Religion means many different things to many different people. For some it means an entire philosophy for living; others call upon it as a crutch at times of need. A large proportion of society professes to acknowledge no religion at all; they draw strength from their secular avocations.
William Ralph Inge (1860 – 1954), writing in Idea of Progress (1920):
‘To become a popular religion, it is only necessary for a superstition to enslave a philosophy.’
Perhaps he was right. If that be so, then I personally consider the philosophy underlining Christianity to be a very reasonable way of guiding the conduct of one’s life. However, I then ask myself, can a philosophy on its own cause a spontaneous uplifting of the spirit? Can a philosophy recharge drained emotional batteries? Can a philosophy bring renewed strength when mind and body are failing? There may be some who would answer these questions in the affirmative, though I am not convinced.
I have held a strong faith for the major part of my teenage and adult life. It was not imposed upon me by my parents. It was something I was drawn to by personal desire. Over the years, the influence of religion on my life has varied, but never disappeared. For a while I was strongly drawn towards the priesthood and would probably have continued down that path had it not been for the commencement of a life-changing, personal relationship. The irony is that the relationship which so magically reformed my personal life (and continues to do so) was also contrary to the teachings of my faith. The values of the relationship were (and are) sound; it was just that my religion did not allow one to get it wrong first time round. So the idea of ordination was set aside and, for a while, I lost the spiritual magic I had once felt on entering a church, on picking up the Bible, on gazing at a cross, and so forth. And that troubled me because I was aware of an emptiness, despite the glorious warmth, love and passion of my new relationship. Something was missing.
Time went by and gradually, for a variety of reasons and in ways which were at times imperceptible, my faith was returned without me trying to restore it. I even questioned its validity. It stood the tests I imposed and has under-shored my life ever since, often without me thinking about it. Just as, I suppose, we do not on a daily basis consider the presence of the foundations of our houses; we just take it for granted that they are there doing the job of supporting the rest of the building.
So what makes me so sure that my faith is genuine and not just a reassuring “club membership” where I can find like-minded people? The answer is in happenings such as that which occurred a few Sundays ago.
It was the occasion of my parent’s Golden Wedding Anniversary and we had taken them back to Bromley in Kent, where they had lived as children and subsequently married. On the Sunday, we visited the church where their wedding had taken place, namely, Christ Church in Highland Road, Bromley.
The church has undergone many alterations over the past fifty years, and continues to have a thriving congregation. However, it is no longer the traditional Anglican Church that my parents knew. It has been re-born as an evangelical church. The altar is now in the north, to allow for a re-arrangement of the seating and facilitate the building of a three-sided gallery to accommodate the enlarged congregation. The traditional prayer books are no longer used and the hymns are modern. There is even a gospel choir and band.
For someone who has always appreciated the litany and proceedings of ‘high church’, such a setting might be daunting. However, I sat there and, with an open mind, took in my surroundings. Almost immediately, I sensed something special was taking place in that building. There was something uplifting about it; something which caused an inward excitement, that elevated the emotions and gave strength to a tired mind; something that I had not so readily felt for a very long time.
It was then that my mother whispered a few words which, to her, were a ‘by the by’ but for me were illuminating.
‘Of course, this is also where you were christened.’
Her words entered my ears and, like an electric current, surged through my mind, thumped my heart and fizzled into my limbs. For a moment I felt slightly dizzy as realisation dawned. THIS was where it had all started for me. It was in this very building that I had been first received into the house of God. It was here that I had crossed the starting line on a journey which was to offer all sorts of challenges; challenges which I would rise to and obstacles which I would overcome. For it was from here that I took with me the strength of a living Christ. I gazed towards the west-end of the church to where the old font would once have stood. That is where it all began. And no wonder I felt so positive about the place.
I do not believe that a philosophy on its own has the power to induce the significant and spontaneous surge of emotion and energy I felt whilst I sat in that church. I have no doubt that my faith is true and substantial. I may not be able to rationalise it, but whoever said that God is rational?
Karl Marx wrote in A Contribution to the critique of Hegel’s Philosophy of Right, in 1843:
‘Religion...is the opium of the people.’
Well, if he was right, then I confess to being a hardened addict – and am proud to be so.
Sunday, February 17, 2008
Sunday, February 10, 2008
Postcard from the Yorkshire Dales (10)
Saturday, 9th February 2008
A delightful meal and good bottle of Barolo last evening at the award winning Italian restaurant, La Locanda, in Gisburn, Lancashire, were in need of being removed from the waistline. With a cloudless sky and temperatures approaching a remarkable 14°C, the stage was set for another walk.
