Marine iguanas
trail home through volcanic ash.
Galapagos dusk.
One century old,
a tortoise views our approach:
footsteps of Darwin.
© Copyright Dr Tusitala 2007
Sunday, October 21, 2007
Saturday, October 20, 2007
Drug Running in Ecuador
‘Dr Tusitala?’
Somewhat sleepily, I nodded in acknowledgement.
Up until that point, I had been minding my own business by happily snoozing in a deep armchair in the Executive Lounge of Guayaquil International Airport. The flight to Amsterdam was delayed by one hour, so my wife and I had two hours to sample Ecuadorian Business Class hospitality. In effect, that meant we were allowed as much coffee as we could drink. However, being South America, tea was nowhere to be found; which is purgatory when you are English, dislike coffee and remain very partial to the odd drop of Earl Grey. However, at least the armchairs were comfortable – at least, that is, until the air hostess from KLM interrupted my dreams.
‘I’m sorry to disturb you, but Security would like you to open your luggage. Would you mind coming with me please?’
Reassuring my wife that I would be back soon, I accompanied the hostess out into the main waiting area, through the security desk (ominously surrendering my boarding card in the process) and down various corridors until we reached the tarmac, airside.
‘I wonder what has excited them?’ I commented to my silent escort.
‘It is just routine,’ she replied, in a non-committal sort of way.
The process may be routine for her, but in years of travelling the world, it was knew to me.
‘Perhaps my alarm clock has gone off?’ I offered, as an attempt to lighten the atmosphere. It didn’t work.
Beneath the airport main terminal was an open fronted, spartan and somewhat foreboding, grey concrete, service area. A long trestle table had been erected along one-side, behind which stood three uniformed security officers. Another two guards stood on my side. All five had belts bristling with firearms, long truncheons, cufflinks and a variety of other official-looking paraphernalia. I didn’t need to know whether they spoke English. Their adornments translated as “don’t mess with me” in any language. On the trestle table was a familiar silver coloured, Samsonite suitcase. One of two accompanying us on that trip.
Approaching the table, I nodded to the nearest guard, who remained silently impassive whilst I unlocked the suitcase. As I did so, another guard walked up behind me and requested my passport. Handing it over, I watched as he flipped through the pages, whilst a colleague started to unpack the contents of my case.
His approach was slow and methodical.
Starting with the contents of the lid, he unfolded clothing item by item. A model of a giant tortoise (from the Galapagos Islands – well, I thought it would look good on my desk back at home) was unwrapped from its safe-haven amidst the dirty laundry, visually inspected, sniffed (interesting) and then carefully re-wrapped. A similar procedure was then applied to every other object within the lid of the case until, seemingly satisfied, he turned his attention to the main storage area.
Beginning to feel a little more relaxed about the proceedings, I continued to watch as he was equally meticulous with the second half of the examination. Step by step, my washbag was opened, contents inspected (and sniffed), before being replaced from whence it had come. This was followed by my wife’s make-up bag, the portable hairdryer, a small souvenir bag from the outward flight with KLM, and so on.
It was as the officer was sniffing tubes of suntan lotion, after-sun lotion and insect repellent that I glanced at the final, yet to be inspected, corner of my suitcase, spotted the black Vidal Sassoon case, and suddenly realised that matters were about to get a little more exciting. Why couldn’t they have chosen to inspect my other suitcase? I asked myself.
My brother's comments prior to our departure from the U.K. came back to me:
'There are only two things which come out of Ecuador: drugs and Panama hats.'
He was wrong actually, as they are also major exporters of bananas. However, such erudite knowledge was not going to assist my present quandry.
Scenes from the 1970s film, Midnight Express, wherein a young English chap was imprisoned in a squalid Turkish jail, flashed through my mind. Would I be able to persuade the authorities of my innocence? Would they allow me to pass a message to my wife, or would she be forced to board the plane not knowing of my fate? Would the Ecuadorian jails be any better than those in Turkey?
At this stage, I ought to offer an explanation.
Being a physician, it is my habit to carry a small selection of medicines on most trips abroad, especially when journeying to places where western European standards of medical practice might not be easily accessible. Over the years, the number of medications thought to be of necessity, has expanded with experience. I now carry a supply of paracetamol, two or three different antibiotics (suitable for chest infections, cystitis and the dreaded traveller’s diarrhoea), antacids, eye ointment, antihistamines, Imodium, Dioralyte powders, anti-sickness tablets, hydrocortisone cream, antibiotic cream, suppositories, and so on - you name it, I can treat it. All those various white pills, creams and lotions pack very neatly, without their original boxes, into the black Vidal Sassoon case. However, without their original boxes, I suppose it is not quite so apparent, except perhaps to the trained medical eye, that they are relatively innocuous and not the latest designer drug destined for export from South America to Amsterdam.
