tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-887598623850270892024-03-14T10:37:43.303+00:00~ W a y m a r k s ~“My destination is no longer a place, rather a new way of seeing.”
― Marcel Proust (1871-1922)Timhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11641833714036731203noreply@blogger.comBlogger222125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-88759862385027089.post-26843672796510522042023-10-31T15:00:00.026+00:002024-02-25T02:10:20.040+00:00"Everest Through The Lens" - Exhibition Review<p> </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.rgs.org/our-collections" target="_blank"><span style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="801" data-original-width="581" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgT6nMsudBYVWNdlA_i6Xc8cBnVvI_cT_8PiycE9NAHGurSFbFMSjo7XYK9Rif1WvKrrvENJp4IFoWgvScHd_WOU13gKQ6ZumsLvacnawubeH66SE6WxRto31f-5kD62dxSaztQIOvzyK3eMYSUABm_bbZAXfji7PBNY42g-9nw2Kk5O0rTrLnMA0wvy6YL/w290-h400/Climbing%20Mount%20Everest.jpg" width="290" /></span><br /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://www.rgs.org/our-collections" target="_blank">Climbing Mount Everest. Under the auspices of the Mt. Everest Committee: the cinematograph record of the Mount Everest Expedition of 1922. EE/6/5/60 (RGS-IBG Collection)</a></i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p><p><b>Exhibition Review: </b><i style="font-weight: bold;">Everest through the lens</i><b> (Royal Geographical Society (with IBG), 1 Kensington Gore, London, SW7 2AR, UK: 5 October 2022-20 January 2023) </b><i>- this review was originally written for the <a href="https://www.othereverests.com/" target="_blank">Other Everests Research Network</a>.</i></p><p><i><br /></i></p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><i>Everest through the lens </i>was
an exhibition marking the centenary of the first two British attempts to climb
the world’s highest mountain in 1922 and 1924. It examined the expeditions as
seen through the lens of official expedition cinematographer, Captain John
Noel. Focussing on the two films he made, <i>Climbing Mount Everest</i> (1922)
and <i>The Epic of Everest</i> (1924), the exhibition set out ‘to unpick the
uncomfortable and complex social, racial and geopolitical dynamics that shaped
the expeditions – from their beginning to enduring legacy.’ Utilising a range
of photographic and documentary sources, as well as a handful of well-chosen
objects – such as a kinomatograph camera, similar to the one Noel used at high
altitude, and Noel’s own Remington portable typewriter – exhibition visitors were
guided through the various stages of the two expeditions, from their meticulous
preparation, through their actual execution, to their final presentation in
both print and film media. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">As a documentary filmmaker, Noel’s
lens was far from an objective one. The narrative of both films gives a
distinctly colonialist view of the ‘heroic’ exploits of the British climbers,
whilst the far larger entourage of local porters and other indigenous labourers
who were key to enabling the endeavour are lost somewhere in the flickering
side-lines, obscured by the simultaneous glare of the white snows and the
reflected imperial glory bestowed upon the films’ British protagonists. Viewing
the expeditions in the context of their times, this was a period when empires
and nations vied to best one another in epic feats of exploration in harsh and
extreme environments. Notably the British had lost out in the races to be the
first to reach the North and South Poles, hence the summit of the world’s
highest mountain – or the ‘Third Pole’ as it was then dubbed – represented a
last chance at attaining pre-eminence. Together, the Royal Geographical Society
and the Alpine Club formed the Mount Everest Committee, which tasked itself
with recruiting a team of elite mountaineers and geographers. Naturally these
men were all British born and bred, privately educated and recruited through a
network of mutual contacts. Letters and medical appraisals show that social
considerations of class and military background counted as much as aptitude and
experience in mountaineering. We are told that George Finch, as an Australian,
was a lone exception to this rule, but that consequently he ‘was looked down on
by some team members.’ <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">A far more overtly condescending
view was expressed with regard to the indigenous communities whom the
expeditions encountered as they made their way through Tibet. An intertitle
card from one of Noel’s films gives a clear example, stating that: ‘The men and
women exist from the cradle to the stone slab, on which their dead bodies are
hacked to pieces, without a wash the whole of their lives.’ The British expedition
members were genuinely fascinated by the cultures they encountered in the
Himalaya. Noel filmed scenes described in another intertitle as: ‘the weird and
fantastic devil dances at the sacred monastery of the Rongbuk.’ A Tibetan
cymbal brought back by the expedition leader, Brigadier-General Charles Bruce
in 1922, included in the exhibition, shows how the British climbers were particularly
struck by Tibetan music which must have seemed very different to their
unaccustomed ears. Climber and surgeon, Howard Somervell transcribed Tibetan
folk songs into Western musical notation, and Noel later had bands perform this
music as an evocative accompaniment to the screenings of his silent films.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/MwuPmg68mKU" width="320" youtube-src-id="MwuPmg68mKU"></iframe></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i>Trailer for Noel's "The Epic of Everest" (BFI)</i></div> <o:p></o:p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Social hierarchies shaped the
expeditions. Base Camp was effectively a small village, run by the British along
familiar colonial lines, with clear demarcations according to social, racial
and class considerations. The selection process for local porters may have been
less careful to note down details, but everyone recruited – ‘from bootmakers to
botanists’ – had a role with set expectations and was renumerated accordingly.
Ranked highest in this hierarchy were the high-altitude porters, who were very
skilled and often more adept mountaineers than the British, who nicknamed them
‘tigers.’ It is notable in many of the photographs of the expedition that there
is a marked discrepancy in the size and weight of the loads which these men
were charged with carrying compared to the British members of the team. Without
their efforts, lugging huge quantities of supplies, equipment and oxygen tanks
to the various camps ascending the mountain, the British climbers would have struggled
in their attempts to reach the summit. These efforts were not without genuine risk,
as a disaster in 1922 made only too apparent. Seven porters – six Sherpa,
Thankay, Sangay, Temba, Lhakpa, Pasang Namgya, Pema, and one Bhotiya, Norbu –
lost their lives in an avalanche. George Mallory, seen as the hero of Noel’s
films, felt himself responsible. Writing to a friend, he stated that the men
who died were ‘ignorant of mountain dangers, like children in our care. And I
am to blame.’ However, the loss of these men’s lives was dealt with in a
bureaucratic manner, with their families in Tibet, Nepal and Darjeeling being
financially ‘compensated.’ <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">In Noel’s film, the disaster was
edited out of the final cut for fear of a negative backlash from viewers. A
poignant memorial of this fact is embodied in a small bronze figure of the
goddess Tara, which was on display in the exhibition. This was given to the
British climbers on their return from Everest by Dzatrul Rinpoche, the Head
Lama of Rongbuk Monastery, to commemorate the lives of the seven men who died.
This action was filmed by Noel, but in the final version of his film Noel
edited and placed these scenes at the start, representing the exchange as
though it were a gift given to bless the expedition when it was first setting
out. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Similarly, Noel appears to have had
no qualms about appropriating an image of a deity depicted in a mural at the
monastery in order to accentuate the sense of drama. A deity which the British
stylised as ‘a mountain goddess angrily destroying the bodies of white climbers.’
As it is well-known, the 1924 expedition resulted in the loss of the lives of
climbers, George Mallory and Andrew Irvine, who disappeared from view while
making a bid to reach the summit and never returned. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">The names of Mallory and Irvine,
like those of Robert Falcon Scott and his men in Antarctica, were of course
duly added to the roster of ‘heroic defeats’ which now characterise the annals
of British Imperial exploration. A vision of heroism and self-sacrifice which
Noel’s films did much to crystallise. As the final sections of the exhibition
showed, this was not without controversy however. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Noel very actively sensationalised
Tibetan culture as a marketing ploy for his films. He was personally invested
in them, having funded much of the 1924 expedition himself in order to retain
the rights to his footage. He hired and brought to London a troupe of seven
Tibetan dancers to perform at screenings. These ‘dancing lamas’ were in fact
Tibetan novice monks rather than lamas. The publicity stunt deeply offended the
Dalai Lama and Tibetan government, such that they banned all Westerners from
entering Tibet to climb Everest for the next ten years. Despite the fact the
British mountaineering community knew that the controversy of the ‘dancing
lamas’ was the real cause of the ban, the Everest expeditions were meticulously
stage-managed operations, consequently they drew ranks and found a convenient
scapegoat in John Hazard, who undertook an unauthorised survey expedition in
Tibet also in 1924, pinning the blame on his activities instead.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">For a small exhibition, <i>Everest
through the lens</i>, explored a number of less well-known faces of the two
earliest attempts by British mountaineers to ‘conquer’ the world’s highest peak
very effectively. It elucidated a number of often overlooked themes,
incorporating a rich array of written and visual documentation; particularly
Noel’s film, <i>The Epic of Everest</i>, which was screened on a continuous
loop as part of the exhibition. Shining a light on the lives of those whose
names are well-known to history, such as Mallory and Noel, but more importantly
it also highlighted the indigenous team members who have stood, obscured in the
background for far too long. Recovering some of those names which otherwise
might have been lost to history in the panel and label texts, as well as
listing them in the leaflet accompanying the exhibition. In doing so, <i>Everest
through the lens</i> showed that there is still much to be learned about
cultures of imperial exploration. By taking a closer look, information which
has lain hidden in the archival shadows cast by the official record which the
two British expeditions carefully created as their own legacy can begin to
emerge. Much like the unnamed Sherpa who can be seen steadying the camera
tripod, if one looks very carefully, at the well-known photograph of John Noel,
seated on a kit box, shooting the first of his films at high altitude in 1922.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><a href="https://www.rgs.org/our-collections" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="326" data-original-width="451" height="289" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKfGrzYJa3KiOCyc1Z6od5Io02tDxDOzz5kxMlbE_3bBi6VAXIhghRPC5FgDUbCJLWr1Tq8qA0L_Jkrwqi8uJTUCuMeEeYOqXSkS3oN6OPB7D_3w5K6qePpT3eqVjJ0LpC20HxIET60xt5ZhaVDSoFJ8kq7J6GJLKA7HpPfO-5UW1MIj1sKi1TAHl26VJs/w400-h289/Captain%20John%20Noel.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://www.rgs.org/our-collections" target="_blank">Captain Noel kinematographing the ascent of Mt. Everest from the Chang La [one of his Sherpa porters can be seen steadying the tripod] MEE22/0602 (RGS-IBG Collections)</a></i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;">~</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><a href="https://manchesteruniversitypress.co.uk/9781526179166/other-everests/" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="333" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNy4s4ELsmEObI4Ov7UPztISfMWCRWSMt7N0DETR6k_P0y3KnRoY_K7YZyHB5qXth7I3A2SpWptsJILnokmTZ-Y1wQYsSdNACUkd36BEdd9FmwDrRZKMBzH4Koh2mrolN5VRFlTNEOwnjCn9Js1paPUdNeltO7Ed5rXPcRtUfjMXs_HYUobnHNyHd9kopj/w266-h400/Other%20Everests%20Cover.jpg" width="266" /></a></span></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://manchesteruniversitypress.co.uk/9781526179166/other-everests/" target="_blank">'Other Everests: One Mountain, Many Worlds' Edited by Paul Gilchrist, Peter Hansen & Jonathan Westaway (MUP, 2024)</a></i></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;">For more information on my involvement with the 'Other Everests' Research Network, and my chapter in the forthcoming edited volume of essays which the network will publish in 2024, see <a href="https://tim-chamberlain.owlstown.net/pages/2685-untitled" target="_blank">here</a>.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><i>Also on 'Waymarks'</i></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><i><br /></i></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://eccentricparabola.blogspot.com/2022/07/other-everests-new-research-network.html" target="_blank">'Other Everests' - A New Research Network</a></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><a href="http://eccentricparabola.blogspot.com/2021/11/himalaya-heart-of-eurasia.html" target="_blank">Himalaya - The Heart of Eurasia</a></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><a href="http://eccentricparabola.blogspot.com/2015/06/betrayal-in-high-himalaya-sikkim-tibet.html" target="_blank">Betrayal in the High Himalaya</a></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><a href="http://eccentricparabola.blogspot.com/2022/10/the-abominable-snowman-of-himalayas-1957.html" target="_blank">The Abominable Snowman of the Himalayas (1957)</a></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRC6ZUalPJF5JeKAZcp8qdUiYGomraJRH8uReQ_06n5f0WgFPD1rgmLzC8QvKhyphenhyphenW5qkVMLWwzKMmnYBhJGtT6OcdVfF_rNLPNqcCsOEyfjyIhJTh48VHh_zGpIrtnAFgJNuHK0577G-lnp-6gHhc-c49OsMHN00xjX33O3IKnjnIrVn6yeKf5MbxWnk4GO/s400/Epic%20of%20Everest.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="400" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRC6ZUalPJF5JeKAZcp8qdUiYGomraJRH8uReQ_06n5f0WgFPD1rgmLzC8QvKhyphenhyphenW5qkVMLWwzKMmnYBhJGtT6OcdVfF_rNLPNqcCsOEyfjyIhJTh48VHh_zGpIrtnAFgJNuHK0577G-lnp-6gHhc-c49OsMHN00xjX33O3IKnjnIrVn6yeKf5MbxWnk4GO/w400-h225/Epic%20of%20Everest.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><br /></p><i></i><p></p>Timhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11641833714036731203noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-88759862385027089.post-8295030491068083162023-10-09T08:22:00.026+01:002023-10-25T11:25:37.280+01:00Circumnavigating the Cornubian Batholith<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEht5cSgCRdBGuUN1eUkje6kEIpKjBfnMSEQKNbSpzhhq3Dnwuq_zHAhNes6ApjZW9yMHGkpqXY6wspnfxuKBEjahmc2gvIQqRMOVEabHATVjgQIpoIY-kIlYGJJvSbb8aDundYMnUUZ6RA0CSFiuhJO0XJr4SJUu-fIYsvZW2mUVofbClWqrYCBprABc5QR/s2272/Hannigan%20-%20Granite%20Kingdom.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1704" data-original-width="2272" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEht5cSgCRdBGuUN1eUkje6kEIpKjBfnMSEQKNbSpzhhq3Dnwuq_zHAhNes6ApjZW9yMHGkpqXY6wspnfxuKBEjahmc2gvIQqRMOVEabHATVjgQIpoIY-kIlYGJJvSbb8aDundYMnUUZ6RA0CSFiuhJO0XJr4SJUu-fIYsvZW2mUVofbClWqrYCBprABc5QR/w400-h300/Hannigan%20-%20Granite%20Kingdom.JPG" width="400" /></a></div> <br /><p></p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: left;"><b>The Granite Kingdom: A Cornish
Journey </b><i>by Tim Hannigan</i> (Head of Zeus, 2023)</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br /></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><a href="https://x.com/Tim_Hannigan/status/1656215318237257729?s=20" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="1546" data-original-width="1795" height="345" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1xDsevJzmdEsRzxlWrXZQx5WogKIXAeY_Uw9eaCl1dESpcZaioOBFQFOczn-PxiI-7q1xRZbkcsHb1eeWwXK7_Qqxpzu9r2BwMhanmoT6zXLXTd1FKW5uyz-uKisiIIlw4zX-YcnvBSUbx4v8MKmMLKDPR5Dvb0hcdoiGtjmc_i1JQtizHwN2WGYoKgxs/w400-h345/Hannigans%20Route.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://x.com/Tim_Hannigan/status/1656215318237257729?s=20" target="_blank">Tim Hannigan's Route</a></i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">This is a book which I’ve long been
looking forward to reading, and, now that I have turned its last page and
closed its covers, it’s a book which didn’t disappoint. In fact, it is a book
which I’m tempted to begin re-reading immediately. While he was writing it, I
watched Tim Hannigan posting updates on his progress as he penned <i><a href="https://www.bloomsbury.com/uk/granite-kingdom-9781801108829/" target="_blank">The Granite Kingdom</a></i> on Twitter. Tantalisingly scanning the list of chapter
titles which he posted several months before it was published, I could tell
that this book would touch upon an array of topics which have both intrigued
and challenged me over the years: <i>Bordering; Merlin’s Magic Land; Piskey-Led;
Coasting; See Your Own Country First; Rebel Country; Looking for the Light.</i>
As the book-blurb on the inside of its dust jacket describes: <i>“Few areas of
Britain are as holidayed in, as rhapsodised over or as mythologised as Cornwall
… it is a region densely laden with images, projections and tropes. But how do
they all intersect with the real Cornwall – its landscapes, histories,
communities and sense of identity?”<o:p></o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><i><o:p> </o:p></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://www.bloomsbury.com/uk/granite-kingdom-9781801108829/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="499" data-original-width="329" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_VRuYkgg2_PF_hM9LuSOME6gS2O4Xct8xZszXLMvV4fG02KjuKSt3QNJhw3Amy8G3zvC4Te7xh7VTovpY-x-xTPo2ppAMZndH2-p7ueUd-lLQ9Yooh8r4Tj6xI4UnFW14ZJXeORJmZOCGLviv5ZS7p1rlyVihcRHEeH9mMFe_o4Fi9nT9QvjRsGsYKJW4/s320/The%20Granite%20Kingdom.jpg" width="211" /></a> <a href="https://www.hurstpublishers.com/book/the-travel-writing-tribe/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="1566" data-original-width="1000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiH-9c_23BJOK5kwlLAXYqfHzU5e5HXou_M3iFS8_g_IuhJFruIw0PjGlGFdvqsPxAzG83NCM-Z6qvEeO4Ae5DASKwAuvi8XomoSezfBXlYlKx3q5zdF7LYISEpzMeRdZsKHACWr0KvoDHDipXR087W4HlRRL_aNhWek9TcKaBLpDE1KnZGc_uz0gdWhoIh/w204-h320/The%20Travel%20Writing%20Tribe.jpg" width="204" /></a></i></div></div><i><br /></i><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">As anyone who is familiar with Tim
Hannigan’s <i><a href="https://www.hurstpublishers.com/book/the-travel-writing-tribe/" target="_blank">The Travel Writing Tribe: Journeys In Search Of A Genre</a> </i>(Hurst,
2021) will know, Hannigan is an academic who writes about travel writing with admirably accessible flair. Travelling in companionable prose with him is
always a joy, and in this book particularly so, because here we are on his home
turf. But writing a travelogue about one’s own homeland, as Hannigan
acknowledges, is perhaps a more challenging task than writing as an outsider. Most
travel writing has a kind of ‘through the looking glass’ quality to it. The
whole point of the travel writer’s self-appointed task is to act as the
outsider looking-in, providing an interpretation of ‘the other’ for readers who
(it is tacitly assumed) are similarly placed at one remove from both the place
and people described. But writing as an insider looking both within whilst also
attempting to present an outward-looking personal interpretation for insiders and non-insiders alike could very easily become a tautological trap set
in a hall of mirrors, yet Hannigan manages to remain aware of this inherent
difficulty at all times. Hence, he acknowledges his own scruples, and his at
times instinctively defensive reflex in seeking to assert his non-Englishness in certain situations, rather than trying to hide it or gloss over
such matters. Particularly when he encounters other people during his travels
through the county/duchy with whom his interactions prompt reflections upon
Cornish nationalism and questions of native identity. ‘Cornwall is not England,’
is an often-encountered assertion here, and as such this gives the book
its central underlying theme. What does it mean to be (or to claim to be)
Cornish? – Where exactly does Cornwall begin and England end? – How closely can
Cornish nationalism align to the allied spirit of fraternal ‘Celtic’ nativism
which is found in Wales, Northern Ireland, Scotland and even Brittany as a
region with its own language which has died out and is now being revived, along
with all the attendant trappings of the recently invented St Piran flag, Cornish
tartan, and other emblems designed to highlight its sense of distance from
generations of Anglo-Saxon and Norman cultural appropriation?<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMHBcD93XMIgiZ_ayx77gQEmlL2nt7oPHlgYfouSoJvykpOYhaG47GwWTQAjI0RDLm0i8oN-yIyCwNTh7os3P6IN1TmHezTkpHhQOM5ym28lQBIFfum2bqeOlDuRVhAon09zaGmhjOedh2CyZcvShqS0NxWjW3ykvQQ-0fn36a0wE9zog4wYfbzCj13iRD/s960/Gala%20Day%20-%20Stanhope%20Forbes%20(Hartlepool%20M&HS).jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="565" data-original-width="960" height="235" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMHBcD93XMIgiZ_ayx77gQEmlL2nt7oPHlgYfouSoJvykpOYhaG47GwWTQAjI0RDLm0i8oN-yIyCwNTh7os3P6IN1TmHezTkpHhQOM5ym28lQBIFfum2bqeOlDuRVhAon09zaGmhjOedh2CyZcvShqS0NxWjW3ykvQQ-0fn36a0wE9zog4wYfbzCj13iRD/w400-h235/Gala%20Day%20-%20Stanhope%20Forbes%20(Hartlepool%20M&HS).jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Gala Day, by Stanhope Forbes</i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">It's an intriguing proposition when
Hannigan reflects that, despite being born and raised in West Penwith, his
ancestry has roots outside of Cornwall. As he states, <i>“this shouldn’t
matter, doesn’t matter, but if I’m writing about Cornwall and Cornishness, I
have to mention it.”</i> – However, it does matter in the sense that Cornwall
has long been a place out of kilter with the rest of the UK. Today, shamefully,
it is one of the poorest regions not only in the country but also in western
Europe too. As Simon Reeve has poignantly illustrated in a recent BBC <a href="https://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/m000pb6w" target="_blank">television series</a> focussing on the country’s farthest southwestern region, people living
in Cornwall face huge adversity most obviously in employment and the housing
market. Recent decades have seen a boom in property sales to wealthy outsiders
who have bought holiday homes which have essentially hollowed out local
communities, turning picturesque villages into affluently neglected ghost towns
out of season. It’s little wonder that outsiders are resented by some locals.
On the one hand, tourism is the industry which has supplanted the dwindling or
extinct traditional industries of fishing and tin mining, which most people Romantically
associate with Cornwall. In this respect, Cornwall has confounded itself in the
fact that the very thing which now sustains Cornwall is also the thing which is
slowly killing it. One can’t help wondering how such a detrimental trend might
be reversed?<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDMSL8IVZocH93QZdlprDGjsPHQ_dLa8mxsCBAy8bjazRlMNlrRnvbTTMCvA0elNFGnkyGlf-V3nc5ByD3yaPDktWvToXMKoMUTB7UJbVKcIg9mNuq4nJJymzfSHpPoVGNgVy3eW4mhCwtw5nH1gnc4kJLki_wgVS9vYxpLtABmltXp3DDECJz0ttygo6R/s709/Penzance.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="709" data-original-width="439" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDMSL8IVZocH93QZdlprDGjsPHQ_dLa8mxsCBAy8bjazRlMNlrRnvbTTMCvA0elNFGnkyGlf-V3nc5ByD3yaPDktWvToXMKoMUTB7UJbVKcIg9mNuq4nJJymzfSHpPoVGNgVy3eW4mhCwtw5nH1gnc4kJLki_wgVS9vYxpLtABmltXp3DDECJz0ttygo6R/w248-h400/Penzance.jpg" width="248" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVxnjRN8hzOKMt_lqjweMVezGz2ggm75Q4eqtRk1R3st0GugpbBz1EejnlruiveCfrFipsCKXS1zGck9B9mx1fHDXV11LTIJlmLhcxvLP9YdBmTqpLuLzDUnMgoGDoHyeabfHytQQQ1LV4ryOuQeUD139yJqzk7GB_wH-d_iAqko_jc1FmrVBOlc4aHGXK/s3969/Cornish%20Riviera.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3969" data-original-width="3082" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVxnjRN8hzOKMt_lqjweMVezGz2ggm75Q4eqtRk1R3st0GugpbBz1EejnlruiveCfrFipsCKXS1zGck9B9mx1fHDXV11LTIJlmLhcxvLP9YdBmTqpLuLzDUnMgoGDoHyeabfHytQQQ1LV4ryOuQeUD139yJqzk7GB_wH-d_iAqko_jc1FmrVBOlc4aHGXK/w248-h320/Cornish%20Riviera.jpg" width="248" /></a><br /><br /></div><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">My family might well
have been seen as part of this problem (hence one avenue of my interest in this
book). My parents along with my aunt and uncle began holidaying each year in
Cornwall long before I was born. My grandfather even cycled to Land’s End with
his friends back in the early 1930s. But it was a small advert in <i>Dalton’s
Weekly</i> in the early 1960s which began this collective pattern of family
pilgrimage. For many years, before the recent boom in the annual invasion of <i>“the
bucket and spade brigade”</i> (as one local Tory MP famously disparaged it in
the late 1980s), throughout my childhood, we hired two sail lofts on the west
pier of Newlyn harbour from the same local family, whom we came to know well
through two generations. I even have very clear memories of watching Tim
Hannigan’s dad’s distinctive fishing boat, the <i>Heather Armorel, </i>coming
and going beneath our window. We were later given the opportunity to buy the
sail lofts (as well as other cottages we subsequently stayed in), but my family
always resisted doing so. We always thought that there was something very wrong
in the idea of a property standing empty for the majority of the year simply so
that we might own our own patch of paradise for those two spare weeks of the
year when we could get down there.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><a href="https://x.com/Tim_Hannigan/status/1509212129848709122?s=20" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="717" data-original-width="1024" height="280" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9UW_o2HYdvekK4UnpUWhtTLv0hxIABarrHAYhmI1K47wa3SHr-DBzU3qqwHECXItRZkJfKegIw7CKIJ8n2WqggYyZeUJ3pBR48lCVTU2fimq4v8JAyh6cNzxP5oybvZgxEE0z_eahM-TMgTxScQNX88sR9j9SYgUZfuONKqGfynYsbvizpaolBcOWiXmA/w400-h280/Heather%20Armorel.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://x.com/Tim_Hannigan/status/1509212129848709122?s=20" target="_blank">The Heather Armorel entering Newlyn harbour</a></i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Consequently, we were always very
aware of both the harmful effects and the negative perception of incomers. But
on the other hand, it was a duality which we realised had to be reconciled in
as positive and as equitable a manner as was possible. I spent so much time
there each summer that Cornwall is as much a part of my identity as my native
Middlesex. And there are parallels of self-perception here too in the erasure
of an old Anglo-Saxon County which still actively seeks to assert its identity
several decades after its County Council was dissolved and it was subsumed into
the homogenising boroughs of northwest London. Questions of identity do matter,
and perhaps ironically, we later came to learn that we do in fact have Cornish
ancestry – with forbears hailing from the Cornish village of Menheniot – so
perhaps we aren’t the invasive interlopers we always feared we were. Every
summer, I used to play in and around Newlyn harbour with the local kids, we
even visited out of season at Christmas too, and several generations of my
family have their ashes scattered on a particular cliff along that rugged
coastline of West Penwith which forms Hannigan’s personal ‘Granite Kingdom.’
The salt sea air, the scent of gorse, and the sun-baked lichen of those
granite-cleft coastal paths, along with the less clement weather of squalls and drizzling thick
fog, are as much a part of me as all the other places which have come to feel
like home throughout the course of my life. Cornwall remains a place for me to
return to whenever I need to recharge my physical and emotional batteries, a
testament to how we ground ourselves and all that makes us who we are in an
acute sense of place. As such, there is a lot which I can relate to in this
book.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/MyJ98nW6j_M" width="320" youtube-src-id="MyJ98nW6j_M"></iframe></div><i><div style="text-align: center;"><i>The West Cornwall Experience (c.1980s)</i></div></i><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p><br /></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">There is much to like and much to
be learnt from the pages of <i>The Granite Kingdom</i>. Hannigan expertly weaves
into his long walk a lot of careful research and insightful analysis, reflecting upon both
familiar and perhaps less well-known tales of local folklore, from King Arthur
to Jan Tregagle; the standard tourist-titillating tales of smugglers, wreckers, and pirates; as well as the observations made by Hannigan’s
literary predecessors, in works by writers such as Daniel Defoe, Wilkie Collins,
D.H. Lawrence, and Daphne du Maurier. He also looks at the so-called ‘artist
colonies’ which flourished in Newlyn and Lamorna, and which continue to
characterise St Ives (for better or worse) to this day, as well as the ‘Rick
Stein phenomenon’ that appears to define a lingering air of unrealised
expectancy in Padstow – something which Hannigan as a former chef in the
kitchens of Cornwall’s tourist high season can comment upon with firsthand knowledge
and experience. He also reminisces and riffs upon the ‘anthropological’ intrigue which he felt the tourist brochures and TV adverts of the 1980s conjured in his
mind as a child whose grandparents ran a guesthouse in Penzance – with its
elastically-stretched parallels between the Cornish and Italian Rivieras! –
representing the curious exoticisation of what was for him especially just the
everyday reality of life lived in his home county. And all of this is deftly
told with both eloquent erudition and good humour.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvKsGJosj8xIrGwwfAbsx9czfFacRSR2Dk7SW-tzjRUmzZ-mgtIW6V9tX70zUk9KcssXcuYfW3X7vbPTggTRVYy0d7TmGqVVqYsfUGt5zDuY_B3yaFnDwgLTHNw_nE3wCuDBnSLeZSA3f_XWAIZjFjjdOmQODIiZUJTeIhtp7SOpRI4NKbmgAACBqD75Dj/s1100/GWR%20See%20Your%20Own%20Country%20First.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="886" data-original-width="1100" height="323" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvKsGJosj8xIrGwwfAbsx9czfFacRSR2Dk7SW-tzjRUmzZ-mgtIW6V9tX70zUk9KcssXcuYfW3X7vbPTggTRVYy0d7TmGqVVqYsfUGt5zDuY_B3yaFnDwgLTHNw_nE3wCuDBnSLeZSA3f_XWAIZjFjjdOmQODIiZUJTeIhtp7SOpRI4NKbmgAACBqD75Dj/w400-h323/GWR%20See%20Your%20Own%20Country%20First.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Essentially, what <i>The Granite
Kingdom</i> demonstrates is how all locales are shaped both by insiders and
outsiders alike. There’s no stopping the waves of change which sweep in and out
of the eras like tides which shape and define the landscapes we perceive to be
our own homelands, especially in the British Isles. In walking a meanderingly
meditative (and many a pasty fuelled) route through Cornwall, from the banks of
the River Tamar to his childhood home of Morvah, Hannigan guides us through his
own unique view of, and engagement with the history, folklore, and geology, as well
as the physical and cultural topography of a
Cornwall which as a writer he aims to reconcile within himself as much as for
the reader who accompanies him on what is a very personal journey. One reviewer
has very astutely and accurately described this multi-facetted, gem-like book
as <i><a href="https://falwriting.com/new-blog/2023/9/13/a-review-the-granite-kingdom-a-cornish-journey" target="_blank">“an inland journey, both introspective and expansive.”</a> </i>– It’s often
said that the point of travelling is best realised in homecoming; hence, if this book represents a new direction in an erstwhile familiar genre of travel writing, I
think the kind of homeward route which Hannigan sets out to explore in <i>The
Granite Kingdom</i> should be a welcome one for others to take and emulate. </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_4wbIaJ8nDLafUpt9UqSBoK1SL_4XTqxjk5Tp5Znf8hbcWqtQSjdhVpBBqtW8OgzqyoqdGjpsKW5SKGo1PyNXP2c_m8660BV3KDJSxW7XTk_3DOnwWzRt39GjuXvgD0STlj7khOF3QHqQ4vUfmt17dhPcOongyfYNYOVbBp2UyBe9AWpJeywyD11g8FJY/s1200/On%20the%20Cliff%20-%20Eleanor%20Hughes.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="864" data-original-width="1200" height="288" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_4wbIaJ8nDLafUpt9UqSBoK1SL_4XTqxjk5Tp5Znf8hbcWqtQSjdhVpBBqtW8OgzqyoqdGjpsKW5SKGo1PyNXP2c_m8660BV3KDJSxW7XTk_3DOnwWzRt39GjuXvgD0STlj7khOF3QHqQ4vUfmt17dhPcOongyfYNYOVbBp2UyBe9AWpJeywyD11g8FJY/w400-h288/On%20the%20Cliff%20-%20Eleanor%20Hughes.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>On The Cliff, by Eleanor Hughes</i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhO_u9A8EN2a6Ih8DIHO_87p5Dgz5FCDsTgl5hyphenhyphenqmJhw4lhG8-nDPuCTQYMZ1URt2qXp9DDk4G2f_WL_eMd3-45TXQmKw857F4x6f65ezGE6CZ8IcNW2OGuSP0IiKJJ-8Bz2d60_Sd238A7e5QWPF7eRaez9x26srFh9SW6QvmmRG5aDLbwsa82DNslHLuB/s800/Study%20of%20a%20Fisherwoman%20-%20Stanhope%20Forbes%20(PHGM).jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="603" data-original-width="800" height="301" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhO_u9A8EN2a6Ih8DIHO_87p5Dgz5FCDsTgl5hyphenhyphenqmJhw4lhG8-nDPuCTQYMZ1URt2qXp9DDk4G2f_WL_eMd3-45TXQmKw857F4x6f65ezGE6CZ8IcNW2OGuSP0IiKJJ-8Bz2d60_Sd238A7e5QWPF7eRaez9x26srFh9SW6QvmmRG5aDLbwsa82DNslHLuB/w400-h301/Study%20of%20a%20Fisherwoman%20-%20Stanhope%20Forbes%20(PHGM).jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Study of a Fisherwoman, by Stanhope Forbes</i></td></tr></tbody></table></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">I would like to thank Tim Hannigan and Jade Gwilliam at Head of Zeus Books for very kindly sending me a review copy of <i><a href="https://www.bloomsbury.com/uk/granite-kingdom-9781801108829/" target="_blank">The Granite Kingdom</a></i>.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;">~</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><i>Also on 'Waymarks'</i></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><i><br /></i></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://eccentricparabola.blogspot.com/2014/06/from-coast-to-carn-euny.html" target="_blank">From Coast to Carn Euny</a></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://eccentricparabola.blogspot.com/2021/03/seeking-solace-sunshine.html" target="_blank">Seeking Solace & Sunshine</a></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://eccentricparabola.blogspot.com/2014/11/what-is-place.html" target="_blank">What is Place?</a></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVFl-HGc4h24eJyq39L0TxWdhnxyhriA1SNJX_-eqAuUoI5N_zTbUknDQHNogzzHO7Yt3KXz_3V4sglV6BiJxmRwvBde3LblixP09JHXEg5VcM2JyfNFc8R-FE_8Epjonfbh9rkv3X0ASfPkUPkJxOhXU_uoiDijkh15JjT7ZhyqpUgET1Bo4YMtrIX3kB/s1200/Between%20the%20Tides%20-%20Walter%20Langley%20(Warrington%20M&AG).jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="801" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVFl-HGc4h24eJyq39L0TxWdhnxyhriA1SNJX_-eqAuUoI5N_zTbUknDQHNogzzHO7Yt3KXz_3V4sglV6BiJxmRwvBde3LblixP09JHXEg5VcM2JyfNFc8R-FE_8Epjonfbh9rkv3X0ASfPkUPkJxOhXU_uoiDijkh15JjT7ZhyqpUgET1Bo4YMtrIX3kB/w268-h400/Between%20the%20Tides%20-%20Walter%20Langley%20(Warrington%20M&AG).jpg" width="268" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Between the Tides, by Walter Langley</i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrgoOw6diX-fVhjf8782A7S3RFLo-SD6WwiTKuSaY3-qhNgeiD8OGCpYRMQnezqTkJtnrMICVbe3x03xOfUJ78Rh2uJcms8P3WxEBt80rWbbyoehHSjviLX3IcNRBuifQ4CTv8b1Widv0k7W2vQ8GDdo6vqtqz5K12foTAVxUgWpt-BhTopgIanYbXMknh/s709/The%20Shoal%20Fisher%201880s.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="709" data-original-width="541" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrgoOw6diX-fVhjf8782A7S3RFLo-SD6WwiTKuSaY3-qhNgeiD8OGCpYRMQnezqTkJtnrMICVbe3x03xOfUJ78Rh2uJcms8P3WxEBt80rWbbyoehHSjviLX3IcNRBuifQ4CTv8b1Widv0k7W2vQ8GDdo6vqtqz5K12foTAVxUgWpt-BhTopgIanYbXMknh/w305-h400/The%20Shoal%20Fisher%201880s.jpg" width="305" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>The Shoal Fisher, Newlyn Harbour, c.1880s</i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><b><br /></b><p></p><br /><p></p>Timhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11641833714036731203noreply@blogger.com0Cornwall, UK50.266047099999987 -5.052712521.955813263821142 -40.2089625 78.576280936178833 30.1035375tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-88759862385027089.post-24915468811394253802023-09-01T00:00:00.279+01:002023-09-01T00:00:00.126+01:00Wanderers & Way Makers: Walking with Women Writers<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdMS6mEn40RzEk-Oy6q0usaZOchPpkOAOSSHnF4eSikiDKmRPWzzCtHVCfnQ-TzfOME7TzKiwsuojARq3e3qNh7wQInv31G3pVBnpFlpgIgHL27jweA0x4ndnx_ILdtjQQ4dCh17Qgya-zWHs5a7oeHzt17MMY-VQiJQkhVTfjfl1fitJgBCjCf3St-P7F/s1988/Cornwall.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1378" data-original-width="1988" height="278" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdMS6mEn40RzEk-Oy6q0usaZOchPpkOAOSSHnF4eSikiDKmRPWzzCtHVCfnQ-TzfOME7TzKiwsuojARq3e3qNh7wQInv31G3pVBnpFlpgIgHL27jweA0x4ndnx_ILdtjQQ4dCh17Qgya-zWHs5a7oeHzt17MMY-VQiJQkhVTfjfl1fitJgBCjCf3St-P7F/w400-h278/Cornwall.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p><br /></p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><i>“... but here, the houses falling away on both sides, they came out on the quay, and the whole bay spread before them and Mrs Ramsay could not help exclaiming, </i><i>‘</i><i>Oh, how beautiful!</i><i>’ For the great plateful of blue water was before her; the hoary Lighthouse, distant, austere, in the midst; and on the right, as far as the eye could see, fading and falling, in soft low pleats, the green sand dunes with wild flowing grasses on them, which always seemed to be running away into some moon country, uninhabited by men.</i><i>” </i><b>– Virginia Woolf, <i>To the Lighthouse </i>(1927).</b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">A few years ago, I was walking
along a wind-blasted stretch of the coastal path in Cornwall with my mother,
who made an observation: <i>“Have you noticed how all the solitary walkers who
have passed us today have been women walking on their own?”</i> – It was true. Of
the handful of walkers whom we had met coming in the other direction, greeting each other amiably as we passed by, trudging purposefully along that
rugged clifftop path, miles from anywhere visibly populated by people, the
majority had been lone women, or very occasionally men and women who were clearly couples,
walking together. It was, in many respects, a curiously heartening fact to
notice.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://reaktionbooks.co.uk/work/wanderers" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="448" data-original-width="292" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiisCiiauBJtR4gYDmrzx1O_hVCyJdM4BK4mbmOF2Wxrtyusg8MZmXOCfe1e5fCweo9sCNyq8BMRlhBpx6xZJ8wBfuVIovZtPK4YDTIxWxqqfYZaivTGV6Dks-XYX_htYAUmladl00R3d6roq_b_VytIiARuc5q7KP2sKyHdl8ksjClqGZMdY__eEgIfycq/w261-h400/Wanderers.jpg" width="261" /></a></div><br /><o:p><br /></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">As Kerri Andrews points out in her
recent book, <b><i>Wanderers: A History of Women Walking</i> (Reaktion Books,
2020):</b> <i>“The history of walking has always been women’s history, though
you would not know it from what has been published on the subject. Since
Jean-Jacques Rousseau’s </i>The Reveries of a Solitary Walker<i> appeared in
1782, walking has been acknowledged as central to the writing of many famous
male authors: William Wordsworth, Samuel Taylor Coleridge, Thomas De Quincy,
John Keats, John Clare and others.”</i> Even modern-day writers tend to
foreground the writing of other men: <i>“Leslie Stephen, Henry David Thoreau,
Friedrich Nietzsche, Emmanuel Kant, Robert Louis Stevenson, Edward Thomas,
Werner Herzog, Robert Macfarlane. When these men write about their walking,
they look back to earlier male walker-writers; even the most recent accounts of
walking, such as Robert Macfarlane’s </i>The Old Ways (2012),<i> refer mainly
to other male walker-writers (with just one exception in Macfarlane’s case: his
championing of Nan Shepherd’s prose poetry about the Cairngorms, </i>The Living
Mountain).<i> So utterly has writing about walking been dominated by men that
Rebecca Solnit has described it, with some bitterness, as a kind of club, ‘not
one of the real walking clubs, but a kind of implicit club of shared
background’, where the members ‘are always male.’” <o:p></o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><i><o:p> </o:p></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://reaktionbooks.co.uk/work/way-makers" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="1874" data-original-width="1190" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieUvxV_WlbCs-ApglCTXwoe3YagwNmEk1U05yHO7tnetbgeLRge41ikbMyP_KFZdrT76-PEWLh11pOIV95TQtkPYlF53AliL9J-zftKRtlw66DLvnWmVcYMBqfhh7_vytGuoemUxyOccVvw0U0JeYXVbl7DXY5paQuOF6AMMBq4KI_4nqhO0fviGHBCK3B/w254-h400/Way%20Makers.jpg" width="254" /></a></i></div><i><br /></i><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Consequently, the publication this
month of <b><i>Way Makers: An Anthology of Women’s Writing about Walking, </i>edited
by Kerri Andrews (Reaktion, 2023),</b> is long overdue. As Andrews writes in the
Introduction: <i>“This is the first anthology of women’s writing about walking.
It seems remarkable to be writing that in mid-2022, when anthologies of walking
pepper bookshelves in hundreds of bookshops, but it is nonetheless true.” </i>Such
omissions are not due to a lack of material, as this anthology amply attests,
given that it contains 74 pieces of writing by 57 different authors. <i>“Much
of it has lain in plain sight,”</i> Andrews observes, citing the centrality of
walking to the denouement of Mary Shelley’s <i>Frankenstein</i> as a prime
example. In this anthology, which Andrews has arranged chronologically, there
is a mix of both prose and poem ranging through the years from 1746 to the
present day. Many of the authors it features are well-known names, such as
Dorothy Wordsworth, Jane Austen, Christina Rossetti, Elizabeth Barrett
Browning, Virginia Woolf, Anais Nin, and, of course, Nan Shepherd. But other
names are less well-known or even unexpected (Dorothy L. Sayers?), and this is the quirk of a good
anthology in my opinion. It can spark joy through welcome familiarity as
much as through its equally welcome opposite, by introducing one to new and hitherto
unheard-of writers and their works. Inspiring us, perhaps, to return to old literary
friends as much as prompting us to seek out the acquaintance of authors who are new to us and the promise of the world seen anew through their books.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dorothy_Wordsworth#/media/File:Dorothy-wordsworth.jpg" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="800" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhc1Hn4TurPz9MumghIzkY5MFbs4o_erf8dYKZT_YVqbNhMVzluwo-RqfJNtW-XJl0BSt3SlhYqzHc-OoE7EYyH-MmeQVVUl96VTC7iVIzNbYdYpxXHBY5-oKZQ69sg4IOtDb93Mo5oAaLH_xz9FgnfvBa-2zeEj5TGn6mxQO2RfRMu2M_-GKfggPLyOYrE/w400-h400/Dorothy%20Wordsworth.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dorothy_Wordsworth#/media/File:Dorothy-wordsworth.jpg" target="_blank">Dorothy Wordsworth</a></i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">But, that said – while anthologies
can and definitely do delight in such ways, they can also disappoint as well.
When excerpts appear to end just as they are getting going, or when a writer’s
poems or passages of prose are presented without any background to lend context
or exegesis to better inform the reader, it is not always possible to
appreciate or properly understand their significance without the anthologist
acting as a guide. In this sense, then I would have liked it if Andrews had
given the anthology a longer and more in-depth Introductory essay, or some brief
commentary or biographical information at the start of each excerpt. However, happily all is not lost in this
respect, because I would very much recommend reading <i><a href="https://reaktionbooks.co.uk/work/way-makers" target="_blank">Way Makers</a></i> as a
sequel to, or rather as a twin-tome / companion-compendium to be read in tandem with <i><a href="https://reaktionbooks.co.uk/work/wanderers" target="_blank">Wanderers</a></i>. Reading the two books, one after the other, really helped me to
understand more about the writers whom the anthology features, several of whom
I knew little or nothing about beforehand. For me, at least, these tended to be
the more contemporary writers, some of whom Andrews describes and analyses in <i>Wanderers</i>.
Each of the chapters in that book ends with a personal reflection which adds a
fresh and interesting perspective on her project to foreground women writers
who are also walkers, something similar, I think, would have worked well in <i>Way Makers</i>. </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wild_(2014_film)#/media/File:Wild2014Poster.jpg" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="370" data-original-width="250" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMafqjyo8Uv0sMULx7-DYHQwpa33hpcUIDpudFkTj_iRhZJi2mD9Rrf8Hrrv5gSO5RgM7Y9ExgvPWkSme5tNUsHMoe83oDVo5Uuhs1XMQbjebCalI86unJvk_4yTgFuTrusa12Vibc6dee8fb6Pv0y60axbi_e4VpZjCIZZZtAHXp-h04utJskIh8rZ58i/w270-h400/Wild%20Film%20Poster.jpg" width="270" /></a></span></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wild_(2014_film)#/media/File:Wild2014Poster.jpg" target="_blank">Wild (2014)</a></i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Indeed, without reading <i>Wanderers </i>beforehand, I think I would not have
understood or properly appreciated some of the writers whom this anthology
presents, for example: – Cheryl Strayed, whose story people might be more familiar
with from the recent movie adaptation of her book (published in 2012), starring
Reece Witherspoon, <i>Wild</i> (2014). Not having read Strayed’s memoir or seen
the movie myself, I found Andrews’ chapter on Strayed’s epic 1,100-mile hike along the Pacific Crest Trail to be fascinating; consequently, I felt kind of sad to find that Strayed is only allotted two and a half pages in <i>Way
Makers</i>, while other writers are given both lengthier and multiple entries. Given that Strayed is one of the more contemporary writers included in
the anthology, perhaps there were copyright restrictions which came into play
here? – But then again, it is certainly far too much to expect of any anthology for
it to be exhaustively comprehensive. <span face="Calibri, sans-serif">After all, as already acknowledged, anthologies are best read and appreciated as a judicious selection of material which has been assembled with the aim and intention of prompting us to seek out and expand our own literary compass. As Andrews herself says: </span><i>“This anthology is a start. May it not be the end.”</i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><a href="https://www.goodreads.com/photo/author/720668.Nan_Shepherd" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="351" data-original-width="331" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyKQoMuZGLxrDZRB1vb114faBFTI6Za1eZd0xwfJ2c3OfykobuMGyiJ5XvhUiI4n9eD_klp-7_zwLgpvve3V7-sFRNmpWylGiBIkToEiXyvMbEHm6ESWDa851E2OwwqrZ0IreZ_cgY1SId0EvXyWikTwcT4zG9aNx_9yvUDTeHlJ2dJHVfqYsTyNXzIej5/w378-h400/Nan%20Shepherd.jpg" width="378" /></a></span></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://www.goodreads.com/photo/author/720668.Nan_Shepherd" target="_blank">Nan Shepherd</a></i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Setting my very minor personal quibbles aside, however, this anthology very definitely succeeds in demonstrating how walking
is as much for women as it is for men both a creative and a physical exercise.
