense. They are very dear to me, each one. But they all live their self-contained lives, most of them trying to do more than they can cope with in terms of both time and energy. If we do have time to spend together, it is usually leisure time we have made a point of putting aside. Which is good, and very necessary, to keep the channels of sharing and caring clear, free and in working order.

But such is the pressure and tempo of life in this day and age that one soon begins to wonder whether time, even 'family time' spent in domestic chit-chat for the sake of being in one another's company is time well spent. How long before one begins to wonder whether the branch of the family tree being favoured with your presence at that particular time is showing signs of restlessness that can only signify the result of their wanting to get on with whatever it is that they would be doing if you had not engaged them in conversation?

We all live such independent, encapsulated lives. Not particularly because we want it this way. More because we think it the right thing to do. This perhaps is part of one's desire, nowadays, not to get in the way of each other. Each branch of the family, and sooner or later each member of each branch, develops their own individual agenda. Of course there is much to be said for individual enterprise emanating from the fact that no two characters are alike. But it doesn't make life any easier.

Obviously we would be boring company for each other if we were all clones. The new blood that comes into the family through marriage or adoption, or the new thinking emerging from new influences being brought to bear on succeeding generations subject to innovation in education or simply new directions of thought as a result of new discoveries in all the different areas of man's experience and endeavour, will bring pressure on the family at large to change its ways, broaden its thinking. Which will engender difficulties, challenging us to find ways of resolving differences in our responses before they become problems and, finally, issues. But that's how progress comes about - if we handle it properly.

Material changes, due to social change, will deeply affect lifestyles, attitudes, expectations, disrupting the observance of old methods and traditions. All these factors, and a multitude of others, mitigate against the calm continuation of the old ways, life as it was. The family must surely be the first institution to be affected by a necessity to change and adapt to emerging forces and novel conditions.

Not all the necessary changes will be for the worse, but one can only regret the passing of the traditional family unit where each succeeding generation fell naturally into a pattern of shared labour, effort, and responsibility, shouldering with pride the tasks, aims, ambitions of the generations gone before. The real challenge is how we cope with it.

Happy and relatively rare in the New world, is the family nowadays who live together, each member contributing their own particular talent in their special area of responsibility, for the good of the whole.

It seemed to work in the old days. What has so changed as to make a contented, co-operating family unit a rarity in our time? Perhaps a vital factor could be Greater Expectations? The novelty, luxury, diversity of city life draws the younger generation to the promised exciting fulfilment simply, evidently, through the earning of money. A well-paid city job appears to be the means to participate in the drive for urban ecstasy! Possessions become paramount.
expectations are driven to heights previously undreamed of, simply by the machinery of commerce. To be content with less becomes the scorned stamp of retrogression. Half the world, perhaps more than half, must live in poverty and deprivation so that the other half can revel in luxury.

Where is this leading us? Are we prepared to consider the outcome? Is the horror we refuse to face worth the lifestyle that can only be temporary?

Awkward Family Photos
Fay's Family Food: Delicious Recipes Where One Meal Feeds Everyone. Whatever Age! UK

by guest blogger: Brian Murgatroyd

William Hickling Prescott - Massacre In Mexico

                   "Man in a state of excitement, savage or civilized, is much the same in every age".


Written in 1843 by on William Hickling Prescott in his book 'The Conquest of Mexico' describing a massacre of local Indians when an invitation to a feast was suspected by Spanish soldiery to be the prelude to a treacherous attack on themselves, the continent rings true down the ages.


Man's proclivity to violence runs though history like a river of blood. In the circumstances described,what other option was open to the conquistadors?  Presumably they were heavily outnumbered.  Their best hope of survival, in fact their only hope, and that a slim one, was to stage a pre-emptive strike, catch their enemy off guard.  In such circumstances, speed would have been vital.  The enemy would have to be attacked before they could station themselves strategically to make effective use of their numerical advantage with least loss to themselves.

The Spaniards were in no position to negotiate.  They were outnumbered, on unfamiliar territory, uncertain as to the strength of their enemies, ignorant of what direction the attack would come from, even what form it would take.  They had small hope of success, but no hope at all of survival by any other course.  Compromise was not at option.  Surrender would mean certain death, probably in a manner of maximum humiliation.  If there is no chance of mercy, better to die fighting.  Hence the old army adage that no foe is so fierce as a foe without hope.