Wondering whether my membership card for the Royal College of General Practitioners would be accepted as proof that I was not operating an opium syndicate (and only then realising that the card was in my wallet, safely in the possession of my wife back upstairs in the less intimidating surroundings of the Executive Lounge), I watched the officer fold back the last few items of clothing adjacent to the Vidal Sassoon case. I hardly dared breath whilst I waited for the inevitable.
‘Si.’
He waved his hand over the suitcase. For a moment, I was non-plussed.
‘Si,’ he repeated, making a turning movement with his hand. I proffered my keys and he nodded.
Trying hard not to look relieved nor to rush the task in hand, I closed and relocked the suitcase, and then watched as it was loaded back onto a luggage trolley.
‘Follow me back upstairs please,’ said the now smiling KLM hostess.
I didn’t need any further bidding.
Ten minutes later I was reunited with my boarding pass and made my way back to the Executive Lounge.
‘Everything, alright?’ my wife enquired.
‘Yes, no problems,’ I replied. ‘They minutely opened and inspected everything in the suitcase apart from the medical kit.’
Her look of astonishment said it all.
‘You are joking?’
‘No,’ I responded. ‘I couldn’t quite believe it myself. The one bag he would really have got excited about and he ignored it! Strange how some things happen.’
I placed my jacket over the back of the armchair, shrugged and grinned.
‘Do you fancy a cup of coffee?’
Somewhat sleepily, I nodded in acknowledgement.
Up until that point, I had been minding my own business by happily snoozing in a deep armchair in the Executive Lounge of Guayaquil International Airport. The flight to Amsterdam was delayed by one hour, so my wife and I had two hours to sample Ecuadorian Business Class hospitality. In effect, that meant we were allowed as much coffee as we could drink. However, being South America, tea was nowhere to be found; which is purgatory when you are English, dislike coffee and remain very partial to the odd drop of Earl Grey. However, at least the armchairs were comfortable – at least, that is, until the air hostess from KLM interrupted my dreams.
‘I’m sorry to disturb you, but Security would like you to open your luggage. Would you mind coming with me please?’
Reassuring my wife that I would be back soon, I accompanied the hostess out into the main waiting area, through the security desk (ominously surrendering my boarding card in the process) and down various corridors until we reached the tarmac, airside.
‘I wonder what has excited them?’ I commented to my silent escort.
‘It is just routine,’ she replied, in a non-committal sort of way.
The process may be routine for her, but in years of travelling the world, it was knew to me.
‘Perhaps my alarm clock has gone off?’ I offered, as an attempt to lighten the atmosphere. It didn’t work.
Beneath the airport main terminal was an open fronted, spartan and somewhat foreboding, grey concrete, service area. A long trestle table had been erected along one-side, behind which stood three uniformed security officers. Another two guards stood on my side. All five had belts bristling with firearms, long truncheons, cufflinks and a variety of other official-looking paraphernalia. I didn’t need to know whether they spoke English. Their adornments translated as “don’t mess with me” in any language. On the trestle table was a familiar silver coloured, Samsonite suitcase. One of two accompanying us on that trip.
Approaching the table, I nodded to the nearest guard, who remained silently impassive whilst I unlocked the suitcase. As I did so, another guard walked up behind me and requested my passport. Handing it over, I watched as he flipped through the pages, whilst a colleague started to unpack the contents of my case.
His approach was slow and methodical.
Starting with the contents of the lid, he unfolded clothing item by item. A model of a giant tortoise (from the Galapagos Islands – well, I thought it would look good on my desk back at home) was unwrapped from its safe-haven amidst the dirty laundry, visually inspected, sniffed (interesting) and then carefully re-wrapped. A similar procedure was then applied to every other object within the lid of the case until, seemingly satisfied, he turned his attention to the main storage area.
Beginning to feel a little more relaxed about the proceedings, I continued to watch as he was equally meticulous with the second half of the examination. Step by step, my washbag was opened, contents inspected (and sniffed), before being replaced from whence it had come. This was followed by my wife’s make-up bag, the portable hairdryer, a small souvenir bag from the outward flight with KLM, and so on.
It was as the officer was sniffing tubes of suntan lotion, after-sun lotion and insect repellent that I glanced at the final, yet to be inspected, corner of my suitcase, spotted the black Vidal Sassoon case, and suddenly realised that matters were about to get a little more exciting. Why couldn’t they have chosen to inspect my other suitcase? I asked myself.