Walking is often an intensely personal act, one which can inspire both feelings
of freedom and liberation, as well as danger and fear – particularly for women, in different ways than it does for men. Consequently, there is unfortunately a necessary significance which needs to be highlighted by the simple fact that all the authors in this anthology are women. In writing, and equally in reading about walking we can all share something of the solitary self, and the elements – both literal and metaphorical – which make us simultaneously individual and communal souls. What Kerri Andrews’
shows us throughout the pages of both <i>Wanderers</i> and <i>Way Makers</i> is
that there is a rich literary heritage which continues to evolve through
generations of women writers who love to walk; an essence which resides within
all of us who like to set out on foot purely for the pleasure of walking, whether
in open country or in crowded city streets; an essence which these writers have distilled
through diaries, letters, poetry, travel guidebooks, and novels. Walking and writing are often allied in the sense that they are both about new ways of seeing:</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><i>“This day, to put off the moment of seeing it face to face, I chose to climb first the easy Canisp, which blocks the view; then, grasping the summit cairn firmly, I turned to look at Suilven across the gash of Glen Dorcha. A monster indeed, but at the moment passive. I started up its gentle slopes at the south-east end in sun; but once embarked on the long ridge, down came the mist. Suilven is made up of three humped masses connected by very narrow </i>bealachs; <i>as I came over the top of Meall Bheag, the first hump, I could dimly see the slopes of Meall Meadhonach, the second, but I could not see down to the </i>bealach <i>in between; when I had groped my way down I found that it consisted of one rock, across which you could straddle – a nice place, and by some freak of wind the mist cleared to the south-west as I sat there a minute, and though I could not see the top I had left five minutes ago, I could see the hills of Skye forty miles away.” </i><b>– Janet Adam Smith, <i>Mountain Holidays </i>(1946).</b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><a href="https://www.pinterest.co.uk/pin/479633429048298539/" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="529" data-original-width="640" height="331" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEil6aQy0EE-SrEWJm-AzD8ln2yBkbyOjidN2LvvYKOqBzOq1ZPhDZyIxD91cCerUvV9jMRQQXpS_zrJs0N0nbM2oCbNNcoO4hol_5qNBig5gNgjQXVgmq0JcRfYBAS_WjFUOcBdQr1uxSABGR8nsd7gkbqmCY05dsuvsDBhHhkFyWObOQXiDclOk8Mid-VF/w400-h331/Laura%20Knight.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://www.pinterest.co.uk/pin/479633429048298539/" target="_blank">At the Edge of the Cliff, by Dame Laura Knight</a></i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">As with Virginia Woolf,
writing in 1927, reading an anthology such as this one is somewhat akin to Woolf’s imaginative reflections upon roaming the streets of London in search of
inspiration through her observing the lives of other people: <i>“Walking home
through the desolation one could tell oneself the story of the dwarf, of the
blind men, of the party in the Mayfair mansion, of the quarrel in the stationer’s
shop. Into each of these lives one could penetrate a little way, far enough to
give oneself the illusion that one could become a washerwoman, a publican, a
street singer. And what greater delight and wonder can there be than to leave
the straight lines of personality and deviate into those footpaths that lead
beneath brambles and thick tree trunks into the heart of the forest where live
those wild beasts, our fellow men?” – </i>Or in this anthology’s case, the
lives of our fellow women who choose to walk and reflect in writing their personal
journeys undertaken on foot. In this respect, <i>Way Makers </i>opens up a wonderful array of horizon-broadening paths which will be of interest, inspiration and enjoyment to anyone who is curious about the nexus that bonds human nature and the world at large through the medium of the written word, a medium which can be both a window and a mirror, inviting us to see the world and ourselves anew.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Virginia_Woolf#/media/File:George_Charles_Beresford_-_Virginia_Woolf_in_1902_-_Restoration.jpg" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="1093" data-original-width="800" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBEuCgbKlJcM4P8btqRbFH6ivr8DG_Ra0Xdma6mtx7HsKti1hPie6HAcwGG1qeLCrto_3E4v8OKPL0I622YXnfNjwDjrLV32WkDBpQIQIgZl6C6Cath_nzzYk-wPmaIsOygdl3OSDSaV30mZThSkGNaSD0wmOxSbk0xBVbLG_vLBic2z7jWO6tz75fsFkz/w293-h400/Virginia%20Woolf.jpg" width="293" /></a></span></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Virginia_Woolf#/media/File:George_Charles_Beresford_-_Virginia_Woolf_in_1902_-_Restoration.jpg" target="_blank">Virginia Woolf</a></i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><o:p> ~</o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><o:p><br /></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">I would like to thank Fran Roberts
and Reaktion Books for very kindly sending me a review copy of <i><a href="https://reaktionbooks.co.uk/work/way-makers" target="_blank">Way Makers:An Anthology of Women’s Writing about Walking</a></i>, edited by Kerri Andrews
(Reaktion, 2023).<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><i>Also on 'Waymarks'</i></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><i><br /></i></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://eccentricparabola.blogspot.com/2020/06/going-global-men-only-on-mission.html" target="_blank">Going Global - Men (Only) On A Mission</a></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://eccentricparabola.blogspot.com/2014/03/person-place-essence-of-good-travel.html" target="_blank">'Person & Place' - The Essence of Good Travel Writing</a></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://eccentricparabola.blogspot.com/2014/11/what-is-place.html" target="_blank">What Is Place?</a></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://eccentricparabola.blogspot.com/2016/11/mountain-climbing-by-mistake.html" target="_blank">Mountain Climbing by Mistake</a></b></p><br /><p></p>Timhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11641833714036731203noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-88759862385027089.post-10353380996469084582023-06-12T18:26:00.046+01:002024-02-09T00:16:23.784+00:00Research Note - Kalon Lama Champa Tendar / Jampa Tendar (1870–1923)<p> </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><a href="https://archive.org/details/chinainturmoilst00king/page/190/mode/2up" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="820" data-original-width="688" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkSPxT8nYrS_lxLCO3f6qxTL9QoJrGzOeOHcsR1I22oyg2e_J-pU8VWhgm4rhiXvQqqwTG7CPaEz8XNInO-uQu0jIeIz0KgVYSlRrEMgQxtTi2ILLnj4NL7k9jTFbUboB96WvuWmrcmUsoDOHaCnJcuedcc4AuDWcbxq5-FwAAN6xXHcszEWZtT4jADg/w335-h400/Champar%20Tendar%20by%20LMK.jpg" width="335" /></a></span></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://archive.org/details/chinainturmoilst00king/page/190/mode/2up" target="_blank">Kalon Lama Champa Tendar, from 'China in Turmoil' by L.M. King (1927)</a></i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><b>This post is intended to be <u>a
useful note for Tibet Researchers</u> interested in the <u>Kalön Lama Champa Tendar
/ Jampa Tendar</u> (Byams pa bstan dar, 1870–1923).<o:p></o:p></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">I noticed a photograph
posted recently on Twitter (10 May 2023; see <a href="https://twitter.com/HistoryTibetan/status/1656380421649715206?s=20" target="_blank">here</a>) which mistakenly identifies the Kalön Lama (bka'
blon bla ma) Tenpa Jamyang (Bstan pa ’jam dyangs, 1888–1944) as Kalön Lama (bka'
blon bla ma) Champa Tendar / Jampa Tendar (Byams pa bstan dar, 1870–1923).<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://twitter.com/HistoryTibetan/status/1656380421649715206?s=20" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="831" data-original-width="743" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhthuK83f2rZ3x82Zzeb75QlXZQYGep_tRPssfbuMO1BITvqqA_sxErnsUcVbXY-v2D0e-2gDHj-zQNslRleDvTsqdlhNiuE-gBQtJ8aGX7jIg8o97YCp3OR4UQBqOcVphyYZMi3r4z0uBYORfho9j4v7JJ4G1B7fG-8DA-PXCcrITdl55iNI24Vnibkg/w358-h400/Wrong%20Kalon.jpg" width="358" /></a></div><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">The photograph was sourced from <b><i><a href="https://tibet.prm.ox.ac.uk/index.php.html" target="_blank">The Tibet Album: British Photography in Central Tibet, 1920-1950</a></i></b>, which is
a fantastic on-line resource jointly created quite a number of years ago now
(c.2006?) by the Pitt Rivers Museum in Oxford and the British Museum in London. It
seems likely that the error was derived from the <a href="https://tibet.prm.ox.ac.uk/biography_475.html" target="_blank"><b>biographical record</b></a> which is incorrectly
connected to the image on the <i>Tibet Album</i> website. None of the eight
images associated with this biographical record are of Champa Tendar, who died in 1923. They all appear to be of Tenpa Jamyang, who succeeded him as Kalon Lama, as the range of dates given for each photo (between 1936-1937 & 1940-1941) on the <i>Tibet Album</i> would seem to suggest. None of the records/transcriptions given alongside these images actually specifies which Kalon Lama they depict, although, the ‘Glossary of Terms’ which they all link to (see <a href="https://tibet.prm.ox.ac.uk/glossary.php.html#Kalon%20Lama" target="_blank">here</a>) states: <i>“Kalon Lama. He was the ecclesiastical Cabinet Minister in the Tibetan government. The post was held by Jampa Tendar at the time of the 1936 mission.”</i> – which, given Champa Tendar/Jampa Tendar’s date of death (1923), is evidently incorrect.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">I first noticed this error several
years ago and I did mention it to Frank Drauschke, from whom the <i>Tibet Album’s</i> biographical
information for Champa Tendar was derived, and also to my former colleagues at
the British Museum, who were involved with the creation of the <i>Tibet Album</i>,
but no one at that particular time seemed to know who was then maintaining the
website.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEih-uttME4cAgcZkRVsnz8If-HgTTg9KZMQvFoe33xB-OCfvoFjmKMmeNhwODCyL6sI1hQ7KVyxxOT-5s8fPT5cqxHzWPJSKRluRpK0VRjmmNUtZIkeUM-EFDbcBglTAhTbesGfeCqyexrkSyY8lUgpMx3z0elhHLK0J4Dkz40pjYo2Zv_W7bcFND-xeg/s1896/The%20Tibet%20Album.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="853" data-original-width="1896" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEih-uttME4cAgcZkRVsnz8If-HgTTg9KZMQvFoe33xB-OCfvoFjmKMmeNhwODCyL6sI1hQ7KVyxxOT-5s8fPT5cqxHzWPJSKRluRpK0VRjmmNUtZIkeUM-EFDbcBglTAhTbesGfeCqyexrkSyY8lUgpMx3z0elhHLK0J4Dkz40pjYo2Zv_W7bcFND-xeg/w400-h180/The%20Tibet%20Album.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">So, having been reminded of it by
seeing this error pop up again recently, I thought I would post some
information here in the hope that it might act as a useful signpost to
researchers who are interested in the lives and biographies of these two Kalon
Lamas, mainly in order to point such researchers in the direction of a relatively recently
published paper which gives the best information on these two individuals, and
so thereby help to clarify their identities. The article is titled: <b><i><a href="https://www.persee.fr/doc/asie_0766-1177_2018_num_27_1_1512" target="_blank">Monk Officials as Military Officers in the Tibetan Ganden Phodrang Army (1895–1959)</a></i></b>,
by <b><a href="https://www.crcao.fr/membre/alice-travers/" target="_blank">Alice Travers</a></b> in <b>Cahiers d'Extrême-Asie</b>, Vol. 27 (2018), pp. 211-242
<span style="font-size: x-small;">(See, DOI: <a href="https://doi.org/10.3406/asie.2018.1512" target="_blank">https://doi.org/10.3406/asie.2018.1512</a> | JSTOR: <a href="https://www.jstor.org/stable/26756586">https://www.jstor.org/stable/26756586</a>)</span>
– NB: the article is in English, and is freely accessible on-line (via the <a href="https://www.persee.fr/doc/asie_0766-1177_2018_num_27_1_1512" target="_blank">DOI link</a>).<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.persee.fr/doc/asie_0766-1177_2018_num_27_1_1512" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="681" data-original-width="810" height="336" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheFg6M-lqMpixKxYa7ve-VmjrchK8qdc6rVPfXbsII3c-5S6MjGZK4UDf07FfCKR8Uizk7Ed0jtOKn-cE4LgP7lMQums_4jzGQl8eZ-8FHjo7lcJRUfPw7fIV3gBDOoO3vSRiQsJ_DJ56K4eFtDIGuVtaNEMkRnzmVqmJC6r5m_WvlhILHdunWq29GOw/w400-h336/Travers%20-%20Abstract.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">In posting this short research note
here on my blog I do not mean to criticise or detract in any way at all from
the hard work and great effort which many people far more qualified and knowledgeable
than myself contributed to the AHRC funded <i>Tibet Visual History 1920-1950</i>
project. Indeed, <b>the <i>Tibet Album</i>, as I have acknowledged above, is <u>a
truly fantastic and authoritative resource</u> </b>which is and continues to be
immensely useful to Tibet researchers everywhere. And it has certainly been a
great help to me in my own research. Nor do I wish to criticise the Twitter account that I have referred to above, which also posts very valuable information concerning the visual history of Tibet via that social media site. It is clear that the errors of association and attribution which I point out here were unintentional mistakes.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">My own interest in the Kalön Lama (bka'
blon bla ma) Champa Tendar / Jampa Tendar (Byams pa bstan dar, 1870–1923)
derive from two angles; firstly, from my PhD research concerning Western explorers in East Tibet, and, secondly, from my family
connection to Tibetan writer, Rinchen Lhamo (1900-1928) and her husband,
British Consul, Louis Magrath King (1886-1949). King knew Champa Tendar
personally and wrote about him in <i><b>China in Turmoil: Studies in Personality</b></i>
(London: Heath Cranton, 1927) – <i><a href="https://archive.org/details/chinainturmoilst00king/page/180/mode/2up" target="_blank">Chapter 15: A Frontier Incident</a></i>, as
Travers discusses in her article, along with a number of other primary and secondary
sources regarding both Kalon Lamas. Travers also correctly identifies the images of Tenpa Jamyang on the <i>Tibet Album</i>, reproducing one as part of her article, and includes three very clear images of Champa Tendar sourced from books by Eric Teichman, Rinchen Lhamo and Louis Magrath King. This makes it very easy to distinguish the respective visual likenesses of the two Kalon Lamas.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Kalon_Lama_Jampa_Tendar,_Governer_General_of_Kham.jpg" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="319" data-original-width="196" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitEiTH4wYQCY5quiWvRGzF63Psa1KMTBwWA_iIh14QY2RZFXGmBpA1shahYGa9-MTvHxjcMG2FrQL3pE7Dhdn1JuUoO7ZuHArHTQKKu-N5Gq-A9Aez22Y7b6DkHcIn2CpG-W2g_zryO9cublIOHXhpEvQBgmY9ISgLjC6TJNTXdHrDKn9xWvkxpZ__2A/w246-h400/Kalon_Lama_Jampa_Tendar,_Governer_General_of_Kham.jpg" width="246" /></a></span></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Kalon_Lama_Jampa_Tendar,_Governer_General_of_Kham.jpg" target="_blank">Kalon Lama Jampa Tendar (via Wikimedia Commons)</a></i></td></tr></tbody></table><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">See also: Jamyang Norbu's <b>"Shadow Tibet" - <a href="https://www.jamyangnorbu.com/blog/2008/07/19/black-annals-goldstein-the-negation-of-tibetan-history-part-i-tris/" target="_blank">'Black Annals'</a></b> (19 July 2008)</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">& Alice Travers, <i><a href="https://hal.science/hal-03716900v1/document?fbclid=IwAR2SyCvzvcuIPkY8DimHGKoPbCOiCFClPia4jETOdSNBllZc1cJ3JIi0xUo" target="_blank"><b>Marching into View: The Tibetan Army in Historic Photographs 1895–1959</b></a></i> (Tethys, 2022), p. 64, Plate 39</span></div><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><o:p><br /></o:p></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><i><u>Related
posts on ‘Waymarks’<o:p></o:p></u></i></b></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><a href="http://eccentricparabola.blogspot.com/2013/08/china-tibet-through-western-eyes.html" target="_blank"><b>China
& Tibet </b><b>–</b><b> </b><b>Through Western Eyes</b></a></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><a href="http://eccentricparabola.blogspot.com/2014/03/rinchen-lhamo-woman-of-kham.html" target="_blank">Rinchen Lhamo – A Woman of Kham</a><o:p></o:p></b></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><o:p> </o:p></b></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><i><u>And
information on my PhD research & related publications:<o:p></o:p></u></i></b></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://tim-chamberlain.owlstown.net/pages" target="_blank">"Empirical
Adventurers: Science and Imperial Exploration in East Tibet, 1900-1949"</a><o:p></o:p></b></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><i>Tim
Chamberlain – Birkbeck College, University of London (2015 onwards)<o:p></o:p></i></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://tim-chamberlain.owlstown.net/publications/11256-edge-of-empires" target="_blank">Edge of Empires</a>, <i>The British Museum Magazine</i> (2010)<o:p></o:p></b></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://tim-chamberlain.owlstown.net/publications/11254-books-of-change-a-western-family-s-writings-on-china-1855-1949" target="_blank">Books of Change</a>, <i>Journal of the RAS China</i> (2013)</b><o:p></o:p></p><br /><p></p>Timhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11641833714036731203noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-88759862385027089.post-40204248190602919932023-05-03T00:00:00.006+01:002023-05-21T10:47:10.940+01:00"Closing the Gap" on the Yarlung-Tsangpo River<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZ0m504AhVTs-h7zojYHVByx-xMJKd5cOBd4hUuOjrZxJfUFX_Ug_tNmF04o_jWeRrPzMxnxCO7BbSE8dQK0h4XkVcvqStwB3WqVDGJN5B6s2CbsYl1h5SvWNzFzJ_uR_aNfu5ArfeC2lQG006dTH4gaUal7HzV52hI-a1aKVSkG2gMUY59PxXV5lGlw/s2272/The%20Heart%20of%20the%20World%202.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1704" data-original-width="2272" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZ0m504AhVTs-h7zojYHVByx-xMJKd5cOBd4hUuOjrZxJfUFX_Ug_tNmF04o_jWeRrPzMxnxCO7BbSE8dQK0h4XkVcvqStwB3WqVDGJN5B6s2CbsYl1h5SvWNzFzJ_uR_aNfu5ArfeC2lQG006dTH4gaUal7HzV52hI-a1aKVSkG2gMUY59PxXV5lGlw/w400-h300/The%20Heart%20of%20the%20World%202.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><b>The Heart of the World: A
Journey to the Last Secret Place </b><i>by Ian Baker </i>(Penguin, 2004)</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">This is a good, pacey and engaging
travelogue, which – in the tradition of ‘an American abroad’ – reminded me a
little of Peter Hessler’s <i>River Town.</i><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikNhHF8FvPjM6dzAlKzP7U3JV3VShf00BNskHDEUE-e7aZ89m0nttiPjXVmuYIMJnfzgCTuQUAFrll3pnceGsEYblCks2sku96YVNLW4wed0i5OLTMZZiP056Bq5F4bk3-AAp3rdNS7sdVQFFtWqp3E4eKIBHwnGQr0Nexn0xt8KVydtj72RHxdhp1Fg/s342/FMBailey.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="342" data-original-width="254" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikNhHF8FvPjM6dzAlKzP7U3JV3VShf00BNskHDEUE-e7aZ89m0nttiPjXVmuYIMJnfzgCTuQUAFrll3pnceGsEYblCks2sku96YVNLW4wed0i5OLTMZZiP056Bq5F4bk3-AAp3rdNS7sdVQFFtWqp3E4eKIBHwnGQr0Nexn0xt8KVydtj72RHxdhp1Fg/w149-h200/FMBailey.jpg" width="149" /></a> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjePCeMWMOWmkqomloChvEexB5gzWUh5zT3AwxRc6IErjyjBgSxL6z7y5774hYnFp9mDP-7OW8FghrOpUQ_Inzi2bcEwyhwiMNTpa5tr7GE0zfD7qwhaz2b9NYyTKolBuanqYmdLW3AtG4t3RzKmxrO12VwTuGdiG502BnNpb2G90GwrjYkKCqeGsaySg/s810/FKingdonWard.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="810" data-original-width="624" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjePCeMWMOWmkqomloChvEexB5gzWUh5zT3AwxRc6IErjyjBgSxL6z7y5774hYnFp9mDP-7OW8FghrOpUQ_Inzi2bcEwyhwiMNTpa5tr7GE0zfD7qwhaz2b9NYyTKolBuanqYmdLW3AtG4t3RzKmxrO12VwTuGdiG502BnNpb2G90GwrjYkKCqeGsaySg/w154-h200/FKingdonWard.jpg" width="154" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i>F.M. "Eric" Bailey & Frank Kingdon Ward</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><p></p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">I read <i>The Heart of the World</i>
primarily because I am interested in the lives and travels of Eric Bailey and
Frank Kingdon-Ward (who could almost be this book’s co-author, given how often
he is quoted throughout!). And also because I am interested in how the Tibetan
Buddhist concept of ‘beyul’ (<i>sBas yul</i>) has been co-opted and adapted
into the Western idea of ‘Shangri-La’ – for which this book offers a number of
interesting insights and points to other literary works which it might have
been hard to find or trace otherwise. The journeys made over several years
which Baker recounts are tough trials of stamina, both physical and spiritual,
with obstacles which are both natural, seemingly supernatural, and, of course,
bureaucratic. However, I do agree with the comments (made on <i><a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/406987.The_Heart_of_the_World" target="_blank">GoodReads</a></i>)
regarding the authorial persona; which, perhaps ironically for someone who
presents himself as an aspiring Buddhist practitioner, comes across at times as
somewhat egocentric. Similarly, while Baker is often at pains to stress that he
is not a privileged white-man of the old explorer mould – this is exactly what
he is at most points in the text, especially when, towards the end of the book,
he and his companions are attempting “to close the gap” on the “last unexplored”
five-mile stretch of the Tsangpo, utilising indigenous labour to enable them to
do so (not that there would be any other option, of course).<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Yarlung_Tsangpo_map.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="1111" data-original-width="1706" height="260" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguNucD1NjpGwGlk1DzDe8mwjDYgTkVbRMY948LVJLsxusTWtRGXGjXEHqKVnocj57eLQNxGdbXS3lERGVDmlK4ykV2e4i9Zvs_eLL_BQ12MxKNOwJR6Sc8iuiQqj9Za2ZkFbCjv9zlXC2CZyGOUGyYDDSFXCSNxR-uk_TBYPN6atxLuC2hWGkBO0Nacw/w400-h260/Yarlung_Tsangpo_map.png" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">There is a clear desire to complete
(or exceed?) the endeavours which Bailey and Kingdon-Ward failed to achieve
themselves; and, in the closing pages of the book, there is an equally palpable
desire to beat a large Chinese expedition to find and measure ‘the last’ <a href="https://photocontest.smithsonianmag.com/photocontest/detail/heart-shaped-waterfall-around-pemako/" target="_blank">major waterfall</a> on the Tsangpo. Although Baker is very evidently self-aware of these
particular flaws, and perhaps understandably circles around them uneasily and
inconclusively. No matter how informed he is about the region, its spiritual
geography and local traditions, he cannot escape the fact that he is an
outsider. However deeply he manages to enter, he always has to reconcile
himself with the fact that he must ultimately leave again at the end of
whichever trip it is he is narrating. Naturally, the reader is drawn to empathise.
But the book does also indulge time-and-again in poetic and spiritual flights
of fancy which skate a little too close to cliché in places (e.g. – to give but
one example, how often it seems that the weather brightening up is attributed
to the possible intervention of divine favour, or a lama happening to appear on
the scene at the moment the sun comes out), which, for me at any rate, raised a
bit of a barrier between reader and author.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUDGTfV3kdwBtIAhRC-UThDljrnUNW6h0wPFiDJlOQnPRzfr6r1xdfsObZ4uOjoe4zouQSC61XJADTkjlxJykQtvcLajwAj2JXQDfN4jEyAFn5HnNkEMfpw3HNOllW_e2IFlWDA3NbfdFb58vl36HJ1cNSQmgEG6NJJRASOAbhTZE9IhCmXwHmr-jfzw/s1406/Yarlung%20Tsangpo%20Great%20Canyon.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1406" data-original-width="1000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUDGTfV3kdwBtIAhRC-UThDljrnUNW6h0wPFiDJlOQnPRzfr6r1xdfsObZ4uOjoe4zouQSC61XJADTkjlxJykQtvcLajwAj2JXQDfN4jEyAFn5HnNkEMfpw3HNOllW_e2IFlWDA3NbfdFb58vl36HJ1cNSQmgEG6NJJRASOAbhTZE9IhCmXwHmr-jfzw/w228-h320/Yarlung%20Tsangpo%20Great%20Canyon.jpg" width="228" /></a> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtja9kzowLTjQZkG-2yVJWz29FijuAhygrx5nmiNOjrqvI7WRC269lreLRQ1-nF3E9HBVH-gJbf8mKmb-AbP6vhqRBVdqN8PaHsPSXSuVl180I37Laldd_CM4QKa35ZXkm4uBEB1Lyn82P4Zvfj29AiUoqKeBgSzXIIGaE5LUgs9eSvEhi7WJSwikMSg/s667/The%20Heart%20of%20the%20World%201.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="667" data-original-width="445" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtja9kzowLTjQZkG-2yVJWz29FijuAhygrx5nmiNOjrqvI7WRC269lreLRQ1-nF3E9HBVH-gJbf8mKmb-AbP6vhqRBVdqN8PaHsPSXSuVl180I37Laldd_CM4QKa35ZXkm4uBEB1Lyn82P4Zvfj29AiUoqKeBgSzXIIGaE5LUgs9eSvEhi7WJSwikMSg/s320/The%20Heart%20of%20the%20World%201.jpg" width="213" /></a><br /><br /></div><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">That said though, I have read a
particularly mind-numbing Chinese book (in translation; <i>The Yarlung Tsangpo
Great Canyon: The Last Secret World,</i> by Zhang Jimin) about the enormous
Chinese expedition (that features in the closing chapters of Baker’s book)
which mangles all its references to Kingdon-Ward, including something as simple
as getting his name right. One can’t help but sympathise with the local
Tibetans’ conflicts of interest in wanting Pemako to remain unviolated by
outsiders whilst also needing to make a living in such an ‘out-of-the-way place’
by acting as porters to comparatively affluent external interlopers. No matter
how difficult or sacred the terrain, in the covetous eyes of such outsiders
(Baker as much as the Chinese) the lure to conquer and possess these ‘unknown
realms’ – real or imagined; physical or spiritual – in the end amounts to the
same outcomes.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://pahar.in/pahar/1926-southeastern-tibet-by-kingdon-ward-and-cawdor-jpg-2/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="413" data-original-width="476" height="348" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXfINPRF-tatJSaH_YkGRw4UCefNmGwXNtA44lBK-EF1NIaEHPfobhTR6-6I0u_7voS8m3I4j96BHWwSDZJIVBUEwgUXNd0Wlrofh2BvMC-0dIQ_7NB112em7k8ad8Apxb_yGRhVCmj3p3lw7XAWjBz9Xy0edLZyxMS0hvJzNghIMae2LOmdt83Lfvew/w400-h348/FKW%20Map.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">All too often, it’s simply a matter
of time until others encroach and transform a place into something other than
what it once was to those who have gone before, and even moreso to those who
have always called such places home. Perhaps in this sense, Baker is an
eloquent witness to the completion of a process which was begun by those whom
he has sought to emulate, i.e. Bailey, Kingdon-Ward and Cawdor. Hence, one can’t
help but feeling both forlorn and perhaps vicariously a little complicit too
(having enjoyed the narrative of Baker’s journeys), when closing this book
after reading its concluding chapter.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><a href="https://ianbakerjourneys.wordpress.com/about/" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="700" data-original-width="700" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIzEhZ-SZ9wp6WIxwLpXOI98gYWAVZZDw7aKs3M1uWNwqWQwQNT7KHEFLMmAMvjB89j_d_RjXoNW_MjrIV3o7VB5fKqGUF4cbzD3ReQV2-6z_JK2t-_LihnsECCzKiKyHsYDYeeJe-xSqq6oRMLWD_oyQVC1Z2NAI6aHWS9tCI2Hf8CR1etSooecLIvA/w400-h400/Ian%20Baker.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://ianbakerjourneys.wordpress.com/about/" target="_blank">Ian Baker</a></i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /><br /><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><i>Also on 'Waymarks'</i></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><a href="http://eccentricparabola.blogspot.com/2018/06/exploring-land-of-blue-poppy-frank.html" target="_blank">Exploring the Land of the Blue Poppy - Frank Kingdon Ward & Tibet</a></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoyhgHWUyMIbkeUj53PV4V84cdwzMJmbbfSHzH73IQ1CVNCQQPTbLXC5eHiXMniHL54IB0iJmBcGNrNw7ooFEFgF80Qqz91qCvp-q6ruTCAFAvG-dOwgshTANdaxzwIv_VW5MrGgfqMk7p48bH_hQTrKrU4cA8qnZZWg9r1y6KisSzJox5tqwcGO_10Q/s1329/Riddle%20of%20the%20Tsangpo%20Gorges.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1329" data-original-width="700" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoyhgHWUyMIbkeUj53PV4V84cdwzMJmbbfSHzH73IQ1CVNCQQPTbLXC5eHiXMniHL54IB0iJmBcGNrNw7ooFEFgF80Qqz91qCvp-q6ruTCAFAvG-dOwgshTANdaxzwIv_VW5MrGgfqMk7p48bH_hQTrKrU4cA8qnZZWg9r1y6KisSzJox5tqwcGO_10Q/w211-h400/Riddle%20of%20the%20Tsangpo%20Gorges.jpg" width="211" /></a><br /><br /></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><i>See also: </i><a href="https://www.latimes.com/archives/la-xpm-2005-jan-07-et-baker7-story.html" style="font-style: italic;" target="_blank">'A Man Who Heeded The Call of Shangri-La,'</a><i> by Susan Salter Reynolds in </i>Los Angeles Times<i> (7 January 2005).</i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><i>And the <a href="http://www.tibethiddenfalls.com/" target="_blank">Tibet Hidden Falls</a> website by the Gillenwater brothers, who travelled with Ian Baker in the 1990s.</i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><i>Plus, </i><span style="text-align: left;"><i>Hamid Sardar-Afkhami, <a href="https://himalaya.socanth.cam.ac.uk/collections/journals/kailash/pdf/kailash_18_0304_01.pdf" target="_blank">‘An Account of Padma bkod: A Hidden Land in Southeastern Tibet,’</a> Kailash, Vol. 18, No.3 (1996), pp. 1–21</i></span></p><br /><p></p>Timhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11641833714036731203noreply@blogger.com0Mêdog County, Nyingchi, Tibet, China29.3252099 95.333041.0149760638211553 60.17679 57.635443736178843 130.48928999999998tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-88759862385027089.post-71729441995461629932023-04-03T14:46:00.012+01:002024-02-14T01:09:19.090+00:00Flowers & Fantasy - 'Plant Hunting' As Colonial Era Board Game<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://duxsomnium.com/pages/botany" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="1116" data-original-width="1076" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi708ezZ7T0PnHKku7QSGzKp3F0AU8gakJsbTZ0zFtIvOtfxE1RC_1aQYBo5WNvlhEE4gjA_tgtgu_Rxfd2XF0ry2y3FPQVuekzZI50xywhMb3LlKdq6HF40JZW0HSuemZRsJ_uqeacVhwxoG6QQKzfgkiO-9O8Pfa9rVBsMtmVC_7SgTFNdiG1iRdb4Q/w386-h400/Botany%20Board%20Game%20(2023)%20b.jpg" width="386" /></a></div><br /> <p></p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><i>Whose turn is it? </i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">I’m not an avid board game player,
but some of my friends are, and so I have often been corralled into playing
with them. A friend of mine even invented a board game which was based on our
group of friends and the archaeological excavation we used to spend our summers
working on. It was ingenious and the playing of it even managed to reveal real-life
gossip and secrets which some of the players had been unaware of previously, so
whenever we played, it was always immensely good fun – although sometimes
game-play could go on for hours and hours!<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://boardgamegeek.com/boardgame/3149/lost-valley-dinosaurs" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="881" data-original-width="1227" height="288" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuVRFSQNQAJJy5YgByB6oCLZ9ecqX0j_HUsyI0W716VzBZ6jmd3xGyaNNqVYeCxpeAy459Gcq1GLmmYDA1rDJHWRhWFiRew65GQVANRv19RojmuMtovQfMSBULcb6j75hqYZq8MeQrFj6PzGHS0mK6sLXnfbyYCS2i1Cn9En4NJ3gI6p_jceNHnsbQsA/w400-h288/Lost%20Valley%20of%20the%20Dinosaurs%20(1985)%201.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">When I was a child, I remember
seeing a board game advertised on TV, which I must have nagged my parents to
get me for Christmas one year. It was called <i><a href="https://boardgamegeek.com/boardgame/3149/lost-valley-dinosaurs" target="_blank">Lost Valley of the Dinosaurs</a> </i>(Waddingtons,
1985)<i>.</i> It was a kind of <i>Indiana Jones</i> meets <i>The Lost World, </i>or <i>The Land That
Time Forgot</i> themed game (NB – it came out well before the first <i>Jurassic
Park</i> movie) in which players had to cross a valley to reach an Aztec temple and retrieve a treasure of gold coins, but there were a number of obstacles
which could stop you. As I recall these were primarily either falling into a
swamp and going round in circles until somehow you were able to get out; that
is, if you didn’t get eaten by a swamp monster. Similarly, you might get eaten
by marauding dinosaurs or a pterodactyl swooping down while you tried to cross
the board. The routes across which might also become cut-off if a volcano
erupted and lava subsequently began to spread across the board. It was really
good fun, and I played it many times over the years with both family and
friends.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://boardgamegeek.com/boardgame/3149/lost-valley-dinosaurs" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="529" data-original-width="790" height="268" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuADpMGd0khdl7LGmKX4ha1ofFu28yluuPY2Wuo-bz2Bciv0I4Xe5x9FLx9yGRK4GH2OD2NsaAeNQF4_Ssm3xQVteKwGaEd2P5t7cxouIRO5kOe3pKHc0LfehkU7aD4iBx5tCL2XOlQJCr11k2YJmgScaIbN9_buojnuYYy95rPqRvwj5Mx1K_KPH-aA/w400-h268/LVOTD%20Cards%202.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://boardgamegeek.com/boardgame/3149/lost-valley-dinosaurs" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="289" data-original-width="488" height="238" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidvwQIpJMdLOSDVwxmj_E9YyD0gg4oZ4E-YIjLHimaTGa_r9XlTKBn6AeidB6GLp666SmF3lmDZG_oPUE3Z1DMurtjYo9xMPuIotz9cJESQeeGH9EYONuus7svB2zTio4AS_RMwjHxdjNC-0oSPt4WxJReqZE2B4DLp2LTyWddefXSK8Pn7uI28NG1RA/w400-h238/LVOTD%20Cards%201.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">The theme of the game being
exploration evidently belied the childhood interests which in later life would
lead me on to researching and writing a PhD dissertation about early twentieth-century
explorers in the Sino-Tibetan borderlands. Indeed, <i>Lost Valley of the
Dinosaurs</i> has some echoes of the search for fossilised dinosaur eggs in 1920s
China. A genuine fossil hunt in which the fedora hat-wearing Roy Chapman
Andrews is often touted as the real-life inspiration for Indiana Jones himself.
But it was the so-called ‘plant hunters’ who perhaps have interested me the
most alongside the possibly better-known archaeologists and anthropologists. As
regular readers of this blog will know – ‘plant hunters’, such as Frank Kingdon-Ward,
George Forrest and Joseph Rock, Reginald Farrer and Bill Purdom, as well as
Frank Ludlow and George Sherriff, have all been featured in various blog posts
here on <i>Waymarks</i>. And I am always on the look out for new information about
all of them, but one thing I wasn’t expecting to appear was a board game
loosely based on their wider botanical cohort's endeavours. <i><a href="https://duxsomnium.com/pages/botany" target="_blank">Botany – A Victorian Expedition</a> … A Game
Full of Adventure, Intrigue and Flowers </i>(Dux Somnium, 2023).</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://duxsomnium.com/pages/botany" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="895" data-original-width="899" height="399" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirTekeboqyCGQjwZ6q1yjZ4wbONfuNPnFuLPrZrpmGEChNbiYwL45_vwsatBMA2vx-ikuZLdtbuHvPnFsnJl73Yw5uGHuWAmJd5IkBaPsJWQ6FPywviSOgXYo1_sNAet6EqNQ3r0EyL9GZ8dQm55h2lYMsPKTyzAxtXlgErMpvZdDF4KqrGQT-52yFdQ/w400-h399/Botany%20Board%20Game%20(2023).jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">The promotional blurb for this
particular board game, which doesn’t appear to have been released yet, seems to
imply it is based on the plant hunters of an earlier era – perhaps more along the
lines of ‘eminent’ Victorians, such as: Robert Fortune, Richard Spruce, Walter
Henry Bates, Alfred Russel Wallace, and Charles Darwin – perhaps with some ‘indomitable’
women explorers, of the likes of Isabella Bird, Amelia Edwards, Mary Kingsley,
Nina Mazuchelli, or Lizzie Hessel, added in for good measure. What strikes me
the most though is the tone of its promotional blurb which seems weirdly out
of joint with our current times. It reads like a ringing endorsement of colonialism.
Almost as though it were an entertaining-yet-educational tool for instilling a
colonialist ethos in the impressionable minds of a rising generation of young board
game players and would-be empire builders!<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p><i>“Adventure, intrigue, and
flowers! Botany is a strategy board game where you take on the role of a
Victorian Era flower hunter as you explore the world to gather fortune and fame
and be named the Royal Botanist. In Botany, each player takes on the role of a
character whose abilities will shape the way they play the game. Will you focus
on exploring the globe in search of the most valuable specimens? Will you make
quick and efficient trips to gather reputation quickly and build your estate?</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><i><o:p> </o:p></i><i>Each player begins the game with
a set of randomized goals that they then use to plot their path to victory.
When players set out from their estate, they have access only to the coins they
can carry with them. They can use these coins to traverse the globe and gain
crew members and items to improve their odds of surviving the unknown, enhance
their abilities, and increase the efficiency with which they traverse the map.
However, there is danger in spending too freely, and players must ensure they
have enough wealth on hand to return to England with their specimens intact.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><i><o:p> </o:p></i><i>Turns in Botany are streamlined
in order to minimize downtime and keep players engaged. Players will move
around the map, build their character, and experience the story of their rise
to fame, all with an eye for efficiency. Points are gained by improving the
quality of your garden, retrieving live specimens from around the globe, and
adding preserved flowers to your botanical press. The specimens that players
hunt, the goals they focus on to achieve victory, and the events they
experience create a unique feel across each game.” </i>– [description from
publisher; see <a href="https://boardgamegeek.com/boardgame/380837/botany" target="_blank">here</a>]</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://duxsomnium.com/pages/botany" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtvDTvEY7syFcJgbENok-7rf4dV6OUo1p0w-XWnp_-BicqXtbtySzxizfvLLcjpDTNMfw_8nOI1WjSywCX7q12MQ1HLZ8AO-FHod9vNDUyxdS0F-tPWfjumyPoWEM7zVYH3ED9sRj4wBSsJ1RGSQRskIAhuD4kdyCUAMzwDuKuVETYE-qlTsHLWJ0Xvw/w400-h400/Botany%20A%20Victorian%20Expedition%20(2023).jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">The board game’s website seems to
be using a nostalgia for empire, particularly in the form of its aesthetics, quaintly
emphasising <i>‘Beautiful Victorian Artwork – Historical illustrations and
photography immerse the player in the world of Victoran </i>[sic]<i> plant
hunters. Enjoy learning about the flowers of the world with this incredible
art.’ </i>As well as, <i>‘Unique Characters and Entertaining Events – Botany’s
characters and events paint a story as you traverse the globe to become the
ultimate flower hunter.’</i> This appears to be a kind of “fighting fantasy”
version of colonial capitalism in the form of a board game. <i>Monopoly</i> (Parker Brothers, 1935) for
die-hard, flower-fancying imperialists, perhaps? – From an academic point-of-view, I am
thoroughly intrigued. We are all highly accustomed to seeing the tropes of imperialism
and a colonial worldview consistently perpetuated in TV dramas and Hollywood
films. Such themes are invariably tweaked a little to fit our times, or as a sop
to our current sensibilities. It is often highly debateable (and much debated) as
to whether or not these tweaks either veil or highlight the iniquities of the
past, or virtue signal by equivalence the (hopefully) more enlightened
attitudes of our present age. How does such a newly invented board game fit into this present
era of decolonisation, ‘Rhodes Must Fall’, versus the rise of populist nationalism and other politically conservative agendas, such as a nostalgia for empire? ... Consequently, I’d be fascinated to
know more about this new board game – particularly how it was first conceived
and how it came about; what source material was used to create it; and what it
is actually like to play it.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">I may well have to call up my old
board-game-loving digging pals and see if they’d like to assist me with some
further research.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://boardgamegeek.com/boardgame/3149/lost-valley-dinosaurs" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimMDFsjaD8vNOgf9yTWLqouV4vMK34h30sNVKLM-Sxkq25nWfB56L3ZqH20X49I3RkVuzLeh5AG2epl83lKqewg68yuShb7DYmK_1OxlTZ1JulvvRTotkJXQE5HrLruqxN6IxkiRe3MoDlPTZQDHBn9gdayAxgZkbDsuWqv5tvuZC_RPo66Wt5_zFysQ/w400-h300/Lost%20Valley%20of%20the%20Dinosaurs%20(1985)%202.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">In the meantime – for anyone who
might be reading this who is also intrigued by the questions raised above and
would like to know more about the actual history of ‘plant hunting’, economic
botany, science and empire – I very much recommend the following books and websites
as good places in which to start:<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Lucile H. Brockway, <i>Science and
Colonial Expansion: The Role of the British Royal Botanic Gardens</i> (New
York: Academic Press, 1979)<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Fa-Ti Fan, <i>British Naturalists
in Qing China: Science, Empire, and Cultural Encounter</i> (Cambridge, Mass.:
Harvard University Press, 2004)<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">E.H.M. Cox, <i>Plant Hunting in
China: A History of Botanical Exploration in China and the Tibetan Marches</i> (London:
Collins, 1945)<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><a href="https://www.kew.org/science/collections-and-resources/collections/economic-botany-collection">The
Economic Botany Collection at Kew Gardens</a><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><a href="https://www.kew.org/science/our-science/projects/mobile-museum-economic-botany-in-circulation">The
Mobile Museum Project</a><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><a href="https://www.kew.org/read-and-watch/victorian-plant-hunters-china">How
Victorian Plant Hunters Shaped British Gardens</a><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">See also:</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><i><a href="https://mitpress.mit.edu/9780262047913/playing-oppression/" target="_blank">Playing Oppression: The Legacy of Conquest and Empire in Colonialist Board Games,</a></i> by Mary Flanagan & Mikael Jakobsson (MIT Press, 2023)</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wardian_case" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="1844" data-original-width="2192" height="336" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVHnU1q_WHFrIgzDR-DRonBAiuUs9ugPPf8_TGxluzPcOceduhdOO3oHRu2iYpmAQApYk_IvLUV3hFlgQJz7oVYm0jg-hW3xa9WGgEsXxNugvnSY-nP3_N8foWeWuyrKYvdu3_R1H2LyI5XTHW5nKBTZQCmdtMncUcYZJ6YaEoT0kc9SaKxUR74uFJCQ/w400-h336/Wardian%20Case.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><o:p><br /></o:p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p><br /></o:p></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><i>Related
Reading on ‘Waymarks’<o:p></o:p></i></b></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><i><o:p> </o:p></i></b></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><a href="http://eccentricparabola.blogspot.com/2018/10/botanical-beginnings-in-sino-tibetan.html" target="_blank">Botanical Beginnings in the Sino-Tibetan Borderlands</a><o:p></o:p></b></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><a href="http://eccentricparabola.blogspot.com/2019/03/hyperbole-most-florid-farrer-purdom.html" target="_blank">Hyperbole
Most Florid – Reginald Farrer & William Purdom</a><o:p></o:p></b></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><a href="http://eccentricparabola.blogspot.com/2016/07/language-landscape-in-west-china-tibet.html" target="_blank">Language
& Landscape in West China & Tibet</a><o:p></o:p></b></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><a href="http://eccentricparabola.blogspot.com/2018/06/exploring-land-of-blue-poppy-frank.html" target="_blank">Exploring
the Land of the Blue Poppy – Frank Kingdon-Ward & Tibet</a><o:p></o:p></b></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><a href="http://eccentricparabola.blogspot.com/2018/10/ludlow-sherriffs-botanical-endeavours.html" target="_blank">Frank
Ludlow & George Sherriff’s “Botanical Endeavours”</a><o:p></o:p></b></p><br /><p></p>Timhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11641833714036731203noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-88759862385027089.post-20067379880499311752023-02-20T18:12:00.022+00:002023-02-21T23:05:03.185+00:00Abney Park, Stoke Newington - A 'Memento Mori'<p> </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGiHTvY4_Uht-iabv17f8RhqsEHo8fFslN5R_hsVvIenpGdlA2N375Kt-zmksMYGfkY993mW0-dBlOO8DFBjhQnBUU5KSRwNLMdymo42Sg-Ta30JmEd_X-_dbAJuPh7pixDi5tgIrKyOUBHZXk32ZraPB4Bl1r298CWke93-owSV3TWMagir1g9auEgg/s1200/Clissold%20Park.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="758" data-original-width="1200" height="253" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGiHTvY4_Uht-iabv17f8RhqsEHo8fFslN5R_hsVvIenpGdlA2N375Kt-zmksMYGfkY993mW0-dBlOO8DFBjhQnBUU5KSRwNLMdymo42Sg-Ta30JmEd_X-_dbAJuPh7pixDi5tgIrKyOUBHZXk32ZraPB4Bl1r298CWke93-owSV3TWMagir1g9auEgg/w400-h253/Clissold%20Park.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Clissold Park</i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Yesterday I took a break from my
academic writing projects, and, making the most of the wonderfully clement
weather, I hopped on the Number 73 bus, heading to Stoke Newington. I lived in ‘Stokey’
for five years from 1997, and I think this was my first visit back there since
at least 2004. All-in-all, it really was a perfect day. I spent a nostalgic
afternoon wandering around Clissold Park, where I used to like sitting on one
of the benches by the ponds, reading in the early summer evenings after work. I
was glad to see the Public Library is still there, but most of the shops and
restaurants along Church Street have changed since my day; except for one or
two, like <i>Church Street Bookshop, Rasa, The Blue Legume,</i> and, happily, the wonderful
old pubs. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/cJ-hVen7doo" width="320" youtube-src-id="cJ-hVen7doo"></iframe></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>A Perfect Day - Stoke Newington - 1998</i></div><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Stoke Newington seemed a lot busier
than I generally recalled it, although this was probably due to the wonderful
weather. A not too crisp, cold clear blue sky made it feel a lot like Spring
had truly begun at last. I noticed crops of crocuses and snowdrops were out in
many places, adding a welcome dash of colour beneath the still bare branches
overhead. Claustrophobically shying away from the slow foot-shuffling crowds, I
ducked into Abney Park Cemetery, and proceeded to get happily lost in the verdant
woodland, drinking in that dank fecundity of the air with the ground softly
springy underfoot. There seems to be a lot of restoration work going on around the
entrances on both Church Street and the High Street, plus the long derelict,
pigeon-haunted chapel in the centre of the cemetery appears to be in the
process of being exhumed from years of ruin and neglect.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihXRmPf2OuJnv6cAKhsaDDOaRurYf-PIDoKih7rTyM9EQpCUwHcnlHg01Iyu-TRgDZ3CxA4G9gp-hE5QyIwe9YwiHjmGbs6DfMO_-ke493HL8ggCDvjOKRn8UcqSAV3TMHqHwacdXOqh5h-ytHfERXSHyhirVUYBh53QItkBDzsrS9gdHfVQg4qgZRbw/s1023/Church%20Street%20Library.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="647" data-original-width="1023" height="253" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihXRmPf2OuJnv6cAKhsaDDOaRurYf-PIDoKih7rTyM9EQpCUwHcnlHg01Iyu-TRgDZ3CxA4G9gp-hE5QyIwe9YwiHjmGbs6DfMO_-ke493HL8ggCDvjOKRn8UcqSAV3TMHqHwacdXOqh5h-ytHfERXSHyhirVUYBh53QItkBDzsrS9gdHfVQg4qgZRbw/w400-h253/Church%20Street%20Library.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Church Street, Public Library</i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">After emerging from the pleasant
quiet of this labyrinthine Gothic woodland, I wandered up Cazenove Road to
Springfield Park, with its wonderfully dizzying vista looking down to the River
Lea where it meanders lazily alongside Walthamstow Marshes. Crossing the bridge to
Springfield Marina, I found multitudes of people once more. All of them, out
for a stroll like me. Ambling along the gravel track, passing under the ‘Avro
Arches’, heading past flowering hawthorn bushes towards the next footbridge where I crossed and doubled-back
along the opposite shore. Passing the many-patroned Anchor and Hope pub, then
climbing back up the steeply raked hill to the pond at the top of Springfield Park
once again, before making my way back down to Stoke Newington. Here I idly wandered
around some more. Retracing my former well-trodden and much familiar routes
through the backstreets, passing the house where Joseph Conrad once lived on Dynevor
Road when he was lodging in London between ships, and where it is said he later
took inspiration for the characters of the Verloc’s in his novel, <i>The Secret Agent</i>
(1907), from his landlord and landlady.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhY5_pYjBOIbXsmmu5kQIWMi0tb1oRyH0MU9pPT1-CIrsn8fgBmxJ_QBaVu1MMUw-VK5T-EvfoU0QxJCCdqW8zZ22oHXbZSzN0yH_XA0vx8inWbfV46TremEz6sgwRy4Mi64d10H_-2If3duFDKsyQ_Tw6VUgTKIhQ-HGNIiIOGWoESjQ1wJbsVS-KP_Q/s500/High%20Street%20N16.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="305" data-original-width="500" height="244" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhY5_pYjBOIbXsmmu5kQIWMi0tb1oRyH0MU9pPT1-CIrsn8fgBmxJ_QBaVu1MMUw-VK5T-EvfoU0QxJCCdqW8zZ22oHXbZSzN0yH_XA0vx8inWbfV46TremEz6sgwRy4Mi64d10H_-2If3duFDKsyQ_Tw6VUgTKIhQ-HGNIiIOGWoESjQ1wJbsVS-KP_Q/w400-h244/High%20Street%20N16.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>High Street</i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Back on the High Street, I was
taken aback to see the road had been closed off completely. It was filled with
a monstrously huge structure made from scaffolding. I later found out that back
in January part of one of the old Victorian terraces of shops had collapsed into the street. Thankfully, no one was hurt at the time,
but everyone living and working there has since had to be rehoused, or have had
their businesses suspended, while Hackney Council attempts to shore up the
building. I used to live on the High Street, just next to the Police Station – opposite the derelict Vogue Continental Cinema,
and so I knew and was known by several of the shopkeepers; but here again,
most of the shops and restaurants from my day have long since disappeared,
as has the building in which I used to live. Looking into the whitewashed
window of the launderette, where I often spent my Saturday mornings, I read a
notice pinned to the door announcing its final closure in June 2022, thanking
its many customers over the years. It had outlasted my patronage by twenty
years. I used to love its smell of soap powder and warm-linted tumble dryers.