Staying within Malhamdale, our route began in the village of Airton, wandered across pastureland to Kirkby Malham and then on to Hanlith, before joining the River Ayre for the journey back to Airton.
Although only 4¼ miles, the walk was full of interest, not least because of the magnificent views afforded by the clear skies. Rye Loaf Hill, Pikedaw, Fountains Fell, Malham Cove, Malham Moor, Gordale Scar, Weets Top and Hanlith Moor provided the scenery in front of us, whilst behind stood the imposing Pendle Hill. Contrary to the surrounding areas, a light mist circled around the base of Pendle Hill, giving it an air of mystery quite in keeping with the folklore of witches thereabouts.
The route from Airton soon intersected the historic Kirk Gait: an ancient path, trodden by the inhabitants of Otterburn each Sunday as their quickest way of covering the three miles to church. The pastureland was boggy in places and I marvelled at the thought of those devout people tackling this walk in all weathers; the women no doubt in long skirts and everyone without the benefit of the modern waterproof walking boots we take for granted.
Although spring was tentatively making its presence known, with snowdrops in abundance, daffodils making their first appearance, and buds starting to form on the surrounding trees, the scene was still a reflection of the starkness of winter. The bare branches of the trees and bushes, broken only by an occasional splash of vivid red from small clumps of surviving hawthorn berries, provided a skeletal foreground to the wonderful variety of greens and yellows of the pastures of the lowlands and hillsides. The novice artist in me started to imagine mixing the various paints from my palette as, in my mind’s eye, I painted a watercolour of the scene before me.
The age of these small hamlets is advertised by the dates on the lintels of several properties, giving a sense of timelessness to the environs. In Kirkby Malham, a cottage with mullioned windows had a date stone from 1637, whilst in Hanlith, Hanlith Hall dates from 1668, a cottage in Airton bears the date 1696, and the Friends’ Meeting House in Airton was built in 1700. The path re-entering Airton runs between the River Ayre and an old mill-race, once belonging to an old cotton mill (now converted into flats).
As one passes through all these places, a real sense of the past is a constant companion. With the surrounding countryside, there is a continuous reminder that we are mere visitors to this wonderful landscape, which has witnessed centuries of change imposed onto the backdrop of its timeless presence. It is a salutary reminder of our own impermanence and relative insignificance.
A delightful meal and good bottle of Barolo last evening at the award winning Italian restaurant, La Locanda, in Gisburn, Lancashire, were in need of being removed from the waistline. With a cloudless sky and temperatures approaching a remarkable 14°C, the stage was set for another walk.
Staying within Malhamdale, our route began in the village of Airton, wandered across pastureland to Kirkby Malham and then on to Hanlith, before joining the River Ayre for the journey back to Airton.
Although only 4¼ miles, the walk was full of interest, not least because of the magnificent views afforded by the clear skies. Rye Loaf Hill, Pikedaw, Fountains Fell, Malham Cove, Malham Moor, Gordale Scar, Weets Top and Hanlith Moor provided the scenery in front of us, whilst behind stood the imposing Pendle Hill. Contrary to the surrounding areas, a light mist circled around the base of Pendle Hill, giving it an air of mystery quite in keeping with the folklore of witches thereabouts.
The route from Airton soon intersected the historic Kirk Gait: an ancient path, trodden by the inhabitants of Otterburn each Sunday as their quickest way of covering the three miles to church. The pastureland was boggy in places and I marvelled at the thought of those devout people tackling this walk in all weathers; the women no doubt in long skirts and everyone without the benefit of the modern waterproof walking boots we take for granted.
Although spring was tentatively making its presence known, with snowdrops in abundance, daffodils making their first appearance, and buds starting to form on the surrounding trees, the scene was still a reflection of the starkness of winter. The bare branches of the trees and bushes, broken only by an occasional splash of vivid red from small clumps of surviving hawthorn berries, provided a skeletal foreground to the wonderful variety of greens and yellows of the pastures of the lowlands and hillsides. The novice artist in me started to imagine mixing the various paints from my palette as, in my mind’s eye, I painted a watercolour of the scene before me.
The age of these small hamlets is advertised by the dates on the lintels of several properties, giving a sense of timelessness to the environs. In Kirkby Malham, a cottage with mullioned windows had a date stone from 1637, whilst in Hanlith, Hanlith Hall dates from 1668, a cottage in Airton bears the date 1696, and the Friends’ Meeting House in Airton was built in 1700. The path re-entering Airton runs between the River Ayre and an old mill-race, once belonging to an old cotton mill (now converted into flats).
