Monday, June 09, 2014

Rainbows, commenters and stray cats

I was deliberately provocative in Sunday Essay – John Roskam and the value of an Arts degree. At the end of the post, I asked

Mr Roskam’s problem, as I see it, lies in the need of the political theorist to simplify, to ensure that things fit within his model. Marxism had similar problems, As I said, I thought that it was a remarkably silly piece.  I stand to be corrected in debate. Am I wrong?

Winton Bates came in with the shortest comment on record: yes!

The following photo comes from kvd. Triggered by an exchange in comments, it shows black and white lambs. I like lambs. They are funny affectionate creatures. Then they grow up to become sheep, arguably the most stupid of animals! black & white lambs

I really like my commenters. They keep me honest and make me extend my thinking.  You a get a feel for that from just how often I end up adding postscripts to posts triggered by comments. This next photo comes from kvd as well. It is a very Australian scene. How many of us are waiting for the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow?rainbows-big

I am fortunate with my commenters in that they span views. That’s very important and something I consciously try to encourage. If discussion is dominated by one view, you may refine that view but you don’t get new views.

This week I am putting economics, politics and public policy aside. This is a New England and history week. I am behind in my major projects.

By the way, Scrawny (Stray cats, cruelty, civil aviation and my Hunter Valley trip) is doing quite well. He/she, I’m still not sure which, has put on weight. Scrawny remains resolutely independent. I think Scrawny is being fed by other people now as well, for visits to me have become less regular. Days will pass without sightings and then there is a miaow at the gate when I go out. We chat, I provide food, and then go on my way.

Postscript

This is kvd’s comment. I bring it into the main post without comment, although my thoughts are with him on this day.      

“Since you have done me the honour of publishing two of my favourite photos, and since today is my 42nd wedding anniversary (although my wife unfortunately died some years ago) I want to treat this as an 'open post' - one in which you might find thoughts of all things; interesting and personal.

The following is from the writings of one of my lovely clients, recording her trip back 'home' to an Africa now long gone. I must say, it moved me to tears...

I tell Brian I wish to scatter my parents ashes in the Zambezi River, will he help me find a special spot, and ask if he would be willing to sing a song of farewell in Nyanja. I’m surprised at how readily he agrees. Africans honour death. Then he asks me, what are their names? Tom and Vera, I say. He rolls their names around his African tongue, till he gets it right. Ah, Tom and Vera, he says.

Back at the tent, I unpack their ashes, and spoon from two bags marked ‘Mom’ and ‘Dad’ into two smaller ones. I still have Victoria Falls, Table Mountain, the Atlantic Ocean, and Kimberley to go, but there is plenty here.

Then I lick the spoon.

A few hours later, with my bag packed with two small zip lock bags of my parents ashes, and their rosaries, we head out for a sundowner cruise, gliding through rocks and water, the sun is setting, we walk amongst white sand and trees and bushes, we listen to Brian speak of the land and the animals and soak up the bush. We are looking for a special spot for the Ceremony of the Ashes, and Brian points out a couple he thinks would be suitable. No, not right for me. He points out the oldest tree on the Zambezi river ‘eighty years and more’, a gnarled grey tree of wide girth, which splits into two, at waist height standing joined, yet apart, and I think of Kahil Gibran’s poem. There, I say. He cuts the motor, we drift, and he says with some theatre, ‘This is the bridge between the rising sun in the east and the sun setting in the west, both can be seen from this spot. Over there is a beach, watching this fine tree, and beneath this fine tree is another beach for resting upon. This is a good place.’ If you think this is made up, I want to assure you that this is exactly how precisely he spoke, how many Africans speak. Where did this amazingly moving dialogue come from? Another cynical soul may miss this altogether.

Suddenly, he starts to sing a song in Nyanja. A song he described to me later, and writes out the words, which means something like ‘You have left me in darkness, I am lost, and I remember you’. I film him. The melody is sweet and he sings softly, he stops suddenly, and buries his face in his hands. I wait respectfully. He lifts his tear stained face in embarrassment and implores Gerald, ‘Please forgive me for crying Sir’. Gerald mumbles ineffectually. I scramble over the wooden seating and grab his hands, offering tissues, he holds on tight, tells me this is the same song he sang at both of his parents funerals, and the memory pains him. Then he lifts his head, and sings it again, verse by verse, unwavering, his voice strong and proud. I am crying, but he is not. I wish I knew the words.

And also, today of all days, I'd like to acknowledge my young brother-in-law's life:
http://www.southcoastregister.com.au/story/2337024/queens-birthday-honours/?cs=202
- of whom his family past, and present, is quietly proud.

Thanks Jim - I am unconcernedly off-topic, as always :)

11 comments:

Anonymous said...

Since you have done me the honour of publishing two of my favourite photos, and since today is my 42nd wedding anniversary (although my wife unfortunately died some years ago) I want to treat this as an 'open post' - one in which you might find thoughts of all things; interesting and personal.

The following is from the writings of one of my lovely clients, recording her trip back 'home' to an Africa now long gone. I must say, it moved me to tears...

I tell Brian I wish to scatter my parents ashes in the Zambezi River, will he help me find a special spot, and ask if he would be willing to sing a song of farewell in Nyanja. I’m surprised at how readily he agrees. Africans honour death. Then he asks me, what are their names? Tom and Vera, I say. He rolls their names around his African tongue, till he gets it right. Ah, Tom and Vera, he says.

Back at the tent, I unpack their ashes, and spoon from two bags marked ‘Mom’ and ‘Dad’ into two smaller ones. I still have Victoria Falls, Table Mountain, the Atlantic Ocean, and Kimberley to go, but there is plenty here.