The lady who used to run it had a comfortingly warm smile too. There was a
friendly camaraderie among the many familiar faces who called the High Street
home back then. I remember one time, after a power cut one evening, an old boy who
came into the little supermarket next to the Methodist Church had everyone in
stitches; telling everyone how he had been sitting on the toilet when the
lights went out, and how for the best part of an hour he’d had to sit there
with his “arse getting cold without even a cigarette lighter” to help him pass
the time in reading a newspaper until the lights eventually came back on!</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEife0Ss67zflwfHzn-h8JkWXDPM8bT-L_cyjKqI8fNMegYy_NHwWK_ipY90l0JxHflTC9i8i9zM9aIODIsFckVfA7PAHDBdDgN4pjuRwf4Hz5d48xL5t02dIp5lArx8DjoQHOJx4usnWfRbQmbY3VyH0bRUmlbVY5_TkxYpXGdx21Ju1VVkz-lUT5SAUw/s736/Stoke%20Newington%20Police%20Station.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="736" height="261" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEife0Ss67zflwfHzn-h8JkWXDPM8bT-L_cyjKqI8fNMegYy_NHwWK_ipY90l0JxHflTC9i8i9zM9aIODIsFckVfA7PAHDBdDgN4pjuRwf4Hz5d48xL5t02dIp5lArx8DjoQHOJx4usnWfRbQmbY3VyH0bRUmlbVY5_TkxYpXGdx21Ju1VVkz-lUT5SAUw/w400-h261/Stoke%20Newington%20Police%20Station.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>The Old Police Station</i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Looking back, those five years seemed
to be filled with many magical memories such as the ones which were now coming flooding
back to me. Wandering around those streets, it was a wonderfully nostalgic way
to wile away an afternoon. But my connection to this place goes deeper than my
five years living above a shop on the High Street. More than a hundred years
ago, many of my forbears on both sides of my family lived in Stoke Newington
and Green Lanes too. One of my great grandfathers worked for the Metropolitan
Water Board, and my great grandmother died while they were living in Stoke
Newington. I was reminded of this whilst ambling around Abney Park Cemetery. I’ve
not been able to find out where she was buried, and I have always wondered if
she might have a grave somewhere hereabouts. Abney Park is crammed with
gravestones, each one representing the memories of numerous lives lived only to
be forgotten. Reclaimed by the greenery in the sacred grove of one of London’s “magnificent
seven” Victorian cemeteries. I’d often got lost in here back in the days when I
called Stoke Newington home, and today was no different. Just when I realised I’d
lost my bearings, my eye was caught by a name on one of the tombstones nearby.
It wasn’t the name of my great grandmother, but it was a name which was
familiar to me. No longer a common name today, it was shared by an old lady whom
I’d known when I was young. We used to be bellringers together at the church
back in the part of northwest London where I grew up. As I read the inscription
on this headstone, I realised that the following day – <i>today</i> (20
February 2023) – would be the centenary of the death of the woman laid to rest here. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgveElsEMVyoYNE0JOb0aZ9LysRYBmN84a_8VPykyEBtHhYGPc8i3W45Rft_5bf2FfMeikP6iWMXM0KxYTp2TtDng_j9cXcIEd8EOgVKHpFA9EMZJVPp9cjHxHXU5eWN309eIO8BISboDEQc6FwfCjtLTmncuV5MJzjoIUz4sJ5W190iDx6xb_LE0-iRA/s585/Abney%20Park%204.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="585" data-original-width="381" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgveElsEMVyoYNE0JOb0aZ9LysRYBmN84a_8VPykyEBtHhYGPc8i3W45Rft_5bf2FfMeikP6iWMXM0KxYTp2TtDng_j9cXcIEd8EOgVKHpFA9EMZJVPp9cjHxHXU5eWN309eIO8BISboDEQc6FwfCjtLTmncuV5MJzjoIUz4sJ5W190iDx6xb_LE0-iRA/w260-h400/Abney%20Park%204.jpg" width="260" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Abney Park Chapel</i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">There are many famous people buried
in Abney Park, but there are many more besides who were ordinary folk much like you and me;
known only to those who knew and loved them in their day. Eleanor Rigby-like, I
wondered who was this particular woman? – There was no indication of how old
she was when she died, nor if she and her husband had any children, though it
did record the fact that he survived her by several decades and was eventually buried
with her at the age of 72. ‘Reunited’ as his inscription said. There was
something about the name, the style of the leaded-lettering, and the serendipity
of my happening upon her grave just one day short of a century since she’d
died. I wondered if anyone might come and visit them both tomorrow, but the
grave didn’t look like it had been tended in a very long time. And so, thinking
about this – and about my own great grandmother who had died locally – whilst I
wandered around Stoke Newington, reevoking memories of my own times gone-by
living just a few streets away, I later penned a poem to this lady whom I did
not know as small a centennial remembrance.<i><o:p></o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<div style="margin-left: 4cm; text-align: left;"><b><u>MEMENTO MORI<br /></u></b><o:p> <br /></o:p><a name="_Hlk127790754">Her
name in elegant script read </a>–<a name="_Hlk127790754"> Cissie,</a></div><div style="margin-left: 4cm; text-align: left;"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk127790754;">‘Dearly
Belov’d’ of husband’s memory;<br /></span><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk127790754;">She
died more than thirty years before he.<br /></span><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk127790754;">Laid
to rest in Abney’s cemetery,<br /></span><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk127790754;">Where
I did come upon her grave by chance;<br /></span><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk127790754;">My
eye happened to catch her name askance.<br /></span><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk127790754;">Her
headstone hugged on one side by a tree,<br /></span><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk127790754;">On
the other, a tendril of ivy<br /></span><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk127790754;">Clung
to the green-shaded slab; one among<br /></span><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk127790754;">All
the many whose names are now unsung;<br /></span><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk127790754;">All
except for William’s dearest one,<br /></span><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk127790754;">Whom,
here today, happily I did see,<br /></span><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk127790754;">Close
to the hundredth anniversary<br /></span><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk127790754;">Of
her death: tomorrow as it will be.<br /></span><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk127790754;">Time’s
passing, a century less one day,<br /></span><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk127790754;">This
headstone assures tomorrow Cissie<br /></span><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk127790754;">Will
be remembered now at least by me.<br /></span><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk127790754;">In
elegant script, her memorial<br /></span><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk127790754;">Merging
with Abney’s green arboreal;<br /></span><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk127790754;">‘Ici
Repose’ since nineteen twenty-three,<br /></span><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk127790754;">I
write this verse in remembrance of one<br /></span><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk127790754;">Who
lived, was loved, and yet is now long gone:<br /></span><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk127790754;">Sadly
missed, </span>– Cecily Mary Picton,</div><div style="margin-left: 4cm; text-align: left;"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk127790754;">A
name unknown, and yet unforgotten.<br /></span><o:p> <br /></o:p><o:p> <br /></o:p><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Abney Park Cemetery, Stoke Newington</i><i> – 19<sup>th</sup>
February 2023.</i></span></div><p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-left: 4cm;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk127790754;"></span>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-left: 4cm;"><i><o:p> </o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;"><b style="text-align: center;"></b></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXoGNX91xlItsDBZQVysGW2e7876PveCOIq1xdib0pvWmFKrY9MPpcVe9OuT9IzW7OZmoS0Y0g0_fOqGg4JdZCYiINSNlC_um_LB2reDrPxskZTchSg9V2mp_y-zzbaCdnNnOpoIpzksvmDQ-gozWbaBBjeG1kw7BWBfOz7i2U4VwAInvmXAUcJQUxFg/s781/Abney%20Park%201.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="483" data-original-width="781" height="248" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXoGNX91xlItsDBZQVysGW2e7876PveCOIq1xdib0pvWmFKrY9MPpcVe9OuT9IzW7OZmoS0Y0g0_fOqGg4JdZCYiINSNlC_um_LB2reDrPxskZTchSg9V2mp_y-zzbaCdnNnOpoIpzksvmDQ-gozWbaBBjeG1kw7BWBfOz7i2U4VwAInvmXAUcJQUxFg/w400-h248/Abney%20Park%201.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Abney Park Cemetery</i></td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b style="text-align: center;"></b></div><b style="text-align: center;"><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div></b><p></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;"><b><i>You can view
a photo of Cissie’s headstone taken in 2007 <a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/zigs1/370295228" target="_blank">here</a> on Flickr.</i></b></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;"><b style="text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></b></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;"><b><i>And you can
listen to a fascinating talk about the forgotten poets who are buried in Abney
Park Cemetery <a href="https://abneypark.org/online-talks-archive/lost-poets-of-abney-park-cemetery" target="_blank">here</a> on Abney Park’s equally fascinating website.</i></b></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;"><b><i><o:p> </o:p></i></b></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;"><b><i>Likewise,
there’s a great video diary following John Rogers on one of his walks around
several of the areas I’ve mentioned above, which you can watch on his YouTube
Channel <a href="https://youtu.be/QXxuN6TLEOI" target="_blank">here</a>. I’m a big fan of John’s rural and urban ‘psychogeographical’ videos,
I highly recommend them.<o:p></o:p></i></b></p><p align="center" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;"><b><i><br /></i></b></p><p align="center" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;"><b><i>Amir Dotan's <a href="https://stokenewingtonhistory.com/" target="_blank">Stoke Newington History</a> Website, also highly recommended.</i></b></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;"><b><i><o:p> </o:p></i></b></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;"><b><i><o:p> </o:p></i></b></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-WX2bJiK-ZMm2LtRWcxW7CKE7qk89Hpp2d7BKQ-C7GfrxwIJC0RnkiIaIPjds6cpQQd3tIbT0w_c6K6F40UJAj86aWlNvjUHD7VObuJp0nBuXcUnZH3U4jmbSTjcUph0O7TFchsCm57nJKIwGKbAnl4-1aJ9b7Ov7Wut7V0_LKIqy7c-uhjSX0eZYdA/s783/Abney%20Park%202.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="415" data-original-width="783" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-WX2bJiK-ZMm2LtRWcxW7CKE7qk89Hpp2d7BKQ-C7GfrxwIJC0RnkiIaIPjds6cpQQd3tIbT0w_c6K6F40UJAj86aWlNvjUHD7VObuJp0nBuXcUnZH3U4jmbSTjcUph0O7TFchsCm57nJKIwGKbAnl4-1aJ9b7Ov7Wut7V0_LKIqy7c-uhjSX0eZYdA/w400-h213/Abney%20Park%202.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>High Street Entrance to Abney Park Cemetery</i></td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><i></i></b></div><b><i><br /></i></b><p></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;"><b><i><o:p> </o:p></i></b></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><i><u>Also on ‘Waymarks’:<o:p></o:p></u></i></b></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><br /></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://eccentricparabola.blogspot.com/2019/09/family-trees-retracing-my-east-end-roots.html" target="_blank">Family Trees – Retracing My East End Roots</a><o:p></o:p></b></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><o:p> </o:p></b></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://eccentricparabola.blogspot.com/2021/02/here-lies-one-whose-name-is-writ-in.html" target="_blank">“Here Lies One Whose Name is Writ in Water”</a><o:p></o:p></b></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><o:p> </o:p></b></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://eccentricparabola.blogspot.com/2017/03/visiting-conrads-grave-canterbury.html" target="_blank">Visiting Joseph Conrad’s Grave – Canterbury</a><o:p></o:p></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><b><o:p> </o:p></b></p><br /><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRDFyTpwbSOubpQK9MWdPg4cxEOIuSTS2OGpe5Hk7uV4B1fyOB36kpucj6mFoVwFVKz04dW9c5Dn7eKPjfZMAvLr-Sm_FnSPPiODLg8fqUOwf9WZWqmZC2DqlLmeNgKppAfd_8MksBjdVuq2YuZ894gFjW8QJuAM0iW2EvH_ZJmzg0r1Cqs5NnIVyzJw/s1199/Albion%20Parade.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="770" data-original-width="1199" height="258" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRDFyTpwbSOubpQK9MWdPg4cxEOIuSTS2OGpe5Hk7uV4B1fyOB36kpucj6mFoVwFVKz04dW9c5Dn7eKPjfZMAvLr-Sm_FnSPPiODLg8fqUOwf9WZWqmZC2DqlLmeNgKppAfd_8MksBjdVuq2YuZ894gFjW8QJuAM0iW2EvH_ZJmzg0r1Cqs5NnIVyzJw/w400-h258/Albion%20Parade.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Albion Road</i></td></tr></tbody></table><br />Timhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11641833714036731203noreply@blogger.com0Stoke Newington High St, London N16, UK51.560551 -0.073929229.471990011644735 -35.2301792 73.649111988355259 35.0823208tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-88759862385027089.post-89369685549707605572022-12-01T00:00:00.041+00:002022-12-01T10:09:39.106+00:00Colin Thubron - Time Seen As A Road ... Or A River<p> </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><a href="https://www.etonnants-voyageurs.com/Colin-Thubron-Prix-Nicolas-Bouvier-2010.html" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="677" data-original-width="1200" height="226" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimRXo4kqklzzmzcoHlSFQ-n1xwAKVHcULW9w_8YlsckBQc1OnxWK4BfokHVAZ7KFkKPywjyFrL8tchoarwNSo3G19V11ev0z9hGQOIFGptlkwMbkv30pm8H7ooF5K4-snu3exIJ-FuvQDZnKfb3RkuN3EoStfwluUtGq_e4HqaX5NCink8dxkdzWpRmQ/w400-h226/Colin%20Thubron%200.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://www.etonnants-voyageurs.com/Colin-Thubron-Prix-Nicolas-Bouvier-2010.html" target="_blank">Colin Thubron</a></i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">There is something mellifluously
melancholy in the tone of Colin Thubron’s travel books. He is a wonderful
writer, a genuine poet in prose. Curiously, his writing manages to be both
orientated entirely inward, whilst also being outward-looking at the same time.
It really is quite remarkable. And it is perhaps this paradox which is what
makes his travel books such satisfying reading. As travel writers go, he is
perhaps the travel writer’s paragon – the kind of travel writer whom most
would-be travel writers might aspire to emulate. Oddly shy and unassuming, and
yet open to experiences and interactions. He frequently ends up
chatting to all sorts of ordinary and unusual people, tagging along with them,
sharing a train compartment, or being invited into their homes and their lives;
drifting along, progressing on his way until something or nothing happens. Either
way the outcome is equally mesmerising. He does bathos and pathos with aplomb.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">There are moments of drama too,
usually rendered with beautiful understatement, such as when the police turn up
and haul him off for questioning, as they frequently seem to do. This is
usually because Colin is drawn to the parts of the world which aren’t exactly
used to receiving visiting tourists, at least not those of a lone hapless,
wandering Englishman-type, such as he appears to be. Naturally they suspect he must be up
to no good; some sort of criminal or clandestine activity, possibly spying? – But
Colin is wonderfully ‘old school’, as some might say. He tends to eschew modern
technology, and he rarely travels with a camera. Only his spidery and illegible
handwriting in his notebooks inadvertently lends him a taint of suspicion, but
as soon as he begins to translate his scribbled notes for his interrogator, the
police quickly come to realise Thubron is indeed a wandering poet, waxing
lyrical about landscapes they find mundane but which he sees as sublime.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmfWyshPO1pQDafh7Xvc2AyntaJNpmyo8DnZomoVia9x9gk-3w-e7ivnxEyTbj9dYh2zmvD9eRVmjb842W-2HmC4Bj5LjE9yBXjdoY-K12Y0Sw97QDrMLu4cBVI53aWASAr3NAwE4JiFgbRYAzfpQiHHc3yEkQ0VjW5N1WQzL6Xpvtni8SwzLryTo73Q/s500/Shadow%20of%20the%20Silk%20Road.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="323" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmfWyshPO1pQDafh7Xvc2AyntaJNpmyo8DnZomoVia9x9gk-3w-e7ivnxEyTbj9dYh2zmvD9eRVmjb842W-2HmC4Bj5LjE9yBXjdoY-K12Y0Sw97QDrMLu4cBVI53aWASAr3NAwE4JiFgbRYAzfpQiHHc3yEkQ0VjW5N1WQzL6Xpvtni8SwzLryTo73Q/w259-h400/Shadow%20of%20the%20Silk%20Road.jpg" width="259" /></a></div><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">I came to Colin Thubron’s travel
books quite late, and I really can’t understand how or why I had not come
across him before. It was an interview he gave on BBC Radio 4, back in early
2007, when he was promoting his then recently published book, <i>Shadow of the
Silk Road</i>. I was entranced by his evocative descriptions of travelling
through landscapes and reflecting upon the history of places which had long
held a deep and abiding fascination for me. And it was later on, in the summer
of that same year, when I was travelling through China, that I began reading <i>Shadow
of the Silk Road </i>for myself. I realised it was kind of oddly serendipitous
to begin reading the book there in Xi’an, where the book itself begins; but,
unlike Colin, the journey which I was about to undertake would lead in the
opposite direction, heading east, overland to Beijing. I had gone there to
escort a cohort of terracotta warriors across China and onwards to London for a
landmark exhibition at the British Museum, entitled ‘The First Emperor.’
Whereas the <i>Shadow of the Silk Road</i> recounts Thubron’s 7000-mile journey
heading west, travelling from China through Central Asia and Afghanistan to the
Islamic countries of the Middle East and on to the Mediterranean. A route along
which he is haunted by the persona of another traveller, talking to him across
the vast Steppe-like expanse of time in the bygone centuries-old voice of a Sogdian
camel driver travelling with one of the old merchant caravans which used to
cross the deserts and the high plateaus of the network of routes which once criss-crossed
that region, now collectively and somewhat Romantically known as ‘the Silk
Road.’<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Thubron has often spoken of the
solitary traveller as being two people travelling in tandem. There is
the person who is actually doing the travelling – clocking the miles, suffering
the pains and anxieties, marvelling at the wonders both large and small which
befall him along the way; but then there is also the person, the travel writer
side of himself, who (in a sense) sits upon his shoulder throughout the journey
– noting all the things which will make ‘good copy’ for a travel book, and
often consoling him with that fact when he finds himself in situations of
adversity, such as when he gets questioned by suspicious police officers. The
greatest fear for a travel writer, he has said, is that nothing will happen at
all. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_4UD_NY5ljKAdPbomX3xYu_ozzpVKbpIlx4TXReN0V-54FTixTp8secMH1wtEcTGlkp_w7fRAlD5NYWqZa3IL4tDW73uGDgHC9FdkPv0A8CdZa_ypV8VdGHtNoIHQSCMfeJgzwjTvjpOFBOTS_VdjAgj3PKCX1QWPJvSh_vfBx5FYfS-OdWGX6nlU2Q/s450/To%20A%20Mountain%20in%20Tibet.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="289" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_4UD_NY5ljKAdPbomX3xYu_ozzpVKbpIlx4TXReN0V-54FTixTp8secMH1wtEcTGlkp_w7fRAlD5NYWqZa3IL4tDW73uGDgHC9FdkPv0A8CdZa_ypV8VdGHtNoIHQSCMfeJgzwjTvjpOFBOTS_VdjAgj3PKCX1QWPJvSh_vfBx5FYfS-OdWGX6nlU2Q/w258-h400/To%20A%20Mountain%20in%20Tibet.jpg" width="258" /></a></div><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">In reading Thubron’s books the
reader experiences the world with him. He has such a wonderfully deft way with
words and emotions that while his books are deeply personal documents, they
also seem somehow oddly divested from him as their author. When he published <i>To
A Mountain in Tibet</i> in 2011, I heard him joke (again on the radio) that
people had sometimes complained that he didn’t put more of himself into his
books, but that with this one, they might now wish he’d done the opposite,
because <i>To A Mountain in Tibet</i> is a deeply personal book. It is a book
about a journey he made on foot, a pilgrimage of sorts, making the <i>kora</i>
around Mount Kailash – a sacred mountain which is central to the cosmology of
several major religions, but at its core it is also a book which deals with the
universally felt subject of grief. People often speak of life as being a journey
or of time being seen as a road, and travelling – escaping the everyday of our
own worlds and all that is familiar to us by going somewhere far away and
utterly different in terms of society, culture, language, religion – this kind of travelling can be a
way of reflecting upon ourselves, who we are, where we come from, and how we
fit into the wider aspect of a globalised world. Travel is thereby seen as a
way of breaking down boundaries, crossing borders and bridging divides which
might otherwise have remained unseen or worse, wilfully overlooked. In that
sense travel is not about seeking escape, but rather of seeking to find
something extra. Redefining the self and our home in sympathy as well as in
contrast to that which we might simply assume to be ‘other’ is what the real goal
of most travellers tends to be. I read <i>To A Mountain in Tibet</i> at a time
of similar although slightly different emotional upheaval in my life, and so
the book certainly spoke to me on more than one level, as it was perhaps
intended to do. It was a reminder to me that both travel and the closely allied
activities of reading and writing can be a balm to the soul.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6o0RuvdAsBNb-L8U6XzKxNfAChUAC--El6iSQa-kGVphggdhrdCkBFFjlftBchTeuNJZAjqcO3omU6zH10F5YIpoLZc6p8tyUji-LrAC_orcTlQD2QyZAuHcuZxbjihm5lA2mZuNNVwe7UGO5V4heYnWkuImfuEfq3xPztKeS8PqOwOHC-TLfLI_36w/s400/The%20Amur%20River.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="261" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6o0RuvdAsBNb-L8U6XzKxNfAChUAC--El6iSQa-kGVphggdhrdCkBFFjlftBchTeuNJZAjqcO3omU6zH10F5YIpoLZc6p8tyUji-LrAC_orcTlQD2QyZAuHcuZxbjihm5lA2mZuNNVwe7UGO5V4heYnWkuImfuEfq3xPztKeS8PqOwOHC-TLfLI_36w/w261-h400/The%20Amur%20River.jpg" width="261" /></a></div><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Thubron’s latest book, <i>The Amur
River: Between Russia and China</i> (2021) is equally sublime. It is certainly
one of Thubron’s best travel books, in my opinion. In this book he travels the length
of the Amur from its source in Mongolia to the coast, opposite the northern
part of Sakhalin Island, where the river emerges between the Sea of Japan and
the Okhotsk Sea. It’s an enormous watercourse, undammed and largely unknown in
comparison to its more famous cousins, such as the Amazon, the Danube, or the
Nile. Along the way he alternates between the river’s northern and southern
shores, between Russia and China. The Amur forms a boundary which both divides
and connects these two geographically huge nations, each vastly different in
culture and outlook, which meet along one section of its banks. The huge
disparities in terms of populations and local economies makes the locals on
either side of the river uneasy neighbours. As with all of Thubron’s travel
books, he seeks out insights into the histories and cultures, both national and
local, of the people whom he meets along the way. He relates the snippets of
themselves and their lives as they reveal their personal stories to him. He is
particularly interested in the original indigenous customs, seeking out the
traces of shamans and their animistic beliefs which seem to linger, often
half-forgotten, having almost been entirely obliterated by centuries of
incomers hailing from the larger surrounding polities and their overwhelming tides
of political and religious ideologies, seeking to modernise, revolutionise or capitalise
upon an uncompromising land and an unruly watercourse which ultimately always
seems to defeat them. </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">One gets the sense from reading Thubron that the further
he travels along the Amur the more remote it becomes, even from itself. It
feels like a place oddly forgotten and removed from the wider world, even
though the myriad worlds of its own which it forms along its course all seem
somehow larger than life as it is lived in other parts of our modern and
globally interconnected world. Reflecting upon this, he quotes one of my
favourite writers: <i>“In a poignant passage of Andrei Makine’s ‘Once Upon the
River Love’, his protagonist speculates that you could spend your life on the
remote Amur and never discover whether you were ugly or beautiful, or
understand the sensual topography of another human body. ‘Love, too, did not
easily take root in this austere county …’ (p.261-262)<o:p></o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Amurrivermap.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="779" data-original-width="989" height="315" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinw8WN9TAMY-rN93eFoRIMz-O7WDBUqbbd2DR-jIzK4FyrYZYL6wO5SROryobIuAUsxJ-ub2KREfQ8nFFZr4jZqUKqutYPW0KbL2TYoo8pxISAzHV1V1MuX798hbGR0jm93aM2yNzzfKvJKcBg5c_ytS1Yq0PyPXQd-VkWO8Ym9iAGyC9Um5zdQfoe4w/w400-h315/Amur%20River%20Map.png" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">I’ve often wondered about the Amur.
Firstly, having come across it in other books I’ve read, particularly about nineteenth-century
Russian explorers such as Nikolay Przhevalsky, who explored the Ussuri region,
and Nikolay Muravyov-Amursky, who led the expansion of the Russian Empire to
the shores of the Sea of Japan. And secondly, from having glimpsed parts of it
or its tributaries when flying across Siberia <i>en route</i> to and from Japan,
looking down upon such a vast and expansive frozen landscape with real
fascination. Hence, I was very keen to read Thubron’s account of his following
this long-flowing riverine thread through a land I’ve only ever glimpsed and
imagined from afar. A river so long it has many different names, among which it
is: the Onon in Mongolia, the Heilong Jiang in China, and the Amur in Russia. </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Thubron’s
journey along the river’s course was not an easy one. In Mongolia he begins his journey
on horseback, but not long after he sets out his horse stumbles in the boggy
ground and falls upon him which results in a couple of cracked ribs and a
broken ankle – and yet Thubron, who is in his eighties, stoically soldiers on,
mentally kidding himself that his ankle is merely sprained. The thought of
curtailing his trip and returning home to properly convalesce is a far more
painful prospect than carrying on. Thubron is a true traveller to his core. And
thankfully – as he always does – Thubron shapes a journey around himself which
is inimitably his own. Mastering just enough of the languages of the people he travels
among before setting out – in this case Russian and Mandarin – in order to
converse with them unmediated. He says he takes a year to research and prepare
before embarking, and then about a year afterwards to write his journey up.
Consequently, his travel books are undoubtedly on a par with, and in some cases
more than equal to those who have similarly found fame in defining the genre,
writer-travellers such as: Patrick Leigh Fermor, Bruce Chatwin, Wilfred
Thesiger, Eric Newby, Robert Byron, Ryszard Kapuscinski, Gavin Young, Paul
Theroux, Dervla Murphy, et al.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.wanderlust.co.uk/content/colin-thubron-interview/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="894" data-original-width="635" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhM2RqgE8cTR3xY6x2FcNRicotYUariwRhQIPKlE6F0w278Yk2-K9aNeZjXIIYbzjfUg_RdJlMG2B1WGPyZSDtyiqTtD0DsIbkAQkPg6fCXT3X3oMuFq0-JbXOcwgmBlWa3y09VQtzz0ABxyBunhiS8xcOTpVVxefUABJFMwkqU7wlBGy2Z6XQdB9LiVA/w284-h400/Colin%20Thubron%201.jpg" width="284" /></a></div><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">I’m not at all surprised that
Thubron is drawn to the fictional works of Andrei Makine. He and Makine clearly
share a common ground in their fascination for the sublime, for Russian
melancholy, and for deeply profound meditations upon the slow passing of time
and memory, deftly rendered with the lightest and most masterfully-understated
touches of true sympathy. For me Colin Thubron’s writings represent the
pinnacle of what I am seeking in a good travel book: a deeply lyrical and
contemplative exploration of both place and people, a deft mixing of history, anthropology,
landscape, and atmosphere, illuminated through individual insight. The best
travel books in my opinion, like a river, wend a slow and unhurried way through
our shared world, showing us places far beyond our own doorstep – places which
we might never see or experience for ourselves; but done so through carefully
considered words, words through which we might see and live vicariously. Travel
writing is undoubtedly a craft of its own kind, offering the reader an escape
through someone else’s eyes – wherein words can shape mellifluous memories which
often remain with us long after we’ve finished our first reading of such books.
<i>The Amur River</i> is certainly one to treasure.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgucjt4KQGZB67Cn26qPICRXPrvh0cPCGjSMV3O_6hBfli4rvOOBbcwaSr_jfO-5mKrV52QARI5rfkDuJoQbeFBnFjjHDwxeMiFzvYy4BE__G9VAYRKdVj6ifXkvhc_NB8zINwQPu-D8Oo_Po5kj896F59WcuzDp77YTKGv3Shbm34ZpMWHQhCQZ4wUFg/s2304/IMGP0837.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1728" data-original-width="2304" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgucjt4KQGZB67Cn26qPICRXPrvh0cPCGjSMV3O_6hBfli4rvOOBbcwaSr_jfO-5mKrV52QARI5rfkDuJoQbeFBnFjjHDwxeMiFzvYy4BE__G9VAYRKdVj6ifXkvhc_NB8zINwQPu-D8Oo_Po5kj896F59WcuzDp77YTKGv3Shbm34ZpMWHQhCQZ4wUFg/w400-h300/IMGP0837.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Somewhere over Russia, near the Sea of Japan - 2004</i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">~</div><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><i>“In the mist of early morning
the far shore next day is only a sepia hairline, as though the horizon had
rusted away at its edges. The river is formidable now. For over 2,500 miles it
has gathered its tributaries from a basin almost the size of Mexico, until its
brown flood pours northward through a channel that sometimes reaches three
miles across. As our boat shudders upriver in the lightening day, the eastern
shore ascends in mountain walls of pine, spruce and birch, where wisps of cloud
dangle, as if from steaming jungle. Even as we speed beneath them, Sergei and Alexander
go on smoking, cupping the cigarettes in their hands against the headwind,
while our beer bottles dwindle alongside a bag of frozen smelts with cartoon
faces.” </i><b>–</b><i><b> Colin Thubron, The Amur River</b> (p.247-248)</i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><i><br /></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/zPEmENviPfc" width="320" youtube-src-id="zPEmENviPfc"></iframe></div><i><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><i>Colin Thubron - Time Seen As A Road - The South Bank Show, 1992</i></p></i><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><i><br /></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><i><b><u>Also on 'Waymarks'</u></b></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><i><b><u><br /></u></b></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://eccentricparabola.blogspot.com/2019/04/andrei-makine-homage-to-lost-time.html" target="_blank">Andrei Makine - An Homage to Lost Time</a></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://eccentricparabola.blogspot.com/2014/03/person-place-essence-of-good-travel.html" target="_blank">Person & Place - The Essence of Good Travel Writing</a></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://eccentricparabola.blogspot.com/2015/02/parallax-patrick-leigh-fermor.html" target="_blank">Parallax - Patrick Leigh Fermor</a></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Colin_Thubron.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="471" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiy4-ZOIZfncwoLjPxG4_A6Gp89_NwhOz4L11bPj1VkT1sjiZzKeqVsRKMVfjzIuEwWgQ2DwiMMzQf88_3LOsXydUSIyTTSBEKV4Bw0SrfzYWzFftn-WEw2JGWYk_D3k57FSLB8QhpAF-DE4PLFFJOXPgo3LGAMXJgKaTccxSrnzP7bnBkFahyrPYH71w/w295-h400/Colin%20Thubron%202.jpg" width="295" /></a></div><br /><b><br /></b><p></p>Timhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11641833714036731203noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-88759862385027089.post-53194451848138732352022-11-05T00:00:00.004+00:002024-01-23T15:23:45.625+00:00Bullsh*t Anthropology - Reading Graeber & Wengrow<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaE7bHxliqDcK4HAaN3VgSqExvBZhaQG805UkhVmO9Hew1ATpi_MBak_IqY6lKfyf6NJp-RtItDZaux-8E8GSxFHSu0Z7-0cNpd_7r6sgRGkFJG4hWot3q6TpaCpHjY3j0YLjb4z26bbSTtCUvIcSaXpc_py-8pvbHv5C4cFKhFhPSjgIMKaour3rHEA/s619/2001-space-odyssey.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="416" data-original-width="619" height="269" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaE7bHxliqDcK4HAaN3VgSqExvBZhaQG805UkhVmO9Hew1ATpi_MBak_IqY6lKfyf6NJp-RtItDZaux-8E8GSxFHSu0Z7-0cNpd_7r6sgRGkFJG4hWot3q6TpaCpHjY3j0YLjb4z26bbSTtCUvIcSaXpc_py-8pvbHv5C4cFKhFhPSjgIMKaour3rHEA/w400-h269/2001-space-odyssey.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><i>For a long time, I’ve thought
that anthropologists and archaeologists tend to make a lot of grandiose and
sweeping claims regarding the origins of culture and human society which they
can’t really substantiate. At last, I’ve found an anthropologist and an
archaeologist who seem to agree with me.<o:p></o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEht1aB3bvvvErp7yHRDQzxpoHkdmPfUySU2alTpwKY_60LfHTqsvfod_Zrzj6nt-8ymsGP0z7un9TLUF1BYSFUM5b9j0Z3CLbJ2k3r282uo7HjCvdItvrX9BGVekfOkYXCgoQDRW4SW4qhIMY-5JFdB2PivHscHJv0r8y6U_yMKUT9_z2ViKu89ll3oFQ/s989/Graeber%20Wengrow.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="989" data-original-width="659" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEht1aB3bvvvErp7yHRDQzxpoHkdmPfUySU2alTpwKY_60LfHTqsvfod_Zrzj6nt-8ymsGP0z7un9TLUF1BYSFUM5b9j0Z3CLbJ2k3r282uo7HjCvdItvrX9BGVekfOkYXCgoQDRW4SW4qhIMY-5JFdB2PivHscHJv0r8y6U_yMKUT9_z2ViKu89ll3oFQ/w266-h400/Graeber%20Wengrow.jpg" width="266" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><b>THE DAWN OF EVERYTHING: A NEW
HISTORY OF HUMANITY <i>by David Graeber & David Wengrow</i> </b>(Penguin,
2022) <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">From the summer of 1994 to the
summer of 1997, I was a student studying for a BSc in Anthropology at the
University of East London (UEL). The Anthropology Department at UEL was staffed
by academics who described themselves as Marxists. They maintained that what
they were teaching us was ‘radical anthropology.’ One of the tutors was Chris
Knight, an anthropologist who had come up with a novel idea for the origins of
culture being linked to menstruation: – a theory which he maintained could be
proved by meta studies of language and mythology, etc., wherein modern human
societies had evolved out of a matriarchal primogenitor; presumably some long
forgotten band of proto-communist hominids who had emerged ‘Out of Africa’ in
the long dark and distantly remote millennia located at the other end of human
prehistory. Folk memories of which, he maintained, still echo down the
generations in common culturally-shared tales of myth and folklore. He called
his theory the ‘sex strike’ theory, and he set out his elaborate thesis in a
hefty scholarly tome, titled, <i>Blood Relations: Menstruation and the Origins
of Culture</i> (Yale University Press, 1991). This was the bible which we
undergraduates were all expected to buy, imbibe, absorb, and adhere to, as well
as to generally espouse as new radical anthropological-evangelists – especially
(it was taken as tacitly read), if we wished to do well in our essays and the
final exams, thereby earning our degrees.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhElHAGALYUFlqodpxYF6C7s6Z402xTK5oD7cE77zHGYujXdJG_xqGRKaCYmocLF5F6Gl268NMJMa1rRVG4vgHYgcRlLESxEOKAFoqqoUpnB6tm-AYh3bKwtCTJPjt8ZcyTkYB3FVKfhn4UTcz6_jO0K6h0SurTBeJwCHGpykMRnF-dsJ2FfAhP7RQDpg/s475/Blood%20Relations.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="475" data-original-width="310" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhElHAGALYUFlqodpxYF6C7s6Z402xTK5oD7cE77zHGYujXdJG_xqGRKaCYmocLF5F6Gl268NMJMa1rRVG4vgHYgcRlLESxEOKAFoqqoUpnB6tm-AYh3bKwtCTJPjt8ZcyTkYB3FVKfhn4UTcz6_jO0K6h0SurTBeJwCHGpykMRnF-dsJ2FfAhP7RQDpg/w261-h400/Blood%20Relations.jpg" width="261" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">It was an extremely
well-choreographed curriculum, a slick syllabus which was very deftly delivered
by a bunch of very clever and adept academics. In the first year we were all
generally wowed, bowled over, utterly enthralled and completely taken in. But
some students among our cohort began to have their doubts at some point or
other during the second year of our studies. In the third year some even began
to openly rebel. And, of course, the result was a graduating class neatly
differentiated into thirds, two-twos, two-ones, and firsts, with the weightier
majority of sceptics grouped at the lower end of this academic scale, and the
few fully-paid up acolytes rewarded for their open homages to the guru in the
rarefied elite group of first-class honours (a grand total of three out of
thirty-or-so graduates, if I recall correctly). I was a lower-middling sceptic,
who, having sought to divert and dilute my degree with as many scientific
archaeology electives (run by the Environmental Science Department at UEL’s
Stratford Campus) as I was permitted to take, somehow emerged at the other end
of it all having gained myself a ‘Desmond’ (i.e. – a two-two). <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCBRWEyuKPBB2jj4BTFrjNjCnpG3G08bg3nVa9f4QrMtbM9AclcGM-ZnLHrHe-6axAYc55HDhdkuwO-ApNSxD-ycHN2fJa1XIcg6_UMBa7GREDnwbEaH3-3lRe6ocvGDrDmLXaRj5oZrnJyvCltxMeyrwNdHHzkHzELf1iRpxa9MtC0Ig-8l4NplYJOQ/s492/Yanomamo.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="492" data-original-width="339" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCBRWEyuKPBB2jj4BTFrjNjCnpG3G08bg3nVa9f4QrMtbM9AclcGM-ZnLHrHe-6axAYc55HDhdkuwO-ApNSxD-ycHN2fJa1XIcg6_UMBa7GREDnwbEaH3-3lRe6ocvGDrDmLXaRj5oZrnJyvCltxMeyrwNdHHzkHzELf1iRpxa9MtC0Ig-8l4NplYJOQ/w275-h400/Yanomamo.jpg" width="275" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Looking back, it was a truly
bizarre and intellectually beguiling three years. I remember sitting and rather
squeamishly watching what felt like a glacially-paced film screening of two
Yanomami Indians with pudding bowl haircuts, somewhere deep in the Amazon, repeatedly
bashing each other over the head with long wooden poles. It looked like a much
more violent and far less funny version of Monty Python’s fish slapping dance.
I remember wondering what I was meant to make of it all. Looking back now, it
seems like an apt metaphor for my three years as an anthropology student. However,
I no longer dismiss those three years quite as diffidently as I probably did at
the time. Undoubtedly, I did learn a lot during my undergraduate degree, and
what I learnt is something I’ve reflected upon and probably continued to adapt
over the course of the intervening decades. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbombn2VK8-DH6N93zn31J6oyq75xDeAKFdkNPd6rghDQXOIo-hUSAz4RKxEyoewUh3vwx0ZjTC6QUm2jQ3z9pNHMO-WnGVA5Z7RltdIPfhYUKZFHoz7SFnPBYZZzJ06kWU4D2eLfaM9nI2_J62OUhyIt8_sxpIlktrT7q5kIQcR1Edyc8QsyrXA37eg/s1960/Karl%20Marx.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1383" data-original-width="1960" height="283" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbombn2VK8-DH6N93zn31J6oyq75xDeAKFdkNPd6rghDQXOIo-hUSAz4RKxEyoewUh3vwx0ZjTC6QUm2jQ3z9pNHMO-WnGVA5Z7RltdIPfhYUKZFHoz7SFnPBYZZzJ06kWU4D2eLfaM9nI2_J62OUhyIt8_sxpIlktrT7q5kIQcR1Edyc8QsyrXA37eg/w400-h283/Karl%20Marx.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Karl Marx</i></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Certainly, when I returned to
university (after some 15 or so ‘gap years’) to study for an MA degree in World
History, all that early grounding in Marxist theory meant reading Eric Hobsbawm
made a lot more sense than I’d expected it would. During my BSc, I had become
very interested in one area of anthropology which UEL termed as ‘cultures of
dominance and cultures of resistance.’ And, rather naively, I thought I’d
stolen an intellectual march upon my tutors by writing a short dissertation <i>explaining</i>
the success of the 1989 ‘Velvet Revolution’ in Czechoslovakia using Gramscian-Marxist
theories of hegemony and power. I really enjoyed researching and writing this
particular piece, and it seemed all the more ironic to me that I did so while
sitting at one of the desks in the old Round Reading Room of the British
Library, where Karl Marx himself famously used to sit reading and scribbling.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p></o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFSFWI6c_IXJm-JEmlRwC88A8mwqrN2jwjeh0WZ61SFXZ_apyL0S34VETGMvdImDpjF2lUJ56oj0ir2ufkqe_Bttjj1YaMitzJrYk83eAhm6_-ydxkCPYsuDePTmS5G6RVdE4nPoSqrqBV5FMgKTvrLsiG6zrWY8iAoVCvt_gjOdzBKJ2aMKPGodfIuQ/s1023/Round%20Reading%20Room.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="836" data-original-width="1023" height="328" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFSFWI6c_IXJm-JEmlRwC88A8mwqrN2jwjeh0WZ61SFXZ_apyL0S34VETGMvdImDpjF2lUJ56oj0ir2ufkqe_Bttjj1YaMitzJrYk83eAhm6_-ydxkCPYsuDePTmS5G6RVdE4nPoSqrqBV5FMgKTvrLsiG6zrWY8iAoVCvt_gjOdzBKJ2aMKPGodfIuQ/w400-h328/Round%20Reading%20Room.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>The Round Reading Room, The British Library</i></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p><br /></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">But the truth was, much of my
undergraduate studies completely befuddled me. I’d really wanted to study for a
joint anthropology and archaeology degree at Durham University, but things had
gone awry with my A-levels. And so, after running the grim gauntlet of
‘clearing’ (in which I very nearly got into SOAS), I ended up at UEL feeling utterly thwarted. One good thing about
UEL though, was that the timetable was very compact. It was usually condensed
into just two- or three-days attendance per week. This meant that during my
undergraduate years I was able to spend a lot of my time working as a volunteer
at the British Museum, and I also spent a month each summer camping on
archaeological excavations in the UK, which is where I really wanted to be.