The Spaniards therefore staged their own attack.  Taking their hosts by surprise, they quickly sensed their own advantage and, with courage now re-enforced by hope, pressed this advantage home to stage a massacre.  Whether they would have been shown mercy and merely taken prisoner, no-one  will ever know.  They had the upper hand and they took no risks.  The decision, though to a large extent forced, had been, in military terms, a bold one.  When it succeeded and the enemy succumbed, the emotion uppermost in the hearts and minds of the soldiery must have been relief, sharpened probably by a fearful determination to make assurance doubly sure, and accompanied too, in the heady, very human reaction of relief by the desire to wreak vengeance - for something that  never occurred, but was on its way to doing so.

The massacre of the Indians at Chomla earns no hymn of praise.  As a massacre, it is condemned, held up as evidence of man's innate savagery. Yet, on the ground, in the grip of emotions involving the most powerful instinct by man - that of survival - who can say what response ours would have been?  Unless we have been in circumstances of just such extreme terror, how can we be to the least degree certain how we would have felt, what we should have done?

Nobody applauds a massacre.  But in such circumstances as these, where each side feared the worst from the other, and both felt that their only hope of survival was to resort to desperate measures, perhaps the same, dark, desperate course would have been understandable, whichever side was pressured to take it.

We know, then, more or less, how man in a state of excitement, would be prone to react.  The matter rests on what influence in his society has the stronger effect.  This in turn is decided by whence such influence originates, how its influence is applied.  Is it much the same in every culture, every age?  If not, what is the nature of their differences?  Wherein lies the cause??  Especially this - wherein lies the Cause - must be identified, analysed, before we apportion the blame.


by guest blogger: Brian Murgatroyd

First Impressions Of Prague

The airport was modern, large, spotlessly clean.  Much the same as modern airports anywhere, but this one had the added attraction of almost the whole of one wall and I forget which level, one huge plate of glass - or some substance equally transparent, facing the direction of incoming aircraft.  This is a feature the international air industry would do well to follow.  As good as a movie house, and at no cost.

The signs were not hard to follow, but one does wonder when the international community will devise a common set of nouns or symbols for the more significant features of public places - features such as Exit, Entrance, Baggage, Restaurant, and most of all, Toilets.  I was saved from entering the women's toilet only by a lady emerging as I was about to go in.  The meaningful look at the internationally obvious symbol for femininity on the wall adds the point that the positioning of such aids is also important!

I dis-remember the source of my next most important item of information but somewhere among my papers was the advice that I should take Bus No. 100.  The terminus was obvious and I had only to show the driver the street name and number of my destination that I had written in bold on a card - for him to nod briskly, dispassionately at a little self-service ticket dispensing machine.  I sat directly behind the driver secure in his little cubicle, close enough for me to engage his attention at some point to remind him of my destination.  A lady with two small children and what was probably her mother settled her three charges on the seat across the aisle from mine, and sat next to me.  Fair-skinned, dark-haired, black-eyed, thirty-ish her attention was altogether on her family.  This was unfortunate, as I was beginning to realize that regarding the matter of when to get off the bus I would require some advice, and the driver might not appreciate being approached whilst driving.

It was at this point, that I realised that I knew not a single word of whatever language it was the the Czech people spoke.  In the rush and flurry of our departure I had given no thought at all to the vital matter of a phrase book.  Before moving to England, I had treated with irritated unbelief the claims of other nations that the English in their imperial arrogance expected everyone else to learn their language, yet  here I was evidently guilty, though unintentionally so, of showing all the signs.

Apologetically, I asked the good lady whether she spoke English.  She smiled a warm, patient, sympathetic smile, glanced at the address on my card, and said she would tell me when we got there.  Not able even to express my thanks in her language, I had to say it in English, grinning my gratitude.  Now I could concentrate on looking out at the neat, clean outskirts of the city.  It was about twenty minutes journey through the ordered houses, shops, apartment blocks, generously lined with trees, before we slowed to enter the metropolis proper, where traffic intensified, but conducted itself still in a generously ordered manner.  I was beginning to wonder whether our bus proceeded straight to the city centre and how much of a performance it would be to find my way from there when my companion said something, smiled, pointed to a street sign, that amazingly, corresponded to the one written on my card.