As one passes through all these places, a real sense of the past is a constant companion. With the surrounding countryside, there is a continuous reminder that we are mere visitors to this wonderful landscape, which has witnessed centuries of change imposed onto the backdrop of its timeless presence. It is a salutary reminder of our own impermanence and relative insignificance.
Postcard from the Yorkshire Dales (9)
Friday, 8th February 2008
It has been well over a year since my last Postcard from the Yorkshire Dales. This beautiful early-spring weekend deserves the production of another.
The ability to escape from the rigors of the surgery on Thursday afternoon last week, allowed my wife and I to arrive in the Dales that same evening, with the promise of a long weekend ahead. With the dawning of Friday, the promise became reality with weather to match our enthusiasm for shaking out the walking boots.
The village of Gargrave was our starting point. From there, the seven-mile walk took us alongside the River Aire for a short distance, before climbing up to where the Pennine Way awaited. The latter served as the route to East Marton, from where the Leeds-Liverpool canal’s towpath became our course back to Gargrave.
Just prior to joining the Pennine Way, the track took in a bridge over a railway line. The line nestles within a deep cutting, the two sets of rails disappearing into the curves of the hills in both directions. High above, the rolling dales were pre-eminent. Standing on the bridge and gazing down at the line, I couldn’t help but be impressed by the mammoth undertaking that the fathers of the early railways set their minds upon, when the concept of a railway was first envisaged. The task of taming a corridor through this rugged countryside, with the manual digging of cuttings, blasting of tunnels, and levelling of tracks, must have been a Herculean project in those early-industrial days. The presence of the railway is something we now tend to take for granted. However, standing on that isolated bridge, with nothing but the hills and wind for company, one could not help but sense the magnitude of their achievement.
East Marton is a small hamlet adjacent to the Leeds-Liverpool Canal. Its major architectural attraction is the presence of a double-arched bridge: not in the sense of twin spans, but one arch on top of the other. The increasing volume of road traffic over the first bridge meant that a stronger structure was required. Instead of rebuilding the entire bridge, a second arched structure was simply placed on top of the first; a concept which now gives the erroneous and initially disorientating impression that the canal must have once run at a level some twenty feet above its present location!
The English canals have long been a fascination for me. It is as though the process of stepping from the towpath onto a canal boat takes one through a time warp. Time itself slows, the frenetic pace of the modern world is banished, and peace and tranquillity reign. I harbour this dream of one day owning a broad-beamed barge (similar to a narrow boat, but twice as wide, and for which the northern-most canals, such as the Leeds-Liverpool Canal, were specifically constructed). My imaginary barge is painted a deep green (of the ‘British Racing’ variety), with its name, The Apothecary, emblazoned on its side in scripted gold lettering. Other gold-painted motifs, drawn from my personal armorial bearings, such as a fox rampant, holding a saxophone and quill pen, would further adorn the sides. I would spend my days gently meandering through the serene countryside of the Dales; whilst my evenings would be passed with The Apothecary moored to the towpath in an isolated spot, far from evidence of modern civilisation. There, I would sit on the roof, playing jazz and blues on a tenor saxophone, with only the sheep in the surrounding fields for an audience. After dark, I would retire to the candle-lit saloon, where I would write deep into the night, accompanied by a crystal glass of malt whisky and my Labrador, Thea.
Et in Arcadia ego.
It has been well over a year since my last Postcard from the Yorkshire Dales. This beautiful early-spring weekend deserves the production of another.
The ability to escape from the rigors of the surgery on Thursday afternoon last week, allowed my wife and I to arrive in the Dales that same evening, with the promise of a long weekend ahead. With the dawning of Friday, the promise became reality with weather to match our enthusiasm for shaking out the walking boots.
The village of Gargrave was our starting point. From there, the seven-mile walk took us alongside the River Aire for a short distance, before climbing up to where the Pennine Way awaited. The latter served as the route to East Marton, from where the Leeds-Liverpool canal’s towpath became our course back to Gargrave.