Consequently, much of what I was taught at UEL seemed like it was a diversion
from what I was properly interested in.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiren8Mhvv9X8-igTAw8pwYUuqKCBpMz6Jaxn-c9MXoLYSUrauda_lUUySbk1k7RdfvmkvI2mzEqEkcFo7z_HM62lY0vg_CZylyxpK4gycpe6V4rSI15TZwLZFgDwrsvpncmEhlQQbFlKmqN2c3RqZVx7oyMLQe4tDq1ajVgcBl_0yxOVOaOZaVU8bxCQ/s1980/Dunbar.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1980" data-original-width="1281" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiren8Mhvv9X8-igTAw8pwYUuqKCBpMz6Jaxn-c9MXoLYSUrauda_lUUySbk1k7RdfvmkvI2mzEqEkcFo7z_HM62lY0vg_CZylyxpK4gycpe6V4rSI15TZwLZFgDwrsvpncmEhlQQbFlKmqN2c3RqZVx7oyMLQe4tDq1ajVgcBl_0yxOVOaOZaVU8bxCQ/w259-h400/Dunbar.jpg" width="259" /></a></div><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">That diversion, I realise now, was essentially
the theoretical side of things. I mistakenly thought I was solely interested in
the ‘material culture’ aspect of our remote past, but the truth is (and always
was) that there’s no divorcing the two aspects. Material remains only tell you
so much. It’s true that a lot can be revealed from sophisticated scientific
analysis: – for example, examining dental enamel from a skeleton can tell you
that the person whose grave was excavated at Site X actually grew up and spent
most of their life living at Site Y, which is mind-blowing because Site X and Y
are thousands of miles apart and there’s nothing else associated with that
grave which could have told you this remarkable fact about the physical
mobility of both individuals and broader populations at this time. Although,
that said, I did find it unconscionably tedious to sit through lecture-after-lecture
on the slow multi-millennia-long evolution of emmer wheat, which it seemed as
though it was being taught in real time! – But in many ways, listening to
outlandish theories about how human culture had evolved out of a system of
collective social coercion which was codified in cyclical systems relating to
menstruation, sororal solidarity, and the phases of the moon seemed oddly mind-bending
in an altogether totally different direction, and a trifle too speculative for
some of us even as still wet-behind-the-ear undergraduates. As far as theories
go, this one certainly qualified as being firmly ‘out there’ on the fringes. I
took very few notes during my third year. Instead, I mostly sat there listening
to our lecturers with a somewhat baffled sense of intense concentration, and at
the end of each lecture my conclusions always seemed to amount to the same
response, which was: <i>“But how can you possibly know that for sure?”<o:p></o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p><br /></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p></o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEharZfqejdTzC4MAaZy2MU6OHeUZWcuW7WAACx4_90FulxbTTa0qPDzM3A3yv-FQ1xcI0J04BmHdlYwZ_04qZU75P5PZiJFViaYtt3DGqOcmRwCWn0IWxxQUoyByIlDZ4EWKWOo4DT9EgQjpLRxljrXDwxJ-zGKn6XZgqLL31voI7zcTD8_zRK0Bg8J5w/s526/Australopithecus.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="526" data-original-width="362" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEharZfqejdTzC4MAaZy2MU6OHeUZWcuW7WAACx4_90FulxbTTa0qPDzM3A3yv-FQ1xcI0J04BmHdlYwZ_04qZU75P5PZiJFViaYtt3DGqOcmRwCWn0IWxxQUoyByIlDZ4EWKWOo4DT9EgQjpLRxljrXDwxJ-zGKn6XZgqLL31voI7zcTD8_zRK0Bg8J5w/w275-h400/Australopithecus.jpg" width="275" /></a></div> <p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">It was only much, much later on in
life that I came to realise that <i>this</i> <i>is the point</i> of the
humanities. Even subjects such as archaeology, anthropology, and history, which
draw on concrete aspects of science and scientific practices, are essentially
nothing more than <i>plausible fictions</i> – ideas, opinions, theories – it’s
as simple as that. Though some practitioners in these fields might evangelically
espouse their academic revelatory notions as some sort of gnostic gospel truth
which we should all revere and adhere to as the ‘be-all, end-all’ answer to the
ultimate questions concerning the origins of life, the universe and everything
– it’s still only a theory, <i>their</i> theory. It’s simply one theory among
many which have gone before, and one which will be followed by many more still to
come. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">It was the cult-like hagiographical
obeisance that came with the theory which really turned me off and caused me to
tune out, although not drastically enough to make me drop out. I hung on in
there. Partly, because it was a circus which, nevertheless, could still
entertain even the most sceptical of minds. I clearly remember the closing
moment of the final lecture for my BSc, when one of our tutors had wowed us for
one last time with such a grand epiphany-like conclusion to their showman-like
exposition, explaining some all-encompassing aspect of life rooted in the long
lost deep-time of human prehistory, and one of my (by now deeply-jaded) fellow-students
raised his hand and asked: <i>“Yeah, that’s all very interesting, but where do
the Spice Girls fit into all of that?”</i> --- To which the long-suffering
tutor concluded his lecture by telling my fellow student (and former housemate)
to <i>“F*ck off!”</i> --- It was certainly a <i>radical</i> and rather
definitive ending to three very long but ultimately intellectually-formative
years. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifCbV3fk08YF_PK57Vsc8wdfCxpVXPFgu-wfsh3KjBSwhW8dtQgsqLkzk7ZqX2fzvkRLvEdc8URPovkEyZH7E2jRiFs8lHARuXuEYoWSyQ4z24SSdtPj-_zkDu1cbvBgr6XOXE7XShUshSc2oaAqgiW_W3lLNpOzISLojuPVe7jVdpoW63PGrMC1VoWw/s1298/The%20Dawn%20of%20Everything.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1298" data-original-width="905" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifCbV3fk08YF_PK57Vsc8wdfCxpVXPFgu-wfsh3KjBSwhW8dtQgsqLkzk7ZqX2fzvkRLvEdc8URPovkEyZH7E2jRiFs8lHARuXuEYoWSyQ4z24SSdtPj-_zkDu1cbvBgr6XOXE7XShUshSc2oaAqgiW_W3lLNpOzISLojuPVe7jVdpoW63PGrMC1VoWw/w279-h400/The%20Dawn%20of%20Everything.jpg" width="279" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Consequently, reading the first
chapter of David Graeber and David Wengrow’s <i>The Dawn of Everything: A New
History of Humanity</i> (Penguin, 2022) instantly catapulted me back to that
1930s-era lecture hall at UEL’s old Barking campus. Here was a book, at long
last, which seemed to be echoing my baffled bemusement. A book which was also
asking: <i>“But how can you possibly know that?”</i> – A book which was at last
finally holding up a mirror to what (to coin a David Graeber-like phrase) I’d
long thought of as being <i>bullsh*t anthropology</i>. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Graeber and Wengrow’s book begins
by stating that: <i>“Most of human history is irreparably lost to us. Our
species, Homo sapiens, has existed for at least 200,000 years, but for most of
that time we have next to no idea what was happening. In northern Spain, for
instance, at the cave of Altamira, paintings and engravings were created over a
period of at least 10,000 years, between around 25,000 and 15,000 BC.
Presumably, a lot of dramatic events occurred during this period. We have no
way of knowing what most of them were.” – </i>How fantastically refreshing. A
book about <i>everything</i> which starts by stating that we know <i>nothing</i>
as a point of fact! – But, of course, there has to be more to it than that.
After all, how else could this book be over 700 pages long? – How the heck is
it going to make sense of all of this unknowable stuff?<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Well. This is a very smart book.
One which balances both exegesis <i>and</i> exposition. Hence it should be read
not so much in search of concrete answers, but perhaps more in quest of
cognitive challenges. It walks a surprisingly genial line between hermeneutics
and teleology (largely by means of avoiding the use of such words). It’s a real
joy to read. An intelligently clear and conversational book. One which
encourages us to engage with our own dialectical processes of reasoning:
telling us that the answers we seek matter only if we give equal weight to the
questions which beget those answers; prompting us to wonder why such questions
need asking at all? – In essence, it is all a matter of perspectives. And, of
course, awareness. Maintaining an awareness that individual and collective
personal, social and cultural biases pervade all levels of critical thinking.
In many ways, we are simply blind to our own blind spots. But we can escape
this ever-decreasing circle.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">In order to demonstrate this, the
two Davids go back to the supposed rational objectivity of Enlightenment
thinkers, such as Thomas Hobbes and Jean-Jacques Rousseau, looking at their
engagement with little-known contemporary world-views as were then held by the relatively
recently encountered cultures of the New World. Asking not how the assumed
proto-communist equality of our early ancestors was lost, and thereby wondering
how inequalities within our societies first arose; but rather, asking why it was
(and still is) assumed that we began our social evolution in these egalitarian
bands of early hunter-gatherers? – Graeber and Wengrow speculate that perhaps
the Enlightenment ideals of liberty, equality, fraternity (within distinctly
defined limits and constraints) came into being as a response to the
interactions of colonial settlers and missionaries with the Amerindian
populations they encountered in the New World.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnY8VYFFYQKg4LDgbDXjrxWExKvCfo4eZ3-xjsdPu6rSpLQ1NnrC8Kd3hP2vND5nMGBE1HHM5jqRlyw0bXig7ECoydn9jIqEv5aU9R-sruMUQ_pUGVZ2hgiabU-BzeNho_zK-aWBAEt_YfXF4VIusuFx4LKpYwuUOlInaZF_g0SifTpJA3FSfmofXbJA/s546/African%20Exodus.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="546" data-original-width="360" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnY8VYFFYQKg4LDgbDXjrxWExKvCfo4eZ3-xjsdPu6rSpLQ1NnrC8Kd3hP2vND5nMGBE1HHM5jqRlyw0bXig7ECoydn9jIqEv5aU9R-sruMUQ_pUGVZ2hgiabU-BzeNho_zK-aWBAEt_YfXF4VIusuFx4LKpYwuUOlInaZF_g0SifTpJA3FSfmofXbJA/s320/African%20Exodus.jpg" width="211" /></a> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjKPX1bdPP2L9vJ8Z4axZPwuisMBEAce_QdtUZKSydyq-qGjOw1yIT7EyuGZKU5pDkR32CiwGwhMHz7FXsc0_qdtk-lVn0hMmFTpNLZAdwS9u5vGdSMQjTLMHYPDI6KI8plYl7J6wFCPVF4-FsSKFL6wY9r7WlBkIgvNoqlE38LOJDynKdquZLY0CjzQ/s499/The%20Selfish%20Gene.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="499" data-original-width="330" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjKPX1bdPP2L9vJ8Z4axZPwuisMBEAce_QdtUZKSydyq-qGjOw1yIT7EyuGZKU5pDkR32CiwGwhMHz7FXsc0_qdtk-lVn0hMmFTpNLZAdwS9u5vGdSMQjTLMHYPDI6KI8plYl7J6wFCPVF4-FsSKFL6wY9r7WlBkIgvNoqlE38LOJDynKdquZLY0CjzQ/s320/The%20Selfish%20Gene.jpg" width="212" /></a><br /><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">It’s a fascinating reversal. And it
is also a far cry from what I was taught as an anthropology undergraduate back in
the mid-1990s. At that time the theoretical-side of physical anthropology was
alive with debates between those who believed the ‘Out of Africa’ theory,
advocated by anthropologists such as Chris Stringer and my own tutors at UEL,
and those who adhered to the ‘multi-regional evolution’ theory of equally
eminent scholars such as Milford Wolpoff, and also Lewis Binford’s ‘new
archaeology’, which redefined processual approaches to the study of material culture.
Elaine Morgan even came and gave us a special lecture on her ‘aquatic ape’
theory – a lecture which was partly disrupted by some Islamic fundamentalist
students, who were regularly causing problems at UEL at that time (… I’ve often
wondered in recent years what became of those guys and where they are today).
Richard Dawkins’ <i>The Selfish Gene</i> (1976), a major scientific
recalibration of Darwinian evolution, was a much-venerated text at this time at
UEL too. The (then still relatively recent) DNA-sequencing findings regarding
so-called ‘mitochondrial Eve’ were helping to bolster the popular image of the
African Rift Valley as some sort of Garden of Eden for early humanity. And the eponymous
Australopithecus, known as ‘Lucy’, along with the footprints found at Laetoli,
were the superstar protagonists of most of our essays. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIY5fY8uFc0gXDAWr7U7C3YjyBcxFgvJiYNTUuSKiFpy3_UkeHyJcroO6wjmNnbcMo4MQ9c0EPg_abtha67qQ2W1Yq1vdIl0lwLXEpbVxLuDFszH5LU4kQ63Ex-jztZoSf6UfHGBeVjP_Jh-IxcIE_N_P3ZTKNiQjmDRt2e4ToOBAsdJdN5zLLGOJGqQ/s1256/The%20Second%20Lucy.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1256" data-original-width="952" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIY5fY8uFc0gXDAWr7U7C3YjyBcxFgvJiYNTUuSKiFpy3_UkeHyJcroO6wjmNnbcMo4MQ9c0EPg_abtha67qQ2W1Yq1vdIl0lwLXEpbVxLuDFszH5LU4kQ63Ex-jztZoSf6UfHGBeVjP_Jh-IxcIE_N_P3ZTKNiQjmDRt2e4ToOBAsdJdN5zLLGOJGqQ/w304-h400/The%20Second%20Lucy.jpg" width="304" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">But, despite the very tempting
allure of all this anthropological evangelism, I couldn’t help being niggled by
my doubts, mostly arising from the sparsity of evidence which was so thinly but
definitively staked out over such vast tracts of time – how could so much
theoretical weight be borne by the stray findings of a single fragment from an
incomplete hominid fossil dating from one distant millennium be made to quantum
leap through the aeons and marry with that found in another? – The two Davids
phrase it far better than I ever could have done so when I was writing about
all this back in 1994-1997: <i>“If we think on a scale of, say, the last 3
million years, there actually was an age in which the lines between (what we
today think of as) human and animal were still indistinct; and when someone,
after all, did have to light a fire, cook a meal or perform a marriage ceremony
for the first time. We know these things happened. Still, we really don’t know
how. It is very difficult to resist the temptation to make up stories about
what might have happened: stories which necessarily reflect our own fears,
desires, obsessions and concerns. As a result, such distant times can become a
vast canvas for the working out of our collective fantasies.”</i> (p.89*)<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwWlD5NFTJ6T4-dmgIHiksG31jALHkUgDQI8I-pZheBuS0WzYCWnclIYHlj1Rt8G25UU5kOWQhdth2a0uC2dXksLiKS9LyT5N57TfN4pifCQGKo-7tOQR9qUhTkmApnQAXrDFfgj3WrvEpS_zEuA42oEjXcx7DX5n8b8KFjssla7oNw4V_sbVgpKYIEg/s789/Anthrologists%20Dream.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="789" data-original-width="682" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwWlD5NFTJ6T4-dmgIHiksG31jALHkUgDQI8I-pZheBuS0WzYCWnclIYHlj1Rt8G25UU5kOWQhdth2a0uC2dXksLiKS9LyT5N57TfN4pifCQGKo-7tOQR9qUhTkmApnQAXrDFfgj3WrvEpS_zEuA42oEjXcx7DX5n8b8KFjssla7oNw4V_sbVgpKYIEg/w346-h400/Anthrologists%20Dream.jpg" width="346" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">It wasn’t so much the theorisation itself
which bothered me, but rather the imperative didacticism which went with it.
The fact that we were required to nail our (preferably Marxist) colours to the
mast and expected to defend them to the death. There was no room for bourgeois
‘middle-roaders’, even though all I wanted to do was keep an ‘open mind’ to all
the different possibilities. And I guess around this time, the two Davids – who
aren’t that much different in age to me, must have been thinking the same as
fellow undergraduates in their respective institutions. As they say: <i>“There
are phases of literally thousands of years for which the only evidence of
hominin activity we possess is a single tooth, and perhaps a handful of pieces
of shaped flint. While the technology we are capable of bringing to bear on
such remote periods improves dramatically each decade, there’s only so much you
can do with sparse material. As a result, it’s difficult to resist the
temptation to fill in the gaps, to claim we know more than we really do. When
scientists do this the results often bear a suspicious resemblance to those
very biblical narratives modern science is supposed to have cast aside.”</i>
(p.90)<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">In many ways, especially when
looking at the Palaeolithic, all of this seems so massively remote that it is
surely inconsequential to our own lives as modern human beings, isn’t it? –
Well, maybe not. There is more than just a philosophical dimension to pondering
the deep past. It is also a way of reflecting upon the present. If we haven’t
always been the way we are now, what are the possibilities for the future, and
who might we yet become? – In this sense, <i>The Dawn of Everything</i> does
have another dimension. It seeks to go beyond a straightforward re-write of
anthropological thinking. This book does have an agenda: <i>“There is no doubt
that something has gone terribly wrong with the world. A very small percentage
of its population do control the fates of almost everyone else, and they are
doing it in an increasingly disastrous fashion. To understand how this
situation came about, we should trace the problem back to what first made
possible the emergence of kings, priests, overseers and judges.”</i> (p.87-88) <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgORXkxTUdoLceEgN0Y24RvP1iXVzzkBdlRmhkTqzTE3bxH-HEKqTUHcbQ_WzMxrKdsDpNcrZfG53LHAskmUi12bl5fAZ4qxgsIDrabHS2KXaCC5cV8LpWFaE-r_Efj9Hgrd-BhmJ17aya8alogHLNE2Y3j6QVSQhxwZyMkUw8z42kKXb6Mwf3LDq4XnQ/s424/Masons%20Tricksters%20Cartographers.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="424" data-original-width="318" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgORXkxTUdoLceEgN0Y24RvP1iXVzzkBdlRmhkTqzTE3bxH-HEKqTUHcbQ_WzMxrKdsDpNcrZfG53LHAskmUi12bl5fAZ4qxgsIDrabHS2KXaCC5cV8LpWFaE-r_Efj9Hgrd-BhmJ17aya8alogHLNE2Y3j6QVSQhxwZyMkUw8z42kKXb6Mwf3LDq4XnQ/w300-h400/Masons%20Tricksters%20Cartographers.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">As already noted, modern thinking
is to a large degree rooted in the ethos born out of the Western Enlightenment.
It is a distinctly entrenched paradigm which surrounds us like a fog, but
anthropology and archaeology can help us to wake up to the fact that not everything
everywhere has been the same for all time. There are distinctly different ways
of living, of organising and operating as collectively cohesive social animals.
An excellent book, in this regard, which I value very highly is David
Turnbull’s <i>Masons, Tricksters and Cartographers:</i> <i>Comparative Studies
In The Sociology Of Scientific And Indigenous Knowledge</i> (2000), which
really does show in a series of remarkably mind-expanding modes that there are
many diverse epistemologies which can be used to understand our shared world,
as well as re-orientating our perspectives within it – from the cross-generational
collaborative means and methods by which enormous Medieval cathedrals were designed
and constructed, to the global navigational systems whose subtleties were honed,
adapted and successfully applied over centuries by Pacific islanders, regularly
migrating over vast (and seemingly featureless) tracts of open ocean, almost
like seafaring nomads. The way of the world forged in the mindset of the
Western Enlightenment is far from the only way to collectively know and
understand ourselves.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGdc_Yu3-FEOHJoQWltARRHeFoCzReiff9FHyoN9Kul1qx4YN4zyI8-pTlBJw5ISUZ4xYHwjCKlfAgZWoNHuTjKKxZ2FJ_M44dqOlH8vckAyPJBGCgIKz165QBtlenOs19t1dE8YkHKSGCkffCL0DVwrsaqfnCi93JRjYDFYvtZuKhALgb2fa1ZNYv9Q/s500/Leach%20Political%20Systems%20of%20Highland%20Burma.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="317" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGdc_Yu3-FEOHJoQWltARRHeFoCzReiff9FHyoN9Kul1qx4YN4zyI8-pTlBJw5ISUZ4xYHwjCKlfAgZWoNHuTjKKxZ2FJ_M44dqOlH8vckAyPJBGCgIKz165QBtlenOs19t1dE8YkHKSGCkffCL0DVwrsaqfnCi93JRjYDFYvtZuKhALgb2fa1ZNYv9Q/w254-h400/Leach%20Political%20Systems%20of%20Highland%20Burma.jpg" width="254" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"> </span></div>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Indeed, this was also something we
looked at as part of my Anthropology BSc. I remember, during that ‘cultures of
dominance and cultures of resistance’ module I mentioned earlier, we studied
E.R. Leach’s <i>Political Systems of Highland Burma</i> (1954), which, when it
was first assigned to us, I thought qualified as perhaps the most boring
sounding book title in the world. But, in truth, it was utterly fascinating. It
spoke of the ways in which one society could periodically shift its social
system of governance, operating in a kind of double morphology. Echoing the
early work of Claude L<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">é</span>vi-Strauss on the Nambikwara in the Amazon, which Graeber
and Wengrow discuss in some detail (in Chapter 3 of <i>The Dawn of Everything</i>),
the Kachin of Burma regularly alternated between two organisational systems
depending on prevailing factors at different times. As Graeber himself
summarises Edmund Leach’s book (on <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/review/show/113208967?book_show_action=true&from_review_page=1"><i>GoodReads</i></a>):
<i>“This is an anthropological classic of the first water – and one of the
books that opened my eyes to what anthropology could be. It’s hard to explain
how reading about hill tribes in Southeast Asia where powerful people
periodically try to create little kingdoms (gumsa) in imitation of the Shan
states in the valleys, but where the complexities of their forms of agriculture
and marriage systems inevitably lead them to collapse and form democratic
republics (gumlao) again – and then the whole cycle starts all over again – but
when you read it, you are entranced. Well, okay, I was. It’s books like this
that made me want to dedicate my life to anthropology.” <o:p></o:p></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><i><br /></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr-pixFLMOYN98pUSL_4is7V2Y6230pUmIo6TFLJYsWR2V4i1tWivXNdKtpec1_TD2Tva8FvuyFNGxfTId1RlrEkI3A24EodUNrFlWUbmwL0gqi9n9JEUfYE27p80X3poa9Oa9wLF5PeeVol1gbH2qFdcbaB8HQCx1WnoA1lXfWgYfK8xbYDM1BuHf9w/s475/The%20Art%20of%20Not%20Being%20Governed.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="475" data-original-width="314" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr-pixFLMOYN98pUSL_4is7V2Y6230pUmIo6TFLJYsWR2V4i1tWivXNdKtpec1_TD2Tva8FvuyFNGxfTId1RlrEkI3A24EodUNrFlWUbmwL0gqi9n9JEUfYE27p80X3poa9Oa9wLF5PeeVol1gbH2qFdcbaB8HQCx1WnoA1lXfWgYfK8xbYDM1BuHf9w/w265-h400/The%20Art%20of%20Not%20Being%20Governed.jpg" width="265" /></a></div> <p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Since Leach wrote way back in the
1950s, much more recently this same region has inspired a whole new
re-evaluation of so-called ‘anarchic’ states of being which has resulted in a
much debated concept, dubbed ‘Zomia’, in which certain societies situated in
the highlands of Southeast Asia have seemingly managed to avoid incorporation
into the fabric of the modern nation states that surround them without being
wholly cut-off from modernity, as is often assumed of remote Amazonian tribes
and the like. James C. Scott’s <i>The Art of Not Being Governed</i> (2009) is
the equally entrancing text which has sparked this revival of interest in such
matters. It’s exactly these kinds of academic reappraisals which, as the two
Davids highlight, is now causing a growing number of people to re-evaluate the
long-held assumptions that there was some sort of uniform social and political
progress within early human societies, leading from simple egalitarianism to
more complex, codified and hierarchical systems; which in turn led to
agriculture and urbanisation, then onto conquest and colonisation, etc.,
eventually resulting in the modern globalised world of capitalist, free trade
and free market economies which we know and hold today as supposedly the ‘be
all, end all’ perfection of human existence.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Essentially, we have lost sight of
how societies can and do change in order to adapt according to their shifting ecological
and economic circumstances. While I was at UEL I remember reading and writing
about two starkly contrasting studies conducted by the same anthropologist.
These ethnographies were <i>The Forest People</i> (1961) and <i>The Mountain
People</i> (1972) by Colin Turnbull, which respectively describe life among the
Mbuti and the Ik, two societies each located in vastly different regions of
Africa. The first book presents a vision of a mobile band of pygmies living an
idyllic, egalitarian, Garden of Eden-like existence, while the other confronts
the reader with a harsh and hellish, Holocaust-like vision of a violently
brutal and selfish society, having been pushed to the very brink of social
cohesion by dislocation, drought, famine and an oppressive scarcity of
resources (the Ik were previously nomadic, but had been forced to become
sedentary). Writing an essay on <i>The Mountain People</i> was possibly one of
the hardest things I’ve ever had to do. But it was an education in itself of
how the norms we take for granted only afford us the narrowest of views as to
what human life can be – particularly in its potentials for both good and ill.
It taught me that an appreciation for difference, and a desire to know (even if
it’s impossible to fully understand) another culture is the true gift of
studying anthropology, i.e: maintaining an <i>openness to insight</i>. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyP66QEcB2q13a1yeOa8qbfiZJsN2cF4yZehlncnb4WXqCl3w5j21GLyvBuMuJwGT80f68B5y6Pm113TO5n4AtQQ5gOyjKDuDYUT0_IfypkxXc5S1NCLCSVyLGyERufKDESvQVdjbaMmxLJ9baDImXor4uv7riQO3Uc0JevrW1d1y42Nyod40z_NxP1w/s475/The%20Forest%20People.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="475" data-original-width="300" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyP66QEcB2q13a1yeOa8qbfiZJsN2cF4yZehlncnb4WXqCl3w5j21GLyvBuMuJwGT80f68B5y6Pm113TO5n4AtQQ5gOyjKDuDYUT0_IfypkxXc5S1NCLCSVyLGyERufKDESvQVdjbaMmxLJ9baDImXor4uv7riQO3Uc0JevrW1d1y42Nyod40z_NxP1w/s320/The%20Forest%20People.jpg" width="202" /></a> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKhUWkpAzaMjFxgtOUAx3nulU_m0SxebVwqO-_5EBaTX7lF6T6cDlrCs4FDDUjHh0Ns1D_5PS5xrU8j7esL3_GNuqArK0FMLhh6T8qKIWbdvrvEKJtQINthsv3nFZZn_gQKfq_pfh4GWMlYx-jV-9RGF6ArCXN1N74x9M4D29AyHY8QTlEfRAj2NhHGw/s475/The%20Mountain%20People.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="475" data-original-width="296" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKhUWkpAzaMjFxgtOUAx3nulU_m0SxebVwqO-_5EBaTX7lF6T6cDlrCs4FDDUjHh0Ns1D_5PS5xrU8j7esL3_GNuqArK0FMLhh6T8qKIWbdvrvEKJtQINthsv3nFZZn_gQKfq_pfh4GWMlYx-jV-9RGF6ArCXN1N74x9M4D29AyHY8QTlEfRAj2NhHGw/s320/The%20Mountain%20People.jpg" width="199" /></a><br /><span style="text-align: left;"> </span></div>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Ever since completing those three
years and graduating with my Anthropology BSc, I’ve had a long and troubled
relationship with my first degree. At the time it seemed like a mistake, and I
struggled with the pedagogical constraints through which it had to be
negotiated; but ultimately, I don’t regret it. If anything, it has come to
exert an ever-greater relevance to the things which I have done subsequently. I
know anthropology has shaped and informed my outlook on life in general, and it
still very much influences my approach to my continuing PhD studies as an
historian. Hence, what once seemed like a bad hand which life’s croupier had
dealt me, one that has long lingered with me like a cognitive millstone, now
seems to have been a long unappreciated gift – one which only the passing of
time has at last finally managed to unmask. As in Turnbull’s <i>The Forest
People,</i> seeing the sacred <i>molimo</i> trumpet out of context is merely a prosaic
act when contrasted with the importance of visualising what it embodies while hearing
it at the appropriately sanctioned moment in its ritualised use. Essentially,
behind the different masks of certainty which other people force us to choose
between, I believe it is possible to maintain a sense of ‘negative capability’
(as John Keats described it: that is, the ability to balance and live with
opposing or contradictory thoughts and ideas). Because this might very well be
the only thing which (paradoxically) helps us to stay sane. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Looking back, I see two experiences:
one at the very end of our undergraduate degree, and the other many years
later, which put this conclusion into the most quotidian of contrasts for me –
posing a fundamental question which I’ve never really been able to fully answer
for myself, hence why the continual relevance of such a prolonged re-evaluation
remains a constant in my thinking-life: </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">The first was a discussion that some of
my fellow students had amongst ourselves after one of our last lectures at the
end of our final year. It was a moment marking the culmination of all of us having
spent three years steeped in a deep and meaningful appreciation of the rich,
broad cultural and political diversity of humanity in all its myriad forms.
Someone idly asked all of us what we were going to do once we’d finished our
studies that summer. Most spoke of summer jobs and then of their aspirations
towards future careers or further education: MAs, MScs, that kind of thing. But
one lad, a young Israeli boy, said he was going home to do his National Service.
Most of the group openly commiserated with him, but he looked up and quickly
rebuffed us, saying: <i>“Oh no, I’m looking forward to it. I’ll get the chance
to shoot some Palestinians!”</i> – There was an uneasy silence. No one was sure
if he was joking or not.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">The second happened a couple of
decades later, when I was flying home to London from Seoul in South Korea. I
was sitting next to a young Korean girl, and naturally enough at some point during
the long flight we got talking. She told me she was travelling to the UK to
begin studying at university. She quizzed me on what life was like in the UK,
what my own experience had been of going to university there, and she asked me
what I’d studied. When I told her I’d studied anthropology she said it was a
subject which interested her and quizzed me further on what that was all about,
so I did my best to summarise it. When I’d finished, she asked me with a dead
straight face (the seriousness of which only just stopped me in the nick of
time from bursting into laughter): <i>“How do you reconcile all of that with
your faith in Jesus Christ?”</i><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Sitting back in my seat, traversing
the world at 35,000 feet, far above the immense spectrum of everyday lives
being lived out collectively and individually beneath the raft of pure white clouds
passing below us at a rapid rate of knots in that sealed metal tube with wings,
I found myself reflecting once again: how it is all too easy to take the world
at face value and not realise that we are all only ever looking into a mirror
which simply shows us what we already know and consequently take completely for
granted. There’s no seeing the wood for all the trees. No wonder, then, that
the world is such a messed-up place!<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBNe0vWXc4Ji0Vx5lysGDDHnIrVNmwCuruBFiej6ulOO6SSWOElwU8I8EWlFE17sQabhH8gsr8TwFIShbqQGy5fRYjdENvGZLRyH4_1mAXoP3g0S0M_ujn5_QzwWso0JA0HFgCvVV9IRTgqajrH-APP1rbUofxTD44RrObkVZxFzm9xi2K8bGLPIvbFg/s591/Anthropologists%20Anthropologists.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="591" data-original-width="457" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBNe0vWXc4Ji0Vx5lysGDDHnIrVNmwCuruBFiej6ulOO6SSWOElwU8I8EWlFE17sQabhH8gsr8TwFIShbqQGy5fRYjdENvGZLRyH4_1mAXoP3g0S0M_ujn5_QzwWso0JA0HFgCvVV9IRTgqajrH-APP1rbUofxTD44RrObkVZxFzm9xi2K8bGLPIvbFg/w309-h400/Anthropologists%20Anthropologists.jpg" width="309" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">If life tends to confound our
expectations, it’s no wonder we are always seeking to find the points upon
which we can anchor ourselves. But the true challenge is trying to travel freely
by casting those anchors aside. Attempting to see beyond that mirror, to look
into other surfaces and perceive how things might be reflected differently
there. For me, this book, <i>The Dawn of Everything,</i> is a mirror of one
sort or another. I’m not sure if it represents a revelation of something new,
or simply a confirmation of all the things I thought I already knew, but which previously
I had no way of articulating for myself before reading it. I realise I am still
very much stuck in my initial, overly-enamoured phase of admiration for this
particular book. And it is a book which I’d highly recommend <i>everybody</i>
to read. Sadly, my quasi-review here has barely even scratched the surface of all that it contains, nor have I done sufficient justice to the real aplomb with which this book is crafted. It is truly impressive (I could hardly believe my eyes, but the two authors’ description of the domestication of wheat is genuinely riveting reading!).<span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"> </span>Had he not passed away in September
2020, David Graeber could well have become for me the anthropological guru <i>par
excellence</i> whom I’d managed so assiduously to avoid all these years!</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">And in this regard, I should
perhaps end by coming full-circle, to append a somewhat amusing footnote,
referring back to Chris Knight: who, despite his professed admiration for David
Graeber, has recently taken Graeber to task by rather baldly stating that: <i>“For
David and his whole circle, I don’t exist. My book doesn’t exist, it never got
written, and it’s irrelevant.”**</i> – Knight seems to think that Graeber
doesn’t give enough credence to the findings of ethnographers and consequently
totally misreads the most fundamental truths about hunter-gatherer societies.
Personally, I think Graeber and Wengrow’s new book does engage with all of the
issues which Knight complains about (see Chapters 4 & 6 in particular). And likewise,
according to my reading of <i>The Dawn of Everything</i>, I also think the two
Davids very effectively expose a lot of the speculative assumptions inherent in
‘bullsh*t anthropology’ (which I’ve complained about at length above) by underlining
my contention that speculations are all we really have to work with here. Consequently,
as with any theory regarding the origins of human society, there needs to be
enough latitude for doubt, even if they too (Graeber and Wengrow, that is) think
they’ve managed to figure it all out and have very persuasively managed to argue
their own particular case. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Ultimately, all churches – whether
sacred or secular – are founded upon faith. In the end, the only choice we each
have is deciding who we wish to follow. I guess – as with my ever-evolving reflections
upon the strange fruits of my Anthropology BSc, fruits both sweet and sour in a
world both complex and straightforward – the real test, I suppose, will be to
see what I think of this particular book in 30 years’ time. After all, it’ll be
fascinating to see where things go from here.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvRl7u9euOkv_ZRbxHDIN3VO8Rmm6RcVKwCSHG5LOLE4mAVwJyomCAuv8cyfsbwco9aPPwxzO_HdqdDMWuSzQwEe8w0cPXSuSvQJEVDuf5TqBx2prPOJmvU3JYxIUwE4crsK_flw6oAvrm7o_c51JEvxFVAjXqsklCPz8jsNj9jL5KAI7_eTrXOG4xdw/s744/Time%20Log.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="744" data-original-width="567" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvRl7u9euOkv_ZRbxHDIN3VO8Rmm6RcVKwCSHG5LOLE4mAVwJyomCAuv8cyfsbwco9aPPwxzO_HdqdDMWuSzQwEe8w0cPXSuSvQJEVDuf5TqBx2prPOJmvU3JYxIUwE4crsK_flw6oAvrm7o_c51JEvxFVAjXqsklCPz8jsNj9jL5KAI7_eTrXOG4xdw/w305-h400/Time%20Log.jpg" width="305" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><i>*NB – The page numbers I
reference above are taken from the page counter of a PDF version of the book
(which you can find here on the </i><a href="https://archive.org/details/graeber-wengrow-dawn/David%20Graeber%2C%20David%20Wengrow%20-%20The%20Dawn%20of%20Everything_%20A%20New%20History%20of%20Humanity-Farrar%2C%20Straus%20and%20Giroux%20%282021%29/"><i>Internet
Archive</i></a><i>) which gives no actual page numbers on the text itself.<o:p></o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><i>**Quote taken from </i><a href="https://youtu.be/RhOLjy3sNQA?t=1502"><i>an address</i></a><i> which Chris
Knight made to the Communist Party of Great Britain’s Online Communist Forum on
24 January 2021.<o:p></o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><o:p>~</o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">I have collated <a href="https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLn_wBoM2GcN_bjFwzAZRei2cDnW20v84L">a
playlist</a> on YouTube of videos by and about David Graeber – including
a couple of critiques of Graeber’s work by Chris Knight (as quoted above), and
interviews with David Wengrow about ‘The Dawn of Everything.’ Knight has also written a blog post giving his own extensive critique of ‘The Dawn of Everything’ which you can find here: Chris Knight - <a href="https://www.focaalblog.com/2021/12/22/chris-knight-wrong-about-almost-everything/" target="_blank">Wrong About (Almost) Everything</a> (<i>FocaalBlog</i>, 22 December 2021). There's also an interesting article on some of the early critical responses to ‘The Dawn of Everything’ <a href="https://www.theguardian.com/science/2022/jun/12/david-wengrow-graeber-dawn-of-history-interview" target="_blank">here</a> in <i>The Observer</i> (12 June 2022). Plus a reluctantly disappointed homage, which asks <a href="https://lareviewofbooks.org/article/what-happened-to-david-graeber/" target="_blank">'What Happened to David Graeber?'</a> by Crispin Sartwell, <i>LARB</i> (20 January 2024).</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><i><br /></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><i><br /></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><a href="https://hexagongallery.com/catalog/artist/banksy/trolley-hunters/" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="1967" data-original-width="2782" height="283" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiF_qt-z6OBwRwg55oo8biDfJGGplClKmJrMhHzTltIrSv-SXzUnOX7OK9ZkvLies8IXZHjyYaV8-p6ZMTZm5ibxtdL-mGHcmKZ720fD71PkMZGgo6fylPRsA-QswU9HnkViWV4bw-YKGCpHjQguIRMthLJuHGPE9MLHAvXjY1EJei75k99c6FyVqVD3Q/w400-h283/Banksy%20Trolley%20Hunters.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://hexagongallery.com/catalog/artist/banksy/trolley-hunters/" target="_blank">Trolley Hunters - Banksy</a></i></td></tr></tbody></table><i><o:p> </o:p></i><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><i><o:p><br /></o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><i><o:p> <b>Also on 'Waymarks'</b></o:p></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><i><o:p><b><br /></b></o:p></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><o:p><b><a href="http://eccentricparabola.blogspot.com/2013/08/from-heart-of-world-alan-ereira.html" target="_blank">From the Heart of the World - Alan Ereira</a></b></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://eccentricparabola.blogspot.com/2013/01/shandley-williams-totem.html" target="_blank">Shandley Williams - Totem</a></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://eccentricparabola.blogspot.com/2011/08/ring-of-fire-indonesian-odyssey.html" target="_blank">Ring of Fire - An Indonesian Odyssey</a></b></p><div><br /></div><br /><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><a href="https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/entertainment-arts-44140200" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="820" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglS9HkEZ5BCiqf_UYMm6M0cKZwjuGjnSEjLKBoJtP5IVJn6rK786hymiDeyqFjmi37fQGwo_RP1nEgm3v6mFlA3GqhyX3cuLGSRRldmbcRjQY7FeeOwM-aVI9s4a9ERn9wLLHiuHRLpW_FTN_RhsskhLUvuLAAUY-sLmq8l7sffoVg2R-BKs4_DQi6eg/w320-h400/Banksy%20Peckham%20Rock.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/entertainment-arts-44140200" target="_blank">Peckham Rock - Banksy</a></i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Timhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11641833714036731203noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-88759862385027089.post-12348928061208591472022-10-03T00:00:00.013+01:002023-02-03T23:11:02.381+00:00The Abominable Snowman of the Himalayas (1957)<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQXoFpng3RThefSfSLlGX3h-jTHp-Nsv3wM9-i064fwVSY4913MXS6LkwB6xShnVoLhhkodVIma6y6Em_WnYYaM2cSaASGf4hJdWD2aeLqQWzrCgBGtW7b3Vyr0UUid9S16c48qyq8SmABSOy-4TwxfGrBPNzaEcNi4YJGcQM_tcMfvbtfaRhSHIOFDw/s812/Abominable%20Snowman%205.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="812" data-original-width="620" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQXoFpng3RThefSfSLlGX3h-jTHp-Nsv3wM9-i064fwVSY4913MXS6LkwB6xShnVoLhhkodVIma6y6Em_WnYYaM2cSaASGf4hJdWD2aeLqQWzrCgBGtW7b3Vyr0UUid9S16c48qyq8SmABSOy-4TwxfGrBPNzaEcNi4YJGcQM_tcMfvbtfaRhSHIOFDw/w305-h400/Abominable%20Snowman%205.jpg" width="305" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">A month or so ago I happened to catch a screening of <i>The
Abominable Snowman of the Himalayas</i> (1957) on <i><a href="https://talkingpicturestv.co.uk/" target="_blank">Talking Pictures TV</a></i>.
It’s a movie which I’d never heard of before, but I’m quite a fan of old movies
and there are a lot of ‘lost’ or long forgotten gems to be found on this
particular UK TV channel. This one naturally piqued my interest because I was
intrigued to see how it depicted Tibet and the Himalaya. <o:p></o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1ll2F4YrBmg_l9J6xqjSnI6zFIN337nAvI2YTEVpYn5Mp4DR9lwYaRoAd_5RYmGByPXIVxQirvMiShTZhYHwTtrSppBBvJfwo1uCUQRAcIJI_3mEA8SCXgbV3ADQtpWIvGn3wSQ50Ynb69ZFtCqIm8tzMTRgmjQVJdkad8xX9nROF2lglQLfw0qrcvA/s447/Abominable%20Snowman%208.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="447" data-original-width="421" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1ll2F4YrBmg_l9J6xqjSnI6zFIN337nAvI2YTEVpYn5Mp4DR9lwYaRoAd_5RYmGByPXIVxQirvMiShTZhYHwTtrSppBBvJfwo1uCUQRAcIJI_3mEA8SCXgbV3ADQtpWIvGn3wSQ50Ynb69ZFtCqIm8tzMTRgmjQVJdkad8xX9nROF2lglQLfw0qrcvA/w376-h400/Abominable%20Snowman%208.jpg" width="376" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Directed by Val Guest, the film is based upon a BBC TV play
titled <i>The Creature</i> (1955), written by Nigel Kneale, which Kneale adapted for
the famous British horror filmmakers, Hammer. <i>The Abominable Snowman</i> tells the story of Dr John
Rollason (played by Peter Cushing), a British scientist, who is staying at a
remote monastery high up in the Himalayan mountains, with his wife, Helen
(Maureen Connell), and his assistant, Peter Fox (Richard Wattis). They are
nearing the end of their expedition. Rollason and Fox are introduced
to the viewer via an extended scene in which they talk with the Head ‘Lhama’ of
the monastery (Arnold Marle). It is clear that Rollason and his companions are
respectful of the Head Lama and they thank him for letting them stay at the monastery
while they have gone about their work, collecting plant specimens, and the
like. But as the conversation continues and Rollason is left alone with the
Lama, the Buddhist cleric begins to talk cryptically to Rollason, hinting at
some sort of deeper clairvoyance. The wise old Lama quizzes Rollason about his
real motives and intentions in coming to the Himalaya, telling Rollason that he
knows Rollason hasn’t yet finished all of his work in the mountains. The Lama
says some men are coming and Rollason intends to join them. Rollason tries to
deny this, but the Lama craftily manages to tell just enough of his suspicions
to Rollason’s wife, who is naturally upset because she is keen for them to
leave and return to their normal life, far away from the mountains. It’s also revealed
that Rollason was once an expert climber, but that he’s given up the dangerous
sport; hence another reason why his wife is both concerned and upset by the
Lama’s revelation. But there’s something strange about the way Rollason
receives all of this information, because it seems as though he himself is not
fully aware of all the facts the Lama has alluded to with such assurance, along
with an edge of definite disapproval.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p></o:p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdk_l5wVbdvX1jwAq7kGUZgSiPyLjLFP9B7KhFlQmtTn0fSn39YjDQphhGLSwSeKXdZGEXjdi8J9SL9NKQo7JmPnuBSB-tVSoH92kB6EWh6no9n6sAYKqVGx0mZDGEbff_TlZwUV3X-CHn8uQW9oRlx3fqmz-gjPBoUJYnkDlYAcg6aVh_U3a8s1ZDdg/s718/Abominable%20Snowman%206.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="309" data-original-width="718" height="173" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdk_l5wVbdvX1jwAq7kGUZgSiPyLjLFP9B7KhFlQmtTn0fSn39YjDQphhGLSwSeKXdZGEXjdi8J9SL9NKQo7JmPnuBSB-tVSoH92kB6EWh6no9n6sAYKqVGx0mZDGEbff_TlZwUV3X-CHn8uQW9oRlx3fqmz-gjPBoUJYnkDlYAcg6aVh_U3a8s1ZDdg/w400-h173/Abominable%20Snowman%206.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Cushing & Connell</i></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">It soon turns out that the Lama is
correct. A party of Americans arrives at the monastery. They are on their way
up into the mountains, heading far above the snowline in search of the Yeti –
the much fabled ‘Abominable Snowman’ of the film’s title. They’ve already conveniently
cached their supplies at various staging posts along the way during the summer
months, and so everything is set for the intentionally small group of explorers
to embark upon the adventure which lies ahead. Against his wife’s wishes,
Rollason is persuaded to join the expedition led by brash American, Tom Friend
(Forrest Tucker), along with his companion Ed Shelley (Robert Brown). There’s a
third member of the party, a young Scottish photographer, named Andrew McNee (Michael Brill), who seems very different
from the rest. And, of course, they take with them a local guide, a Sherpa by
the name of Kusang (Wolfe Morris), who says he has actually seen the Yeti.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p></o:p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkncVP9KUBjfXaeNVOSf6bsejFCLrZbH9jDkOj9sJnEGGRZqco0Yw4JAaOFb2iJ2QfCA8EDecBOrCxIFRHZz6q6fZmquvuUqJ6canet76aD21uKx-C2mtkXbu4ilt35fLYY2SuUVnyPj3UVgCDexaxbxyCmVJsB8Whiz8qjAdasckBuiIuEiE7nsmp9w/s1280/Abominable%20Snowman%207.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="1280" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkncVP9KUBjfXaeNVOSf6bsejFCLrZbH9jDkOj9sJnEGGRZqco0Yw4JAaOFb2iJ2QfCA8EDecBOrCxIFRHZz6q6fZmquvuUqJ6canet76aD21uKx-C2mtkXbu4ilt35fLYY2SuUVnyPj3UVgCDexaxbxyCmVJsB8Whiz8qjAdasckBuiIuEiE7nsmp9w/w400-h225/Abominable%20Snowman%207.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Cushing, Brill, Morris, Brown & Tucker</i></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Rather than pick apart the fanciful
plot of the movie, I’m more interested here in penning a few thoughts on the
stylised representations of Himalayan mountaineering and exploration as they
are depicted in this film. Naturally, it is very much “of its time” (as current
euphemistic parlance might describe it). All of the local Tibetans – mainly monks
mumbling their sutras in the background, and rowdy porters shouting angrily about
their lack of pay, along with a small group of easily disbursed bandits, plus a mystical (and perhaps Svengali-like?) Lama, who talks like a gnomic grandfather of Master Yoda (a familiar figure in the later <i>Star Wars</i> franchise) – are racist caricatures. But
then, so too are the Westerners stereotyped in their own peculiar ways. The
British are decent, level-headed sorts, who believe in fair play and talk with
clipped and flinty British accents. The Americans are brash, selfish and
insensitive, ‘gung-ho’ manly-man-types, loud and uncouth. Dr Rollason represents
the quintessential disinterested-nobility of pursuing science for its own sake, although he is also susceptible
to an innate sense of Romanticism which is naturally implicit in such a quest.