Examining my card more closely, her smile widened as she gave me to understand that she, too, with her entourage, would be alighting at the same stop.  When we did, and came to the parting of our ways, the little group waved, smiling cheerfully, and I felt that I had lost good friends.

But my goal was close at hand, a neat house, moderately large, without pretensions, set back from the quiet street, comfortable in the shelter of a few tall trees and some shrubbery.  No sign indicated that it was a guest house and it was with some misgiving that I tapped the shining brass knocker.  There was no immediate response, but as I wondered whether to knock again or open he door, it was opened inwards by a man of middle age, casually attired in shorts and sandals, who regard me silently, his expression neutral.  I handed over Andrew's letter, with confirmation of booking and receipt of payment in advance.

He smiled and looked over my shoulder.  I explained that I had come alone, and he invited me inside.  The room was large, sparsely furnished with a sofa and several easy chairs arranged casually on both sides of two glass-topped tables.  The floor was bare, polished to a comfortable shine.  He showed me to my room apologized that he could not transfer me to a single room.  I was more than happy with the spaciousness and en-suite bathroom with shower.  I was a little surprised by the double bed, and wondered how much information Andrew had supplied in his booking, but as things had turned out there was no cause for embarrassment.

Jewish Heritage Sites in Prague, Bohemia and Moravia
Free Things To Do In Prague

Photo Credit

By guest blogger: Brian Murgatroyd

Prague Trip First Day

It came as a total surprise when Andy asked me, apropos of nothing that had gone before, if I would like to come with him to Prague. He said it as though it was a walk round the block, and I had to change quickly into mental low gear. Prague. I knew very little about it. Like Rome, Athens, Lisbon, Madrid, it was one of those centres of civilization festooned in my mind with all manner of fascinatingly complicate cultural, historical associations that I would some day try to find out more about, sort out their distinguishing threads, how they came to be important, what connected them, and why.

Prague had about it a ring of culture, possibly political intrigue, rather than military glory. Would I like to go to Prague? With the briskly, efficiently intelligent Andrew to deal with all the worrisome aspects of travel - money, documentation, accommodation, and so on - all those aspects which require an agile mind adept at adjusting to foreign circumstances. I could simply walk beside him, imbibing atmosphere, enjoying - perfect.

Everything was ready and waiting. A special offer, week-end flight, B&B included and already booked The airport at Luton never looked so exciting. One doesn't wish to show it, of course. No demonstrating to the general public that the heart is pounding, a song of glory straining to be free. A bit of the old sangfroid called upon not to look too eagerly expectant before these people, seasoned travelers all, judging by the calmness, bordering on apparent boredom, of their demeanour.

The ticket queue moved slowly. We spoke seriously of this and that. Came the moment for Andrew to hand over our passports for the businesslike thump of official approval clearly stamped, the professional smile from the lovely lady in airline uniform, and we would be on our way. But what was this? Why the hesitation, the raised eyebrow, the closer scrutiny of Andy's passport? The lady conferred with a colleague, both ridiculously young. Andy bent forward over the counter in response to something that a beautifully manicured finger was pointing to, on his passport. A Zimbabwe passport and a Schengen visa, but still not allowed in the Czech Republic.

A pause, a few words exchanged. One of my difficulties in dealing with folk behind a sheet of glass is that I cannot hear a word they say,but it was obvious that something was amiss. Andrew, having retrieved both our passports, turned to me, tight-lipped and frowning. There was a hitch. His passport, some vital part of it, did not meet with regulations. Nothing could be done about it. Reflective pause follows. Ah well. At my time of life one has had some experience in dealing with disappointment. Ah well. Pity, but there you are. Easy come, easy go; shall we have some coffee before going home?

But Andrew demurred. "You will have to go over on your own," he said. Shock, horror, negative expostulation. Andy had paid for the whole deal - return flights, accommodation, sundry extra items, and he knew for a fact it was all non-refundable. So at least if I went, it would not be a total loss. I would enjoy it, wouldn't I?