Just prior to joining the Pennine Way, the track took in a bridge over a railway line. The line nestles within a deep cutting, the two sets of rails disappearing into the curves of the hills in both directions. High above, the rolling dales were pre-eminent. Standing on the bridge and gazing down at the line, I couldn’t help but be impressed by the mammoth undertaking that the fathers of the early railways set their minds upon, when the concept of a railway was first envisaged. The task of taming a corridor through this rugged countryside, with the manual digging of cuttings, blasting of tunnels, and levelling of tracks, must have been a Herculean project in those early-industrial days. The presence of the railway is something we now tend to take for granted. However, standing on that isolated bridge, with nothing but the hills and wind for company, one could not help but sense the magnitude of their achievement.
East Marton is a small hamlet adjacent to the Leeds-Liverpool Canal. Its major architectural attraction is the presence of a double-arched bridge: not in the sense of twin spans, but one arch on top of the other. The increasing volume of road traffic over the first bridge meant that a stronger structure was required. Instead of rebuilding the entire bridge, a second arched structure was simply placed on top of the first; a concept which now gives the erroneous and initially disorientating impression that the canal must have once run at a level some twenty feet above its present location!
The English canals have long been a fascination for me. It is as though the process of stepping from the towpath onto a canal boat takes one through a time warp. Time itself slows, the frenetic pace of the modern world is banished, and peace and tranquillity reign. I harbour this dream of one day owning a broad-beamed barge (similar to a narrow boat, but twice as wide, and for which the northern-most canals, such as the Leeds-Liverpool Canal, were specifically constructed). My imaginary barge is painted a deep green (of the ‘British Racing’ variety), with its name, The Apothecary, emblazoned on its side in scripted gold lettering. Other gold-painted motifs, drawn from my personal armorial bearings, such as a fox rampant, holding a saxophone and quill pen, would further adorn the sides. I would spend my days gently meandering through the serene countryside of the Dales; whilst my evenings would be passed with The Apothecary moored to the towpath in an isolated spot, far from evidence of modern civilisation. There, I would sit on the roof, playing jazz and blues on a tenor saxophone, with only the sheep in the surrounding fields for an audience. After dark, I would retire to the candle-lit saloon, where I would write deep into the night, accompanied by a crystal glass of malt whisky and my Labrador, Thea.
Et in Arcadia ego.
The Spring Muse Awakes
Writers, poets, musicians, and artists have long looked towards their own personal muse for creative inspiration. The Egyptians had Hathor, the goddess of music, love, and beauty to assist them in their endeavours. Greek mythology offered an entire sisterhood of nine goddesses (‘the nine muses’) who were devoted to stimulating the artistic mind. Whereas the Romans looked to the Camenae who, like the Greek muses, were also water nymphs and hence known as the goddesses of springs.
For me, the first part of winter has often been a low period for creativity. The dull, cold days seem to suppress imaginative thoughts. The coming of the New Year has usually served to reawaken the urge to write, as the turn of the calendar offers the promise of new beginnings. If that does not work for me, then my birthday (at the end of January) usually does. Then, Janus, the Roman God of beginnings and endings (after whom the month of January is named), applies the influence of his two faces (one looking forwards, the other backwards) to allow me to take stock of what has been and what may yet come. This year, that reviving moment did not really have a chance to happen, as I found myself caught up in the whirlwind of other family celebrations.
However, the coming of spring has often heralded a further reawakening of inventiveness and enthusiasm. Such has been the effect of this weekend’s weather. The past two days have seen glorious blue skies and sunshine. Together with two walks in the beautiful countryside of the Yorkshire Dales, the effect of the elements has been one of instant cerebral reinvigoration.
For me, the onset of an early spring has certainly acted as my personal muse. The desire to write has started to bubble up from deep within and I feel spoilt for choice as to where to begin. The Greeks called the Goddess of Spring and fresh beginnings, Maia (hence the month of May). In reality, it may only be February, but I welcome the early presence of Maia with delight. Already, several ideas have started to tumble around the grey matter, with concepts for a poem and short story amongst them. Then there is my partly written novel, and not forgetting to mention this blog.
Now all I need is for Kronos (also known as Cronus), the Greek God of time, to look kindly upon me and bless me with the gift of a little free time in order to bring all these ideas to fruition. Perhaps, Maia could have a word or two with him on my behalf.
For me, the first part of winter has often been a low period for creativity. The dull, cold days seem to suppress imaginative thoughts. The coming of the New Year has usually served to reawaken the urge to write, as the turn of the calendar offers the promise of new beginnings. If that does not work for me, then my birthday (at the end of January) usually does. Then, Janus, the Roman God of beginnings and endings (after whom the month of January is named), applies the influence of his two faces (one looking forwards, the other backwards) to allow me to take stock of what has been and what may yet come. This year, that reviving moment did not really have a chance to happen, as I found myself caught up in the whirlwind of other family celebrations.