McNee turns out to be a character who is similarly flawed, but in a different
manner to Rollason. McNee is not up to the quest, but there is something spiritual
about him, something which drives him with an equal sense of passion and destiny
– he too, like the Lama, seems to have a telepathic connection to the region and
to the Yeti in particular. There are quite a few allusions in the film to mystical
powers and psychic connections, thought transference, and the like, but
interestingly none of these points is too heavily implied or overplayed. We get
the sense that the Yetis might be higher beings, not so much a ‘missing link’, but
a more of a co-evolutionary lineage, who might somehow be better than humans.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjZVaBkDENMFA1bzdhLylNVD3pm2Gh7zWSDHmzCHqoW4R5nxm3NajG6eY6fldio39W5SoSKwDX9OAmauI0Fhd8suOHSHFpV3vBH1udgAKIjv9UMrHSKmlu0pe-HHhybZDt9W3dZAO6n520QFO9CumVBh6EFxzQV8r-O9Y3ExQKA1V-OGlt8oitnqjgHg/s1024/AB%20Trekking.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="438" data-original-width="1024" height="171" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjZVaBkDENMFA1bzdhLylNVD3pm2Gh7zWSDHmzCHqoW4R5nxm3NajG6eY6fldio39W5SoSKwDX9OAmauI0Fhd8suOHSHFpV3vBH1udgAKIjv9UMrHSKmlu0pe-HHhybZDt9W3dZAO6n520QFO9CumVBh6EFxzQV8r-O9Y3ExQKA1V-OGlt8oitnqjgHg/w400-h171/AB%20Trekking.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Rollason deplores the two Americans’
commercial greed in their hunt for the Yeti, but the Americans flatter Rollason
that having him on-board as a member of their expedition will lend it some
scientific credibility, and they persuade him that, ultimately, they are working towards the same
ends in the pursuit of knowledge – and, in particular, the desire to understand
mankind’s place in the world. At the end of the movie (spoiler alert!) Rollason
is the sole survivor. He returns to the monastery because, as the Lama hinted
at the beginning of the story, his fate would be decided by what was most
essential within him – that sense of decency innate to his character has seen
him through (whereas, by the same token, the misadventures of his companions
has brought about their demise). And so, having looked into the face of the
Abominable Snowman, Dr Rollason says that there is no such thing as the Yeti in
existence. The ending is very ambiguous. Perhaps Rollason has been hypnotised by the Head Lama, or perhaps he has realised that some mysteries in life must remain just that, mysteries.<o:p></o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVerwI4nNPzpSqc9FIWo8ZvFNzO8WHLIvLUFnivWLJYVKnHdt2F8HnMYXyPSzxTOzTmNGNb252VmWevYY1kQd0XHAhlCN-RMdSde4142Tlxuekn46OFT5MScJjyMV5DRp-SjxRV5MT_CrfP7cw3fEuR_IFWyBUvdk9DTJpFRhB2ci96JVTdJ02BIKOmQ/s1017/Abominable%20Snowman%202.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="426" data-original-width="1017" height="168" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVerwI4nNPzpSqc9FIWo8ZvFNzO8WHLIvLUFnivWLJYVKnHdt2F8HnMYXyPSzxTOzTmNGNb252VmWevYY1kQd0XHAhlCN-RMdSde4142Tlxuekn46OFT5MScJjyMV5DRp-SjxRV5MT_CrfP7cw3fEuR_IFWyBUvdk9DTJpFRhB2ci96JVTdJ02BIKOmQ/w400-h168/Abominable%20Snowman%202.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">It is worth bearing in mind that
this movie is a melodrama. It is a Hammer horror movie which was primarily
intended to shock and thrill, and to excite and entertain its first audiences. As a morality play about the psychology of paranoia, all the movie posters for the film ‘ham up’ those frights, challenging the viewer: <i>“We
dare you to watch it alone!”</i> – Claiming it is <i>“More terrifying than The
Curse of Frankenstein.”</i> The Yeti is described as the <i>“Demon-Prowler of
Mountain Shadows … The Dreaded Man-Beast of Tibet.”</i> – But for all the
fanciful elements which are embellished throughout the course of the movie,
there are some aspects which are to certain degrees grounded in fact.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p></o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVFw3Lke7Nk5DwUL0vc83OT9TJ67jkriYNA-Fs7UcKx6DAyh5P-UFEjUKmJBs7DBdi3WFxcr4tROOehbuxkHHRFObtugmzEgydGYTHBUeDH1D3K8HJiy2Gt0ZGqd3d0ZKSXXeUZVBsYhYZB61gkxxntJp3yIoXvO90d6GNFBgtaLqy8JBQuu0l8ljhwQ/s1494/Abominable%20Snowman%203.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1494" data-original-width="1254" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVFw3Lke7Nk5DwUL0vc83OT9TJ67jkriYNA-Fs7UcKx6DAyh5P-UFEjUKmJBs7DBdi3WFxcr4tROOehbuxkHHRFObtugmzEgydGYTHBUeDH1D3K8HJiy2Gt0ZGqd3d0ZKSXXeUZVBsYhYZB61gkxxntJp3yIoXvO90d6GNFBgtaLqy8JBQuu0l8ljhwQ/w336-h400/Abominable%20Snowman%203.jpg" width="336" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">The set-dressings in the monastery scenes
are reminiscent of genuine Tibetan monasteries, although I don’t recall if in
the film the story’s location is explicitly referred to as being Tibet <i>per se</i>
(except perhaps for a joking reference to the ‘awfulness of Tibetan tea’). The architecture is similar, with trapezoidal
windows; Tibetan butter churns and a <i>mani</i> stone can be seen in the monastery’s courtyard; and
there are quite realistic <i>thangka</i> paintings hanging up in the interior
rooms, but these are also adorned with strangely stylised Southeast
Asian-looking Buddha statues (though more scowling than serene); the monks’
robes are fairly generic, and their religious dances seem pretty perfunctory. As
already mentioned, the Chief Lama appears to behave more like an Indian guru-figure,
one who perhaps <i>The Beatles</i> might have befriended in the subsequent
decade, rather than a genuine Tibetan cleric. And, in many ways, it is hinted
that he is a kind of <i>deus ex machina,</i> operating with a pseudo-all-seeing
supernatural effect, possibly even guiding events behind the scenes throughout the film. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2C-a-6yN95tDlakAo93B__WUAeilSQE9bAd9UZQDi0f32CWBd-0fvqjM6x0dYex4q3D_Z1wF_p9QaXIwCFeM9NkQL7J-iONtKrWVU2zBoAD3w6soLZ-5ruGgeD8xX1P2qRpN6Sp0lH1WS9cDrZ8du2BUt8kU6TrL2mHRUIRqD411MVflTuM7_Srhfpw/s2048/Abominable%20Snowman%20Monastery.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1595" data-original-width="2048" height="311" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2C-a-6yN95tDlakAo93B__WUAeilSQE9bAd9UZQDi0f32CWBd-0fvqjM6x0dYex4q3D_Z1wF_p9QaXIwCFeM9NkQL7J-iONtKrWVU2zBoAD3w6soLZ-5ruGgeD8xX1P2qRpN6Sp0lH1WS9cDrZ8du2BUt8kU6TrL2mHRUIRqD411MVflTuM7_Srhfpw/w400-h311/Abominable%20Snowman%20Monastery.png" width="400" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">The mountain
scenery is certainly the most impressive aspect of the movie. While many of the
scenes were clearly filmed in the synthetic mock-ups of a studio, these are nevertheless
blended into some impressive long sweeping shots of diminutive figures wending
their way through realistically wide Himalayan-looking vistas (filmed in the French Pyrenees). On the whole,
the characters’ contemporary mountaineering gear looks credibly authentic; and there
is even a passing reference to Eric Shipton in the initial dialogue.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p></o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTEHPKrDVBV3azHXJRkdt0IscwtJkPh3oMoIAETPFypLtc_4s5LcS7ugeCia60HqO5Vaisru4cXeaiNLQs55owHeJoMZgWJaDbAD8ULBblZfDF5282vOAXEIDSnVpY2qIGUdLt0KOEi_21SC45W2e40HCu6Ob225sc5n3g20RN5DZyaJPTRUO6s9n5hQ/s1275/Abominable%20Snowman%204.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="509" data-original-width="1275" height="160" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTEHPKrDVBV3azHXJRkdt0IscwtJkPh3oMoIAETPFypLtc_4s5LcS7ugeCia60HqO5Vaisru4cXeaiNLQs55owHeJoMZgWJaDbAD8ULBblZfDF5282vOAXEIDSnVpY2qIGUdLt0KOEi_21SC45W2e40HCu6Ob225sc5n3g20RN5DZyaJPTRUO6s9n5hQ/w400-h160/Abominable%20Snowman%204.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">In the context of this movie’s
times, the hunt for the Yeti was not such a far-fetched idea for a cinematic plot
either (although if you tune into certain TV channels today, such as <i>Blaze</i>,
you’d be forgiven for thinking that such quests are still widely held to be
credible even now!). Sir Edmund Hillary, after his first ascent of Mount
Everest (Chomolungma) in 1953, subsequently returned to the Himalaya on just
such a scientific quest himself. Consequently, it is worth watching this movie
with an eye to the cultural insights it might suggest – not so much about
Tibet, Tibetans, or the Himalaya – but rather, about the psychological
perceptions, prejudices, and peccadillos of British and American movie
audiences, and the piquantly picturesque elements of these pseudo-Himalayan themes which it was
thought by the filmmakers would most appeal to movie-goers at the time.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p></o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKDQ6OISKCiNAyb-rQZktXuTGQhzIe-3_Z_jpJ2DqQEmuCr6QwOaoQKh5KtMA6njVj_XRaybCUVcyEZu5Ts_-TVmHvvoWyHpqGMsY6jgE9u4YsVBGFX61C7g8ReIhS5T1C31ZasKVTTt1JFtB8-n-K-MRGD8uYqcZwzZnITtH6Yhd_LvFB0Bz7IZb6yw/s1000/Abominable%20Snowman%209.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="787" data-original-width="1000" height="315" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKDQ6OISKCiNAyb-rQZktXuTGQhzIe-3_Z_jpJ2DqQEmuCr6QwOaoQKh5KtMA6njVj_XRaybCUVcyEZu5Ts_-TVmHvvoWyHpqGMsY6jgE9u4YsVBGFX61C7g8ReIhS5T1C31ZasKVTTt1JFtB8-n-K-MRGD8uYqcZwzZnITtH6Yhd_LvFB0Bz7IZb6yw/w400-h315/Abominable%20Snowman%209.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">It’s a topic which certainly
appeals to me. Having spent so much time studying genuine travel accounts written
by Westerners who ventured into this part of the world during the first half of the twentieth century for my
PhD thesis, I am keen to continue my studies, looking at the way in which the ostensible
realism of this genre was subsequently transmuted and later valorised into such
fictional representations. In many ways, it was a genre which began with the
making of a movie version of James Hilton’s bestselling novel, <i>Lost Horizon</i> (book 1933,
movie 1937), and continues on through later cinematic outings, such as Eddie Murphy’s <i>The Golden Child</i>
(1986), to Brad Pitt, starring as Heinrich Harrer, in the Hollywood version of
Harrer’s memoir, <i>Seven Years in Tibet </i>(book 1952, movie 1997). </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTwQc38yu4pqUl7cKN5ADiFAFAPNGMq593v9MBleGJ5tYd8Zonf-KppdoWafmsvFNIn-pI3xtySvOOXK5q1IL-5K6x0TEp6OkS70JpH3gk60n3OOQCisSVVnMqjT5OpPTm_m36d460qucwFNiyN2vr2w5OjRTzrON6DMIWsWUzt1qF-AoBgNzf5JOuyQ/s1024/AB%20Monastery.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="438" data-original-width="1024" height="171" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTwQc38yu4pqUl7cKN5ADiFAFAPNGMq593v9MBleGJ5tYd8Zonf-KppdoWafmsvFNIn-pI3xtySvOOXK5q1IL-5K6x0TEp6OkS70JpH3gk60n3OOQCisSVVnMqjT5OpPTm_m36d460qucwFNiyN2vr2w5OjRTzrON6DMIWsWUzt1qF-AoBgNzf5JOuyQ/w400-h171/AB%20Monastery.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">The Himalaya remains a region of
perennial fascination for cultural outsiders. Ever since writers such as
Alexandra David-Neel and Charles Bell took an interest in interpreting Tibetan
Buddhism for a Western audience and perhaps inspired novelists such as James
Hilton, the Himalaya has become a kind of spiritual and geographical backcloth
onto which popular tropes of solipsistic questing can be projected. Yet the continuing
ubiquity of such clumsy metaphors and cultural misappropriations which seem to
abound in Hollywood’s fascination for the Himalaya as an always remote, hidden
and inaccessible region seem to attest to a continuing need to locate an ‘orientalising’
search for the self through tests of spiritual, psychological and physical endurance
in this notion of esoteric mysteries persisting somewhere far away. In this
sense, the Himalaya as it is seen in Hollywood remains a place which is pristine
and untouched by modernity, a place located beyond the ordinary mundane nature
of our own humdrum lives, somewhere lost perhaps in someone else’s or some
other culture’s past whether real or imagined. As a meta-myth it has become a cliché,
a cultural trope in and of itself which only serves to occlude and evade a
deeper and far more intriguing question: why does such a need to culturally appropriate
as a means of mediating inwardly with ourselves by projecting our own
perceptions through such a process of ‘othering’ continue to persist?</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/s3Egmbv6TIY" width="320" youtube-src-id="s3Egmbv6TIY"></iframe></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i>Original Movie Trailer</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b>Watch <i>The Abominable Snowman</i> (1957) on <a href="https://player.bfi.org.uk/subscription/film/watch-the-abominable-snowman-1957-online" target="_blank">BFI iplayer</a></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><br /></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvWSAIrnVaH3_ATAZYCbALZjf1TNUy0EswZIFuCrmDKrMRB3mgUoUQ5pWsJ6knvk-4bog5dlYnhM9MQMOcnxordp8eoswgSLwlv86WCm-RRrUpeKCwYlvxLqSlzCWq9GC6xqPJ7HP2x8nJCmWofVDwvCBLNv7IYBvrerpNPPnyoXtAK_K-szfRwIGM8A/s768/Dr%20John%20Rollason.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="635" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvWSAIrnVaH3_ATAZYCbALZjf1TNUy0EswZIFuCrmDKrMRB3mgUoUQ5pWsJ6knvk-4bog5dlYnhM9MQMOcnxordp8eoswgSLwlv86WCm-RRrUpeKCwYlvxLqSlzCWq9GC6xqPJ7HP2x8nJCmWofVDwvCBLNv7IYBvrerpNPPnyoXtAK_K-szfRwIGM8A/w331-h400/Dr%20John%20Rollason.jpg" width="331" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><i><br /></i></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><i>Also on 'Waymarks'</i></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><a href="http://eccentricparabola.blogspot.com/2021/11/himalaya-heart-of-eurasia.html" target="_blank">Himalaya - The Heart of Eurasia</a></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://eccentricparabola.blogspot.com/2022/07/other-everests-new-research-network.html" target="_blank">'Other Everests' - A New Research Network</a></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://player.bfi.org.uk/subscription/film/watch-the-abominable-snowman-1957-online" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="810" data-original-width="1440" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhd7jKTlFQtmh7n9tFIPpVMgQpYwOKJYYPwZaJtES1fw1Nqb2BOs0zEuWmTIzSUeYxD9d3vCh3SI9AW6Hk_Iz2oF3HUMuuoC0psedVXthjasUxDVj-FTaR4Jj0SH4o04QdndqEtM8sqfnGw7GwJi1X-5dt8TAPrnvRuEMdtp6Z8HZpL_WM7g4_9wpeMyg/w400-h225/BFI%20Abominable%20Snowman.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div><br /></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><i>NB - I am currently in the process of re-working this blog post as a proper academic paper for inclusion in an edited volume of film studies, due to be published in 2024. For more info, see <a href="https://tim-chamberlain.owlstown.net/publications/16558-mountains-and-mysticism-escapism-and-authenticity-in-the-cinematic-exploration-of-the-himalaya" target="_blank">here</a>.</i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></p>Timhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11641833714036731203noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-88759862385027089.post-41836350386781497412022-07-07T15:09:00.024+01:002024-02-25T02:01:56.977+00:00'Other Everests' - A New Research Network<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.othereverests.com/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="771" data-original-width="1377" height="224" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3ek_G7ThLrx3SfrjKEYMl-Q_qRfBMRUhk5htafKAeKz34tC-4To6IZs5Kww7K7vRZ5Y0fhDG4qow9y04QSTjoDKmAdIiCsnLGT1MWBzHKReLkwj8jt5-uvRD5yxFcBTwge0zw17i1S7ZfhiAWnHeQIdXPaT2qY8TBizUOnhvlLGAGJB223RLHZesN_g/w400-h224/Other%20Everests%20Banner%203.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">This week saw the start of <b><i>Other
Everests: Commemoration, Memory and Meaning and the British Everest Expedition
Centenaries, 2021-2024</i></b> – a research network funded by the Arts and
Humanities Research Council (AHRC). A two-day symposium hosted by convenors, Dr
Jonathan Westaway (University of Central Lancashire) and Dr Paul Gilchrist
(University of Brighton), was held at the Royal Geographical Society in London (5-6 July 2022).
<i>Other Everests</i> is a new interdisciplinary network that takes as its
starting point the centenary of the post-war British Everest campaigns of
1921-1924. Its aim is to bring together international scholars, archivists,
curators, learned and professional societies and the UK mountaineering
community to critically assess the legacy of the Everest expeditions and to
re-evaluate the symbolic, political and cultural status of Everest in the
contemporary world. The symposium brought together some of the members of the
network in order to share and discuss their research, as well as pooling ideas
about how the network might develop over the next two years through new events
and an open access publication. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><a href="https://twitter.com/PhansenH/status/1544254358358990849?s=20&t=-6ch0Ghm-q-klcGOl46ITw" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJjyR-phW0qT9eOlhIYr3Ch-5v1Tk3MVrYb63jx9u5VElpUWkuizdSc1SV93flNngbwUdnYWq3MeNOy1jBmU0LdVQgHv4nYDfjrBfWoRRb0AQylb0bwX2M-igFPN2i5FSXHJxqjpnUYFwW1-e8Msh32eNMBUQAwENo70clGF2FmQa4IZo-ybKYKwz3vQ/w400-h300/Other%20Everests%20(July%202022)%20Peter%20H%20Hansen.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://twitter.com/PhansenH/status/1544254358358990849?s=20&t=-6ch0Ghm-q-klcGOl46ITw" target="_blank">Jonathan Westaway & Paul Gilchrist opening the 'Other Everests' Symposium, 5-6 July 2022 (photo by Peter H. Hansen)</a></i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><b><i>“Other Everests will take a
once-in-a-100-year opportunity to critically reassess the legacy of Everest and
its meaning in contemporary culture and society. It will make its findings
widely accessible in an Open-Access collection of critical essays that address
key themes highlighted by the network and it will work with our project
partners at the Kendal Mountain Festival to develop public lectures and events
that translate contemporary scholarship into publicly accessible formats.”<o:p></o:p></i></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/Csgut6hYYVI" width="320" youtube-src-id="Csgut6hYYVI"></iframe></div><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">The symposium began with a ‘hands
on’ look at archive material and artefacts related to the exploration of
Everest held by the Royal Geographical Society. A fascinating display consisting
of a number of original documents, photographs, objects and silent film footage
which had been selected by members of the group was laid out in the RGS’s Foyle
Reading Room, with each member saying something about why they had chosen their
particular item and the significance it had to their research interests. The
rest of the two days was devoted to a series of plenary talks, as well as presentations
and roundtable discussions, and a session in which the group discussed the ways
in which arts and cultural collaborations with artists and project partners might
be used in order to help reimagine archival images and texts through new
creative partnerships in order to think about how acts of commemoration might
be made more meaningful and resonant in a post-colonial context.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><a href="https://twitter.com/jpitches68/status/1544308555263647745?s=20&t=-6ch0Ghm-q-klcGOl46ITw" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="2016" data-original-width="1512" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjahFRI5EorlN_CaW5UPW5qQndnV05ihJKJ-LvFzel2fKlWqHjqot3bsUXCReDEdIo9HOANYQAjZEi5hyt7xKu-VtmQJhwu2T4QYapYuZvLra3mSd8Zg-xh-vlYZkEFVUOHhXyRz6B2dQimTTMEO-XcgkyZZErZ7JRknIPQfUHzuFMjdjdJ7AB56NDtdg/w300-h400/Other%20Everests%20(July%202022)%20Jonathan%20Pitches.jpg" width="300" /></a></span></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://twitter.com/jpitches68/status/1544308555263647745?s=20&t=-6ch0Ghm-q-klcGOl46ITw" target="_blank">George Mallory's match box, recovered from Everest 70 years after his death (photo by Jonathan Pitches)</a></i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">For me, the symposium was a
wonderful forum in which to meet a wide range of people with linked interests,
as well as finally getting to meet several friends and academics whom I’d only
ever corresponded with on-line from different parts of the world. It was
fascinating to hear about the potentials of new research projects, some of
which were still only in their early stages, whilst others were at more advanced
stages of development, yet all dazzled by the breadth of their scope and the depth of their detail.
There were so many inspiring insights and interesting ideas to take away from
the two days that my head is still buzzing! – It is really hard to single out my
main highlights from the event, but if I had to pick just two elements from
each day: Jonathan Westaway’s presentation about his work on the ethnographic
photographs of Major C. J. Morris, and Sarah Pickman’s insights into the
material culture of provisioning and equipping expeditions on the first day; along
with Nokmedemla Lemtur’s researches into German mountaineering archives as part
of the <i>Modern India in German Archives, 1706-1989</i> project, along with
Peter Hansen’s truly excellent plenary talk, examining ‘The Whiteness of Mount
Everest’, which closed the second day of the symposium – all four of these chimed closely with
my own personal interests.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">The biggest revelation or ‘eye-opener’
for me though was Jenny Hall’s presentation on the Japanese climber, Junko Tabei
– whom I’m ashamed to say I’d not heard of before. She was the first female
climber to reach the summit of Mount Everest in 1975. Sadly though, the sexism
and racism she encountered was not so much of a surprise. But it was fascinating to
learn more about Tabei in the context of other female climbers who have subsequently
pushed physical and social boundaries in the Himalaya. Hence why these interdisciplinary
exchanges are so important for broadening our understanding of the regions
which we choose to study. It’s the connections and correspondences which such
meetings enable which ultimately prove to be some of the most fruitful and efficacious
outcomes of such events.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><a href="https://twitter.com/PhansenH/status/1544262360608772096?s=20&t=-6ch0Ghm-q-klcGOl46ITw" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhD-zA4DFTnjcRtCpTscYpUPQt7B5FPU5Zq45QWHS90YNVgwd1Q4RCXPa6HTxT1fjPY3aghR_V0I7Kg1hm2dypoBAXGwbC8xe39Pc-lo1sU8jioigo-QCGZ5bjjS8m-9EIKgT1qcbE_6nNxjXTW5COPXzOrCnfReSMuyHqINQTiwmPdACPI5kZCv4yKSQ/w400-h300/Other%20Everests%20(July%202022)%20Peter%20Hansen.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://twitter.com/PhansenH/status/1544262360608772096?s=20&t=-6ch0Ghm-q-klcGOl46ITw" target="_blank">Viewing the 'Other Everests' co-curated display (photo by Peter H. Hansen)</a></i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">And lastly, but by no means least,
the stand-out object of interest for me in the co-curated display of archive
material (although all the objects were fascinating!) was a photograph of a man named Lewa, a Sherpa, who
was ‘sirdar’ (head porter) on the British Everest expedition of 1933, and likewise
on the ill-fated German Nanga Parbat expedition of 1934. The reason this item
stood out for me was because Lewa was a familiar face. He was someone whom I’d
encountered in my own on-going PhD research into early twentieth-century explorers
in East Tibet. In this context, far removed from the more famous locale of
Everest, Lewa was again ‘sirdar’ accompanying Ronald Kaulback and John
Hanbury-Tracy during their 1936 journey along the River Salween. Lewa features
as quite a prominent and very amiable character in John Hanbury-Tracy’s
travelogue, <i>Black River of Tibet</i> (1938), where he is described as:<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><i>“Lewa, he of the square jowl and
barking voice, […] a Sherpa from Nepal. He has not seen his village since he
was fourteen, when he came to Darjeeling to work for Englishmen who like to
climb hills, the great hills he has always lived among. A rugged character and
great powers of endurance set him much in demand as a porter. He was one of the
"Tigers" of Everest. He has travelled the Himalaya from Sikkim to
Kashmir, and has hauled more than one famous mountaineer up the last steps of a
climb. He has been sirdar on several trips, and helped to save the remnants of
the disastrous German expedition to Nanga Parbat in 1934. Now he is our sirdar –
a rough-and-ready sergeant-major. He has a fine reputation, and means to keep
it up.” (p.9)<o:p></o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><a href="http://eccentricparabola.blogspot.com/2018/08/salween-black-river-of-tibet.html" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="721" data-original-width="1124" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAb4pOtGsQnIbAtsZZO0jw0JdSwshZRmqUii1rIUizkOM-t8TfJiZNHq_zoBf7o_gyJZvRM8q7wG9rE6E8w_sG5HFjG9UvG7pwUKbhNfztmt6MdcMQ-dQjzmBFYrzbt3kaAZCQ1IRAeZOOFkj3iZxaYXnvjtdhAEaScMmDDgXPxtkmZ6J9TuvZ0FyOgw/w400-h256/Black%20River%20of%20Tibet%20-%20John%20Hanbury-Tracy.JPG" width="400" /></a></span></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><a href="http://eccentricparabola.blogspot.com/2018/08/salween-black-river-of-tibet.html" target="_blank">Lewa photographed in John Hanbury-Tracy's "Black River of Tibet" (1938)</a></i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Lewa was also mentioned on both
days of the symposium, in the talks given by Jonathan Westaway and Peter
Hansen.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.othereverests.com/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1928" height="224" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOfXeOyRBg_SO1bn48VDcnMqkrk94buTpLi8p0Ay84qOrkepu28QAOJsigx070skkKB0fZ8lHERgRvge6ZI-gjEiaiFhacaqOGqfVf6WvwUnZYLQecB88k-1EHRe2LVmk48-c0xZGzZA4r4EZkPD1aqm-7nm2x6sr3cmyhUI-kH9d6BS4VapvJvO0rfQ/w400-h224/Other%20Everests%20Banner%202.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">The two-day symposium at the Royal Geographical
Society was certainly a successful start to what looks set to be a very
interesting and engaging research network. It’s certainly one to watch for
anyone interested in the current and forthcoming Everest centenaries, and the exploration
of mountain environments, as well as art and culture in the Himalaya.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p> </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p></o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/3ld2QuUc2yk" width="320" youtube-src-id="3ld2QuUc2yk"></iframe></div><br /><p></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><i>Further
Information<o:p></o:p></i></b></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><o:p> </o:p></b></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://www.othereverests.com/" target="_blank">Other Everests – Research Network – Official Website</a><o:p></o:p></b></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b>Other
Everests – Research Network – on Twitter:<o:p></o:p></b></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://twitter.com/OtherEverests" target="_blank">@OtherEverests</a> | <a href="https://twitter.com/hashtag/othereverests?src=hashtag_click" target="_blank">#OtherEverests</a></b></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b>Other Everests on <a href="https://www.youtube.com/@othereverests1349" target="_blank">YouTube</a></b></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><o:p><br /></o:p></b></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><o:p></o:p></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://www.othereverests.com/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="1500" height="134" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPAATp3FCX3Wn6uzf0q11vnY6ntjfiWRC-8hwNQ0uyh7uZRoIbReiUWF1P_M8vUzyVxSfIMfxS-yu9lzBwB7Amdn5NS3AbCyzRXnCNBKlhRpZZmPJ0UfWNOxyyAPNAA8_BgVly6F5cY7Bqmh-PbTUQTj5JJXf4i_hOdXC2Oors1uC8kQA1GvAtZPQewA/w400-h134/Other%20Everests%20Banner%201.jpg" width="400" /></a></b></div><b><br /> </b><b style="text-align: center;"><o:p> </o:p></b><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><i>Also
on ‘Waymarks’<o:p></o:p></i></b></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><o:p> </o:p></b></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><a href="http://eccentricparabola.blogspot.com/2021/11/himalaya-heart-of-eurasia.html" target="_blank">Himalaya – The Heart of Eurasia</a><o:p></o:p></b></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><a href="http://eccentricparabola.blogspot.com/2018/08/salween-black-river-of-tibet.html" target="_blank">Salween – Black River of Tibet</a><o:p></o:p></b></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><a href="http://eccentricparabola.blogspot.com/2018/10/ludlow-sherriffs-botanical-endeavours.html" target="_blank">Ludlow
& Sherriff’s “Botanical Endeavours”</a></b><o:p></o:p></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhADHIIgvG7rhmw3rE2Lb7dKXIQi8lH0VJ3oelYkC6zWMiocgUvbOCuIN4Sr9XBJquR7wWRoEMwkZDX9NStP0YgHs87FF3hLvN4XGZ1FRW3uiLjoidRYMIxS6cHZUfeaVDrjjj4wqJEOhs08gGQrkdvlZOim_DHQzf0isQxmWHBMtBysRGdZatn-a5pQ/s844/Epic%20of%20Everest%20Title%20Reel.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="844" data-original-width="770" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhADHIIgvG7rhmw3rE2Lb7dKXIQi8lH0VJ3oelYkC6zWMiocgUvbOCuIN4Sr9XBJquR7wWRoEMwkZDX9NStP0YgHs87FF3hLvN4XGZ1FRW3uiLjoidRYMIxS6cHZUfeaVDrjjj4wqJEOhs08gGQrkdvlZOim_DHQzf0isQxmWHBMtBysRGdZatn-a5pQ/w365-h400/Epic%20of%20Everest%20Title%20Reel.jpg" width="365" /></a></div><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><br /></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><i>My contributions to Other Everests:</i></b></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><br /></b></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b>Exhibition Review: <a href="https://spaces-cdn.owlstown.com/blobs/pgceoiykkx05qrbfy6dkx2t4sfq3" target="_blank">"Everest Through the Lens"</a> (RGS-IBG, October 2022-January 2023)</b></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b>Book Chapter: <a href="https://tim-chamberlain.owlstown.net/publications/16643-far-away-frontiers-and-spiritual-sanctuaries-occidental-escapism-in-the-high-himalaya" target="_blank">"Far Away Frontiers and Spiritual Sanctuaries: Occidental Escapism in the High Himalaya"</a> - <i>synopsis</i> (forthcoming, Manchester University Press, 2024)</b></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><br /></b></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><a href="https://manchesteruniversitypress.co.uk/9781526179166/other-everests/" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="333" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiA9GdR9wrJQVRYtxAXLVMGei0mpcffMN6CCExoZQHlQxVpdcqz4ORpcNs_jydcum58rtKVKdDlK40uWhggamfj9Nq9YkApu7TRK9SISqlyVnlU_TZEQDA4R_lOzQOSGpgfcpBgsZJ9cRI9sTzhSPRbDJ0rsMyd8weDFt5JWdUphhjBELlPiR2kpQg3xfht/w266-h400/Other%20Everests%20Cover.jpg" width="266" /></a></span></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://manchesteruniversitypress.co.uk/9781526179166/other-everests/" target="_blank">'Other Everests: One Mountain, Many Worlds' Edited by Paul Gilchrist, Peter Hansen & Jonathan Westaway (MUP, 2024)</a></i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><br /></p><b><br /></b><p></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjglaBeFV6k8UWG45dT8VVCniHZh3SBgnOyc_1BHXvqs9-gK63R-jyo_UHJRyikid_AR8jfmeBlqET0n_W2tDF88EV-hztl-lkmJBa-WZLL5tAw9otaH3kNn9X5jC9jWV7xy8wdZA1AX2rGs2RcWf6oOsDffHqd0VGFz0vjK9W-D4ihdvYtvaus4E2RRg/s2000/Epic%20of%20Everest.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1125" data-original-width="2000" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjglaBeFV6k8UWG45dT8VVCniHZh3SBgnOyc_1BHXvqs9-gK63R-jyo_UHJRyikid_AR8jfmeBlqET0n_W2tDF88EV-hztl-lkmJBa-WZLL5tAw9otaH3kNn9X5jC9jWV7xy8wdZA1AX2rGs2RcWf6oOsDffHqd0VGFz0vjK9W-D4ihdvYtvaus4E2RRg/w400-h225/Epic%20of%20Everest.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><b><br /></b><p></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><br /></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><br /></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><br /></p>Timhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11641833714036731203noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-88759862385027089.post-23915432705590768052022-07-01T00:00:00.005+01:002022-08-11T09:46:01.201+01:00Borders - Lines, Minds, Maps & People<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEih3qcLmvv4gpMPnFZWFeMIt1mV9dXBJx5L_bwg7_z-EpKbVVgf22ThNxnwjcyXFKrEZlbgMnAjjmyCMfHLSjuPOGtUlRDrLzmvez7gkteGMNHTlS1chpVTpmXiX-DazSiyeVtIqTHs7UztpuYkGY6tb3lwpGXR5l1YKlDyBU1Eb6zp2y18HzYMmKMrsQ/s2272/DSCN1975.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1704" data-original-width="2272" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEih3qcLmvv4gpMPnFZWFeMIt1mV9dXBJx5L_bwg7_z-EpKbVVgf22ThNxnwjcyXFKrEZlbgMnAjjmyCMfHLSjuPOGtUlRDrLzmvez7gkteGMNHTlS1chpVTpmXiX-DazSiyeVtIqTHs7UztpuYkGY6tb3lwpGXR5l1YKlDyBU1Eb6zp2y18HzYMmKMrsQ/w400-h300/DSCN1975.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><b>BORDER WARS: THE CONFLICTS OF
THAT WILL DEFINE OUR FUTURE <i>by Klaus Dodds</i> </b>(Ebury Press/Penguin, 2021)<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">I must have been seven years old
when I first became aware of international borders. It was my first trip
overseas, travelling by air from the UK to Portugal in the early 1980s. The
idea that, having passed through immigration control, we were technically in
neither one country nor the other. We were in this liminal space, a kind of
limbo or no-man’s land, like something in science fiction. It seemed a little
bit mind-blowing to me at the time. In later life, crossing international
borders became a big part of my working life. Transporting international
touring exhibitions for the British Museum – security protocols, identity
checks, visa systems, customs paperwork – all these aspects which are
part-and-parcel of crossing international borders became very familiar to me. But
I have to confess, that early sense of fascination – first seeded when I was seven
years old, probably by me asking what the words ‘duty free’ meant – has never
really faded. Borders are curiously imaginary concepts made manifestly real.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><a href="https://www.focustransport.org/2016/02/it-was-lot-less-bovver-on-hover.html" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="413" data-original-width="637" height="259" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQwwbyNTh29tQ4Bn6DOD8FG_nKZ7Cf3zyP_ef0nmc8_EaM4tCLFycp-RlwpwQP5u-lri0BGzkknlR74i9kL5IMnXjB0Ou6BWXO9B3ApaCnUfkY5GUG4-Wh3zs2X4CfB29K7YKQMmoWA-_VsqMfcMh6sF3XB8HRaIf3riXYdiyLzBXHhbwW0pbSFBqXBA/w400-h259/Princess%20Margaret.png" width="400" /></a></span></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://www.focustransport.org/2016/02/it-was-lot-less-bovver-on-hover.html" target="_blank">Crossing the English Channel by Hovercraft</a></i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Even at the age of seven, I’d already
studied a little bit of geography at school. I remember we spent a term
learning about the countries of Europe. Focussing on a different country each
week, alongside what each country’s flag looked like, we learnt certain salient
cultural and economic facts: For instance, in France they made cheese and wine,
their most famous landmark was the Eiffel Tower, and they <i>all</i> wore
berets! – Similarly, Holland was full of tulips and windmills, <i>everyone</i>
wore clogs, and vast areas of the country were the result of large-scale land
reclamation projects from the sea. Rudimentary stuff like that. But it was actually
a trip to Holland a few years later which gave me another early life insight
into international borders. We travelled from London to Amsterdam by coach,
crossing the English Channel on one of those enormous Hovercrafts which are now
defunct. The coach motored through France and Belgium in order to get to the
Netherlands, and at each border we had to stop and surrender our passports to
the Police who boarded the coach and eyed everyone suspiciously (or perhaps,
having watched a lot of James Bond movies, I only imagined the suspicion?). Aside
from the fact that people in these places didn’t <i>all</i> wear berets or
clogs, I remember I was most struck by the fact that the police officers had
actual guns holstered on their belts, which was quite a novel thing to see
coming from England, where Police Officers (back then) were mostly unarmed.
This kind of security though was nothing in comparison to that which I
witnessed several decades later while on a day trip to the DMZ a few miles
north of Seoul in South Korea.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><a href="https://birdinflight.com/world/20200225-peter-leibing-leap-into-freedom.html" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="383" data-original-width="600" height="255" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPkERsgoCbO2djSKr9-3j8sxlWzaeic8XfmtbCGztTATP09GvzJ_e5s2yFKHH3tZiGRTlr34_GC_B5fDXkITMLmDX3sfOanq8xlyPs92opHIm2QSb5nqCCaNTCVcGUX0o_EpB_iWILfKu-DJXUEwy6Ngt3U3UItmedikcYQflcSmu9U8joV9DwR9t6yA/w400-h255/Berlin%20Wall%201.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://birdinflight.com/world/20200225-peter-leibing-leap-into-freedom.html" target="_blank">August 1961 - As the Berlin Walls goes up an East German soldier defects</a></i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">In the early 1990s, two student
exchange trips to the former West and East Germanies immediately after the fall
of the Berlin Wall, opened up my mind even more to the active concept of
borders – both cultural and political, as well as intra- and international. The
fact that seemingly monolithic barriers such as the Iron Curtain could
effectively melt away after decades of being told that they were insurmountable
and eternal was equally, if not more mind-blowing once again. Several decades
on from that first overland trip to Amsterdam, and around ten years on from
those first trips to Germany, when I was making another overland journey, this
time travelling back to the UK from Germany for the British Museum in 2000, I
remembered those old borders as we now motored back through Belgium and France,
crossing those lines on the map without even a change in gear as the Autobahn gently
morphed into the Autoroute. But not all borders had vanished within the ‘New
Europe.’ Even though we never saw the sea on this occasion, we still had to halt
and show our passports before our trucks could board the train for the Channel
Tunnel. A couple more decades on and there would famously be refugee camps at
Calais, and now today boatloads of people are desperately trying to cross the
English Channel. The past forty years in Europe alone have shown that borders, far
from being static and immutable, can shift and realign much like the
refractions viewed within a rotating kaleidoscope. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><a href="https://www.eurotunnel.com/uk/holiday-ideas/what%E2%80%99s-the-difference-between-eurostar-and-eurotunnel-le-shuttle/" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="630" data-original-width="1200" height="210" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfwwyVxkUH73rQBbF7PEblGUAZLE3uIywWOhiAteSd2kGNumjGepp3WwoVOKosXhQUbFinyDNKpXt0L8dcbz7NSyuBH8oOry7jyxkiVgxlokk-8X3D1nlNevaVnOnoXxK_yr6DPJh1PpiOBROxObDK4JP2-MJpJIkzh34mQZOc0C5iHjvbI6G25KvxCA/w400-h210/Eurotunnel%20Trains.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://www.eurotunnel.com/uk/holiday-ideas/what%E2%80%99s-the-difference-between-eurostar-and-eurotunnel-le-shuttle/" target="_blank">Crossing the English Channel by Train</a></i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Borders may well come and go, but
they remain a constant factor of all our lives. Be they physical (mountains, rivers,
seas) or human (national, regional, public-private), borders are conceptual
divisions which signify ownership, identity, inclusion/exclusion. On the face
of it, borders would seem to imply that we are on one or other side of them;
but in reality, it is quite possible to fall into that narrow gap between them,
and so find oneself in neither one place nor the other. Just like the thought
which first astounded me on that flight to Portugal when I was seven years old,
borders are both an idea and a reality. And there are liminal ‘no-man’s lands’
which are neither one place nor the other. We talk of crossing borders, of
negotiating borders, of transcending borders, and we often think of them as
being lines drawn on maps, but in truth, borders are more than simple territorial
demarcations – not so much stark lines, they can be blurred zones where things
meet, mingle, merge and become neither one nor the other. I first learnt about
this idea at university when I studied the anthropology of the different
societies living in highland Burma, a region now described by some academics as
‘Zomia’ – a multi-cultural zone which has long been beyond the full control of
larger lowland nation state governments.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><a href="https://pl.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mur_Berli%C5%84ski#/media/Plik:Berlinermauer.jpg" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="315" data-original-width="640" height="198" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaxDFuXqiLuOZjIPLZEFTgmwXu5OWBVBv-X3Cawn54rWiokhsFZypQZxrn7NuDQ8vaxOXEvGdp3AWQct2hRIXKq7uhjkKnjlObhrK8Cv4QRabhSEnMfTR7CtmiH6JN8n780WCFEVAiftL-gQTYRuqqLTo9sjjGUvcEq_yK6J40S7sSXWFebM7QFJLnHg/w400-h198/Berlin%20Wall%202.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://pl.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mur_Berli%C5%84ski#/media/Plik:Berlinermauer.jpg" target="_blank">The Berlin Wall</a></i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Klaus Dodds recent book, <i><a href="https://www.penguin.co.uk/books/438930/border-wars-by-klaus-dodds/9781529102611" target="_blank">Border Wars: The Conflicts That Will Define Our Future</a></i> is a very timely
examination of how the issue of borders is perhaps one of the most salient to
our times. Generally speaking, all borders have a history, and that history can
often be contentious. As such, borders are invested with a dynamic dimension
which means that, as well as having a history, they have futures too, both
aspects of which remain mutable. Even seemingly long stable and peaceable
international borders can and will pose problems if they are adversely affected
by the depredations of climate change. Environmental changes can alter the
dynamics of rivers and glaciers, for example. Rivers can change course or dry
up, just as glaciers can shrink and retreat. Climate change in many places is
speeding up such changes, thus geographical boundaries are shifting or becoming
more permeable, opening new regions up to resource exploitation, as well as new
routes for commercial transportation in ways which might not have been possible
before. Consequently, geography and geopolitics are altering the ways in which
nation states view these areas, the regions in which they rub shoulders with
their neighbours. The melting polar icesheets over Canada are a case in point,
as the northwest passage is becoming increasingly open to navigation Canada is
becoming all the more anxious to assert its claim to areas which it sees as
being its territorial waters. But it is not just climate change which is
precipitating a rise in such contentions. China’s efforts at land reclamation
in the South China Sea, in which it has seized and sought to turn previously
insubstantial coral atolls into solid concrete fortified islands with harbours
and airstrips in order to bolster and consolidate its claims to the zone around
the contentious ‘nine dash line’ has ruffled the feathers of its regional
neighbours who resent what they see as strongarm tactics impinging upon their
own territorial claims and zones of exclusive economic interest.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File%3AMPK1-426_Sykes_Picot_Agreement_Map_signed_8_May_1916.jpg" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="927" height="389" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCAVx9t2YDzZZuzu5tOh_9wc-o0eI3C89IWsAu3rLn3tJXOSoewwYiETvJKrfm2L7_NNrAUXU49Lc_RR2e5zSv14UsbHxSVwhirsnmBUWm1avnDP03Dfdlhw5A5XzaZZvw9jgLCXqJONuO2b4Xh4ap2oA0UVbnt6aP5JpwclHfbehM8o9Sw0Kc3uYQUw/w400-h389/Sykes%20Picot%20Agreement%201916.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File%3AMPK1-426_Sykes_Picot_Agreement_Map_signed_8_May_1916.jpg" target="_blank">The Sykes-Picot Agreement, 1916</a></i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Borders are not simply arbitrary lines
drawn on maps, relevant only to geographers and politicians. Borders affect our
individual lives, our freedoms, and the flow of goods and commodities which we
consume. As such, borders are intrinsic to all our lives whether we travel
internationally or not. The cultural and political dynamics of borders are
frequent rallying points during election campaigns. One only has to think of
the most recent examples, such as Donald Trump’s determination to build his “big,
beautiful wall” between the United States and Mexico, or the clamorous calls of
the pro-Brexit lobby in the UK and their desire to restore Britain’s
sovereignty by seceding from the European Union in 2016. Just as borders and
cultural barriers seemed to come down at the close of the twentieth century, so
the pendulum has swung full tilt in retrograde in the years since the terrorist
attacks of 11th September 2001 in the USA and especially with the recent
Covid-19 pandemic closing international borders completely during the last few
years. These events having considerably bolstered claims by some governments
for the increasing need for greater control through biometric surveillance
systems and ‘vaccine passports’, alongside more stringent and expensive visa
systems, in order to better regulate and more easily restrict the free movement
of people. Migrant crises resulting from wars in politically unstable regions
such as Afghanistan and the Middle East have had implications for neighbouring countries
and regions such as the EU, which are seen as being more stable and prosperous,
and so have become safe havens desperately sought out by refugees. The recent
invasion of the Ukraine by Russia has likewise precipitated a massive
displacement of people fleeing conflict zones, compelling them to cross borders
and forcing neighbouring states such as Poland to accommodate huge numbers of
civilians caught up in the crossfire of that particular war. Tragically, it
seems as though borders are rooted at the heart and centre of almost every item
featuring on the evening news bulletins which we watch on our TVs these days.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhAZneRBTNV1zHr3YOIa5qhicWfZ5sB9B-hqguv7eCH9Tfsf777IyvnFVKWGT7JQgfCQ4ofBJY1C6qqFrushB9K-vDsaiO9wKybTDDgXXW1t8hqSBPRmQPoWiu9o8zLppsbti_vWvGKsdrNuneh9fU0lXGkOsl6wMSezgJl5uEdIsxI6X4TxK1PLgu3Q/s660/Sykes-Picot.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="371" data-original-width="660" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhAZneRBTNV1zHr3YOIa5qhicWfZ5sB9B-hqguv7eCH9Tfsf777IyvnFVKWGT7JQgfCQ4ofBJY1C6qqFrushB9K-vDsaiO9wKybTDDgXXW1t8hqSBPRmQPoWiu9o8zLppsbti_vWvGKsdrNuneh9fU0lXGkOsl6wMSezgJl5uEdIsxI6X4TxK1PLgu3Q/w400-h225/Sykes-Picot.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>The Sykes-Picot Agreement, 1916</i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">For many years I followed Klaus
Dodds’ 'geopolitical hotspots' column in the <i>Geographical Magazine</i>. It was
one of my most favourite features of the Royal Geographical Society’s monthly magazine
because the column always managed to give the relevant background, elucidating specific
events in current affairs which I might otherwise know very little or nothing
about. Often it would furnish a new angle on an issue or a region which I was
unaware of, or which I had not thought to consider before, looking at places
such as Cyprus, Kashmir, Sudan, the Falklands/Malvinas, or the Antarctic. Dodds’
column also managed to make interesting connections or comparisons which either
broadened or sharpened the focus on regional and global geopolitical matters.
As such, I was really pleased to hear of the publication of this book and
eagerly sought it out. And in reading it, I was not disappointed. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><a href="https://coolinterestingstuff.com/abandoned-nicosia-international-airport" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="424" data-original-width="640" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjKDIceVFS7-41o2gWzbEYk0USAw9WTyAhpkMYjuibzwZ4y34o8MerQEbyWlQ19ywzq94yvSBJItAiMRxPN-AhOTHcXbOrRCIDKt6ko7nztVQ4UfHfI3kX_VAVA_G9ls9OzzKsogsxPbYUeeN4MUt0t66haandRsOTzLTWvwfaliWGkk8VLTiFREqeiA/w400-h265/Nicosia%20Airport.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://coolinterestingstuff.com/abandoned-nicosia-international-airport" target="_blank">Abandoned Airliner at Nicosia Airport, Cyprus</a></i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Dodds uses this relatively compact
tome to quite literally cover a lot of ground. He gives a comprehensive global
overview of the key themes and issues affecting borders and borderland studies
– as such, <i>Border Wars</i> is an excellent introduction which should appeal
to students starting out on the study of geography and geopolitics as well as lay-persons, such as me, who have an interest in such matters. Dodds
writes with a wonderfully clear and lucid style which seems to find and
maintain an effortless balance between a deeply informed academic grounding and
an open, horizon-scanning tone of commentary. Consequently, <i>Border Wars</i>
is an eminently accessible and highly readable book which comes with handy ‘recommended
reading’ suggestions accompanying the themes explored in each chapter (collected
at the end of the book) which will certainly help launch the engaged reader
onto deeper avenues of enquiry as seems only fitting for a book on such a
dynamic and constantly changing topic as borders. My only quibble is that the
reader’s eye is often tripped up by quite a few typos and copyediting errors,
although happily these aren’t so bad as to disrupt or confuse the actual gist or
meaning of the text itself – it’s a real shame though that so many of these
errors have made it through to the final publication which I think has one of
the most wonderful and characteristically-iconic cover designs that have long
been the hallmark of Penguin paperbacks.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.penguin.co.uk/books/438930/border-wars-by-klaus-dodds/9781529102611" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="475" data-original-width="302" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMppO7zckHEbA9lDHBkP2y8OuzGBxC950LcPWvfelKcyUjVa2WMfKpBSKslxsZfq-r-LAEebLd8T3tPl82RXFXQ_25eBAKR0mghSLJlov9IO_IypiDV8-noABx2vbb4wDMdaFedZsXIWunHiu7PcQT6R88f8kJMb0nKDuL1r4134FANsJvzhK3ahKR1g/w254-h400/Border%20Wars%20-%20Klaus%20Dodds.jpg" width="254" /></a></div><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Dodds’ <i>Border Wars</i> is a
snapshot in time. As much as it is a tool for us to look at and understand the
ever-evolving geopolitics of our changing world – right now it should serve to give
us pause to think and anticipate what directions the future might take, and how
such changes will affect us individually and collectively. But, in the future
it will be the sort of book which retains its value as a ‘history of the
present.’ <i>Border Wars</i> shall undoubtedly become a document which will remind
us of how we anticipated the future in the light of how such things eventually
turned out. As such, I hope it helps to guide us today by its clarity and
insight, because it speaks to an openness which borders and borderland issues
are all too often used nowadays to deny us. Borders serve to manipulate and
constrain us in ways which we might not see so readily or so clearly when we
allow the parameters around us to be drawn in uncompromisingly straight lines,
lines on maps which so often ignore the subtleties and complexities which genuinely
define the natural and cultural contours that demarcate and differentiate our
lives (especially those which were drawn all too hastily as part of the rapid
process of recent post-colonial retreats following on from the end of WW2). Depending
on whether we see borders as lines of division and separation, or borderlands
as zones in which cultures meet, merge and exchange, the ways in which we
perceive borders are the issues which ultimately define us. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><a href="https://hitraveltales.com/berlin-wall-25th-anniversary/" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="1153" data-original-width="1280" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuY4-7nFC1pExohSj-15MFqdgpo1fomapksPxB3oV74EW60YjdIqShdW_g0fbvZGgCifwLgftZktyVBm7AtCRoNClR9mTxlY0ysad1o36E4aABA6kVyn7tCQ1e7cLCy1oiJF9-PfHK6auFQwI6fLB4AsOw5tunsOG6gKtoreV_ov953kjnEEZoEvKloA/w400-h360/Berlin%20Wall%203.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://hitraveltales.com/berlin-wall-25th-anniversary/" target="_blank">The Berlin Wall, November 1991</a></i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">As Dodds demonstrates systems of
border surveillance are becoming increasingly sophisticated and as technology
evolves and we become increasingly dependent upon it, so too we open ourselves
up to systems of greater regulation, policing and control. In effect the border
can now follow us and actively track us, and while this increased level of
state surveillance may (or may not) contribute to the safety of national
borders, it raises tricky questions concerning the right to privacy and
personal data control. All human systems are fallible, and computer networks
perhaps even moreso. Hence, the greater the sense of security then, so it
follows, the greater the vulnerability when that system fails. The theft of
such personal data and its subsequent use by third parties (be they nefarious or
otherwise) means we are in effect increasingly being required and compelled to
compromise our individuality at the behest of the larger collective. In this
sense borders are not so clear cut as we might suppose, or as we might have
been led to believe. There will always be a blurred gradation between <i>transcending</i>
and <i>transgressing</i> when it comes to the physical act of crossing borders.