"Here Dad, here's a bit of spending money, have yourself a good time. Prague. Enjoy".

So it happened that I sat in the seat by the aisle, a lady of evidently middle age and indefinite provenance sat next to the window. I was ready to smile and tentatively open conversation if our eyes happened to meet, but she never even glanced my way. Andrew's empty seat yawned between us. The good lady might have thought I was staring at her fixedly for the whole journey. I was only trying to see what I could past her, out of the window.

It was a calm, uneventful flight. The landing was smooth, scarcely a bump when we became earth-bound again. I changed some of Andy's money into local currency and sallied out into the strong, warm sun of the capital of the Czech Republic. Praha.

Image: Prague on the Vivita River Photo Credit
Frommer's Prague Day by Day (Frommer's Day by Day - Pocket)
By Guest Blogger - Brian Murgatroyd

The Start Of A Week-end In Prague

We had a special offer, week-end return to Prague. My son Andrew had, since graduating as a teacher and acquiring two year experience in Cambridge, undergone a species of metamorphosis from reserved and continuously wondering Zimbabwe bush person to a confident citizen of the world at large, ready and eager to experience close up the quality of life in parts of the globe he knew only from print, film and photographs.

I shared his interest, but to a far lesser extent his confidence. My generation, raised in a bush farm in the heart of Africa, to whom the word foreign meant the state just over the border, much like our own, experienced the world through books, magazines, music and imagination. The flight to settle in Britain had been awesome, inspiring, the stuff that dream are made on, equally as inapplicable to normality and therefore occupying the same space in my mind under "interesting but irrelevant".

Now he had bought two tickets to Prague for the week-end and we were approaching Luton airport, with monstrous jetliners parked about as casually as black taxicabs but nowhere near as personal and friendly. I trailed along behind my son, conscious of our role reversal, not wishing it any other way.

International travel is, they told me, very simple. Just follow the signs, obey the instructions, when in doubt ask someone. Not difficult. Anyone can do it.

We read the signs, made for the queue corresponding to our airline tickets and our destination. Things were off to a promising start. Progress was slow but nobody seemed to mind. Two brisk and serious middle-aged men in uniform asked to see our documents, conferred with each other, addressed Andrew, pointing something out in his passport. Low-voiced conversation followed, neutral in tone, regretful but firm. Andrew's papers were out of order. As a resident of El Salvador - where he currently lived and taught at an international school - he required some documentation in addition to his British passport. There was no way around this situation. Rules were rules. We agreed with that. Security was what everyone wanted, top of the list, in the interests of us all. Right. But it meant Andrew couldn't come on the flight. He didn't look like a terrorist, or talk like one. The men in uniform did not ask to search our luggage. They did not exactly smile, but seemed calm and friendly-disposed. I think we all knew Andy was harmless, but rules are rules and security is uppermost, especially in the air.

I prepared to turn and go back, but Andy demurred. The cost of the tickets was not refundable, so why did I not go on alone. Alone? I grew up in the African Bush, for goodness sake. Part of a different era. I can fend for myself in the Bush, walk in it for miles without getting lost; I know the ways of its creatures and feel at home with them. In this technological environment, where everything works by computer, I hardly know which way is up.

But Andrew, like the rest of them, said how simple it is. Follow the signs, etcetera. What well-meaning, kind-hearted folk don't realise, and can't seem to grasp when you tell them, is that the signs are in computer-speak, a foreign tongue with which I am not conversant. And yet I did want to see Prague. As an historic venue, from what I have read, few other cities in Europe cane match it. Also it would cut Andy's losses. A week-end in Prague, board and lodging pre-paid - why not? Just follow the signs. Ask. Mentally re-phrase replies into non-electronic language, and there you are. Simple. Passengers in their thousands travel every day. Nothing to it. What was the worst that could go wrong - no, don't go down that road. Carpe diem. Right. I shook hands with Andrew my son in case I never saw him again, and turned for the queue marked "Passengers Only".