However, the coming of spring has often heralded a further reawakening of inventiveness and enthusiasm. Such has been the effect of this weekend’s weather. The past two days have seen glorious blue skies and sunshine. Together with two walks in the beautiful countryside of the Yorkshire Dales, the effect of the elements has been one of instant cerebral reinvigoration.
For me, the onset of an early spring has certainly acted as my personal muse. The desire to write has started to bubble up from deep within and I feel spoilt for choice as to where to begin. The Greeks called the Goddess of Spring and fresh beginnings, Maia (hence the month of May). In reality, it may only be February, but I welcome the early presence of Maia with delight. Already, several ideas have started to tumble around the grey matter, with concepts for a poem and short story amongst them. Then there is my partly written novel, and not forgetting to mention this blog.
Now all I need is for Kronos (also known as Cronus), the Greek God of time, to look kindly upon me and bless me with the gift of a little free time in order to bring all these ideas to fruition. Perhaps, Maia could have a word or two with him on my behalf.
Sunday, December 30, 2007
A ‘What if...’ Moment
At around midnight last night, the sky in North Lincolnshire was beautifully clear. It was one of those rare times when the stars stood out in twinkling splendour on a background of deepest black. My own knowledge of the constellations is limited. However, I could clearly identify Aries, Pisces, Ursa Major (the plough) and Ursa Minor. To the east of them all, rather as a governess overseeing a scattering of her charges, floated the moon, now approaching its final quarter (on the 31st December).
Venus is best seen in the mornings at around 7am and was therefore not visible to me last night. Scientists, however, are currently studying the planet Venus, as, despite its toxic state today, it is once thought to have had an atmosphere akin to ours on Earth. Indeed, it is thought that its surface once contained water and may have been capable of supporting life. Now, dense clouds of sulphuric acid form an intense ‘greenhouse effect’ and all water has evaporated. It may therefore offer some suggestions as to how we can combat the warming of our own planet and thus avoid an ultimate total catastrophe.
As my wife and I stood mesmerised by the beautiful scene before us, my mind, fuelled by the above thoughts, wandered off into one of those ‘what if’ moments...
The culture of the ancient Egyptians has long been a matter for admiration and astonishment. They had competencies in the fields of engineering, geometrics, astronomy and medicine (just to name a few subjects) which leave us wondering at how they could have developed such skills and knowledge. Certainly, our knowledge of their pre-history is, by the very statement, minimal. Additionally, much of their understanding has had to be re-learned or re-discovered over successive millennia.
So, what if human life had once existed on Venus (or some such similar planet) and had developed into a very advanced and sophisticated civilisation? Then, that planet was subjected to the forces of global warming to the point where the inhabitants were looking at the destruction of their world. Because of their advanced technology, they were able to leave their planet and travel to another, equally hospitable to their biological needs; a planet we now know as Earth.
Of course, the immediate culture arriving on Earth would have the knowledge it brought with it, but limited technology at its disposal. Perhaps then, it would take a further seven thousand years or so before the subsequent generations were beginning to develop and match their predecessors in knowledge and skills... only then to find that they too were confronted with the need to find solutions to the problem of global warming...
As I stood wondering at the immensity of the night sky last evening, it made me think more than ever before about our relative position within the universe and the fact that it just may hold the key to not only our origins, but also our future.
...or was it just the malt whisky speaking...
Venus is best seen in the mornings at around 7am and was therefore not visible to me last night. Scientists, however, are currently studying the planet Venus, as, despite its toxic state today, it is once thought to have had an atmosphere akin to ours on Earth. Indeed, it is thought that its surface once contained water and may have been capable of supporting life. Now, dense clouds of sulphuric acid form an intense ‘greenhouse effect’ and all water has evaporated. It may therefore offer some suggestions as to how we can combat the warming of our own planet and thus avoid an ultimate total catastrophe.
As my wife and I stood mesmerised by the beautiful scene before us, my mind, fuelled by the above thoughts, wandered off into one of those ‘what if’ moments...
The culture of the ancient Egyptians has long been a matter for admiration and astonishment. They had competencies in the fields of engineering, geometrics, astronomy and medicine (just to name a few subjects) which leave us wondering at how they could have developed such skills and knowledge. Certainly, our knowledge of their pre-history is, by the very statement, minimal. Additionally, much of their understanding has had to be re-learned or re-discovered over successive millennia.