Consequently, I still find the contemplation of the concept of borders just as
beguiling as I did when I was seven years old. And sadly, coming from the optimistic
generation which rejoiced at the disappearance of borders in the early 1990s, I
feel sure that the subtitle of Dodds’ book will prove to be true – the more
barriers nations seek to raise, then the more individual people will want to
tear them down. It would serve us well to think about such things now, and
genuinely ask ourselves: what kind of a future do we want to create for
ourselves and for our descendants?<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Checkpoint_Charlie#/media/File:US_Army_tanks_face_off_against_Soviet_tanks,_Berlin_1961.jpg" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="964" data-original-width="1280" height="301" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdd46Ibarix_FKBXg2A_txEly707ObON1HCmzz-RIMqTr7wfHj_Aibh2RTcVo3PqNayD0v_87ag8IwTRV8Th7JnIgFkukyAcqpLlFoTP9PAghpxsn7lACqi9mtXuIHIQguB4K4e-CHTdxfhOM2aXKP9TBc2mrdgYeLwqgguv2KWSfa2jhUCDmK4eMyxg/w400-h301/Checkpoint%20Charlie%201961.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Checkpoint_Charlie#/media/File:US_Army_tanks_face_off_against_Soviet_tanks,_Berlin_1961.jpg" target="_blank">Checkpoint Charlie, Berlin, October 1961</a></i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/vHvNHhpuK5Q" width="320" youtube-src-id="vHvNHhpuK5Q"></iframe></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Klaus Dodds interviewed on France 24 - February 2022</span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><i>Also on 'Waymarks'</i></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><a href="http://eccentricparabola.blogspot.com/2013/07/the-wind-of-change-germany-1991-1993.html" target="_blank">"The Wind of Change" - Germany 1991 & 1993</a></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><a href="http://eccentricparabola.blogspot.com/2013/04/visiting-dmz-korea.html" target="_blank">Visiting the "DMZ" - Korea</a></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><a href="http://eccentricparabola.blogspot.com/2014/08/first-crossing-equator.html" target="_blank">First Crossing the Equator</a></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><i><br /></i></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Click on the images above for a link to their source</i></span></p><br /><p></p>Timhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11641833714036731203noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-88759862385027089.post-53946688167625434352022-05-30T00:00:00.043+01:002022-05-31T21:41:07.765+01:00Raiders of the Lost Art<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://press.uchicago.edu/ucp/books/book/chicago/C/bo51205021.html" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="853" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdDaC2OUu42yEwJ1EdtGbhX8wZyqk3YaF7gqpD5nvycctxu6psaZd1A6pbizN70wqbFMl1RD_ikYcUkJhgKZBW9ut6sWT-KMzA1Nymq2oHV6TJFa16bykkX1guXzJcQQVVuM9HX14nqnb8ngt1wu_QSa72WjD4V7ZeXf48HisvL2muvbPDQ7liKqca5Q/w266-h400/Compensations%20of%20Plunder.jpg" width="266" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><b>THE COMPENSATIONS OF PLUNDER </b><b><i>by
Justin M. Jacobs </i></b>(University of Chicago Press, 2020)</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">An excellent and informed riposte
to the increasingly prevalent notion that all art objects and ancient artefacts
acquired in colonial and semi-colonial contexts are imperialist 'loot' - <i>i.e.
stolen</i> - due to the relative imbalance in social/financial standing of the
respective parties involved (individuals and nations). <i><a href="https://press.uchicago.edu/ucp/books/book/chicago/C/bo51205021.html" target="_blank">The Compensations of Plunder</a></i> takes a leavening view of the current trends informing both popular
and academic historiographical outlooks and warns against projecting our own
perceptions and values onto historical actors whose worldviews were differently
informed and therefore wholly distinct when compared to our own.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Aurel_Stein?msclkid=0d99d003c6d911ec828c4a5110fad024#/media/File:Aurel_Stein_1909.jpg" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="1043" data-original-width="800" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGUm01mfgHpZw9todYjVFG7XBJtoWtfdFtoSJ8VlRODhwYpoOVY1Wi_geIkiJq4bE5oN639rFaF97q9rQ_bI3t-Xx05-GRtQ_TejpHi5TqAaYHRCi23VOaXmRESaYD3-hA427_YxjplMJsdEu1egjkLAAqUZHaeTcsZ2EpDCvbRd7jQwNM966HmRAI1g/w245-h320/Aurel%20Stein%201909.jpg" width="245" /></a></span></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Aurel_Stein?msclkid=0d99d003c6d911ec828c4a5110fad024#/media/File:Aurel_Stein_1909.jpg" target="_blank">Aurel Stein</a></i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sven_Hedin?msclkid=e1b314c0c6d911ec83d7ded82a8225f0#/media/File:Sven_Hedin_from_Hildebrand_Sveriges_historia.jpg" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="802" data-original-width="566" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1cbKXP8SUB5BB17yUmbhHn0_yAf3pBFB99wU5XYGhBAgrNanvU_E_RykSVX3ohqd13OiTGRcdxaih4wpqtN3x9Yhzz58682UyQS8epndtUm4lzBCpE8IO1-cEQL9rbWVHp-92M3zeuqTQOkpvRPITolfAupIzKnsEiR6cCWE9DEBDJjb9qjYukKWQfg/w226-h320/Sven%20Hedin%20c1910.jpg" width="226" /></a></span></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sven_Hedin?msclkid=e1b314c0c6d911ec83d7ded82a8225f0#/media/File:Sven_Hedin_from_Hildebrand_Sveriges_historia.jpg" target="_blank">Sven Hedin</a></i></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmvZ6sIN-duuKlJgZo-0xRmQ55IBudHBZ2mm3p2ng2AaDwTpyFxkpvuGU1YkyACq5HlG5uvIUtZQAtXv60kej_99Q09ALG2MsZemr5UhrBQCAUayK9hyOAOVx0WI0N_yu0rL7UOAew4AtRaPxcu3GwiQ3nbbv49lV94VJwrSUMpThODI068N9CD-qC3g/s512/Paul%20Pelliot%201909.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="512" data-original-width="403" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmvZ6sIN-duuKlJgZo-0xRmQ55IBudHBZ2mm3p2ng2AaDwTpyFxkpvuGU1YkyACq5HlG5uvIUtZQAtXv60kej_99Q09ALG2MsZemr5UhrBQCAUayK9hyOAOVx0WI0N_yu0rL7UOAew4AtRaPxcu3GwiQ3nbbv49lV94VJwrSUMpThODI068N9CD-qC3g/w253-h320/Paul%20Pelliot%201909.jpg" width="253" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Paul_Pelliot?msclkid=adeaee6ac6d911ecb757be93abfa2b46#/media/File:Pelliotpaul.jpg" target="_blank">Paul Pelliot</a></i></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"> </div><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Using the most prominent Western
archaeologists of 'the Silk Road' (Aurel Stein, Sven Hedin, Paul Pelliot, Roy
Chapman Andrews, Langdon Warner) during the first half of the twentieth century
as his main examples, <a href="https://edspace.american.edu/justinjacobs/" target="_blank">Justin Jacobs</a> explores the difference in outlook between local
officials at the time (rooted in traditional Confucian scholarly ideals) and
their later (more nationalist-minded) successors who vilified the likes of
archaeologists such as Sir Marc Aurel Stein. In doing so, Jacobs demonstrates
how the concept of <i>value</i> in relation to archaeological artefacts and
ancient manuscripts altered over time as a direct result of such outsiders’
interests in acquiring, preserving and studying such material. Originally the
permissions extended to, and the subsequent transactions with these outsiders
were fully understood and sanctioned by local elites and other indigenous
agents, who perceived they were receiving a worthwhile return in the form of
cultural, social, political, diplomatic <i>as well as</i> *financial* capital
from such interactions and exchanges (hence the ironic title: 'compensations of
plunder'). Indeed, without their active cooperation these Western
archaeologists could not have travelled so widely, or excavated so extensively,
nor removed such large quantities of material from the region. Ironically
again, it was the moulding of the perception of later Chinese elites, a new
younger generation of scholars and officials, who were often trained in the
West, whose perceptions changed and so turned against foreign academics and
'imperialist adventurers' who had previously operated in China and eventually
succeeded in drastically curtailing their activities when they agreed to
undertake such expeditions jointly with Chinese academics, or otherwise managed
to shut them down entirely and ultimately kick them out altogether, even before
the advent of the CCP in 1949.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><a href="https://blogs.harvard.edu/houghton/langdon-warner/" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="821" data-original-width="1244" height="264" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLRjTHYXl_m1eC472FAW4j3AyS7DhCVZJl5epZKVmkIkkDlvbTQxXuOpNhgW17Dvx9b4hlLctLAdgW8TdiuCmJJHOUGkw2T2DrsD7l8Nnw5r2WHyogGbh7VYEiJzuWsI4AU0T1gkkUifqnTsB8u6go6VaxQG_ZYbRKV_gDnqzs8gCCE80psaPIpzDlEw/w400-h264/Langdon%20Warner.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://blogs.harvard.edu/houghton/langdon-warner/" target="_blank">Langdon Warner</a></i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">But that's not to say Jacobs is
wholly uncritical of these foreign outsiders. He takes a broad view of the
activities of each and examines the specifics of how (perhaps primarily due to
their personalities) their methods and approaches differed, leading some to
succeed where others failed, and some to be honoured and held in high esteem by
locals (both elites and subalterns), while others were quite rightly scorned
due to their haughty arrogance and high-handed manners, as well as their
culturally insensitive and/or physically destructive methods whilst operating
'in the field.' In this respect, Jacobs bucks prevailing trends once again by
appearing to be most sympathetic to Stein - who is often perceived and painted
today as the archvillain of the group. Instead, Jacobs endeavours to show how
Stein was the one archaeologist of the group (with Paul Pelliot perhaps coming
a close second) who was most respected and the most sensitive to the mores of
the old order of Confucian scholar-administrators, and how Stein was perhaps
the least destructive, when compared to the likes of the more gung-ho proto-'Indiana Joneses', such as Roy Chapman Andrews and Langdon Warner.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Roy_Chapman_Andrews?msclkid=921c302ec6d811ec91e5ec4b7c2515f9#/media/File:Roy_chapman_andrews_on_kublai_khan.jpg" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="806" data-original-width="1024" height="315" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuNRZZzLE3drSm1of54GV--hFC3kjyppPjtuGsEuDqO6QhvkQ8riKwkxwkTHStMX5OUAwRu23D_VpSTOwgJuzP-hMLOnA8tmoq0XmTAto6WjLsuQBYNjShuHlrSB66JS0kZQNJkIesiUqPbmjZE1TDFsFDtKp5a5AhTXR-zYTlv1fNbru0tSdOqgHh7g/w400-h315/Roy%20Chapman%20Andrews.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Roy_Chapman_Andrews?msclkid=921c302ec6d811ec91e5ec4b7c2515f9#/media/File:Roy_chapman_andrews_on_kublai_khan.jpg" target="_blank">Roy Chapman Andrews</a></i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Jacobs provides an excellent and
thorough analysis of a solid and wide-ranging base of primary source material (both
Western and Chinese), although I feel it is a shame that he concentrates almost
exclusively on the bigger names, such as Stein, Hedin and Pelliot. Other
colonial-era adventurers, for example, Kōzui Ōtani and Zuicho Tachibana, to
name just two of the more unusual figures within this wider group, get only a
passing mention relatively early on in the book, but this is perhaps
understandable given the amount of material and the range of themes which
Jacobs is able to explore and elucidate in the very comprehensive manner that
he does. Putting that (perhaps subjective) quibble to one side, it does very
clearly strike me that the book lends itself to potentially broader applications
beyond the limitations of this particular study. Jacobs’ primary focus is, of
course, the archaeological activities undertaken in the regions of Xinjiang and
Gansu; however, there is clearly scope for his ideas to be extended to the art
and antiquities market more widely and other (perhaps more commonplace) art
objects which were acquired privately by individuals or for public museum
collections in the West, particularly during the twilight era of Western colonial expansion and imperialist interaction with other parts of the world.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Kozui_Otani.jpg" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="523" data-original-width="375" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCbik74EuDPNAj2vux1F47XUUEFBk-XigTbR4lMf9-L9JkneJ8rR0nB7JHxk4nfD30TLXQ5iU6ktx34CYS--bgT9vL4k4EzZstMcf5p8moR6ao2CEOkWu8L4Ty5kGJ4TFYh4EH2hGrxFtgJJtCAhP9IOD2XJUeHPbSd71GNL1fZUByFjOxZdpPxMsUPg/w286-h400/Kozui%20Otani.jpg" width="286" /></a></span></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Kozui_Otani.jpg" target="_blank"><span style="text-align: left;">Kō</span><span style="text-align: left;">zui </span><span style="text-align: left;">Ō</span><span style="text-align: left;">tani</span></a></i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Essentially, this book is a salient
reminder that history is not a simple case of right versus wrong or black
versus white, but rather it is more like a kind of temporal 'grayscale', a
gradated pattern of change which morphs over time. <i>The Compensations of
Plunder</i> very deftly demonstrates how the sensitive historian should be
prepared to modify their approaches and their final opinions accordingly if
they wish to gain the greatest insights, particularly in terms of understanding
the people who lived before us according to their own terms, rather than
exclusively seeing everything through a blinkered back-projection of our own
current worldview.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><a href="https://www.american.edu/cas/faculty/jjacobs.cfm" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="300" data-original-width="300" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj87yIQcxBAOv2ygOpQeyJMjiSjy3nNbJ0fXbbsJZ7jFKtFy9CuvLZppkc3Nf8OH-g9mXGr3kIfoCG6ecF2PRQqHZ1DX_DZ1Vv16rPDSRzih7s80ETPbmnpWdZLfWsGLiGamnqHhqqPClqmhDXAdeO4Pw94FgYRPS42ocBkZ85Nc3rr-8aZAV7d4e9_Lw/s1600/Justin%20Jacobs.jpg" width="300" /></a></span></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://www.american.edu/cas/faculty/jjacobs.cfm" target="_blank">Justin M. Jacobs</a></i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><i>Further Reading</i></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://edspace.american.edu/justinjacobs/" target="_blank">Justin Jacobs</a></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://edspace.american.edu/silkroadjournal/" target="_blank">The Silk Road</a></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><a href="http://idp.bl.uk/" target="_blank">The International Dunhuang Project</a></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://www.academia.edu/1475233/Japanese_exploration_of_Central_Asia_The_%C5%8Ctani_expeditions_and_their_British_connections" target="_blank">Japanese Exploration of Central Asia: The Otani Expeditions and their British Connections</a>, by Imre Galambos & Kitsud</b><span style="text-align: left;"><b>ō</b></span><b> K</b><span style="text-align: left;"><b>ō</b></span><b>ichi - <i>Bulletin of SOAS</i>, Vol. 75, No. 1 (2012), pp. 113-134</b></div><br /><br /><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><a href="https://academickids.com/encyclopedia/index.php/Zuicho_Tachibana" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="125" data-original-width="180" height="222" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4WLdC8e_ENMhjud5C9hkg-KdjnDHaYVict0Gy6rSw8O9uKafctIujnaBIis6uZAJbRrGtaofCgONT5LNsoCkggWtctDwkPDv6RL452fF_G9n35OAt8aOy3r728kIIuYobu9McN-p8PXNF_zCVo0SCIVkjroB9SMEAG8v1vjHWUJB4ag3Nqzq8cqkbpg/w320-h222/Zuicho%20Tachibana%20(far%20left).jpg" width="320" /></a></span></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://academickids.com/encyclopedia/index.php/Zuicho_Tachibana" target="_blank">Zuicho Tachibana (far left)</a></i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b>~ * ~</b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><i>Also on 'Waymarks'</i></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><a href="http://eccentricparabola.blogspot.com/2018/10/colonial-loot-modern-museums.html" target="_blank">'Colonial Loot' & Modern Museums</a></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><a href="http://eccentricparabola.blogspot.com/2018/04/pomp-circumstance-struggling-with-empire.html" target="_blank">Pomp & Circumstance - Struggling with Empire</a></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><a href="http://eccentricparabola.blogspot.com/2016/03/confronting-imperialist-elephant-in-room.html" target="_blank">Confronting the Imperialist Elephant in the Room</a></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><a href="http://eccentricparabola.blogspot.com/2021/11/owen-lattimores-desert-road.html" target="_blank">Owen Lattimore's Desert Road</a></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Diamond_Sutra?msclkid=a8a5c605c6e111ec99fcd6bbe714d6f8#/media/File:Jingangjing.jpg" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="785" data-original-width="1238" height="254" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiw4PupOXUAnvc1f_m1zsnCBNakR8FcaLnI-ib4U3oafDfT_PfeDST2F2HQactOZKjKf1mLQT2uIh6dQeGum0o85JRBy2gdmFP77MDxiTB0ewhy9RYmb3zKywK8nHW4Lq6cDGgc0D64USVbSjxEvO12iMoWA0ePI6EpPu2rxh3XRZiPqFef2ocwWXKEvA/w400-h254/Diamond%20Sutra.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Diamond_Sutra?msclkid=a8a5c605c6e111ec99fcd6bbe714d6f8#/media/File:Jingangjing.jpg" target="_blank">The Diamond Sutra</a></i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><b><br /></b><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><br /></b></p>Timhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11641833714036731203noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-88759862385027089.post-57415299716494282832022-05-14T00:00:00.002+01:002023-05-26T16:11:37.242+01:00Elspeth Huxley - Seeing West Africa on the Cusp<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi5t7d-6AbROvpxAuO7zPR3_5qboQTtqSW9PS41LXZ9IrC6LB3ZQzk0ppIBQ9mgrD96U1254l2A8bo0zwn918P2aszdUgf_uL6-SWWIJ2OaMLD8YRmB55cUCaxBl8A8-QbHdbSJFhINN-esIHqjVmZteJxnUATSKf_w9deGgPyS5N_C6aP9eQ9NIhUR-w=s2272" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1704" data-original-width="2272" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi5t7d-6AbROvpxAuO7zPR3_5qboQTtqSW9PS41LXZ9IrC6LB3ZQzk0ppIBQ9mgrD96U1254l2A8bo0zwn918P2aszdUgf_uL6-SWWIJ2OaMLD8YRmB55cUCaxBl8A8-QbHdbSJFhINN-esIHqjVmZteJxnUATSKf_w9deGgPyS5N_C6aP9eQ9NIhUR-w=w400-h300" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><i><span style="color: #181818; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">Four
Guineas</span></i><span style="color: #181818; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"> by Elspeth Huxley (first published 1954) is a
colonial geographer's guide to West Africa, written with a journalist's eye
leavened by a certain degree of philosophical self-reflection. Not so much a
travelogue as a gazetteer, tallying the accounts of British taxpayer's
financial contributions to the "civilising mission" of empire in a
"benighted land."<br />
<br />
The book describes Elspeth Huxley's personal view, as she sees it, of an
ancient continent without art or culture (except for the inexplicable
'anomalies' of Nok, Benin and Ife), of 'ju-ju' cults and tribal societies mired
in blood feuds and lingering rumours of (once prolific) human sacrifice, seen
askance from the diligent efforts of colonial district officers and
missionaries, toiling in the opposite direction, setting up schools and
hospitals; alongside rising local and national political institutions,
struggling in their infancies. The author's eye and voice is ever present in
these pages, but the author oddly isn't. The text manages to stand at one
remove from both of these opposing 'realities' of Africa. But ultimately
Huxley's purported objectivity is opaque, a thin veneer over the surface of
things as seen <i>en passant</i>.<br />
<br />
Whilst <i>Four Guineas</i> seeks to immerse the reader in the daily
life of West Africa the book constantly circles back upon itself and betrays
Huxley's self-affirming (if at times jaundiced) view of Britain's imperial mission
- and this makes it a hard book to navigate, a tough read in some respects, now
some 70 years on from its original time of publication. Oddly dry and
redundantly academic, but with flashes of life and wit appearing every once in
a while, usually as a terminal flourish to each chapter. Although, more often
than not, that wit is witheringly ironic and condescending, occasionally racist
in places. And yet, Huxley has a keen eye and a sharp pen when it comes to the
inequities, physical harm and misogyny experienced by African women.<br />
<br />
It's a strange book. Neither wholly a champion nor a detractor of empire,
Huxley isn't exactly an apologist either, though her attempts at being an
objective observer tend to veer in that direction. <i>Four Guineas</i> casts
an eye into a particular time and place, both consciously/unconsciously couched
in a particular contemporary mindset - it gives a window into a colonial world
in its twilight phase, pondering the onset of the post-colonial at its cusp;
and as such, it perhaps remains a valuable historical document for that fact in
and of itself alone, as the following two quotes from the book's closing pages
may help to illustrate:<br />
<br />
<i>"A new troubling tide - that is what we are, we Westerners, a tide that
has stirred the deposit of centuries. Tides, by their nature, recede. In one
sense we are already in recession; as the ruling power, Britain is everywhere
disengaging her grip. The speed of this retreat is indeed phenomenal, and much
greater than it needs to be if Britain's work is to endure. As it is, the time
has been too short to lay secure, or even rudimentary, foundations. Yet, had it
been prolonged, the ill-will engendered by sloth in abdication - once
abdication had been proclaimed as the objective - would so have inflamed and poisoned
the body politic that Britain's constructive task would have become impossible,
since rifles do not promote racial harmony. This was Britain's dilemma, which
she solved by deciding to hurry quickly and risk the results." p.312<br />
<br />
"It sometimes appears that our modern colonies are forcing-houses where,
under conditions of great heat and sultriness, we cultivated transplanted
seedlings in soil deficient in certain ingredients needed for the healthy
growth of those particular exotics. We force an omnipotent bureaucracy without
honesty, a democracy without enlightenment, an economy without toil, a nation
without unity, a culture without art: in short, a society without faith to give
it purpose or a code of morals to give it strength. Strange blooms may result."
p.313<br />
</i><br />
[My copy is The Reprint Society (London, 1955) edition]<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="color: #181818; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #181818;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgWy0pIvinsy1Ldr7CxYFlGYW6tl8nzxQtzUcUGIYTIqgk1EydwfxVjv-nAVDhKx6XvrxNWajcuySjjqSlUf66ZpkvSNWVWtHDWAtTUYoLXzHk7xeS57Sj9ryRPjPv5PGZ0z_Ed99QqLlGmH0TQpnF4kOoRo-IM12opjz4JCG2P-affy2wP2JPcS8-VtQ=s325" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="325" data-original-width="235" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgWy0pIvinsy1Ldr7CxYFlGYW6tl8nzxQtzUcUGIYTIqgk1EydwfxVjv-nAVDhKx6XvrxNWajcuySjjqSlUf66ZpkvSNWVWtHDWAtTUYoLXzHk7xeS57Sj9ryRPjPv5PGZ0z_Ed99QqLlGmH0TQpnF4kOoRo-IM12opjz4JCG2P-affy2wP2JPcS8-VtQ=w289-h400" width="289" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Elspeth Huxley, 1907-1997</i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br />Elspeth
Huxley was born in England in 1907 to British parents, Nellie (née Grosvenor,
daughter of Lord Stalbridge) and Major Josceline Grant, who became colonial
settlers in Thika, British East Africa (now Kenya) in 1912. Growing up on her
parent’s coffee plantation, Elspeth began her somewhat sporadic education at a 'whites only' school in Nairobi, and then briefly at boarding school at Aldeburgh
in Suffolk from which she was expelled for gambling on horse racing. In 1925
she returned to England in order to study agriculture at Reading University,
then in 1928 she continued her studies in the USA at Cornell University. After
which she worked as an assistant press officer at the Empire Marketing Board,
and then subsequently as a broadcaster for the BBC during the 1940s and 1950s,
specialising in African affairs. She also served as member of the Monckton
Advisory Commission on Central Africa (1959-1960).</span></div><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="color: #181818; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="color: #181818; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">In
1931 Elspeth married into the famous Huxley family. Her husband, Gervas Huxley,
who had been her boss at the Empire Marketing board, was a cousin of the writer,
Aldous Huxley. She was also a friend of Joy Adamson, author of <i>Born Free</i>
(1960), which is perhaps more widely remembered because of its film adaptation
and the popular song of the same title. Elspeth’s own writing career was long
and prolific. She began as a teenage journalist, writing for various newspapers
and magazines in Africa. Publishing her first book in 1935, she subsequently
authored more than forty books of both fiction and non-fiction – Africa forming
the common theme and backcloth to her novels, memoirs, travelogues, and commentary works. Perhaps
naturally her colonial background, her education, and her work for British
imperial institutions shaped and influenced her outlook which was initially very
pro-colonial, but she later came to support contemporary moves towards African
Independence, as <i>Four Guineas</i> attests. In this respect, whilst some of
her personal attitudes have become outmoded, her polemical writings still stand
as interesting insights into, and valuable eye-witness accounts of changing
colonial attitudes regarding the political, economic, environmental, and
cultural issues which were widely salient across the African continent during
the mid-late twentieth century. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="color: #181818; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><i><span style="color: #181818; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">Four
Guineas</span></i><span style="color: #181818; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"> is perhaps not one of her better-known works, such
as <i>The Flame Trees of Thika: Memories of an African Childhood</i> (1959) and
<i>The Mottled Lizard </i>(1962), autobiographical reflections
upon her life growing up in Kenya which have been criticised as describing a
rose-tinted view of colonial Africa and providing an apologia for colonial
rule. Her books, however, also reflect a deep and often empathetic interest in the
cultures of the Masai and Kikuyu peoples, which she had previously written
about in her novel, <i>Red Strangers</i> (1939). When it was first submitted to
the Macmillan publishing house, the unflinching descriptions <i>Red Strangers</i>
contained of female circumcision rites were said to have made Harold Macmillan
(who later became British Prime Minster) blanche, but refusing to compromise on
editing such passages Huxley took the book to Chatto & Windus instead, who
published it with less qualms. A recent reissue of the book by Penguin Classics
was supported by the polemical scientist, Richard Dawkins, who himself was likewise born and raised in colonial
Kenya. Dawkins also wrote a preface to the new edition. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="color: #181818; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="color: #181818; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">In
1962 Huxley was awarded a CBE for her writings on Africa, and she continued
writing on these subjects into the 1990s. Elspeth Huxley died in England in
1997, aged 89. In an obituary, <i>The New York Times</i> described her as <i>“a
witty and energetic journalist”</i> whose <i>“eclectic literary output
reflected an extraordinary range of interests”</i>, and as a constant supporter
of myriad causes who remained tirelessly <i>“energetic to the end.”</i> It
seems to me she was perhaps a writer of her own era, but also one who reflected
the changes and adaptations of those times, having lived through an epoch in
which the world experienced a massive and rapid cultural shift of global
proportions. Through her contemporary commentaries she perhaps unwittingly gave
us a ‘history of the present’ as she and her contemporaries saw it in real
time; a worldview which we might no longer share in its narrowness and its
self-inflated suppositions, but one which we could certainly benefit from
studying and understanding in order to broaden and better our own.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="color: #181818; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="color: #181818; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #181818; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><b><i>Also on 'Waymarks'</i></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;"><b><a href="http://eccentricparabola.blogspot.com/2013/07/dan-eldon-safari-as-way-of-life.html" target="_blank">Dan Eldon - "Safari as a Way of Life"</a></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;"><b><a href="http://eccentricparabola.blogspot.com/2012/07/temples-feluccas-travelling-in-egypt.html" target="_blank">Temples & Feluccas - Travelling in Egypt</a></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/1kTZ8IpsqtE" width="320" youtube-src-id="1kTZ8IpsqtE"></iframe></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;"><i>Challenge in Nigeria, 1948.</i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/1kOwp3TBSag" width="320" youtube-src-id="1kOwp3TBSag"></iframe></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i>Firing Line with William F. Buckley Jr. - Africa and Colonialism</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i>An Interview with Elspeth Huxley, 1970.</i></div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>Further Reading</i></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i><br /></i></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i><div><a href="https://otherannapurnas.substack.com/p/elspeth-huxley-and-the-dead-man" target="_blank">Elspeth Huxley and the Dead Man: On Writing Heroes and Heroines</a></div><div>by Eva Molina, Other Annapurnas, 24 May 2023</div></i></b></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;"><br /></p>Timhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11641833714036731203noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-88759862385027089.post-4173653055891193322022-04-20T12:27:00.023+01:002022-06-05T11:04:48.001+01:00Onoda's War<p> N.B. – <i>This is a companion piece to a
blog post I wrote several years ago, titled: <b><a href="http://eccentricparabola.blogspot.com/2013/06/mia-second-world-war-japanese-hold-outs.html" target="_blank">M.I.A. – Second World War Japanese ‘Hold Outs’</a></b></i></p><p><i><br /></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><b><o:p></o:p></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><b style="text-align: left;"><o:p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjC2V3VHy3xGOsn6qsa4UmuOw4YVEyGJzfaOiRl8C5Ey4LRgaSVryhDjO75EBgFcDpCG-FRgWQq42rTfRDL9hzyDhQtFSz1ZDEBRhc6UznwY-2-HqQ2u0NE5WitlV1TnRmIz6vwQyOM09ZM5MgMDuT2En3dQJEOaX4QEkoMai8qHpXmSKJ9eT4sXUly4A/s899/Onoda%20Film%20Poster.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="899" data-original-width="632" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjC2V3VHy3xGOsn6qsa4UmuOw4YVEyGJzfaOiRl8C5Ey4LRgaSVryhDjO75EBgFcDpCG-FRgWQq42rTfRDL9hzyDhQtFSz1ZDEBRhc6UznwY-2-HqQ2u0NE5WitlV1TnRmIz6vwQyOM09ZM5MgMDuT2En3dQJEOaX4QEkoMai8qHpXmSKJ9eT4sXUly4A/w281-h400/Onoda%20Film%20Poster.jpg" width="281" /></a></div><br /> </o:p></b></b></div><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><b>ONODA: 10,000 NIGHTS IN THE
JUNGLE – <i>Directed by Arthur Harari </i>(Bathysphere, 2021)<o:p></o:p></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><b><o:p> </o:p></b>To all intents and purposes, this
film is a biopic of the life of Lieutenant Onoda Hirō (1922-2014), the Japanese
soldier who remained a ‘hold out’ on the island of Lubang in the Philippines
for 30 years after the end of World War 2 – remarkably not surrendering until
March 1974. But the film’s director, Arthur Harari, describes it as a work of historically-inspired
fiction. It is based upon Bernard Cendron and Gérard Chenu's biography <i>Onoda:
Seul en Guerre dans la Jungle</i> (Arthaud, 1974), and Bernard Cendron
collaborated in the writing of the screenplay. Harari has <a href="https://le-pacte.com/storage/uploads/69f8d239-0a70-4d83-86d2-d48d157eb41b/Presskit-ONODA---10000-NIGHTS-IN-THE-JUNGLE-(A5)---International.pdf" target="_blank">said</a> he didn’t read
Onoda’s own account, <i><a href="https://archive.org/details/nosurrendermythi00onod/mode/2up" target="_blank">No Surrender: My Thirty-Year War</a></i>
(Kodansha, 1974), preferring to give his own interpretation of the story and
the themes it suggested to him. Harari has <a href="https://le-pacte.com/storage/uploads/69f8d239-0a70-4d83-86d2-d48d157eb41b/Presskit-ONODA---10000-NIGHTS-IN-THE-JUNGLE-(A5)---International.pdf" target="_blank">said</a> that he was inspired by writers
such as Joseph Conrad and Robert Louis Stevenson, who wrote tales of adventure about
sailors marooned in the south seas. And, although it is a war film, much like <i><a href="https://www.imdb.com/title/tt0498380/?msclkid=4e0c8bb1c09a11ecae9e38ce06b8f390" target="_blank">Letters From Iwo Jima</a></i> (2007), Harari acknowledges that it takes many of its visual
cues from Hollywood Westerns, as well as the films of Akira Kurosawa. When Harari
first heard the true story of Onoda Hirō he thought it sounded like a joke. Harari is
certainly not alone in that respect, even at the time of Onoda’s surrender, the
racist caricature of the doggedly stupid and fanatical Japanese soldier still
slinking about the jungle, parting the bows of the bushes to peer out at the modern
world, was a commonplace visual trope repeated on various TV comedy sketch
shows and sitcoms, such as <i><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mimaneAbXHw" target="_blank">The Dave Allen Show</a>,</i> and <i>It Ain’t Half Hot
Mum</i> (<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5FqvQKMKCSg" target="_blank">‘The Last Warrior’</a> episode), in which the equally
caricatured British Army theatre troupe dress up as the three little maids from Gilbert
and Sullivan's <i>The</i> <i>Mikado</i> in order to coax a Japanese ‘Hold Out’ to
emerge from his hiding place and surrender. But, while this film does have its
moments of dark humour, <i><a href="https://www.imdb.com/title/tt9844938/?msclkid=865a78b2c01711ec8fa6c8e455e106f0" target="_blank">Onoda: 10,000 Nights in the Jungle</a></i> is definitely
not a comedy, nor is Onoda a figure to be laughed at.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigSSBfXmZzWSfONpPxvSgvj5Al8e6eM2mtRYGb694tktwAlnaHERWm6Zz9_DYBV1nNVulYYVXSaHyjolUmAlzJqQAu3Xhcq3iaYonISoQuxcPDKzBJSOebAZ6srqvrBypy9RqQZycYlWzVufgBsUSLh8m-K7nbA0Lkx0M4Gu8z4INe6uU7keN3z8PvpQ/s799/Cendron%20Chenu.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="799" data-original-width="485" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigSSBfXmZzWSfONpPxvSgvj5Al8e6eM2mtRYGb694tktwAlnaHERWm6Zz9_DYBV1nNVulYYVXSaHyjolUmAlzJqQAu3Xhcq3iaYonISoQuxcPDKzBJSOebAZ6srqvrBypy9RqQZycYlWzVufgBsUSLh8m-K7nbA0Lkx0M4Gu8z4INe6uU7keN3z8PvpQ/w242-h400/Cendron%20Chenu.jpg" width="242" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj05--R73jt8G9HwlIUs6usxoO-Us5kHCftNQDmvBPGfPHlQ70h8AO3PDiJShmA1i3KJDH5IDn3wEClm1dfb70Ps50lPVCBFPSEkyDtNfLeceWOAJufiXZkYJdNujI4GgR_30nlutI-fBoumlgl_e3c55fwPGccBokS4gBhyhdcHZ__cItJf7b4u7Udvw/s1000/Onoda%208.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="562" data-original-width="1000" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj05--R73jt8G9HwlIUs6usxoO-Us5kHCftNQDmvBPGfPHlQ70h8AO3PDiJShmA1i3KJDH5IDn3wEClm1dfb70Ps50lPVCBFPSEkyDtNfLeceWOAJufiXZkYJdNujI4GgR_30nlutI-fBoumlgl_e3c55fwPGccBokS4gBhyhdcHZ__cItJf7b4u7Udvw/w400-h225/Onoda%208.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><br /></span></p><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/VLWLA20Jp0g" width="320" youtube-src-id="VLWLA20Jp0g"></iframe></div><p></p><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Film trailer for the UK release of <i>Onoda: 10,000 Nights in the Jungle</i> (April, 2022)</span></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p><br /></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">The film is actually a very
sympathetic portrayal of a lost figure. An impressionable young man who finds a
sense of purpose and self-worth in a mission that is morally misguided. In many
ways, Onoda is a modern-day Lord Jim. The film begins in a very Conradian way,
with echoes of the opening pages of Conrad’s <i>Heart of Darkness</i>, as we
hear the older Onoda’s husky voice narrating a kind of flashback in which he
parallels the arrival of Suzuki Norio, the young man who eventually rescues him, with his own
arrival on the island of Lubang in 1944. We meet Onoda early on in the film as
a young man, still in Japan, who has failed to become a fighter pilot. He
thinks he has failed because of his fear of heights, but he is told by Major
Taniguchi – a surrogate father-figure who recruits him into a special commando
school – that the real reason he failed to become a pilot was because of his
fear of dying. In this new elite, secret unit made up of social misfits and ne’er-do-wells
he is taught that his fear of death will be his greatest strength, because he is
charged with a special mission in which he must paradoxically remain loyal to
the task assigned to him whilst at the same time he must be his own officer,
giving and obeying his own orders, doing whatever it takes to survive and carry
out his overarching orders – hence, perversely he is both free of, and yet also
unbreakably bound by military discipline. The entire film is structured around
such dualities and paradoxes. Situations and character couplings are constantly
paired down to this sort of pairing. Onoda and his second-in-command, Kozuka,
become a steadfast unit of two – Kozuka almost making it to the end of the
mission with him in 1974. Onoda and Suzuki, the drop-out student tourist who
eventually finds Onoda and persuades him to leave the jungle become a mirror
image of each other in the sense of reality versus potentiality – as we see Onoda,
both burdened and bound by his sense of duty, permanently rooted to his island
hideout; and Suzuki, entirely free and carefree in his idle wanderings about
the globe, going in search of <i>“a wild panda, Onoda-san, and the Yeti, in that
order.”</i> The life that was and the life that could have been, but for different
times and different circumstances.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br /><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZKVwUitVqVDRBYQi64bkNAXPHN2fkhTT8rZ13ezC-HGnJdgpPN9X_-YP045BHOxnAjZa_IwX7ul7AwCXBtvP6KrbdXr0Cnjvtbz6IT2YqL7C0dIpbrbCHjy2r0OGAR0yfi04OmLviSSemkSg8AT7JUsmfnhVgMUGR7-Lu7Szz4AUcDkzGCp0JDrxaIA/s1998/Onoda%206.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1998" height="216" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZKVwUitVqVDRBYQi64bkNAXPHN2fkhTT8rZ13ezC-HGnJdgpPN9X_-YP045BHOxnAjZa_IwX7ul7AwCXBtvP6KrbdXr0Cnjvtbz6IT2YqL7C0dIpbrbCHjy2r0OGAR0yfi04OmLviSSemkSg8AT7JUsmfnhVgMUGR7-Lu7Szz4AUcDkzGCp0JDrxaIA/w400-h216/Onoda%206.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">The film has been lauded, winning the
Prix Louis-Delluc and was nominated at the 11<sup>th</sup> Magritte Awards. It
has been praised as a captivating ‘existentialist action movie’, but it has
also been criticised as ‘an absurdist slow burn’ at almost three hours running
time. A very superficial review in <i><a href="https://www.theguardian.com/film/2022/apr/17/onoda-10000-nights-in-the-jungle-review-a-captivating-tragicomedy" target="_blank">The Observer</a></i> characterised it as a <i>Boy’s
Own</i> adventure yarn, much like J.M. Barrie’s lost boys, with Onoda as the young
boy who grows old whilst remaining <i>“hopelessly lost in the woods, playing his
forlorn game of soldiers after everyone else has gone to bed.”</i> It’s a nice
conceit, and makes for a catchy last sentence to a short and pithy review, but
the reality which this film is clearly setting out to portray is a lot darker
than this; a closer parallel might be a grown-up version William Golding’s <i>Lord
of the Flies</i>. Certainly, when viewed as a biopic, rather than historically
inspired fiction, it is a reasonably faithful rendition. Much of the
cinematography mirrors well-known images from the actual lives of the
characters involved – the photo of Onoda as a young recruit in his cap and smart
uniform is echoed in the shot of him standing on the boat looking towards Lubang
when he first arrives on the island. Suzuki’s blue jeans and shirt, as well as
the way he holds Onoda’s rifle and comments on how heavy it is when he takes
the selfie photo which he uses to persuade Major Taniguchi to come out of retirement
and order Onoda to lay down his arms and surrender mirrors the real-life photo
Suzuki took to prove he’d met Onoda. And lastly, the view of a lithesome Onoda, wearing his patched-up army uniform while walking towards the
helicopter, watched by the islanders whom he has terrorised for nearly three
full decades, faithfully echoes the <a href="https://britishpathe.com/workspaces/df699ffd537d4e0c74710ad015dfd64d/iE8bkYVy" target="_blank">TV news</a> footage of the actual event – it is
all there.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidQ6mAwMN1nk2Izz7dxqDU1uVt8X4GbiOTAYsr2EaZPH6d8M0RJ8OeR_U-S8yj_fbrl1JmWQfuxozoAJT3X1EM996TYMjjS0kezW_n_PIAgyh6axdZKyTcLRiFJyMCQe0cJMrI6dwy3rJkZT_nnRlxB3IotOZMKD1SzqXh3DwILCSsvNzDI_4TEbscVA/s1600/Suzuki%20and%20Onoda.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1155" data-original-width="1600" height="289" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidQ6mAwMN1nk2Izz7dxqDU1uVt8X4GbiOTAYsr2EaZPH6d8M0RJ8OeR_U-S8yj_fbrl1JmWQfuxozoAJT3X1EM996TYMjjS0kezW_n_PIAgyh6axdZKyTcLRiFJyMCQe0cJMrI6dwy3rJkZT_nnRlxB3IotOZMKD1SzqXh3DwILCSsvNzDI_4TEbscVA/w400-h289/Suzuki%20and%20Onoda.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Original photo of Suzuki Norio with Onoda Hir<span style="text-align: left;">ō</span></i></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><br /></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7wkh0JQReDWl_dFynlXaUTUzfn-EdvyfCMRkOwB8yV-bh8yAV_iLvdVIwHCjgir2lxN8cJPR8XTjiqL3A21zfNARFpOl7k4QgCY9k83L6PHixv1TZ_mWi9Zu8fje9ijqDJJ4ROPKwrD_Nom6T5rej_BmsYBay9h--lsmHO9btbX5nwi0bX7wq-YrRZA/s1300/Onoda%20Surrendering.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="1300" height="221" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7wkh0JQReDWl_dFynlXaUTUzfn-EdvyfCMRkOwB8yV-bh8yAV_iLvdVIwHCjgir2lxN8cJPR8XTjiqL3A21zfNARFpOl7k4QgCY9k83L6PHixv1TZ_mWi9Zu8fje9ijqDJJ4ROPKwrD_Nom6T5rej_BmsYBay9h--lsmHO9btbX5nwi0bX7wq-YrRZA/w400-h221/Onoda%20Surrendering.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Actual photo of Onoda surrendering in 1974 (Guardian)</i></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><br /></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCNkIHDFvZxlE8ucOYgKDbhUACfS9NuJG9tqH4L7c6-MR6TrUXKNNeqW6nRNhAHouKG64m9y6rtEjfC3xs_0KZktVosJ_h6tBm0QVWLxmhSRl1hK5lyjwQZalhapjxHbDW5E3rAJRzegzJWiME-JMjXeogiMiK6q8Wek4GHuDW5lgo55kY9TVf675KuA/s640/Onoda%204.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="360" data-original-width="640" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCNkIHDFvZxlE8ucOYgKDbhUACfS9NuJG9tqH4L7c6-MR6TrUXKNNeqW6nRNhAHouKG64m9y6rtEjfC3xs_0KZktVosJ_h6tBm0QVWLxmhSRl1hK5lyjwQZalhapjxHbDW5E3rAJRzegzJWiME-JMjXeogiMiK6q8Wek4GHuDW5lgo55kY9TVf675KuA/w400-h225/Onoda%204.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>A scene from the movie, Onoda: 10,000 Nights in the Jungle (Bathysphere)</i></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><br /><o:p><br /></o:p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">But therein lies the ambiguity which
such a movie cannot fully resolve, although it goes some way towards showing it
– which is the direct impact Onoda’s actions had on the lives of those around
him. In his delusion that he must continue the fight against ordinary
civilians. People simply trying to live their lives in what should have been
peacetime. The film does show the moral conflict within the characters, wondering
who shot first in the confrontations they have, shooting into the air in order to
scare people away rather than expressly shooting at them – but, in reality, it
is thought that Onoda and his band needlessly killed up to thirty individuals
in those three decades post-1945. The death of a lone woman whom they accidentally
encounter is presumably meant to stand collectively for all of those innocent
victims. And yet, when Onoda did eventually surrender, he was praised for his
military discipline – the fact he’d kept his rifle in pristine working order across
all those years. He was even pardoned by the then Philippine President,
Ferdinand Marcos, to whom he symbolically handed over his sword in a televised ceremony
of surrender. Back home again in Japan, after all those years of undoubted
hardship, Onoda was hailed as a hero – again for the virtues he seemed to
embody of selflessness, discipline, self-sacrifice and devotion to duty. But
some also saw him as a victim. Brainwashed by a militaristic regime, given an
inhuman and inhumane mission to fight a total war without surrender, without
the right to die, at such personal cost and self-sacrifice – robbed of any
chance of a normal life. On the other hand, some less charitable souls condemned
him as a <i>not very intelligent</i> intelligence officer for scrupulously following
his orders to the letter for so many decades after it had become patently
obvious that the war was long since over. A personally protracted thirty-year
war fought perhaps as an expression of bitter pride?</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdCJ_e-7w0AlOfxMTOcluSo3EgppA2pEVjx8YVN-k6nRR8qKOEJxPFbNh1JFZk7zIFzezStRx0JsAn1ocYzuNGFbZq6JOAi6RvBAlmGTK8aHEpNZ_a7KsoKMSwQNrXod-c9x59oPL971poHSbNeGaILlqyYR06uy0EpFLvl15IiLffnqWXR124D01klA/s1023/Onoda%207.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="553" data-original-width="1023" height="216" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdCJ_e-7w0AlOfxMTOcluSo3EgppA2pEVjx8YVN-k6nRR8qKOEJxPFbNh1JFZk7zIFzezStRx0JsAn1ocYzuNGFbZq6JOAi6RvBAlmGTK8aHEpNZ_a7KsoKMSwQNrXod-c9x59oPL971poHSbNeGaILlqyYR06uy0EpFLvl15IiLffnqWXR124D01klA/w400-h216/Onoda%207.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiydYA77wTrbj8scguMelq2qxlTgdBTuML7BhAbBLLT8Is4tp0obBZdEPAsghOxl10U7Us-AuTprf4Ped0_KzWql5xZ3l7niwQLziLu2wUXOofJpXcuIfD6WfSN5CPELlhWgRdxPz3IC0TV09ZxObQKleZqlm8xMhJdz3NiL3glYfK468pK3y4za3dRZQ/s1659/Onoda%202.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="897" data-original-width="1659" height="216" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiydYA77wTrbj8scguMelq2qxlTgdBTuML7BhAbBLLT8Is4tp0obBZdEPAsghOxl10U7Us-AuTprf4Ped0_KzWql5xZ3l7niwQLziLu2wUXOofJpXcuIfD6WfSN5CPELlhWgRdxPz3IC0TV09ZxObQKleZqlm8xMhJdz3NiL3glYfK468pK3y4za3dRZQ/w400-h216/Onoda%202.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><o:p><br /></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">The film shows us scenes wherein Onoda
and Kozuka doubt a Japanese repatriation party, which includes Onoda’s brother
and father, hailing them in the jungle after one of their party decides to abandon
them and surrender on his own. How the two of them conjure up a fanciful
explanation of the ‘subterfuge’ they perceive in reading modern newspapers,
imagining the fanciful ‘truths’ of an on-going war in which the new Japanese ‘Self-Defense
Force’ has allied with Mao’s Communist China in order to continue the fight
against the Americans, but wondering whose side is the Philippines is now on? </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeM7C6UlxzfyT-mc0ZHcqQ_ou1er6_IYR8iQjITKjG4RAedvsBsamjNBC_XNSGl-i40kTCirQeSj51q3ZxvCCvNKaZi8bqRH1NIzQtfRN9Brd38Jkr9Tce4ymX0h_b2aSinoMRGfPDH5HtGHvE4TQDtPq04VF1Hve3LNAtFa0_yWAS17V1VFuxAfINzw/s1280/Onoda%201.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="1280" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeM7C6UlxzfyT-mc0ZHcqQ_ou1er6_IYR8iQjITKjG4RAedvsBsamjNBC_XNSGl-i40kTCirQeSj51q3ZxvCCvNKaZi8bqRH1NIzQtfRN9Brd38Jkr9Tce4ymX0h_b2aSinoMRGfPDH5HtGHvE4TQDtPq04VF1Hve3LNAtFa0_yWAS17V1VFuxAfINzw/w400-h225/Onoda%201.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><br /></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Naturally, it is the film’s premise – as with all movies – for us as the viewer
to sympathise and even empathise with its central character. And in this
respect the film certainly succeeds. By the end of the movie, we see Onoda as a
kind of living, walking ghost-figure, a man who has merged with the jungle,
haunted by the memories of his dead comrades, the ghosts of his past, visiting and
laying flowers upon the graves of those he has known and served alongside because
ultimately this is all he has left of the truth by which he has chosen (and/or
been ordered) to live by. There is a strange sense of nobility in the silence
he maintains when confronted by Suzuki on their first meeting, and even moreso
when he finally stands in front of Major Taniguchi, who reads out to him the official surrender order issued in September 1945, telling him to stand down in March 1974. His
silence is the most eloquent expression of the contradictions which confound
his sense of confusion. Like all absurdities it is both uncanny (rather than
outright funny) and deeply tragic. It suggests a man emerging from an oddly
baffled sense of pessimism, his new situation slowly reorienting him. It is a profoundly Conradian psychological dilemma. The film