Then I lick the spoon.

A few hours later, with my bag packed with two small zip lock bags of my parents ashes, and their rosaries, we head out for a sundowner cruise, gliding through rocks and water, the sun is setting, we walk amongst white sand and trees and bushes, we listen to Brian speak of the land and the animals and soak up the bush. We are looking for a special spot for the Ceremony of the Ashes, and Brian points out a couple he thinks would be suitable. No, not right for me. He points out the oldest tree on the Zambezi river ‘eighty years and more’, a gnarled grey tree of wide girth, which splits into two, at waist height standing joined, yet apart, and I think of Kahil Gibran’s poem. There, I say. He cuts the motor, we drift, and he says with some theatre, ‘This is the bridge between the rising sun in the east and the sun setting in the west, both can be seen from this spot. Over there is a beach, watching this fine tree, and beneath this fine tree is another beach for resting upon. This is a good place.’ If you think this is made up, I want to assure you that this is exactly how precisely he spoke, how many Africans speak. Where did this amazingly moving dialogue come from? Another cynical soul may miss this altogether.

Suddenly, he starts to sing a song in Nyanja. A song he described to me later, and writes out the words, which means something like ‘You have left me in darkness, I am lost, and I remember you’. I film him. The melody is sweet and he sings softly, he stops suddenly, and buries his face in his hands. I wait respectfully. He lifts his tear stained face in embarrassment and implores Gerald, ‘Please forgive me for crying Sir’. Gerald mumbles ineffectually. I scramble over the wooden seating and grab his hands, offering tissues, he holds on tight, tells me this is the same song he sang at both of his parents funerals, and the memory pains him. Then he lifts his head, and sings it again, verse by verse, unwavering, his voice strong and proud. I am crying, but he is not. I wish I knew the words.


And also, today of all days, I'd like to acknowledge my young brother-in-law's life:

http://www.southcoastregister.com.au/story/2337024/queens-birthday-honours/?cs=202

- of whom his family past, and present, is quietly proud.

Thanks Jim - I am unconcernedly off-topic, as always :)

kvd

Jim Belshaw said...

Now in the main post, kvd.

Winton Bates said...

That story snuck up on me. I did not expect to be so moved by memories of scattering ashes.

Jim Belshaw said...

ame result with me, Winton.

Anonymous said...

I'm surprised that Brian spoke / sung in Chinyanja. The locals in the Valley speak Tonga. Chinyanja is often spoken by migrants from Malawi working in Z cities. And I can assure you that not many in Z would speak with the eloquence and precision attributed to Brian.

DG

Jim Belshaw said...

How interesting, DG. Some literary license in the story, perhaps?

Anonymous said...

That's interesting DG - I shall pass your observation back to the author.

I have now spent several days (with great pleasure) reading through her blogging of her trip to Africa. I can tell you that the lady is in her mid 60s; was born in what is now Zambia; moved to Australia when she was 22 (makes that around 1970-72 I guess) with her then new husband (also a 'Zambie') and with her parents, who have recently passed away. The trip 'home' last year was in part to reconnect, in part to carry out their wishes for their ashes to be scattered at places significant to their African lives.

As to the African workers, I gather that most were not locals - more usually 'imported' for their skills in providing services necessary in remote game lodges. There are several mentions of the men and women working many days travel from their own families, sometimes cross-border (thus, I accept you may be correct about the locality language), with their own children being cared for by extended family, grandparents and such, and seen only once a year.

It is the 'curse' of blogs that the most recent entry is at the top. Thus I have had to read her travels in reverse order - starting with her visit to the Townships of South Africa, just before leaving for return to Australia, then proceeding 'backwards' through her travels.

Her parents, and old family friends, were of the generation of compulsory military training and sporadic bush patrol duties - of which I know nothing except that used as background in several Wilbur Smith books.

In any event, as uneducated of things African as I am, I have found her writings to be quite captivating, and the lady to be a good observer - sometimes sympathetic, sometimes quite critical of the present Africa she found, but always admiring of the people.

I remember a phrase which I found quite touching: "sometimes you have to get out of the goldfish bowl to see what's really inside it" - which she wrote after a time with childhood friends in the gated communities of whites in South Africa.

I expect this applies to all of us, in our lives.

kvd

Anonymous said...

Absolutely fascinating what you can learn with a bit of digging.

I went back to my friends journal, to see what I could pick up about 'Brian'. The particular lodge (on Sindabezi Island) in question is here:

http://www.tongabezi.com/sindabezi.php

And here's a page with the staff details - and there at bottom right corner is Brian!

http://www.tongabezi.com/meet_the_team.php

My thanks to DG for provoking this further research; I actually now understand why my friend was able to have "a Tongan massage" in the middle of Africa.

Such ignorance I have :)

kvd

Jim Belshaw said...

Thanks for extending this discussion, kvd. Very interesting. As you might have gathered from the knowledge in DG's comment, he was a local, growing up in what was then the Federation of Rhodesia and Nyasaland. So Brian may well have very special skills. And now you have learned about Tongan massages!

Anonymous said...

The Batonga (Tonga speakers) are indigenous to the Valley. Many were displaced by the flooding of the Kariba Gorge when the dam was built.

I'm always nostalgic about Africa but would never contemplate a visit in the present circumstances in Zim. Zambia is a bit more enlightened but you still have to be careful. Remember Tony Joyce?

DG

Jim Belshaw said...

I had forgotten, Tony, DG.