My brother's comments prior to our departure from the U.K. came back to me:
'There are only two things which come out of Ecuador: drugs and Panama hats.'
He was wrong actually, as they are also major exporters of bananas. However, such erudite knowledge was not going to assist my present quandry.
Scenes from the 1970s film, Midnight Express, wherein a young English chap was imprisoned in a squalid Turkish jail, flashed through my mind. Would I be able to persuade the authorities of my innocence? Would they allow me to pass a message to my wife, or would she be forced to board the plane not knowing of my fate? Would the Ecuadorian jails be any better than those in Turkey?
At this stage, I ought to offer an explanation.
Being a physician, it is my habit to carry a small selection of medicines on most trips abroad, especially when journeying to places where western European standards of medical practice might not be easily accessible. Over the years, the number of medications thought to be of necessity, has expanded with experience. I now carry a supply of paracetamol, two or three different antibiotics (suitable for chest infections, cystitis and the dreaded traveller’s diarrhoea), antacids, eye ointment, antihistamines, Imodium, Dioralyte powders, anti-sickness tablets, hydrocortisone cream, antibiotic cream, suppositories, and so on - you name it, I can treat it. All those various white pills, creams and lotions pack very neatly, without their original boxes, into the black Vidal Sassoon case. However, without their original boxes, I suppose it is not quite so apparent, except perhaps to the trained medical eye, that they are relatively innocuous and not the latest designer drug destined for export from South America to Amsterdam.
Wondering whether my membership card for the Royal College of General Practitioners would be accepted as proof that I was not operating an opium syndicate (and only then realising that the card was in my wallet, safely in the possession of my wife back upstairs in the less intimidating surroundings of the Executive Lounge), I watched the officer fold back the last few items of clothing adjacent to the Vidal Sassoon case. I hardly dared breath whilst I waited for the inevitable.
‘Si.’
He waved his hand over the suitcase. For a moment, I was non-plussed.
‘Si,’ he repeated, making a turning movement with his hand. I proffered my keys and he nodded.
Trying hard not to look relieved nor to rush the task in hand, I closed and relocked the suitcase, and then watched as it was loaded back onto a luggage trolley.
‘Follow me back upstairs please,’ said the now smiling KLM hostess.
I didn’t need any further bidding.
Ten minutes later I was reunited with my boarding pass and made my way back to the Executive Lounge.
‘Everything, alright?’ my wife enquired.
‘Yes, no problems,’ I replied. ‘They minutely opened and inspected everything in the suitcase apart from the medical kit.’
Her look of astonishment said it all.
‘You are joking?’
‘No,’ I responded. ‘I couldn’t quite believe it myself. The one bag he would really have got excited about and he ignored it! Strange how some things happen.’
I placed my jacket over the back of the armchair, shrugged and grinned.
‘Do you fancy a cup of coffee?’
Thursday, September 27, 2007
A Matter of Perspective
Metropolitan Police figures have recently shown that 'foreigners commit one crime in five in London' (Sunday Telegraph, Sept 23rd). Presumably, the phrasing of such statistics is meant to alarm us into some form of negative response towards the increasing immigrant population. However, presented from the opposite side, we discover that four crimes in five in London must therefore be committed by people whom we would consider our kinsmen by birth.
Surely the latter statistic is far more worrying and worthy of greater contemplation?
Surely the latter statistic is far more worrying and worthy of greater contemplation?
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
On the day Gordon Brown became Prime Minister
The following (using quotes from Gordon Brown) is a poem I wrote:
On the day Gordon Brown became Prime Minister
‘I have heard the need for change.
…now let the work of change begin.’
Footage of journeys along The Mall;
political metamorphosis by Royal Assent.
Traditional photo-shoot at number 10
of this nation’s primary (Scottish) gent.
‘I remember words…which matter a great deal today:
“I will try my utmost”.’
Forgive a somewhat jaded view
from a veteran of decades past.
Successive governments have promised as much;
will your offerings be the ones to last?
‘I will build a government that uses all the talents.’
Are you capable of bringing stability?
Will your changes be climacteric?
Will patients see improvements they seek?
Are your sound-bites empty rhetoric?
(c) Copyright Dr Tusitala 2007
On the day Gordon Brown became Prime Minister
‘I have heard the need for change.
…now let the work of change begin.’
Footage of journeys along The Mall;
political metamorphosis by Royal Assent.
Traditional photo-shoot at number 10
of this nation’s primary (Scottish) gent.
‘I remember words…which matter a great deal today:
“I will try my utmost”.’
Forgive a somewhat jaded view
from a veteran of decades past.
Successive governments have promised as much;
will your offerings be the ones to last?
‘I will build a government that uses all the talents.’