Photo Credit
Cities of the World Prague Czech Republic
The Prague Cemetery
Hitler's Hangman: The Life of Heydrich

Don't Waste Your Youth

Our bedroom window nearest my side of the bed faces the street.  It is not a constantly busy street, but in my opinion the problem is not the cars or even the heavy lorries roaring to and from the building sites where they are constructing new houses in the grassy area where a primary school was demolished some years ago.  Pity about the building project, but that's another gripe entirely.

Up here on the top of the hill would have been a good view over the town westwards. From one window we  can see only the roofs of houses, blocks of flats, shops, city buildings.  Beyond them, though, miles away, softened by distance, a row of low hills gives a certain charm and interest to the skyline. It would be somewhere to sit of an evening, out on the balcony, if there was one, watching the sun sink slowly behind the hills, bringing closure to the day.  Instead, from across the street, where the shops are - two convenience stores, two take-aways, all cheek-by-jowl  -  the boys, the local youths, young men unemployed, with evidently nothing better to do than stand with their backs to the wall, talking loudly, often obscenely, sometimes in argument that ends in fighting, more often in raucous conversation and rowdy laughter, to the accompaniment of a deal of good-natured pushing and shoving.

One wonders if this is all life has to offer them, and if so, where is this country heading?  The lads are well-dressed, not flashy but not shoddy.  Many, probably most, of them smoke.  From the shrill, affected laughter, of some of them it would seem that drugs of one sort or another have common currency.  What does life hold for them?  To what kind of future can they look forward?  There must be opportunities - why do they lack the incentive to make use of them?  Is life too easy for them, or too hard?  Is the Government aware of the situation?  If so, are they doing anything about it?

So I lie on my bed and read.  But the window by my bed faces the street.  So I wear ear plugs and ear-protectors.  And I think of the farm, and the space and the silence of the bushveld in Rhodesia where I had the privilege, the incalculable privilege, of spending my boyhood, youth and early manhood.  Of spending my formative years in the pre-electronic age, when life was local and we found ample enjoyment and fulfillment nonetheless.

Is the condition of these lads one of their choosing?  Jobs, any kind of jobs, we are told, are not easy to find at present.  But the situation was the same before the job market got tough.  Are they really trying to find jobs, something, anything, rather than lounge around in the streets?  I put the question to a twenty-four-year-old who I happen to know hates the job he has been in for the last nine months or so.  "They seem happy enough," he said.  "Someone is paying for them.  Why should they work?"


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Cattle Dipping Day In Rhodesia That Was

"You're a Christian only because the Bible promises that God will make you prosper". Robert said it without rancour, just as an observation.  He leaned toward the cheery little campfire and carefully pushed a mangwe log further into the yellow, dancing flames.  Out in the darkness, toward the kopjies that loomed black against a clear, cool sky that seemed to hiss with starlight a jackal howled its manic observance to the night and was answered by another, faintly, far away.

Barry did not reply immediately.  It had been a good day.  Hot, with an intensity only October in Rhodesia could muster.  Suicide month they called it.  When the long, dry winter months were over but there were as yet only a very few, secret signs of life beginning to stir in the Bush and most of the trees stood stark and leafless as the sun gathered heat by the day and leaped roaring into the waiting sky at dawn.

The workers had rounded up a good count of the free-grazing beef here in No. 1 camp.  Not a full count, of course, but fifteen short, of a total herd of sixty-seven head, wasn't bad.  It had taken nearly two hours to drive the herd slowly, carefully, through the dip-tank, in almost orderly procession.  Some beasts paused cautiously at the jump-off step before making the reluctant plunge into the dark, evil-smelling liquid.  Others leaped spectacularly as far out as they could, disappearing entirely underwater before surfacing, wild-eyed and snorting spray, horns agleam as they struck out for steps leading out into the draining race of the dip.

The dip-tank was built to a width intended to accommodate only one beast, so if an energetic leaper followed a reluctant slitherer, there could be a resulting confusion of struggling bodies which required the services of the man with the long forked pole on the watch halfway along to sort out, assisting the weaker of the two to avoid it being held underwater.  It was this man's task also to control the pace at which the animals entered the dip tank. A rush of too many at one time could result in some being pushed under, ingesting the poisonous liquid, even drowning.