ends with a strangely tantalising and yet unresolved sense of pathos – what was
it all for in the end? <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSyEwt3LmwPxijkD9nIx8QiAzuqX_KamFsSalne_4RH-rIsLy7tzo_tp5xQfekiPxpllDs7MO91QVsOqqY5cNYPy44nY5rh7_2NpchUSKLnZ_QdmiALZhQuca55Fdyu0wZOnjJotnrmsdTlnCxLbX6lgCtrxfOJqV3bvdB2RpUWKkBF8AXzr0O_6WE9A/s1280/Onoda%205.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="1280" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSyEwt3LmwPxijkD9nIx8QiAzuqX_KamFsSalne_4RH-rIsLy7tzo_tp5xQfekiPxpllDs7MO91QVsOqqY5cNYPy44nY5rh7_2NpchUSKLnZ_QdmiALZhQuca55Fdyu0wZOnjJotnrmsdTlnCxLbX6lgCtrxfOJqV3bvdB2RpUWKkBF8AXzr0O_6WE9A/w400-h225/Onoda%205.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtVOYgASHZgRwYMgT27NEoqs07hv1kZpjMq4DX7zbtq2n7yFTuLX_Z_olwcUlVdGY76oWPHVOKl2NfKs5r3KdwaeVt3YRdKy3KWpXDXpOrydXJUu31n71aXgKl0Izz9OJK1gJG3lTorj3d5_5FiPUASOMLgdHsstfp8_4OAEN2DMAIPT77iPzUzZhhxg/s1998/Onoda%2010.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1998" height="216" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtVOYgASHZgRwYMgT27NEoqs07hv1kZpjMq4DX7zbtq2n7yFTuLX_Z_olwcUlVdGY76oWPHVOKl2NfKs5r3KdwaeVt3YRdKy3KWpXDXpOrydXJUu31n71aXgKl0Izz9OJK1gJG3lTorj3d5_5FiPUASOMLgdHsstfp8_4OAEN2DMAIPT77iPzUzZhhxg/w400-h216/Onoda%2010.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><o:p><br /></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">The nobility Onoda found in his role
as the leader of a small band of men may have redeemed the self-perceived inadequacies
which originally got him into this pickle – but it perhaps only belies the bigger
paradox, that in seeking to do the right thing he has ended up accomplishing its
opposite – wasting not just his own life, but also the lives of those who remained with him,
and of those whom they encountered and killed. When watching the film’s long
closing shot of Onoda’s face as he looks out of the helicopter lifting him out
of Lubang, mirroring the way he looked to the island on his arrival, one can’t
help wondering what he might be feeling and thinking deep inside as he listens
to the unending metronomic rattle of the helicopter’s rotor blades passing
overhead. It seems as though the clock which stopped long ago in 1945 has finally begun
ticking for him once again. But this is an unanswerable question. Only Onoda
can really know what it felt like, the rest of us can only speculate.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><o:p> </o:p></span> </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvQ_s6DvRBuQMUvYsrS9XjMbvAXlkFPb8D_yHy8K9kkcFEOmBLTpVOKOqKt_Qfj_yqTs5RO1CzeAvzG5H0HzuIF3gijsmus8ziHOh2kt5etzbLAJH1Tdb7lCQaPt9_MyHCuhO0W-2F6GoPZFzThlJrI4yfqCGN0smSQ-aKIBQ5XsErQNdgjWdyiaFS6g/s277/Onoda%2011.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="194" data-original-width="277" height="280" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvQ_s6DvRBuQMUvYsrS9XjMbvAXlkFPb8D_yHy8K9kkcFEOmBLTpVOKOqKt_Qfj_yqTs5RO1CzeAvzG5H0HzuIF3gijsmus8ziHOh2kt5etzbLAJH1Tdb7lCQaPt9_MyHCuhO0W-2F6GoPZFzThlJrI4yfqCGN0smSQ-aKIBQ5XsErQNdgjWdyiaFS6g/w400-h280/Onoda%2011.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><i><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Also on ‘Waymarks’<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><o:p> </o:p></span></b></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><a href="http://eccentricparabola.blogspot.com/2013/06/mia-second-world-war-japanese-hold-outs.html" target="_blank">MIA –Second World War Japanese ‘Hold Outs’</a><o:p></o:p></span></b></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><o:p> </o:p></span></b><b><a href="http://eccentricparabola.blogspot.com/2011/08/guam-jungle-trekking.html" target="_blank">Guam – Jungle Trekking</a></b></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><br /></b></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><br /></b></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyKUuR7r1pcK66XL_i0pZ8i_k9_1prtGS58pcVS1lmsClCBIs2gP7pUckFrb30XFykKGJG48-eJXnbY0iP4HYnsVAhPr5pgfvIARVtEmiMfW-stI4AW7-xxq5cWvuGAS9JH9InH2dVZisK9cylyS0yhZEgno5wpZy1M0wB8NcvFuwMzahxv_cBLMMnQw/s1200/Onoda%203.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="649" data-original-width="1200" height="216" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyKUuR7r1pcK66XL_i0pZ8i_k9_1prtGS58pcVS1lmsClCBIs2gP7pUckFrb30XFykKGJG48-eJXnbY0iP4HYnsVAhPr5pgfvIARVtEmiMfW-stI4AW7-xxq5cWvuGAS9JH9InH2dVZisK9cylyS0yhZEgno5wpZy1M0wB8NcvFuwMzahxv_cBLMMnQw/w400-h216/Onoda%203.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><b><br /></b><p></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>All images from Onoda: 10,000 Nights in the Jungle (Bathysphere), original photo of Suzuki and Onoda presumed to be in the public domain.</i></span></b></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;">~ * ~</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: left;"><b><span><i>Postscript: </i></span>–</b><span><i style="font-weight: bold;"> </i>It seems there's something in the zeitgeist at the moment prompting reflections upon the life of Onoda </span>Hirō. In June this year, an English translation (by Michael Hofmann) of a novel, <a href="https://www.penguinrandomhouse.com/books/702775/the-twilight-world-by-werner-herzog-translated-by-michael-hofmann/" target="_blank"><i>The Twilight World</i> </a>(Penguin / Random House, 2022), by the filmmaker, Werner Herzog, is due to be published. This should make for <a href="https://www.theatlantic.com/magazine/archive/2022/06/werner-herzog-book-the-twilight-world/629638/" target="_blank">an interesting read</a>. Herzog, whose own work very much bridges the psychological space between Joseph Conrad and J.G. Ballard, is fascinated by themes of the quixotic and the dystopian. As Herzog himself has said: <i>“I am fascinated by the idea that our civilisation is like a thin layer of ice upon a deep ocean of chaos and darkness”</i> (<i><a href="https://www.scottishreviewofbooks.org/2011/05/the-enigma-of-werner-herzog/" target="_blank">Scottish Review of Books</a></i>, 13 May 2011). Herzog first met and got to know <span>Onoda </span>Hirō in 1997 when visiting Japan, so – although still a fictional representation of a reality, presumably much like <i>Onoda: 10,000 Nights in the Jungle</i> – this novel may well present some further enlightened and informed existential insights into this fascinating subject of a man removed from time, stuck in confrontation with himself and the world as he sees and experiences it, at the edge of that thin layer which separates external reality from the internal abyss, lodged deep within the human psyche.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: left;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.penguinrandomhouse.com/books/702775/the-twilight-world-by-werner-herzog-translated-by-michael-hofmann/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="700" data-original-width="435" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-mIKEKYuNzjiipNCmJoVFi4L3k6hGaHn-nd2beyOLrN2xB1_HRjMc9WHSKoCx2jz-wCnqZiL32PWeYTAFSXwyriMnmE_n1zPhHmt5aItiM5SOhhj5fSq9HYhoXiWKhhLQVoW24H1xLfsrGF9gr5WOqmfTes6FUmakNo0MSrWg0Y84kfDMvD098Oc5rg/w249-h400/Herzog%20Twilight%20World.jpg" width="249" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: left;"><br /></p>Timhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11641833714036731203noreply@blogger.com0Lubang Island, Philippines13.791472 120.182022-14.518761836178845 85.025772 42.101705836178844 155.33827200000002tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-88759862385027089.post-87858782391639071212022-03-03T23:53:00.011+00:002022-04-04T11:14:46.298+01:00The World Rent Asunder<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhF1aYRVbdYt5FyQUthDsUVxOWw5pVsCcebYbJsqYMUYpC-tiIeqzyaktGQw-_MQEG6MVyxaFkiSX5CCd0Fa2jzWZNyAqvURAtiR1JyFQjAkV_G4nQgLpqfusEQY2FIfRIfD_vZgfpHWmiEy3T88S8qsNnE2CXgdRS_QKlILPjIxD-WVQfPDJ4F-tbTMQ=s540" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="338" data-original-width="540" height="250" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhF1aYRVbdYt5FyQUthDsUVxOWw5pVsCcebYbJsqYMUYpC-tiIeqzyaktGQw-_MQEG6MVyxaFkiSX5CCd0Fa2jzWZNyAqvURAtiR1JyFQjAkV_G4nQgLpqfusEQY2FIfRIfD_vZgfpHWmiEy3T88S8qsNnE2CXgdRS_QKlILPjIxD-WVQfPDJ4F-tbTMQ=w400-h250" width="400" /></a></div><br /><i><br /></i><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><i>London: 3 March 2022 – </i>In January
this year I read H.G. Wells’ <i>War of the Worlds </i>(1898) for the first
time. It is one of those ubiquitous books which everyone knows, but which lots
of people have never actually read. This was something which struck me when the
recent BBC TV dramatization was aired a year or two ago. It faithfully set the story
of the novel in its own time and its original place, unlike the most recent
Hollywood adaptation, starring Tom Cruise in 2005, which transposes the action
to modern day America. Or the earlier classic Hollywood version of 1953,
starring Gene Barry and Ann Robinson, which also changed the three-legged
Martian machines into boomerang-shaped flying saucers with cobra-headed heat
ray guns. While watching the BBC version, I commented to my mother that I’d
never read the original novel, but that I thought I really should someday,
because the idea that H.G. Wells could have dreamt up such a fantastical fictional
premise of aliens with advanced technology invading the Earth during the late
nineteenth-century’s ‘Age of Steam’ seemed so far removed from our present-day
conceptions of sci-fi. Noting this absent-minded musing of mine, my mother
bought the book and happily surprised me with it as a gift for my birthday a
couple of months later. But sadly, when I finally read Wells’ novel at the start
of this year, I had no idea how tragically apt a moment it would end up being;
to read such a book when the world was unwittingly drifting closer towards the
edge of a moment of unthinkable change – a change wrought by the potential prospect
of a third world war – when, at the end of the following month, Russia invaded
the Ukraine.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiaEnpuCYDyYeoNdAS3cDQj3kAyyoPr7cuHmxFGfg2OZNLYUilzhJyquB_tlte1z9JIFycDYWE2EaGaYBwWFIHEqw5udioIYYXnrMQNHTaQehFvyYra6sILdbyyRtz28n0VsbJo2sO6oWObg3_McdnbQRgDdMdoWz53YeSA9s0fS55CeDVqL0ZNlBZf6Q=s2560" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1920" data-original-width="2560" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiaEnpuCYDyYeoNdAS3cDQj3kAyyoPr7cuHmxFGfg2OZNLYUilzhJyquB_tlte1z9JIFycDYWE2EaGaYBwWFIHEqw5udioIYYXnrMQNHTaQehFvyYra6sILdbyyRtz28n0VsbJo2sO6oWObg3_McdnbQRgDdMdoWz53YeSA9s0fS55CeDVqL0ZNlBZf6Q=w400-h300" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">As a kid growing up during the
1980s, as for many people of my age, my main point of reference for Wells’ <i>War
of the Worlds</i> was Jeff Wayne’s musical version (1978), which we used to
listen to as a family in the car. I’ve always remembered the sinister moment
narrated by Richard Burton when the Martian cylinder begins to unscrew. For
some reason this moment really captured my imagination. Like many kids, I was
obsessed with the idea of extra-terrestrials and alien invasions. A fascination
first fed by the films, <i>Close Encounters of the Third Kind</i> (1977) and <i>E.T.</i>
(1982), as well as old television series, such as <i>The Invaders</i>
(1967-1968) and more recent ones (at that time), such as <i>V</i> (1984-1985).
Later on, of course, there was <i>The X-Files</i> (1993-2002). I always knew
there was an element of Cold War paranoia hidden beneath the surface of such
films, especially old ones such as the 1953 version of <i>War of the Worlds</i>,
and <i>The Day the Earth Stood Still</i> (1951), or <i>Invaders from Mars</i>
(1953). The common menace behind all of these films and TV shows was the
unknown; that creeping insidious fear which permeated the Cold War – not knowing
what the other side was up to, not knowing what they might be planning, but
knowing that they had the means to destroy everyone and everything should they
choose to do so. That threat of nuclear Armageddon with just the press of a
button. It was something which anyone alive in those decades post-World War 2
up until the end of the twentieth century, when the Cold War finally seemed to
come to a (largely) peaceful close in the period between 1989-1991 with the
<a href="https://origins.osu.edu/node/1626" target="_blank">collapse of the USSR</a>. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiuObLjYXFGluBMw1FULwUz7AZ2CRdPK8B9bS3gcHHbk-0nO3GHPINs3qNiRyVha5DAVqlnK_7PezHJNXx_yLTMF80Xc1eHqF0OxhgL6OSUBxeUB3jtRSvnbhVWTI_fAP8xx5V3n6Et4nRm1UoaqCOC93rGbJsYOPmhi1xD8oI856ZMVGWDmZGJkQklLQ=s800" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="589" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiuObLjYXFGluBMw1FULwUz7AZ2CRdPK8B9bS3gcHHbk-0nO3GHPINs3qNiRyVha5DAVqlnK_7PezHJNXx_yLTMF80Xc1eHqF0OxhgL6OSUBxeUB3jtRSvnbhVWTI_fAP8xx5V3n6Et4nRm1UoaqCOC93rGbJsYOPmhi1xD8oI856ZMVGWDmZGJkQklLQ=w295-h400" width="295" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>H.G. Wells (National Portrait Gallery)</i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">For H.G. Wells the menace which
inspired him with such dreadful visions of the future was something different,
but something which nonetheless was at the very root of what the Cold War later
became. For Wells, his fear was the dehumanising mechanisation of death. In certain
ways, his novel foreshadowed the horrors unleashed on the grim battlefields of
the First World War, which took place only a couple of decades after the
publication of <i>War of the Worlds</i> in 1898. The incomprehensible truth of
mankind’s inhumanity towards itself is envisaged as manifested in the form of a
callously methodical and unsympathetic alien invader. And, in unleashing such a
cold-blooded enemy upon the unsuspecting Earth, Wells’ very matter-of-factly - if
somewhat macabrely - describes our familiar world being rent asunder, the
everyday world torn to shreds by enormous three-legged alien machines stalking
the land from sleepy Surrey into the bustling metropolis of London, which is
reduced to ashes via war and anarchy as the systems and institutions of society
crumble and collapse under the relentless onslaught of total war. In this very
specific way, Wells clearly foresaw the modern ‘Blitzkrieg’ of the Second World
War as much as he foresaw the senseless carnage of the battlefields being gassed during the
First World War. Watching the senselessness of the current Russian military advance
on multiple fronts into a peaceful Ukraine, the present war seems just as
inexplicable as it is horrifying.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjntK2Ei6SJmuFWAaflaEbiW-LLmyBQQws3VnPoKCFE48Vfj4UtSZmF-fR5TZ18EB6M3njJqRY-wJ9YmDoXQ4e3u9ocpvIScl1X6OwbR47z5f-qjOdrDc-dyP43yALZQfst65vhPMImk508F6sBwdRuTlNMXKIbsle5_RKHqSIrUh5TXxy7JKsLXN8Bbg=s767" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="767" data-original-width="521" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjntK2Ei6SJmuFWAaflaEbiW-LLmyBQQws3VnPoKCFE48Vfj4UtSZmF-fR5TZ18EB6M3njJqRY-wJ9YmDoXQ4e3u9ocpvIScl1X6OwbR47z5f-qjOdrDc-dyP43yALZQfst65vhPMImk508F6sBwdRuTlNMXKIbsle5_RKHqSIrUh5TXxy7JKsLXN8Bbg=w271-h400" width="271" /></a></div><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">When I read <i>War of the Worlds</i>
at the start of this year, I’d been surprised to see my hometown in northwest
London given two mentions in the course of the novel. The majority of the
action in the story takes place in Surrey, moving onto southwest and then
central London, with an interlude in which we follow the course of the narrator’s
brother, who eventually escapes England as a desperate refugee onboard a paddle
steamer which manages to cross the English Channel to the Continent, despite
being pursued by the Martian machines which are bravely opposed in a suicidal
last stand made by a Royal Navy dreadnought. The macabre appeal
of this truly remarkable novel is to picture the vivid descriptions of our sane
and orderly world uprooted and utterly smashed by uncontrollable and
unopposable forces. But as the events of the Second World War in particular
should have taught us, such a flight of the imagination is not so fanciful.
Those events are still within living memory for my parents’ and grandparents’
generations. It was the defining global event of their lifetimes, as was also the
Cuban Missile crisis of 1962. I’d always thought my generation’s <a href="http://eccentricparabola.blogspot.com/2013/07/the-wind-of-change-germany-1991-1993.html" target="_blank">defining moment</a> was that hopeful and optimistic era which witnessed the fall of the
Berlin Wall, but since then we’ve had the shocking event of the terrorist
attacks of September 11, 2001 in the USA, as well as the wars, insurgencies and
subsequent terrorist attacks which have followed in their wake; then the current
Corona virus pandemic, along with the increasingly worsening effects of global
climate change as a backdrop to all of this, in just these first few decades of the
21<sup>st</sup> century. And now we have the <a href="https://drb.ie/articles/this-is-who-he-is/" target="_blank">megalomaniacal madness</a> made manifest of Vladimir Putin, an unopposed autocrat ordering his troops to invade
a neighbouring sovereign state, all the while with his finger held poised over
the nuclear button, as he has <a href="https://www.chathamhouse.org/2022/03/how-likely-use-nuclear-weapons-russia" target="_blank">duly warned</a> us.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgWUjaJsn2n9Wqh8inqJTlT2gN1ZFVI2QUz6l89B8xtIi89S0BDdvQBrW9mwNYqjOMy4Ws7WUW8ln_FKE5DErg01XqTvacRV5afH11eggRAdKpbDMUlJw7rJ13_C0O1tzHtAkKFT-Ll3w6GcsjlHzmLl-qMHjv2OUWe6cA0rDT5NPozcKL2sZJ2UVs9XQ=s743" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="743" data-original-width="516" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgWUjaJsn2n9Wqh8inqJTlT2gN1ZFVI2QUz6l89B8xtIi89S0BDdvQBrW9mwNYqjOMy4Ws7WUW8ln_FKE5DErg01XqTvacRV5afH11eggRAdKpbDMUlJw7rJ13_C0O1tzHtAkKFT-Ll3w6GcsjlHzmLl-qMHjv2OUWe6cA0rDT5NPozcKL2sZJ2UVs9XQ=w278-h400" width="278" /></a></div><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Given such a clear and unequivocal
threat, if we believe and sufficiently fear Putin’s resolve, our sense of
existential dread certainly feels more acute now than it has at any point
during the last 40 years. It is akin to that deeply sinister moment of hearing
the cylinder slowly starting to unscrew itself in <i>War of the Worlds.</i> During
my childhood my family always knew that in the event of a nuclear war we’d
almost certainly be instantly vaporised because we lived only a matter of a few
miles away from the NATO command centre at Northwood. There were undoubtedly a
couple of nuclear warheads sitting in Soviet missile silos with our names written
on them. In the more recent post-Cold War era, I’ve often wondered what has
happened to those missiles. We understood that the nuclear deterrent had been
downgraded on both of the formerly opposing sides of the Iron Curtain, but I’ve long been
fascinated by the subsequent rise of the enigma that is Vladimir Putin. Over
the last twenty or so years, reading articles speculating upon the
psychological implications of his having been <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e2_EFJLWA6o" target="_blank">a KGB officer stationed in East Germany</a> at the time of the fall of the Berlin Wall, and how he and his comrades
had repeatedly called Moscow for instructions when the protestors were
hammering at the doors of the Soviet headquarters where he was rapidly
shredding documents, but the line was dead. The only reply they received was
silence. And not so very long thereafter the USSR itself was no longer a voice
on the global stage. All that was left was the seemingly insubstantial ghost of
a once great power. Only a year or two ago I marvelled as I read an article
about the Soviet military base at Vogelsang, close to Berlin, which is now a
ruin sought out by psycho-geographers and urbexers, but which was still manned
and operational when I first visited Berlin in February 1993 on my second visit
to the former GDR. Empty swimming pools, broken windows, trees growing through
crumbling concrete, and paint peeling from sun-bleached Soviet Realist statues
and murals. Looking at the accompanying photos of the base in its current derelict
state it looked to me like something from a different era altogether, not like
something which had been fully functioning in my own lifetime.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEivxq5DwYgqKwfuQlUc2s6vuB4-1zkNKkAujc-8es9rwzuw39fwpDWHakXZCphbDQSxvwJjs4TYpVTYcZX6vE3M_byXoMDRdZm6ZAOCzFGCp3ljgSm5iv5Nq1_-GgUV_8BoHhiFH_wXpR4HZxGbpPkV6UXESo6QMBkxdxUT_tbONwTJZhqn4G0jpHZyxg=s2391" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1570" data-original-width="2391" height="263" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEivxq5DwYgqKwfuQlUc2s6vuB4-1zkNKkAujc-8es9rwzuw39fwpDWHakXZCphbDQSxvwJjs4TYpVTYcZX6vE3M_byXoMDRdZm6ZAOCzFGCp3ljgSm5iv5Nq1_-GgUV_8BoHhiFH_wXpR4HZxGbpPkV6UXESo6QMBkxdxUT_tbONwTJZhqn4G0jpHZyxg=w400-h263" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">I’m currently living close to Westminster
Abbey. Many years ago, a friend of mine who worked in the House of Commons told
me that one of the reasons why the Jubilee Line extension on the London
Underground system was so delayed in opening was because the construction
workers had not correctly anticipated just how long it would take to punch
holes through the former nuclear bunker which had been built beside the Houses
of Parliament during the height of the Cold War. If you go into Westminster
Tube Station and ride the escalators down to the Jubilee Line platforms, you
can indeed still see the remnants of what looks like a much older concrete structure
behind the newer beams and pillars of the station complex, so there may well be
some truth to that conjecture. Hence, if Putin does press the button,
Westminster Tube Station might not be too bad a place to hurry to during such
an eventuality. If he does though, I think, remembering the sobering effect of
watching Raymond Brigg’s cartoon of <i>When the Wind Blows</i> (1986), I’d
rather disappear in the white heat of the blinding flash than survive in such a
blisteringly bleak world thereafter. <a href="https://allianceforscience.cornell.edu/blog/2022/03/what-the-science-says-could-humans-survive-a-nuclear-war-between-nato-and-russia/" target="_blank">Scientists say</a> the nuclear weapons which are
extant nowadays are so far in advance of the power of any which have previously
been used in anger at either Hiroshima, Nagasaki, or the nuclear tests of the
1950s, that we probably wouldn’t stand a chance if these weapons were put into action.
There are no preparations we could possibly make for such an eventuality, and so
– much like in the 1980s – we can only ‘keep calm and carry on’, as the British
like to say.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgpSVuMvvkRcCLmux3yzJOGjomSM4d9PATXZnjFNY7ICg49WJzveOChIgWDDIOPN3PoA0EGvHHFPkoJDggF38IkcmGTmeKxGv_HamLnHeAVE5QFbS1i3AZyvG5VipxMS2vGcCX82OGCfn8_9w2zBk9UmLH3QDjMUTsamLr2SX2vk32qktlNud7ehD2iVg=s540" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="405" data-original-width="540" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgpSVuMvvkRcCLmux3yzJOGjomSM4d9PATXZnjFNY7ICg49WJzveOChIgWDDIOPN3PoA0EGvHHFPkoJDggF38IkcmGTmeKxGv_HamLnHeAVE5QFbS1i3AZyvG5VipxMS2vGcCX82OGCfn8_9w2zBk9UmLH3QDjMUTsamLr2SX2vk32qktlNud7ehD2iVg=w400-h300" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">What is more staggering perhaps, is
to realise how the world seems to have sleepwalked into this current situation.
Some say the West has handled Putin all wrong from the start. Rebuffing his friendly
overtures towards the European Union and to NATO, determined to treat Russia as
a second-rate world power, was arrogance and folly. Essentially NATO’s advance
to the East (contrary to promises apparently made to Putin), as Vladimir Pozner
<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8X7Ng75e5gQ&t=5s" target="_blank">suggests</a>, has enacted a Cuban missile crisis in reverse. While others insist
that there is no such thing as an “ex-KGB officer.” Putin was never a man to be
trusted. In essence, he has simply been a ticking time bomb who has now reached
the end of a very long-smouldering fuse. Time’s up. Whichever way you choose to
look at it, this may well have been the inevitable outcome of either point of
view. I recall a BBC TV <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qYVsKoQXATY" target="_blank">interview</a> with the last Soviet leader, Mikhail
Gorbachev, in 2019 (I think). In which he was asked if he thought the world was
a safer place since the end of the Cold War, and he replied ‘far from it’ – he thought
the world ‘infinitely more dangerous now’ because those same weapons still existed,
yet they were now more powerful, and they were also considerably more
<a href="https://www.science.org/content/article/dirty-bomb-ingredients-go-missing-chornobyl-monitoring-lab" target="_blank">vulnerable</a> than they’d ever been compared to those former times. Anything could
very easily happen these days, he said. He was perhaps referring to global
threats from terrorism arising from people with deluded ideological agendas,
but he was (perhaps understandably) non-committal on pertinent questions
concerning Russia’s current leadership when asked in such a context. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiy4RmmYVOdNOJsN8hvWdUGeB7BmhXu-23YuXtoECuMkHz4p3b6hssjTce8afqrZAjgPauuM6Aa6V26-fEj34xXseZJR3Q8oeAplSjzpYGXtj7LFDE4RAW9QGL37OLjtSmwiYq4EzdKBvx48MQGutCB6EeivGG8VOjBYQYsnifzShLMDvTFEuJA5yH-xw=s1153" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="846" data-original-width="1153" height="294" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiy4RmmYVOdNOJsN8hvWdUGeB7BmhXu-23YuXtoECuMkHz4p3b6hssjTce8afqrZAjgPauuM6Aa6V26-fEj34xXseZJR3Q8oeAplSjzpYGXtj7LFDE4RAW9QGL37OLjtSmwiYq4EzdKBvx48MQGutCB6EeivGG8VOjBYQYsnifzShLMDvTFEuJA5yH-xw=w400-h294" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>By Morten Morland (The Sunday Times)</i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Gorbachev was right, though. Of
late the world has seemingly been increasingly poised, only a knife edge away
from the utterly irrational impinging upon the everyday, as the events of 9/11
clearly taught us – anything <i>really can</i> happen. So many strange and previously
unthinkable things have occurred in our recent times – think of the storming of
the US Capitol only a year or so ago. Anarchy lies just the other side of this
thin curtain called reality which we draw around ourselves and our societies. Only a week ago
the people of Ukraine were living their lives like the rest of us – going to
work, going to school, walking the dog, riding trains, commuting to work, going
shopping, driving cars, listening to music, watching TV, eating dinner, doing
all the normal things people and families do in a sane and stable world, but
now they have been utterly uprooted. The elderly and those with young children
fleeing from harm’s way are now refugees, while those who have stayed or are
returning to fight and resist the invader are all in mortal danger. It seems so
utterly unimaginable. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi8KnnnC3ZVk4MMgx_unf7ZXeTBcb6mn9wMMEzpzGsl2-gS0JDQefPiYzAuQT-QR4TJZRMJ5V05ChH3RiqFtP2owYTr4y_lbEIITgxYK8cqXKmD6Wr3Ev65SG5sXU7CJMPZoQmuQ7X4uyWWrjh4GW_tfQyRfj2xg8tR9fe0DUt9rTNzd5ZFe2zGnsV0pQ=s725" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="428" data-original-width="725" height="236" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi8KnnnC3ZVk4MMgx_unf7ZXeTBcb6mn9wMMEzpzGsl2-gS0JDQefPiYzAuQT-QR4TJZRMJ5V05ChH3RiqFtP2owYTr4y_lbEIITgxYK8cqXKmD6Wr3Ev65SG5sXU7CJMPZoQmuQ7X4uyWWrjh4GW_tfQyRfj2xg8tR9fe0DUt9rTNzd5ZFe2zGnsV0pQ=w400-h236" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Simple misinformation, as well as
active disinformation, threaten our understanding of what is going on and could
so easily help to spin things out of control due to the current credulous nature
of unfiltered news and opinion, much like Orson Welles’ infamously all-too-realistic radio broadcast of <i>War of the Worlds</i> in 1938. We’ve no idea of
what Vladimir Putin is capable of doing. We watch dumbfounded, in fear and
aghast at the devastation he has unleashed upon the poor people of Ukraine.
Ordinary people, like those the world over, whose lives were much the same as
yours and mine only a week ago. We watch in horror. We watch feeling powerless.
We witness the inhumanity. And I can’t help reflecting how those fictional three-legged
machines with their heat rays stalking the Surrey countryside, burning up the
streets and villages for no sensible reason no longer seem quite so alien or
extraordinary now. It could so easily be anyone of us, any of our own
hometowns. We’ve long watched passively as this sort of thing has happened in
other places both near and far, and those who have tried to protest or warn of
this kind of thing have simply been ignored by those who have the real power to
do something meaningful and just about it – but somehow this time it is
different. This time it could very well be a moment of epochal change, as if we’ve
not already had enough of those arising in this increasingly deracinated and
deeply tarnished new century. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhLFZNj_cWyFsFTlAxwl-PQYJtp7xbdF0Th9HUhJvboLOw3Td5PvfLnze0B_w2Na8uDuma_30_qw4CZ8Kut4VMkXjazFNZ6G8tsDexrHiGubj9as101dJ5SZLLsBkuRIuPP34_2Fzo-5ollO-RDBduoeyT_tveRIudOiG04m35V-4KeDSZEdusREtp3Gg=s903" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="903" data-original-width="735" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhLFZNj_cWyFsFTlAxwl-PQYJtp7xbdF0Th9HUhJvboLOw3Td5PvfLnze0B_w2Na8uDuma_30_qw4CZ8Kut4VMkXjazFNZ6G8tsDexrHiGubj9as101dJ5SZLLsBkuRIuPP34_2Fzo-5ollO-RDBduoeyT_tveRIudOiG04m35V-4KeDSZEdusREtp3Gg=w325-h400" width="325" /></a></div><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Something is deeply wrong with the
way our world operates. In H.G. Wells’ <i>War of the Worlds</i> it was the
smallest and seemingly the most inconsequential of organisms which eventually managed
to overthrow the madness of the inhuman aggression which confronted the world,
perhaps now it will be the right thoughts and right actions of all of us, no
matter how small or individual we are, which can only be magnified if we band
together and oppose the tyrannies of those who would have us living unquestioningly
and according to their terms only, using our fears as the source of their strength
and personal profits. Now is the wake-up call, telling us it is high time for
us to shake off our apathy and our atomisation. Vaclav Havel called this social
philosophy ‘<a href="http://eccentricparabola.blogspot.com/2011/12/rest-in-peace-vaclav-havel.html" target="_blank">Living in Truth</a>.’ It’s worked in the past and it can work again if
we stand strong, work together and will it to do so. We only have one world,
and we clearly need greater and more inclusive unity in order to make it a better
place. Whatever the outcome of this unpardonable act of aggression against
Ukraine eventually is, it seems clear that our world will need to change not
just accordingly, but hopefully radically, and radically for the better, in the
wake of this present emergency. But that will depend on all of us doing what is
right, and by all of us no longer allowing those who do wrong by others to get
away with it.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><i>Slava Ukraini!</i> </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj3K9dJhjxgzszLt14OEIEwlgOGIElfrHU6v8d3Vr5krmDsvIHJKBm7G3h7ZF4Z8yWYYS3joYX5nUHPw6k8aHVSfL_i-2V7yYTCj9oJjpVqqeRKXca_GYMdBmuEIIL0D-FdCY7vKP8h44gVlxAQ5syE-9Zff0hTzxYVgF1DjMW-i1XXatwG3sR-qZieZA=s1000" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="800" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj3K9dJhjxgzszLt14OEIEwlgOGIElfrHU6v8d3Vr5krmDsvIHJKBm7G3h7ZF4Z8yWYYS3joYX5nUHPw6k8aHVSfL_i-2V7yYTCj9oJjpVqqeRKXca_GYMdBmuEIIL0D-FdCY7vKP8h44gVlxAQ5syE-9Zff0hTzxYVgF1DjMW-i1XXatwG3sR-qZieZA=w320-h400" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>'Peace' by Waldemar Walczak</i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /><br /><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">I've not been able to find out who the artist is who created the two paintings used above (of the three-legged Martian machines attacking London and being faced down by the 'Thunder Child') - I sourced them from <i><a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/536353.The_War_of_the_Worlds" target="_blank">GoodReads</a></i>, but if anyone knows please let me know and I'll credit them properly.</span></p>Timhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11641833714036731203noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-88759862385027089.post-80539786302974800812021-12-01T00:00:00.035+00:002022-06-05T11:05:29.753+01:00Wonders of the World<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlFcCmViT7kkLGQTyXTXzWiAKEMkR9K4oJnXbDCZxCBBr1VBeD43bSa_0shLlDaAdKneVIwY8TdO5zez8Dqy_pTIeQH5hoziiQcYiiPXDj6nJz6trMJCUd02uffkWIhKkEYmLlFvjOaE3b/s4608/P1090037.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlFcCmViT7kkLGQTyXTXzWiAKEMkR9K4oJnXbDCZxCBBr1VBeD43bSa_0shLlDaAdKneVIwY8TdO5zez8Dqy_pTIeQH5hoziiQcYiiPXDj6nJz6trMJCUd02uffkWIhKkEYmLlFvjOaE3b/w400-h300/P1090037.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br /> <p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">When I was around the age of eleven
or twelve years old, a very kind neighbour gave me a set of old books.
Published variously around the 1920s and 1930s, they had beautiful bindings.
Their titles mostly related to a range of similar topics: archaeology, the
natural world, travel. I recall a few them: <i>A History of Roman Britain; The
Countryside Companion; </i>and<i>, A Journey through the Holy Land and the
Levant.</i> But there was one book in particular which fascinated me – it was a
large and weighty tome with warm, antique red-coloured covers. It had an image
of the Buddha embossed upon its spine, and a three-quarter view of the
Acropolis similarly embossed on its cover, suggesting the words this book
contained might combine the twinned qualities of serenity and wisdom. The pages
within promised to reveal the knowledge of past ages and far-away places. The
book’s title, written in gilt lettering on the spine, hinted that such gnostic
notions might in fact be true. From the comforts of an armchair, when stuck
indoors on a rainy day, this book was the perfect companion. A book in which to
lose oneself while leafing through its pages, yellowed with slow passing time.
It was a book to peruse and explore. And it is a book which I still own and which
I still enjoy poring over today. Its title is simply: <i>Wonders of the World</i>.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiDHI3MXPPfd6qsbo2qdXqNX58GyT5PDg70WusYopT3sgygxNtaOh2Z-4DkeK2PKOQfBCT64Rnh5B8CMTV6OyBWRCf77vplfxo3M9UC9mM81BtULYTD4hNmrwyjFVpQe0jGpRgrl5pNgQV/s4370/P1090055.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4370" data-original-width="3045" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiDHI3MXPPfd6qsbo2qdXqNX58GyT5PDg70WusYopT3sgygxNtaOh2Z-4DkeK2PKOQfBCT64Rnh5B8CMTV6OyBWRCf77vplfxo3M9UC9mM81BtULYTD4hNmrwyjFVpQe0jGpRgrl5pNgQV/w279-h400/P1090055.JPG" width="279" /></a></div><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Filled with an encyclopaedic wealth
of articles, illustrated with grainy black and white photographs, and the occasional
colour-plate, usually a painting of a beautiful view – <i>Wonders of the World</i>
describes itself as: <i>“A popular and authentic account of the marvels of
nature and of men as they exist to-day.”</i> There is no list of authors next
to its table of contents, although I believe other (later?) editions credit the
various contributors, some of whom were the most popular travel writers of their
day, writers such as Sir Harry Johnston and Perceval Landon. The book’s ‘Foreword’,
however, is appended by the signature of Sir Philip Gibbs, KBE. Although now
largely forgotten, Gibbs was a prolific and very popular writer during his time.
Perhaps best known for his forthright anti-war stance which he expressed in a number of newspaper correspondence pieces and books, such as <i>The
Realities of War</i>, which was published in the USA under the title, <i>Now It
Can Be Told</i> (1920). Highly critical of modern trench warfare, his journalistic
work aimed to expose the full horrors of the First World War, raising the level
of public awareness when official Government censorship was finally lifted, and
strongly advocating for greater efforts to be made in mediating international confrontations
through means of diplomacy. Something which he believed should be the most
essential role of the League of Nations. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjn84jEvtktlQQQh9z4s4TuUqIkifvnVojovHOBX0ckBJ52jgE7fs-heKtGUynW1MIBKb1tWEUd6LzVzD_BuFxd8i42VFavP-RFaVtDvfLlpVzYlDWazT1r7k5q0ZdJ82dAjL4ysCOpGG52/s4381/P1090042.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3340" data-original-width="4381" height="305" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjn84jEvtktlQQQh9z4s4TuUqIkifvnVojovHOBX0ckBJ52jgE7fs-heKtGUynW1MIBKb1tWEUd6LzVzD_BuFxd8i42VFavP-RFaVtDvfLlpVzYlDWazT1r7k5q0ZdJ82dAjL4ysCOpGG52/w400-h305/P1090042.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">There is certainly a range of different
voices in evidence, but the written tone of the anonymously authored articles
collected in <i>Wonders of the World</i> is uniformly neat and clipped, rather like
that of a chirpy narrator accompanying an old British Movietone News bulletin or
Path<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">é</span>
newsreel. There is no publication date given in the book, but a written
inscription dated 1933 in my copy suggests it was published around the late
1920s, or perhaps very early 1930s. It is a book embodying a certain sort of
global outlook, a book born of the age of Western imperialism. A book which
marvels at the power and spectacle of nature, and a book which takes pride in
the ingenuity of mankind and ‘progress’, as much as it values reflecting on the
past. Asking where have we come from, where are we now, and where are we going?
– Reflecting the times in which the book was made, it is resonant with the kind
of voices I heard from my grandparent’s generation. And, by strange coincidence,
the book was published by Odhams, who were based in Watford from 1935, and who later
merged with Sun Printers, where my grandfather worked until his retirement.
<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIZDE6oUrCs53fDfo4M2HbWWgv-8Ixc1zGRU9W0Hh44SpaPXldEvQ5TrQdQ_iTKe5EDmOhErSZbYtgbubyLKn18dtQllvly-1EUEJ33kgbjuNa96KXyGhDY9qX24wDoNb_wb3NEAWveigY/s4608/P1090060.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4608" data-original-width="3456" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIZDE6oUrCs53fDfo4M2HbWWgv-8Ixc1zGRU9W0Hh44SpaPXldEvQ5TrQdQ_iTKe5EDmOhErSZbYtgbubyLKn18dtQllvly-1EUEJ33kgbjuNa96KXyGhDY9qX24wDoNb_wb3NEAWveigY/w300-h400/P1090060.JPG" width="300" /></a></div><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Perhaps it was only natural then,
just as now – when reading <i>Wonders of the World</i>, I often hear its words
sounding in my head as if spoken in the voice of the elderly neighbour who
gifted it to me. Mr and Mrs C., were an elderly couple who lived across the
street. They’d taken me under their wing when I’d got to know them at a
Christmas gathering in one of our neighbour’s houses. They very kindly gave me
an open invitation to pop round whenever I liked to see them, and so, every once
in a while, I’d stroll over to their house and ring the doorbell. Welcoming me
inside, I’d often help Mr C. tinkering in his garage, where he taught me how to
use a soldering iron and other basic metalworking skills. He gave me some of
the first few tools I’d ever owned which we’d refurbished together from the rusty
old things which we found buried in his garage, tools that had long lain unused
and unloved. He always wore an old RAF beret to protect the thin strands of his
neatly brylcreemed hair and a brown coat to protect his immaculately clean
shirt and tie from the many greasy black marks it had acquired over time. There was a spare brown coat for me to wear
too, similarly redolent with the smell of oil and grease, if a little on the large size. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5IJvtEyGpq5NhXt7b2zxpJugBKADnY_N6if2EGn4Ugcp6eI4x-k_3ERYr8KTvbL2Z_6iZth3d3m8lh10MmjyQSh2YUbePVmyeLhje33fUQYjitb9uPCA9jQXaF9v3yuQFhGYy7oFuuMM2/s4608/P1090057.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4608" data-original-width="3456" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5IJvtEyGpq5NhXt7b2zxpJugBKADnY_N6if2EGn4Ugcp6eI4x-k_3ERYr8KTvbL2Z_6iZth3d3m8lh10MmjyQSh2YUbePVmyeLhje33fUQYjitb9uPCA9jQXaF9v3yuQFhGYy7oFuuMM2/w300-h400/P1090057.JPG" width="300" /></a></div><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Mr C.’s garage was a veritable
Aladdin’s cave of light or model engineering. Precision tools, such
as a mini-lathe, which he worked with dexterous hands; enlivened by the sparks
struck from fast spinning grinding wheels and the sound of electric motors
driving drills, circular saws, and polishing mops. I learnt a lot of the skills
from him which I’d later put to good use in making mounts for museum objects. I
very fondly remember the fun of afternoons spent pottering away in there with
him, working together on some project or other, particularly on a warm, rainy day with the garage
doors propped open to keep the place safely aired. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://eccentricparabola.blogspot.com/search/label/Cartography" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="3138" data-original-width="4170" height="301" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSxr3x8iPvchyphenhyphenKk01hxIFWlxS-Dfqcsj4JZnRl4WbBvezeX-HCQOkPALhuKk8Wx8juHU1XYszPjvrmw-lB0DRyeYXJzUCqmk8710Pfsr2uIdm4anprWcHIQVNGkSc8q6iRPgZ-8a-sWu1t/w400-h301/P1090038.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br /><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Afterwards, we’d go back indoors,
washing the persistent black dirt off our hands and sometimes our faces too! – We’d
then sit relaxing in the lounge with Mrs C., looking out over their well-kept garden
with its neatly trimmed green lawn and beautiful rose bushes, chatting over a
freshly made pot of tea and very generous slices of homemade cake. I loved
those long afternoons spent in their company. Sadly I have no photos of Mr and
Mrs C., just fond memories and this beautiful old book to remind me of those happy
afternoons when I was growing up.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><a href="http://eccentricparabola.blogspot.com/2016/06/the-buddha-at-kamakura-japan.html" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="3229" data-original-width="3176" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhV9hNWvTRc9IQyZXMkOpdafbmP7Hwq29ubjzNyKnuVO0rCjTk-BDnfM-mxTegBMw4wH0_VJ8Ox9K6dJ1FuE2bFvYuEOF82-VMl1CswTd1djykWj8rcYBW4XCVquvMffGt8qd0vr93YSY6/w394-h400/P1090054.JPG" width="394" /></a></span></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><a href="http://eccentricparabola.blogspot.com/2016/06/the-buddha-at-kamakura-japan.html" target="_blank">The Buddha at Kamakura, Japan</a></i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Leafing through the pages of <i>Wonders
of the World</i> when I was younger, I found the twin passions of my future
life crystallising there in a longing to know more about the world and its
different peoples – its geography, and, in particular, its many varied
histories – and the longing to experience both by travelling to such varied and
distant places. When I began writing <i>Waymarks</i>, a little over ten years
ago, I had a rough idea that I wanted this blog to be a kind of personal
recreation of that old compendium with its embossed red covers and its
dignified gilt lettering on the spine. In many ways though, the pieces I have
written and gathered together here on <i>Waymarks</i> were originally meant to
serve as <i>aide memoires</i> to myself (often substitutes for the travel
diaries I’d failed either to write or finish writing at the time when I was travelling). But also, I saw
them as conversational pieces to share via the open <i>‘samizdat’</i> forum of
the internet. Posted here in the hope that they might be of interest to others
with a similar sense of curiosity and experiences akin to mine. I now realise,
however, that these illustrated essays were perhaps also an unconscious means
of continuing those afternoon conversations with the old couple who lived
across the road. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><a href="http://eccentricparabola.blogspot.com/2012/07/temples-feluccas-travelling-in-egypt.html" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="2635" data-original-width="1782" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWnByZaOp57nKxrUxjuWuk2EIMEDvpTCBOZoeaMa5H8NUaeLYxZGazmB7CETrcu6AtSF4btudtlB8UKgMnzL9iWwvRwLPEvlSrMQTzU-DqGzwhSRJFSs74lUxZnIoQNFzzpq4ED2Gd9Enw/w270-h400/P1090065.JPG" width="270" /></a></span></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><a href="http://eccentricparabola.blogspot.com/2012/07/temples-feluccas-travelling-in-egypt.html" target="_blank">Temples & Feluccas - Travelling in Egypt</a></i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Mr and Mrs C. would often ask me about
all the things I’d like to do with my life when I grew up – my dreams of
working in museums and travelling the world. In turn, I’d quiz them about all
the things they had seen and done, as well as all the places they’d visited and
explored when they were younger. Together, we’d discuss the world in wider ways
too – ranging through topics such as science, geography, history, current
affairs, art and books – in essence encapsulating all the things I’ve continued
to do and be interested by ever since; living an inquisitive life of thought
and reflection, seeking out my own ‘wonders of the world’, recording and
cataloguing my experiences in the photos, short films and essays which I’ve
posted here as a kind of electronic scrapbook. In many ways – though far from
complete – I’d like to think that <i>Waymarks</i> is my reply to that familiar
question which they always used to ask me when I visited them: “What have you
been up to lately?” – These are the reminiscences I’d tell them if I were able
to sit down once again with Mr and Mrs C. in their living room, overlooking
their lovely garden, drinking tea and eating homemade cake, while chatting away
the long happy hours of the afternoon together.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><a href="http://eccentricparabola.blogspot.com/2021/06/segovias-el-puente-spain.html" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5fsgvWn1PawRMKH_OoqWCq9Lba2yG3vJWMYDA75YzBzLcWCsjkec7EfRwwobatsvqc8sRhXoqaLh1OZvzYT6qoL8weURkNVxU4LPdXAMnHrl6pfu-_rBMcX3pJzhvw2QtpRacC7X0evY5/w400-h300/P1090062.JPG" width="400" /></a></span></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><a href="http://eccentricparabola.blogspot.com/2021/06/segovias-el-puente-spain.html" target="_blank">Segovia's "El Puente" - Spain</a></i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /><p></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;">~ <i>Envoi</i> ~<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p><i>It has been ten years since I
began writing </i>Waymarks<i>. Ten years is a long time, but it has passed by very
quickly. Ten years is a good innings. Happily, writing this blog has led to
some great connections having been made along the way. People have been very
generous and unfailingly kind. I’ve tried to keep <b>books</b> as the common
thread to all my essays here, which have also roamed through one or more of the
other three main tenets upon which the blog was built, namely: <b>history,
travel, exhibitions.</b> Examining art, archaeology, anthropology, geography,
archives and museums, with the occasional opinion piece, usually erupting in ignominious
response to current affairs which have niggled me into noisily clattering my
keyboard, thereby “sounding my barbaric yawp.” Apologies for those, especially
if they weren’t your chosen cup of tea. On the whole though, I have been very fortunate
in that my blog hasn’t attracted much in the way of ire from passing trolls or angry
internet warriors with opposing agendas, hurrying by.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><i><o:p> </o:p></i></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><a href="http://eccentricparabola.blogspot.com/2020/04/a-visit-to-teotihuacan-mexico.html" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitNNZRWop062KV3jieVTh_2qK4pkWIWg7zYZFeFa2EPoMsd2YMQyH3QlnHdzbZjw67Q_optK0cwF9DsHH4_JnuFkj8zQcS3iV0iXCBLXhSfh11e7-kV-p6rm5Nz2Pd5aSnJO5aNh4VAjT6/w400-h300/P1090068.JPG" width="400" /></a></span></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><a href="http://eccentricparabola.blogspot.com/2020/04/a-visit-to-teotihuacan-mexico.html" target="_blank">A Visit to Teotihuacan, Mexico</a></i></td></tr></tbody></table><i><br /></i><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><i>It takes a lot of time and
effort to put together each blog post. In that sense, ten years is in fact
quite a milestone. It has been heartening, though, to receive personal messages
from people grateful for some of the information I’ve shared here. And, similarly,
it has been disheartening to see some of the personal research which I’ve
shared reused in other contexts without any credit. Most depressing of all though
has been to see certain ‘travel bloggers’ repost my content whole on their own
blogs – presumably appropriating my original writing in order to capitalise on
the revenue generated by hosting adverts; something which I very deliberately
chose not to do when starting out, and also one of the reasons why I chose to
use the </i>Blogger<i> platform rather than the more popular </i>Wordpress<i> one,
specifically because it could be ad free. However, it is immensely difficult to
combat this and to get my appropriated content removed from these blog thieves.