Are you capable of bringing stability?
Will your changes be climacteric?
Will patients see improvements they seek?
Are your sound-bites empty rhetoric?
(c) Copyright Dr Tusitala 2007
Saturday, August 18, 2007
Lord Deedes – In Memoriam
I awoke this morning to the news that Lord Deedes has died.
As I read the headlines, I instantly felt very sad and quite dejected. It is interesting how someone who I have never met can have such an influence over me. However, Lord Deedes, or Bill Deedes as he preferred to be known, was such a person. Indeed, I am sure that I am not the only one he has anonymously influenced over many years.
A charismatic man, he led life to the full, right up to his death at the age of 94 years.It would not be appropriate for me to try and describe the details of his fulfilled existence. Instead, I would refer my reader to the article in Wikipedia: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bill_Deedes, which makes for most interesting study.
My own experience of Lord Deedes has largely been through the columns of The Daily Telegraph, where he wrote a regular column (as well as being a past editor of the paper). His articles were always of great interest, well-written and thought-provoking, even if one did not always agree with his personal views.
Like many, I was impressed with how he continued to work despite his significant age. Indeed, it was he who first led me to the poet, A. E. Housman and his poem, The Shropshire Lad. I can remember reading an article about Bill Deedes from a few years ago in which he cited a few lines from this poem and stated how he used them as his personal mantra. The particular lines are:
Up, lad: when the journey's over
There'll be time enough to sleep.
I confess to have taken those lines to heart and have since used them on many an occasion when I find myself tempted to laze in the mornings.
Bill Deedes will have been an inspiration to many others, probably throughout the English speaking world. No doubt they, like me, will be feeling his loss today.
Well, Lord Deedes, your long and colourful journey is finally over. Thank you for what you offered to so many. You have certainly earned your sleep.
As I read the headlines, I instantly felt very sad and quite dejected. It is interesting how someone who I have never met can have such an influence over me. However, Lord Deedes, or Bill Deedes as he preferred to be known, was such a person. Indeed, I am sure that I am not the only one he has anonymously influenced over many years.
A charismatic man, he led life to the full, right up to his death at the age of 94 years.It would not be appropriate for me to try and describe the details of his fulfilled existence. Instead, I would refer my reader to the article in Wikipedia: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bill_Deedes, which makes for most interesting study.
My own experience of Lord Deedes has largely been through the columns of The Daily Telegraph, where he wrote a regular column (as well as being a past editor of the paper). His articles were always of great interest, well-written and thought-provoking, even if one did not always agree with his personal views.
Like many, I was impressed with how he continued to work despite his significant age. Indeed, it was he who first led me to the poet, A. E. Housman and his poem, The Shropshire Lad. I can remember reading an article about Bill Deedes from a few years ago in which he cited a few lines from this poem and stated how he used them as his personal mantra. The particular lines are:
Up, lad: when the journey's over
There'll be time enough to sleep.
I confess to have taken those lines to heart and have since used them on many an occasion when I find myself tempted to laze in the mornings.
Bill Deedes will have been an inspiration to many others, probably throughout the English speaking world. No doubt they, like me, will be feeling his loss today.
Well, Lord Deedes, your long and colourful journey is finally over. Thank you for what you offered to so many. You have certainly earned your sleep.
A Thrust too Far
The middle aged man shifted uncomfortably in his seat whilst summoning the courage to say why he had booked the appointment.
‘It’s a little embarrassing, doctor.’
I encouraged him to continue.
‘Well, I have this problem with reaching orgasm. It takes so long to get there -although my wife thinks it’s wonderful.’
‘So, why is it a problem?’ I asked, slightly puzzled. 'I know many men would be pleased to have such powers of control.'
The reply left me speechless.
‘I know, Doc. It's just that two hours is a long time to go without a cigarette.'
‘It’s a little embarrassing, doctor.’
I encouraged him to continue.
‘Well, I have this problem with reaching orgasm. It takes so long to get there -although my wife thinks it’s wonderful.’
‘So, why is it a problem?’ I asked, slightly puzzled. 'I know many men would be pleased to have such powers of control.'
The reply left me speechless.
‘I know, Doc. It's just that two hours is a long time to go without a cigarette.'
Wednesday, August 15, 2007
Thought for the Day
There's so much to do and so much to give today...
In my haste I missed
what was destined for me.
Youssou N'Dour, So Many Men, 2002
In my haste I missed
what was destined for me.
Youssou N'Dour, So Many Men, 2002
Sunday, August 12, 2007
Youssou N’Dour
As part of my current studies, I have just discovered the poet, singer and songwriter, Youssou N’Dour.