In the early days, two cattlemen inside the entry track urged the animals forward by shouts, shrill blood-curdling whistling and, when necessary, the application of long, thin sticks to the backs of those they could reach, to encourage a forward surge that would push the dallying cause of congestion off the ledge into the liquid.  In later years, the cattlemen were encouraged to adopt, as far as possible, a more calm approach, taking fewer beasts at a time forward to the jumping-off point, keeping the use of their long switches to a minimum.

Arsenical cattle dips : methods of preparation and direction for use

Return To The Farm

In retrospect, it all seems so silly. It was what we were used to and all that, and I had other feelings about it even then that I should have acted on, and I'm sorry now that I didn't. In fact I did, up to a point. Further than most others, I'd say. But Simon was in a class of his own, and now it seems weird, and silly, but weird as well.

The whole thing seemed unreal. Sort of as though it wasn't happening. Couldn't really be happening. This is not the way things happened. Yet one just got carried along, by the circumstances. The farm was still there. three hundred and more miles away, but still ours. Still as it was. Not really at all as it was, of course.

But the house, the cattle, the windmill by the old house, up by the fowl runs, that creaked at night when the wind changed and the wheel swung slowly to face it. But somehow, everything was different. Circumstances so changed. Everything different. It was the difference that loomed like a poisonous fog in our lives.

We had moved. Can't recall the stay properly any more, but we had taken jobs in a city three hundred miles away. Sally was a teacher, a good one, a teacher who got things done, got results, even when it caused a ripple or three among some of the other members of staff. But we seem to have drifted from one place to another, from what might have seemed fortuitous circumstances to fortuitous circumstance. Being a praying family, we called it being led by the Lord. Nor have I changed my mind about that. Little driblets of memory and anecdote come through now and then in casual conversation, from the older four of our six children, the ones who were left behind when we came overseas, that through new light on unexpected angles that I was not aware of at the time - or didn't attach as much importance to as I should have. We just reacted to circumstances as they arose, made the decisions that seemed best.

Even with the rationality of hindsight, one wonders how it could have been done differently. So at this particular juncture I tendered my resignation, and we set ourselves to go back to the farm.

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Musings Of An Ex-Rhodesian - What About The King

One might think, perhaps, that eighteen years would be time enough to develop a sense of identity.  After all, we had never been anything other than British.  In front of the Post Office, Police Station, District Commissioners Office, Customs Office and Immigration Office, at the railway station and both the primary and secondary schools, it was the Union Jack that stirred languidly in the tropical sun.  On occasions of civil solemnity it was 'God save our Gracious King' that was sung, low, slow and meaningful.  Memories from more than half a century ago remain vivid.  Of the dignitaries of our little Rhodesian border town standing stiffly, a little awkwardly to attention as they sang, and as a boy I wondered at the power of a monarch so far distant.

Our money bore his likeness, his head was printed on our postage stamps.  He was our sovereign leader, he was the King.  The very word resonated with a power and pride that evidently all the adults felt and was ingrained in us from birth.

This little bit of Africa, with other bits adjoining and scattered over the continent, bringing civilization, peace and progress to the continent, was under the  control of that one man, the king, whose power extended over much of the world beyond Africa too.  And over it all, the king, the king, was potentate.  Primarily he was the great benefactor, bringing blessings in a varied multitude of ways, to tribes and nations all over the globe.  And because there were always those who made trouble, the king was always the one to keep the peace, providing the security we felt, being British and benefactors to the world and all who wished to live in peace to make the best they could out of life.  It never occurred to us that anyone would want it any other way.

This put a burden of tremendous responsibility on our King, but being King, he commended, and deserved, the loyalty, effort and energy of all decent, right-minded people to direct the running of the world in the best way possible.

So we took off our hats and stood to attention, proud and wondering and ready to follow our elders to do whatever was necessary, directed by our king.  It was a feeling we inherited from our earliest childhood.  It stirred the blood and we felt that it was good; good for our country, good for everybody. So our hearts were in it when we said, and sang and shouted: "Long Live the King!"

1932 CANADA "King George V" 3 Cents (Deep Red) Stamp (#197)