So, what if human life had once existed on Venus (or some such similar planet) and had developed into a very advanced and sophisticated civilisation? Then, that planet was subjected to the forces of global warming to the point where the inhabitants were looking at the destruction of their world. Because of their advanced technology, they were able to leave their planet and travel to another, equally hospitable to their biological needs; a planet we now know as Earth.
Of course, the immediate culture arriving on Earth would have the knowledge it brought with it, but limited technology at its disposal. Perhaps then, it would take a further seven thousand years or so before the subsequent generations were beginning to develop and match their predecessors in knowledge and skills... only then to find that they too were confronted with the need to find solutions to the problem of global warming...
As I stood wondering at the immensity of the night sky last evening, it made me think more than ever before about our relative position within the universe and the fact that it just may hold the key to not only our origins, but also our future.
...or was it just the malt whisky speaking...
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
Thought for the Day
Education is a progressive discovery of our own ignorance.
Will Durant, historian (1885-1981)
Will Durant, historian (1885-1981)
Tuesday, November 20, 2007
The Poisonwood Bible
I have just finished reading The Poisonwood Bible by Barbara Kingsolver (Faber & Faber, 2000; ISBN 0-571-20175-X).
It is the story of an American Baptist missionary, who takes his wife and four daughters into the heart of the Belgian Congo shortly before the Congolese wrest their country back from Belgium and come under the influence of America and great civil unrest.The story charts the progress of the family - from its traumatic deconstruction as an American unit with all the values which go with being such, to the reconstruction of their individual lives over a thirty year period.
Told through the voices of the mother and four daughters, the story, taken at face-value, is a well-constructed and interesting insight to a world of which many of us would have no experience. However, the book is far more than that. It contains a depth of lyrical poetry, which resonates long after the book is closed. Many of its thought-provoking passages find an echo in our own lives, raising valid questions about our beliefs and values, our interpretation of what it is to be alive...and dead, our understanding of history and our concept of 'self'. There are many noteworthy phrases contained within its six hundred pages, but for me, one of the most memorable is:
'Illusions mistaken for truth are the pavement under our feet. They are what we call civilisation.'
Time is a valuable commodity. However, time invested in the company of this book is well rewarded.
It is the story of an American Baptist missionary, who takes his wife and four daughters into the heart of the Belgian Congo shortly before the Congolese wrest their country back from Belgium and come under the influence of America and great civil unrest.The story charts the progress of the family - from its traumatic deconstruction as an American unit with all the values which go with being such, to the reconstruction of their individual lives over a thirty year period.
Told through the voices of the mother and four daughters, the story, taken at face-value, is a well-constructed and interesting insight to a world of which many of us would have no experience. However, the book is far more than that. It contains a depth of lyrical poetry, which resonates long after the book is closed. Many of its thought-provoking passages find an echo in our own lives, raising valid questions about our beliefs and values, our interpretation of what it is to be alive...and dead, our understanding of history and our concept of 'self'. There are many noteworthy phrases contained within its six hundred pages, but for me, one of the most memorable is:
'Illusions mistaken for truth are the pavement under our feet. They are what we call civilisation.'
Time is a valuable commodity. However, time invested in the company of this book is well rewarded.
Thursday, October 25, 2007
Words Mean What Words Say
Although the work conducted within the House of Commons can, at times, best be described as rowdy, the members operate under a strict code of conduct. One of the rules is that they do not use rude language or make accusations against each other which might be construed as being insulting.
Winston Churchill had a certain way with words and was not to be beaten by such constraints. On one occasion, confronted with a statement which Churchill deemed to be far from the truth, he referred to the member's 'terminological inexactitude' rather than accuse him of telling a lie!
Such are the rich opportunities offered by the English language.
Winston Churchill had a certain way with words and was not to be beaten by such constraints. On one occasion, confronted with a statement which Churchill deemed to be far from the truth, he referred to the member's 'terminological inexactitude' rather than accuse him of telling a lie!
Such are the rich opportunities offered by the English language.
Sunday, October 21, 2007
Haiku from the Galapagos Islands
Marine iguanas
trail home through volcanic ash.
Galapagos dusk.
One century old,
a tortoise views our approach:
footsteps of Darwin.
© Copyright Dr Tusitala 2007
trail home through volcanic ash.
Galapagos dusk.
One century old,
a tortoise views our approach:
footsteps of Darwin.
© Copyright Dr Tusitala 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?
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