My introduction to him was by way of a song he wrote in 2002, entitled So Many Men. The reaction the lyrics and music had on me was immediate, leaving me wondering how I have missed knowing about him for so many years!
Youssou N’Dour was born in 1959 in Dakar, Senegal. He describes himself as a ‘modern griot’. A griot or jali (in the Wolof language of the Senegalese) is a West African poet or wandering musician.
N’Dour’s music is a wonderful mixture of traditional Senegalese dance rhythms, saxophone solos, guitar melodies, percussion, lyrics in English, French and Wolof, and Sufi-inspired Muslim religious chant. He draws on influences as wide ranging as samba, jazz, soul and hip-hop. With his versatile tenor voice, the effect is both stunning and inspiring.
(For those, like me, who are not instantly familiar with Sufism, according to Wikipedia it is a mystic tradition within Islam, encompassing a diverse range of beliefs and practices dedicated to divine love and the cultivation of the heart.)
Understandably, the artist is a leading political light in Africa, using his music to address several social and political issues. These have ranged from the release of Nelson Mandela, support for Amnesty International, performing in the Live 8 concerts and staring as the African-British abolitionist, Olaudah Equiano, in the film Amazing Grace, which chronicles the efforts of William Wilberforce to end slavery in the British Empire.
I cannot but recommend this accomplished poet and musician to you. Starting with the song So Many Men would, I think, be as fine a way as any to approach his music. However, he has many albums to go at – many of which are, courtesy of Amazon, already en route to my door.
My introduction to him was by way of a song he wrote in 2002, entitled So Many Men. The reaction the lyrics and music had on me was immediate, leaving me wondering how I have missed knowing about him for so many years!
Youssou N’Dour was born in 1959 in Dakar, Senegal. He describes himself as a ‘modern griot’. A griot or jali (in the Wolof language of the Senegalese) is a West African poet or wandering musician.
N’Dour’s music is a wonderful mixture of traditional Senegalese dance rhythms, saxophone solos, guitar melodies, percussion, lyrics in English, French and Wolof, and Sufi-inspired Muslim religious chant. He draws on influences as wide ranging as samba, jazz, soul and hip-hop. With his versatile tenor voice, the effect is both stunning and inspiring.
(For those, like me, who are not instantly familiar with Sufism, according to Wikipedia it is a mystic tradition within Islam, encompassing a diverse range of beliefs and practices dedicated to divine love and the cultivation of the heart.)
Understandably, the artist is a leading political light in Africa, using his music to address several social and political issues. These have ranged from the release of Nelson Mandela, support for Amnesty International, performing in the Live 8 concerts and staring as the African-British abolitionist, Olaudah Equiano, in the film Amazing Grace, which chronicles the efforts of William Wilberforce to end slavery in the British Empire.
I cannot but recommend this accomplished poet and musician to you. Starting with the song So Many Men would, I think, be as fine a way as any to approach his music. However, he has many albums to go at – many of which are, courtesy of Amazon, already en route to my door.
Sunday, July 22, 2007
Russian Affairs
According to the press reports this week, Russia feels that anti-terrorism co-operation with the United Kingdom is now impossible.
Whilst not wishing to appear too cynical, was Russia "co-operating" when it allowed an assassination, utilising a radioactive substance, in a public restaurant in the heart of London?
If so, the Russian President has a strange understanding of the meaning of the term "anti-terrorism".
Whilst not wishing to appear too cynical, was Russia "co-operating" when it allowed an assassination, utilising a radioactive substance, in a public restaurant in the heart of London?
If so, the Russian President has a strange understanding of the meaning of the term "anti-terrorism".
Thursday, July 19, 2007
Place Name of the Week Award
Whilst driving along the B6318 in Northumberland (en route to visit Housteads Fort on Hadrian's Wall)I was delighted to drive through a hamlet by the delightful name of Twice Brewed.
Imagine my even greater delight when I found that the next hamlet is called Once Brewed!
I have absolutely no idea how they came by their names (apart from the obvious assumption that they have at some stage been connected with brewing). However, if anyone can enlighten me, please do leave a comment.
Imagine my even greater delight when I found that the next hamlet is called Once Brewed!
I have absolutely no idea how they came by their names (apart from the obvious assumption that they have at some stage been connected with brewing). However, if anyone can enlighten me, please do leave a comment.
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
Thought for the Day
The average adult has 100 billion brain cells.
We lose 85,000 of these every day.
If all our brain cells were laid end-to-end the line would be 200 million miles long (from here to the sun and back).
We lose 85,000 of these every day.
If all our brain cells were laid end-to-end the line would be 200 million miles long (from here to the sun and back).
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