On this platform you can’t speak to anyone on the administrative ‘support’ side
directly. You can only report each stolen blog post individually via an on-line
form, and when you have over 200 posts pirated that’s an exhausting prospect,
and if you do attempt it – which I did – it soon thinks you are a “bot”
spamming the system. Life’s too short.<o:p></o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><i><o:p> </o:p></i></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><a href="http://eccentricparabola.blogspot.com/2012/11/the-north-west-coast-by-rail-usa-to.html" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQmuqO2D26lQcaIIHX_ZclRijBPVaTaSr2L0LEacWZ8wwt1GMzmr1fWCbLcdehO13EHbVDpWluCf9kx3-TURHdzPIJNm8nyy7NDjfvmzpTc3su8fTPQLs5UtBx9ElTwkCqWgeGuZNMaj2J/w400-h300/P1090069.JPG" width="400" /></a></span></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><a href="http://eccentricparabola.blogspot.com/2012/11/the-north-west-coast-by-rail-usa-to.html" target="_blank">The NW Coast by Rail - USA to Canada</a></i></td></tr></tbody></table><i><br /></i><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><i>Consequently, after ten years,
it is perhaps time to turn my attention to other things – not least, at long
last, to the completion of my PhD thesis, the deadline for which is now drawing
frighteningly close. I have other writing projects, both academic and
non-academic, which I want to work on as well, such as collecting and
re-editing some of the essays originally written for </i>Waymarks<i> into a proper
book (though maybe not such a lavish one as ‘Wonders of the World’). So while I
am drawing a line here and signing off for now, I’m looking at this as a hiatus
rather than a farewell. </i>Waymarks<i> may resume at some point, either here
or perhaps on some other web forum (but this site will continue to be actively
monitored and regularly maintained by me personally). If you have been a
regular reader or if you have only popped by occasionally, many thanks for
doing so – I’m very glad you have, and I hope you found </i>Waymarks<i> of
interest.<o:p></o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><i><o:p> </o:p></i></p>
<p align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: right;"><i>Tim
Chamberlain<o:p></o:p></i></p><p align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: right;"><i><br /></i></p>
<p align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: right;"><i><o:p></o:p></i></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><a href="http://eccentricparabola.blogspot.com/2020/10/exploring-mughal-delhi.html" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="4608" data-original-width="3456" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpSXb6YmVVPZRvr1XsODrtw0Ll07sUiFLu_cEEI2dqVrqPNwT1_Ro7HIyKYiHuBqT8_mVqOfhdkkjHrHsX5R2TzktWtsZj4RNLT0s3a0NjY_xrctK-kfN2gFW75pEbKep2PYiCOm2ke37r/w300-h400/P1090073.JPG" width="300" /></a></span></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><a href="http://eccentricparabola.blogspot.com/2020/10/exploring-mughal-delhi.html" target="_blank">Exploring Mughal Delhi</a></i></td></tr></tbody></table><i><br /> </i><p></p>
<p align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: right;"><i><o:p> </o:p></i></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><i>‘Waymarks’
– 2011-2021 – A blog about:<o:p></o:p></i></b></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><a href="http://eccentricparabola.blogspot.com/search/label/History" target="_blank">HISTORY</a>
| <a href="http://eccentricparabola.blogspot.com/search/label/Travel" target="_blank">TRAVEL</a> | <a href="http://eccentricparabola.blogspot.com/search/label/Exhibitions" target="_blank">MUSEUMS</a> | <a href="http://eccentricparabola.blogspot.com/search/label/Books" target="_blank">BOOKS</a><o:p></o:p></b></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><i>And
everything in-between<o:p></o:p></i></b></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><i><o:p> </o:p></i></b></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><i></i></b></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><a href="http://eccentricparabola.blogspot.com/2017/04/1904-tibets-marriage-with-modernity.html" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="3199" data-original-width="4589" height="279" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZpLFRoo7BTbZz2hEFFEBzpMInACj052fK6jo86lJwlmyzQy1MYXy_gxAODbSzIo7Rg1IUGPA125uLM9ziOcstJ_bJ1710vmqU2QVR-83r4YD58kyigZvCRNB1t3cOIWxf72__qMfBIbtO/w400-h279/P1090085.JPG" width="400" /></a></span></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><a href="http://eccentricparabola.blogspot.com/2017/04/1904-tibets-marriage-with-modernity.html" target="_blank">1904 - Tibet's Marriage with Modernity</a></i></td></tr></tbody></table><b><i><br /><o:p><br /></o:p></i></b><p></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><i></i></b></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfe3133lR0r2QWIdRFI5T_-Z7dMXdS0bvtxJuzbcyrkSkVWiTeLSjiCQjRFOJyw6FNXuCrFEex1FrHpKulHDYHtqlPgGvXqX3Nyr_JnZhruL4W86A_olENptFAU8tLQK9MMPBx_2pDOzpg/s4608/P1090045.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4608" data-original-width="3456" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfe3133lR0r2QWIdRFI5T_-Z7dMXdS0bvtxJuzbcyrkSkVWiTeLSjiCQjRFOJyw6FNXuCrFEex1FrHpKulHDYHtqlPgGvXqX3Nyr_JnZhruL4W86A_olENptFAU8tLQK9MMPBx_2pDOzpg/w300-h400/P1090045.JPG" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Nama Amida Butsu</i></td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><i></i></b></div><b><i><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><o:p><br /></o:p></i></b><p></p>Timhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11641833714036731203noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-88759862385027089.post-26449855287123231962021-11-15T00:00:00.023+00:002021-11-17T09:30:48.709+00:00Owen Lattimore's Desert Road<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLP60Tu3i7IJ5G1yj8mWyRg3x4D-3LcNnK7kd7nNvqAnJs3s5T547YYVmG_VHIzv2QH-mvNIHcyObqcu8qNjS9fwSEM6RVpXXgC69UIXI2GmzTsyTElbzKCyYzMmLiNMj43HHHl9aVYP3n/s821/Lattimore+4.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="585" data-original-width="821" height="285" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLP60Tu3i7IJ5G1yj8mWyRg3x4D-3LcNnK7kd7nNvqAnJs3s5T547YYVmG_VHIzv2QH-mvNIHcyObqcu8qNjS9fwSEM6RVpXXgC69UIXI2GmzTsyTElbzKCyYzMmLiNMj43HHHl9aVYP3n/w400-h285/Lattimore+4.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">In early January 2020, I bought
myself a copy of Owen Lattimore’s <i><a href="https://archive.org/details/dli.pahar.2407" target="_blank">The Desert Road to Turkestan</a></i> (1929) in
the gorgeous treasure house of books which is Isseido Bookstore in Jimbocho,
Tokyo’s famous <a href="http://eccentricparabola.blogspot.com/2016/10/a-life-without-books.html" target="_blank">‘book town’</a> district. It was a travelogue which I had long been
wanting to read, but 2020 had other plans. I left it at our home in Tokyo and
then found myself stuck 9,000 miles away, unable to return as I then found
myself living under ‘lockdown’ in the UK during the Corona virus pandemic which
seemed to stop the world in its tracks. It was well over a year and a half
before I was reunited with my copy of Lattimore’s first published work, but it
was well worth the wait. Owen Lattimore’s <i>Desert Road</i> is a truly magical
book.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJPy5cCmGZ69rsemMucm2iD8QvdkshUVBqI-Z1RpkntKeIW-FG5CiBmL7uywnJMSu-0R_z6e8Nb5NXdVU9PBEDMxdWloDKeBdz4nYIatwT2fYspzirPEKYuSnogv5tBGgxdNCLF4N5LIj6/s475/Desert+Road+to+Turkestan.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="475" data-original-width="318" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJPy5cCmGZ69rsemMucm2iD8QvdkshUVBqI-Z1RpkntKeIW-FG5CiBmL7uywnJMSu-0R_z6e8Nb5NXdVU9PBEDMxdWloDKeBdz4nYIatwT2fYspzirPEKYuSnogv5tBGgxdNCLF4N5LIj6/w268-h400/Desert+Road+to+Turkestan.jpg" width="268" /></a></div><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">My copy is the Kodansha reissue of
1995, which contains Lattimore’s own updated <i>Introduction</i> from 1975, plus
an additional <i>Introduction</i> written by his son, David Lattimore
(Professor of Chinese Studies at Brown University in the USA). In this edition
it’s interesting to read how the older Owen Lattimore looks back and reviews a
work written while he was a young man. Re-evaluating some of its faults and
weaknesses – faults which he deems were due either to his young age and
inexperience, and/or due to the tenor of the times in which it was written. He
says <i>“there is […] a kind of condescension that makes me wince today, 45
years later when I read some of the pages – a once-fashionable condescension of
‘the white man among the natives.’ I particularly regret some of the
patronising remarks about my loyal companion, ‘Moses’, because they belong to
the bad old tradition of praising the ‘faithful native servant’ as an indirect
way of building up one’s superiority. There are also passages that show that in
spite of my love of venturing into the deep interior, I had by no means thrown
off the social snobbery and appalling political insensitivity of the Treaty
Port foreigner on the coast of China in the 1920s.” </i>(p. xxvi)<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">That said though, Lattimore’s book
is far less condescending than some of his contemporaries, such as the plant
hunter, Reginald Farrer, for example, whose ‘humorous’ descriptions of the
locals he hires in the Sino-Tibetan borderlands repeatedly reduces them to
racist caricatures and simplistic clich<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">é</span>s. Farrer and Lattimore were both men
in their twenties at the time they wrote their travelogues; but, unlike
Lattimore who lived a long life, Farrer died young (whilst travelling on one of
his journeys), so we’ll never know if like Lattimore he may have grown to
regret and revise the opinions of his younger self. Lattimore owns up to his
overly <i>“bookish”</i> attempts (as he puts it) to impress his reader, viewing
his first published work as <i>“a young man’s effort, sometimes too strained an
effort, to show how much he knows, how thoroughly he has mastered his problems,
how deeply he has penetrated the lives of people whose nature the reader could
never understand without his help.” </i>(p. xxvi)<i> </i>However, his younger
self was perhaps more perceptive than his older self gives him credit for.
Certainly, he was more honest and open than a great many of his peers in one
major respect, as the book’s original <i>Preface</i> attests; where he notes he
has consciously attempted to avoid a <i>“tendency, regrettably marked among my
own countrymen, to omit all references </i>[to other travellers, such as Nikolay Przhevalsky and Pyotr Kozlov]<i>, thus
giving the vicious implication that one has been travelling in totally
unexplored and unmapped countries.” </i>(p.xxxv)<i><o:p></o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><i><o:p> </o:p></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6FUkrO_4i9kYVWgrlAvTZzY_NMIbP7FAFIAk73cxkHzQ17XJG1n7McgMsBFMsjmr7-54JBag0qNfo8lRL5vLNEaADrydLbKC4rfQJAXpuaR5HzQ240YkYA4C7ghkUcxXeCgsky50yXU_t/s609/Lattimore+1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="609" height="295" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6FUkrO_4i9kYVWgrlAvTZzY_NMIbP7FAFIAk73cxkHzQ17XJG1n7McgMsBFMsjmr7-54JBag0qNfo8lRL5vLNEaADrydLbKC4rfQJAXpuaR5HzQ240YkYA4C7ghkUcxXeCgsky50yXU_t/w400-h295/Lattimore+1.jpg" width="400" /></a></i></div><i><br /></i><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><i>The Desert Road to Turkestan </i>was
a book which marked the beginning of a transformation in Lattimore’s life and
livelihood. It certainly helped to launch him on a long and distinguished academic
career. A career which was the envy of some of his contemporaries, who
attempted to severely malign him in the suspiciously paranoid and febrile atmosphere
of McCarthy era America during the 1950s. Born in the USA in 1900, Lattimore
had grown up in China where his father worked as a businessman in Tianjin. And,
like many children born to ‘Treaty Port’ foreigners, he was sent overseas to
school, first in Switzerland and then in England. Returning to China, he
entered employment in Arnhold & Co.’s import-export company. But unlike
other foreigners residing in China at the time, Lattimore actively studied
Chinese and Mongolian, a character trait which his family joked was due to the
fact that he simply couldn’t <i>“bear not to know what other people are saying.”</i>
His job as a commercial agent required him to travel, a role in which his abilities
as a polylinguist were a real advantage. It was one such journey, <i>“to
expedite a wool shipment,”</i> which led him to the railhead at Hohhot
(Kuei-hua), where modern transportation reached its furthest extent and gave
way to the older modes transit which had hitherto sustained the commerce
between China and Central Asia for centuries, the place where great long
caravans of camels set out across the steppes of Mongolia, following the much
fabled ‘Silks Roads’ heading west. Lattimore was transfixed. He realised this
was a way of life which was teetering on the cusp of great change. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><i>“It was a strange thing to walk
in those markets, feeling the pulses of the life led through inenarrable
yesterdays by the farthest-going caravans, and knowing the shadow of tomorrow
would distort all their type and character. When the camel man has done up his
bundle, he shambles away out of the city as if he were expecting to stroll home
within half an hour; but he plods on until he finds the camp where the caravan
waits behind the hills with its camels at pasture, until its complement of
loads be filled; when camp is broken, he plods away again until he fetches up
in Central Asia; for the men of his calling, by leaving their houses and
pitching tents, depart with no more ado from the civilization of telegraphs and
newspapers, bayonets and martial law, into a secret and distant land of which
they only know the doors.” </i>(p.27) <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7WnabdtPVo1ZiyPBC0VhoIulyVSM-V_HL-d9Qp9mD_ay3gjAqypxjN58yF2MSAIOpgSKxwLymd4Atu7Wjd9A1r674xa4khaya6dZqeAQmfrA7xuhB4bN9jrwWsGXCvtbQz1FK7b2zyvMN/s440/Eleanor+Holgate+Lattimore+Owen+Lattimore.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="249" data-original-width="440" height="226" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7WnabdtPVo1ZiyPBC0VhoIulyVSM-V_HL-d9Qp9mD_ay3gjAqypxjN58yF2MSAIOpgSKxwLymd4Atu7Wjd9A1r674xa4khaya6dZqeAQmfrA7xuhB4bN9jrwWsGXCvtbQz1FK7b2zyvMN/w400-h226/Eleanor+Holgate+Lattimore+Owen+Lattimore.png" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Eleanor & Owen Lattimore</i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Oddly enough this journey was actually
Lattimore’s honeymoon, yet he travelled alone with the caravan men across
Mongolia. His wife, Eleanor Holgate Lattimore, likewise travelled alone –
departing from Manchuria, heading to ‘Chinese Turkestan’ (Xinjiang) through
Russia on the trans-Siberian railway. Rendezvousing in Xinjiang the
newly-weds travelled onwards together, through the Karakorum mountains
to India via Ladakh, even though the internecine rivalries between Chinese warlords which around
this time in the wake of the Xinhai Revolution of 1911 frequently flared up in
chaotic bouts of fighting meant this would likely be a hazardous undertaking. Eleanor later published
her own travelogue, <i>Turkestan Reunion</i> (1934), which travels in tandem to
Owen’s <i>Desert Road</i>, based on her letters written during the journey. The
couple returned to China once more after a brief stay in America, travelling
through Manchuria. Owen wrote about this journey in his second travelogue, <i>High Tartary</i> (1930). Returning to Mongolia in the 1930s, Lattimore continued to observe and reflect upon the
influence of Chinese settlers on the traditional way of life of the nomadic pastoralists whom the Chinese were increasingly displacing. </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqLJRF9boyUVthpji2FMCxUJOkGDGP-5LbQujwEUyiq4UCszdW9Afjpm59AgBwIRTscP45SiEJRPK6GfnssDRGnBgrg6zDlrN4LRfNdPCQRdWy4Y8GG0XyruQNtyX_pF0sWOM2c2CU89_1/s400/Turkestan-Reunion.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="258" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqLJRF9boyUVthpji2FMCxUJOkGDGP-5LbQujwEUyiq4UCszdW9Afjpm59AgBwIRTscP45SiEJRPK6GfnssDRGnBgrg6zDlrN4LRfNdPCQRdWy4Y8GG0XyruQNtyX_pF0sWOM2c2CU89_1/s320/Turkestan-Reunion.jpg" width="206" /></a> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh65uQ_5h8GB7oLkG9Zwuu7Ig-0qjrH95be71k3AdqSVvBR-vCjCMVeU2LkWllwvqkMlFmJ8usD17yFgM4qJF7B6oFDB9_37x4il8hxcUkNHkM6qIqPQ_rHzXCgl3-P228iazA9uFrt_gA4/s475/High+Tartary.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="475" data-original-width="311" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh65uQ_5h8GB7oLkG9Zwuu7Ig-0qjrH95be71k3AdqSVvBR-vCjCMVeU2LkWllwvqkMlFmJ8usD17yFgM4qJF7B6oFDB9_37x4il8hxcUkNHkM6qIqPQ_rHzXCgl3-P228iazA9uFrt_gA4/s320/High+Tartary.jpg" width="210" /></a><br /><br /></div><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Although he had sat and passed the
entrance exam for Oxford, Lattimore never went to university because he was
unsuccessful in attaining the scholarship which he would have needed to support
himself during his studies. This missed opportunity, however, certainly never
held him back. Indeed, soon after it was published, <i>The Desert Road to
Turkestan</i> was duly noted for its scholarly merits. As his son, David,
recounts: <i>“In America, the Social Sciences Research Council, imaginatively
judging the book equivalent to a Ph.D., awarded my father a year of
‘postdoctoral’ study in anthropology at Harvard University. More grants
followed for further travel and study in China and Inner Asia, one from the
Harvard-Yenching Institute and two successive ones from the Guggenheim
Foundation.” </i>It was perhaps an astute rather than ‘imaginative’ award,
because anyone reading <i>The Desert Road</i> surely can’t help but take notice
and admire the deft and very subtle way in which Lattimore manages to interweave
highly perceptive strands of several allied subject areas – combining geography
with history and anthropology, and these in turn with etymology and language,
as well as relevant nods to contemporary politics – all within the first-hand
narration of a singular and unusual journey. <i>The Desert Road</i> very ably
records what was certainly an arduous journey made at a unique point in time.
It’s this combination of elements, along with Lattimore’s quietly understated
talent as a writer, which today makes this book a genuine classic.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgROzRh3ZFZqIxb_2bluIdV39ljPLeJZoW9fcoQUnFIcPkFnSikPv9tHgzbOsZhKC2eZoTE6hff30jjgon5FJDrD6heWNweL5BLMEC4tUYDb5B9JvOM9dFCjheaBE59kbf3RYiZvVw6Ykd_/s475/Inner+Asian+Frontiers.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="475" data-original-width="313" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgROzRh3ZFZqIxb_2bluIdV39ljPLeJZoW9fcoQUnFIcPkFnSikPv9tHgzbOsZhKC2eZoTE6hff30jjgon5FJDrD6heWNweL5BLMEC4tUYDb5B9JvOM9dFCjheaBE59kbf3RYiZvVw6Ykd_/s320/Inner+Asian+Frontiers.jpg" width="211" /></a> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhy6tCrQH84BwRw3QcVpoJIMTUmvs0uPE69x21FEkdDk3_fBhqwyQLzpCkrOJKUGwc8hIukOwtsuNeYSPkzII8EmT_5RVxcj6zp0Uymk3xI-akzNqSqQzdVJPVKvr5qS3NKXp1bfANkTOON/s475/Studies+in+Frontier+History.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="475" data-original-width="310" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhy6tCrQH84BwRw3QcVpoJIMTUmvs0uPE69x21FEkdDk3_fBhqwyQLzpCkrOJKUGwc8hIukOwtsuNeYSPkzII8EmT_5RVxcj6zp0Uymk3xI-akzNqSqQzdVJPVKvr5qS3NKXp1bfANkTOON/s320/Studies+in+Frontier+History.jpg" width="209" /></a><br /><br /></div><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">When I began reading it, I expected
Lattimore to be erudite and interesting. I’d already dipped into his most
famous scholarly work, <i>The Inner Asian Frontiers of China</i> (1940). But what
I’d not really expected was for him to be such affable company while travelling
on <i>The Desert Road</i>. There are several points where his humour shines
through marvellously. To give just two examples, remarkably both from the same
chapter of the book: – the first is his recounting of his conversation with a
doctor friend prior to setting out, in which Owen is seeking advice on
maintaining a healthy diet while travelling with the camel caravan, and what
preparations he should make ahead of his journey:<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><i>“Now my stomach is a prideful
organ that has always urged me to let it try anything once, and has usually
liked it. Nevertheless, when I returned to Peking, I took that same stomach to
a friend of mine who was a doctor with Mongolian experience and asked him what
I should put into it. The doctor thought of a lot of things. He drew up a
wonderful list in which the proportions of the proteins and the carbohydrates
and the what-nots were superbly balanced. Then he checked it by the dietary of
the American Navy (for he was versed in many things besides Mongolia), saw that
it was good, and made some additions. Afterward I checked it with a check book
and made some subtractions. Finally we arrived at a ‘modus edendi.’ Of the
original theory on which the regimen was based I seem to remember only that the
American Navy can keep afloat (if pushed, as the saying goes) on baked beans
and what are Americonautically called “canned” tomatoes.<o:p></o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><i><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Although
a layman, I take a really intelligent interest in my gastric juices. Therefore,
when the doctor had squared his idea of what I should buy with my idea of what
I should pay, and announced that the calories, at any rate, would be no
disgrace to the American Navy, I made bold to ask him how I stood on vitamins,
the A and the B, or both, or either. I told him roundly that tinned vegetables
were deficient in vitamins. Nor could he deny it. We pondered the vitamins with
silent gloom and a whiskey-soda. At last the doctor said: ‘Well, anyway,
America was largely civilized by the canned tomato.’ To which I answered … but
no matter. The American Navy has been getting very large of late.” </i>(p. 164)<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiv5ox2rvNsmh4ZHB3dwivLA7mGGpjA2qoJ2gp5HaI3uqYzMZL8OgI6ao0jIJkHOmWODCtfOcoO6azhR_ol4SSKg6HJklxZIHNkOwJZh66orhKelxPYGBLMDeknTjvKyyJQkqymZ7V2WKfq/s461/Suji.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="387" data-original-width="461" height="336" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiv5ox2rvNsmh4ZHB3dwivLA7mGGpjA2qoJ2gp5HaI3uqYzMZL8OgI6ao0jIJkHOmWODCtfOcoO6azhR_ol4SSKg6HJklxZIHNkOwJZh66orhKelxPYGBLMDeknTjvKyyJQkqymZ7V2WKfq/w400-h336/Suji.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Lattimore's dog, Suji (eating from a dead camel carcass?)</i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">My other example rather reminds me
of a very memorable passage in George Orwell’s <i>Down and Out in Paris and
London</i>, published in 1933, coincidentally not so long after Lattimore’s <i>Desert
Road</i> – in which Orwell meditates on the probable evolution and hence eventual
dilution of the efficacy of the F word as a particularly versatile and
pungently pugnacious swear word. Lattimore ponders the vernacular in a similar
vein, observing:<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><i>“It is a pity that even in this
age of experiment a treatise on swearing would have to be privately printed,
because language that is robustly and originally foul is almost always achieved
by startling combinations of words that look so disgusting. It is a still
greater pity that the disguised use of swearing in print should have led to all
kinds of sham. I do not mean so much things in the style of ‘d---!’ or ‘The
captain swore a frightful oath. ‘Confound you!’ he said turning on his heel.’ I
mean serious and active falsity in our literature, which was revealed to me
while pondering an attempt to Bowdlerize the strong talk of the Kuei-hua camel
men without emasculating it. What I cannot away with is the spurious ornament
and gingerbread ‘picturesqueness’ of our versions of Persian, Egyptian, Arabic,
Hindu, and Oriental cursing generally. In that hour of mental exertion it was
forced on my understanding that the ruck of those rococo expressions must be
not only related in kind but identical in word with many of the raw formulae of
the caravan men. They have, I can only suppose, very little of that artful
sophistication they have assumed in English. What is ko-p’ao! jih ta tsu-tsu!
(a favourite address to a camel) but ‘O base-born son of a shameless ancestry!’
Yet literally (and, except for the comparatively little-known dialect of the
northwest, I have selected an Easy Example for Beginners) it is ‘Bastard! – his
ancestors!’<o:p></o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><i><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It
is at that word in blank that we stick. ‘Defile’ is in some measure a version;
but it is not a full rendering, not a flat-footed, absolute translation.” </i>(pp.
153-154)<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">I can’t help wondering what
Lattimore would have made of them had he lived long enough to read the works of
Irvine Welsh … ?<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaG9NFFe-Q5fGf2s1yjUe1GWjo3gqopkc4_TJ71OzAH0s0KEDKOli3eBSJWbno3joXAjOfIn085iYogvia4P4PvnJqTBbu4QEIIKO0QyroRUzc2wIBanmkjF539aRp12LYjr_b5Nn8Etsb/s1280/Fleming+Maillart+Gilgit+1935.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="933" data-original-width="1280" height="291" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaG9NFFe-Q5fGf2s1yjUe1GWjo3gqopkc4_TJ71OzAH0s0KEDKOli3eBSJWbno3joXAjOfIn085iYogvia4P4PvnJqTBbu4QEIIKO0QyroRUzc2wIBanmkjF539aRp12LYjr_b5Nn8Etsb/w400-h291/Fleming+Maillart+Gilgit+1935.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Peter Fleming and Ella Maillart at Gilgit, 1935.</i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><i>The Desert Road to Turkestan</i>
had a significant influence on subsequent travellers to the region, perhaps
most notably on Peter Fleming and Ella Maillart, for whom the book was both an
inspiration and a guide. Fleming and Maillart, both very young but experienced solo
travellers, combined forces to make a journey through Xinjiang around ten to
fifteen years after Lattimore made his journey through Mongolia. They were
journalists, each respectively working for British and French newspapers at the
time, who each subsequently wrote their own travelogues of their shared
journey. It’s fascinating to read Fleming’s <i>News from Tartary</i> (1936)
alongside Maillart’s <i>Forbidden Journey</i> (1937), simply to see how a
single journey can differ so greatly in simple terms of personal perspective.
Each disavowed any intentions to claim that they were ‘serious explorers’,
claiming that their journey was an entirely <i>ad hoc</i> one which succeeded simply
through luck and good fortune rather than by means of meticulous planning and
preparation. Nonetheless, their journey was commended by more experienced veterans
of the Desert Road, notably Sir Eric Teichman, who chronicled his own journey in
a book titled, <i>Journey to Turkistan</i> (1937), and, of course, by Owen
Lattimore himself. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br /></p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiyCKnzhSk7E2HcT10MiJ-OpronmAtCCNviLAQg_ufyLt9Y5J8oubWhhweK2aBMwjid9IWaxlRpADC30YriHazQ4ZAuOnD2RuWLd8L088Yg6PYJuX2nRfzTttSNuIzX70edue0EPnR77Vx/s448/News+From+Tartary.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="448" data-original-width="306" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiyCKnzhSk7E2HcT10MiJ-OpronmAtCCNviLAQg_ufyLt9Y5J8oubWhhweK2aBMwjid9IWaxlRpADC30YriHazQ4ZAuOnD2RuWLd8L088Yg6PYJuX2nRfzTttSNuIzX70edue0EPnR77Vx/s320/News+From+Tartary.jpg" width="219" /></a> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIFN-VVbhItiu6Her32URRMvTqZrFZ4f07gfltG5pSeW7cbAYo_U2VrNrO_z1FTpiZt5WF8uDx_ejdu6xjonsJPA8qzdwlCX09MVBDh3OKEA6LiqM-FhL9GW9_wq-YlD1K6Bp8CqghWhOl/s475/Forbidden+Journey.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="475" data-original-width="313" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIFN-VVbhItiu6Her32URRMvTqZrFZ4f07gfltG5pSeW7cbAYo_U2VrNrO_z1FTpiZt5WF8uDx_ejdu6xjonsJPA8qzdwlCX09MVBDh3OKEA6LiqM-FhL9GW9_wq-YlD1K6Bp8CqghWhOl/s320/Forbidden+Journey.jpg" width="211" /></a><br /><br /></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Fleming’s book is nonchalantly laid
back in tone, never seeming to take the journey seriously; an affected attitude
which some have taken to be a cover for the fact that he was really making the
journey in order to gather intelligence for the British Secret Service (his
brother, Ian Fleming, was famously the writer and creator of James Bond, 007).
Maillart’s book, in contrast, is much more reflective and romantic in tone;
clearly the vast open spaces she travelled through, as well as the places and
people she encountered, touched her heart deeply; and indeed, she continued to
travel in Central Asia for many years thereafter. She subsequently made another
famous shared journey, this time travelling through Afghanistan, travelling in
company with fellow Swiss writer and photographer, Annemarie Schwarzenbach,
whom Maillart calls ‘Christina’ in her book, <i>The Cruel Way</i> (1947).
Lattimore certainly thought very highly of Maillart, both as a traveller and a
writer.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQseVdYesZghh8OGKbUND9T3hY9gxxlT4wfX6SnHwxbfkiqnXxCAbYFhfndBOzCVJngLQqoBinoshBkQjVcql5ErWVmcBym0VToRV2JADL6ChYvYl6lhmSfYqS3TgAFtNmZm5-LkltR7xY/s500/Ella+Maillart.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="351" data-original-width="500" height="281" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQseVdYesZghh8OGKbUND9T3hY9gxxlT4wfX6SnHwxbfkiqnXxCAbYFhfndBOzCVJngLQqoBinoshBkQjVcql5ErWVmcBym0VToRV2JADL6ChYvYl6lhmSfYqS3TgAFtNmZm5-LkltR7xY/w400-h281/Ella+Maillart.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Ella 'Kini' Maillart</i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Given Lattimore’s unusual <i>entr</i><i><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">é</span></i>
into academia, it is perhaps not so surprising to discover that his scholarly
career was equally unusual. His academic life was suitably adventurous, and in
many ways it remained as independently motivated as his first journey with Mongolia’s
caravan men. It brought him into the orbit of some of the era’s most prominent and
powerful statesmen. He met Mao Tse-tung and Zhou Enlai in the 1930s, before
they came to power in China. And he was appointed by American President,
Franklin D. Roosevelt, during the Second World War to act as a foreign adviser
to Chiang Kai-shek, who was then the President of the Republic of China. And
though Lattimore’s politcial analysis differed little in substance from that of
other official US China watchers at the time, his access to such individuals and
some of his alleged political sympathies with the left enabled a shadow of
doubt to be cast over his underlying aims and intentions. </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg50pEKaUkt6-EBKrF70nyR-BLy3r9CB0f3xYkb2OWUdEAfkkIwCA6_flZPt-_a_ro5HZyz-Ydnj-UvYGuq74rCP75F8aplD6ZFJntBJDMLzGWtZa5lN1-BXxtX5bH1x4h9oGdQOd_Tk48w/s544/Owen+Lattimore+Chiang+Kai-shek.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="355" data-original-width="544" height="261" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg50pEKaUkt6-EBKrF70nyR-BLy3r9CB0f3xYkb2OWUdEAfkkIwCA6_flZPt-_a_ro5HZyz-Ydnj-UvYGuq74rCP75F8aplD6ZFJntBJDMLzGWtZa5lN1-BXxtX5bH1x4h9oGdQOd_Tk48w/w400-h261/Owen+Lattimore+Chiang+Kai-shek.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Owen Lattimore with Chiang Kai-shek</i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">As such, he was
suspected of harbouring Communist sympathies and accused of being the top
Soviet spy operating covertly in the United States by Senators Joseph McCarthy
and Pat McCarran. A lengthy Congressional Investigation meticulously picked
through everything he wrote himself and commissioned from other writers and
academics whilst he was working for the Institute of Pacific Relations as the editor
of its journal, <i>Pacific Affairs</i>. No conclusive proof, however, was found
at the time or since to prove the allegations; and despite the support of
friends and colleagues during the tortuous course of the various hearings,
Lattimore’s name and career in the US never really recovered from what he
described in a book of the same title, as an <i>Ordeal by Slander</i> (1950).
Consequently, in 1963 he moved to the UK where he took up an appointment to
found a new Department of Chinese Studies (now East Asian Studies) at Leeds University,
where he also established a programme of Mongolian Studies, a subject he
remained devoted to even in the years after he retired. He spent much of the
remainder of his life in Europe and Mongolia rather than the USA, although he
died and was buried there in 1989.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPVvLmyGVkiUO7m8kiFMWXeCFlR3qyW2RBDP-ubtUQmMRCbp1htk_LjdgXvXrlWh-uSTQiU_i2q3RzuzP8oE_YbkQZew8zDLxbZVEWIJvLm45rd8sU312GxckabRYqNisth2nhMpRjdjcc/s1576/Owen-Lattimore.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1069" data-original-width="1576" height="271" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPVvLmyGVkiUO7m8kiFMWXeCFlR3qyW2RBDP-ubtUQmMRCbp1htk_LjdgXvXrlWh-uSTQiU_i2q3RzuzP8oE_YbkQZew8zDLxbZVEWIJvLm45rd8sU312GxckabRYqNisth2nhMpRjdjcc/w400-h271/Owen-Lattimore.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Owen Lattimore during the McCarthy Era Congressional Investigations</i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">During his lifetime he received due
recognition and many academic honours, and his scholarly work still resonates
with students and specialists across many disciplines today because he retains
that far-reaching, transcendental sense of perception which seems an essential
prerequisite in making truly original connections. Lattimore’s work has since been
built upon, continued and diversified in more recent years by many notable
scholars, such as James Millward, Peter Perdue, and Alfred J. Rieber, to name
only a few. And as Peter Perdue has <a href="https://www.oxfordhandbooks.com/view/10.1093/oxfordhb/9780199935369.001.0001/oxfordhb-9780199935369-e-26" target="_blank">observed</a>, <i>“Modern historians,
anthropologists, and archaeologists have revised many of Lattimore’s arguments,
but they still rely on his insights. All of the themes addressed by Lattimore
continue to inspire world historians today.”</i> <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Indeed, despite his own
self-referential criticisms of his younger authorial self in <i>The Desert Road
to Turkestan</i>, I think there is still much to be learned from his first book
– not least in terms of his mindset and his methodology, but also from his
authorial manner; it is his patience and his curiosity allied together in the
way in which he conducts himself and couches his observations which establish
him as a master of his chosen <i>m</i><i><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">é</span>tier</i>. Setting his pace in
time with that of the caravan plodding along the Desert Road, he walks with
steady, well-paced assurance, with an open eye which remains trained to the
horizon at all times. In many ways, reflecting on his background in relation to
his remarkable life, beginning from relatively humble, if unusual,
circumstances, and his highly accomplished career which managed to endure such
extremes of adversity, I think it’s a fair claim to make, that Lattimore’s
writings show that true scholars are both born <i>and</i> self-made.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTW-MpLb1S6OwI1l4ebq2C8K-9Qef7hBURmANuyx_bwJU9Xe5dXdFAm_m9Cyaeq0XwYx1R0Bfekoex7y2GnxnaHuAt9ZlYKaDw9U3gRqV41NQW3cGvxBtAnKGeIyVbxxwV06cWjS2CANRx/s612/Lattimore+2.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="440" data-original-width="612" height="288" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTW-MpLb1S6OwI1l4ebq2C8K-9Qef7hBURmANuyx_bwJU9Xe5dXdFAm_m9Cyaeq0XwYx1R0Bfekoex7y2GnxnaHuAt9ZlYKaDw9U3gRqV41NQW3cGvxBtAnKGeIyVbxxwV06cWjS2CANRx/w400-h288/Lattimore+2.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;">~<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/RwEOMXTKReU" width="320" youtube-src-id="RwEOMXTKReU"></iframe></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Mongolia - On The Edge of the Gobi, 1975.</i></div><o:p><br /></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><i>In 1975 Owen Lattimore advised
and narrated two documentary films about Mongolia made for Granada Television’s
“Disappearing World” series. These two films, plus a two-hour long <a href="https://www.sms.cam.ac.uk/media/1124271" target="_blank">interview</a>
with Lattimore by anthropologists, Caroline Humphrey and Alan
Macfarlane in 1983, help to give a clear view of Lattimore as a person. His
speaking voice was no less beautifully clear and measured than his written
voice, it is a real joy to be able to hear him speak in what remain as a series
of fascinating films and conversations. I have collated a ‘playlist’ of these documentaries
and interviews on YouTube, which you can access <a href="https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLn_wBoM2GcN9tufDc4__4eURYLgshlYfz" target="_blank">here</a>.<o:p></o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/xBTh4-R1rfI" width="320" youtube-src-id="xBTh4-R1rfI"></iframe></div><i><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Mongolia - The City On The Steppes, 1975.</i></div></i><o:p><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><o:p>~</o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVO7gm0rP_-67OA3HcNp2Cd9tVeaXPjbs7TFxI5saGMKjR7YmPH4bWcca7rRRI7a_d2SQSn6UTdrXcpqGSuK8LOHHRcKfDNsKs8CZIhVCBuyy2NrA1_eSf4sAABI53OVSvSpZJf7bHqSm6/s1000/Owen+Lattimore+1967.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="899" data-original-width="1000" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVO7gm0rP_-67OA3HcNp2Cd9tVeaXPjbs7TFxI5saGMKjR7YmPH4bWcca7rRRI7a_d2SQSn6UTdrXcpqGSuK8LOHHRcKfDNsKs8CZIhVCBuyy2NrA1_eSf4sAABI53OVSvSpZJf7bHqSm6/w400-h360/Owen+Lattimore+1967.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Owen Lattimore, 1967.</i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><o:p><br /></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><b><i>Further Reading<o:p></o:p></i></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Charles Forsdick, ‘Peter Fleming
& Ella Maillart in China: Travel Writing as Stereoscopic and Polygraphic
Form,’ in <i>Studies in Travel Writing</i>, Vol. 13, No. 4 (2009), pp. 293-303<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Caroline Humphrey & David Sneath, <i>The End of Nomadism? Society, the State and the Environment in Inner Asia</i> (Durham, North Carolina: Duke University Press, 1999)</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Justin M. Jacobs, <i>Xinjiang and
the Modern Chinese State</i> (Seattle: University of Washington Press, 2016)<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">James Millward, <i>Eurasian
Crossroads: A History of Xinjiang</i> (New York: Columbia University Press,
2007)<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Peter C. Perdue, <i>China Marches
West: The Qing Conquest of Central Eurasia</i> (Cambridge, Massachusetts: Belknap, 2005)<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Peter C. Perdue, <a href="https://www.oxfordhandbooks.com/view/10.1093/oxfordhb/9780199935369.001.0001/oxfordhb-9780199935369-e-26" target="_blank">‘Owen Lattimore:World Historian’</a>, in <i>Oxford Handbooks Online: Scholarly Research Reviews</i>,
2018.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Alfred J. Rieber, <i>The Struggle
for Eurasian Borderlands: From the Rise of Early Modern Empires to the End of
the First World War</i> (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2014)<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">William T. Rowe, ‘Owen Lattimore,
Asia, and Comparative History’, in <i>Journal of Asian Studies</i>, Vol. 66,
No. 3 (August, 2007), pp. 759-786<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWYixWA_gs7hj_ybRvcyndHHRGK-1escKCIeH_uFPrgsDdLgGX1HeB2ZaOCAMuAV-D0vV8tJ7HGNDRkx09reX0sjInv53OEz0AozQhHj2iqzwODB87kckWG-m6-KI9gF_jMr8BwI7-trP0/s400/China+Marches+West.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="274" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWYixWA_gs7hj_ybRvcyndHHRGK-1escKCIeH_uFPrgsDdLgGX1HeB2ZaOCAMuAV-D0vV8tJ7HGNDRkx09reX0sjInv53OEz0AozQhHj2iqzwODB87kckWG-m6-KI9gF_jMr8BwI7-trP0/s320/China+Marches+West.jpg" width="219" /></a> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheSiLNtezXUuE-ZMmUKOukDROSI6itMERsGyM39M3x7da__b3ulhATqFqm-ogf9fM6E4RvLEENBKhV35i8yT4u3qsmjaBv1Ss1AU5IC9umq79WtM3dkdFvTGZaekMtNkEOLD-58Q9kjrF7/s400/Struggle+for+the+Eurasian+Borderlands.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="265" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheSiLNtezXUuE-ZMmUKOukDROSI6itMERsGyM39M3x7da__b3ulhATqFqm-ogf9fM6E4RvLEENBKhV35i8yT4u3qsmjaBv1Ss1AU5IC9umq79WtM3dkdFvTGZaekMtNkEOLD-58Q9kjrF7/s320/Struggle+for+the+Eurasian+Borderlands.jpg" width="212" /></a><br /><br /></div><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><i>Also
on ‘Waymarks’<o:p></o:p></i></b></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><o:p> </o:p></b></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><a href="http://eccentricparabola.blogspot.com/2019/03/hyperbole-most-florid-farrer-purdom.html" target="_blank">Hyperbole
Most Florid – Reginald Farrer & William Purdom</a><o:p></o:p></b></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><a href="http://eccentricparabola.blogspot.com/2018/08/salween-black-river-of-tibet.html" target="_blank">Salween:
Black River of Tibet – Ronald Kaulback & John Hanbury-Tracy</a><o:p></o:p></b></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><a href="http://eccentricparabola.blogspot.com/2019/07/retracing-silk-road.html" target="_blank">Retracing the Silk Road</a><o:p></o:p></b></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhT4XbMKRcB8zsb7CIzQs11aC3x-MjfNGOP5vUchXExEbu9ybfLFk1-JIJL6q3mW5p3NTB6BA5GjKJGpb4j_tq4Bt-nNhyphenhyphenxu_k-kbvhuAWOAlpE3coLwHK6dfYR_R_KGiYrm6iSLHSJhhkP/s789/Lattimore+5.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="577" data-original-width="789" height="293" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhT4XbMKRcB8zsb7CIzQs11aC3x-MjfNGOP5vUchXExEbu9ybfLFk1-JIJL6q3mW5p3NTB6BA5GjKJGpb4j_tq4Bt-nNhyphenhyphenxu_k-kbvhuAWOAlpE3coLwHK6dfYR_R_KGiYrm6iSLHSJhhkP/w400-h293/Lattimore+5.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: left;"></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><i>“It seemed to me a little hard
that I should have had only this one chance of seeing one of the remotest
places of the earth </i>[Etsina / Kara Khoto]<i>, and, passing almost within
hail, yet pass it sight unseen. It made me wonder how much more I might have
seen and learned, had I been a Competent Traveler, with all the assistance of
lavish funds and the cordial regard of legations. As it was, the fortune I followed was no more than the fortune of travel in company with the trading caravans – the haphazard
life among men whose very going forth and coming in is a survival from
forgotten ages, and is as regardless of outer things; men sometimes closed-lipped
and sometimes free-spoken, whose fragmentary legends of immemorial tradition
are like dim lights flickering down long corridors of ignorance.” </i>(pp. 193-194)<i><o:p></o:p></i></p><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><br /><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGJPyi1PkDAlqWHwXcNA5qyc5TPMiCvoO-nJ9pN6ecfnU4kdXPXT_e7GOi__oncrBkTmOeEdrgJPiQD5YSCQ-3RntmRpZwDMghuHiRR88l_VTrDs5TdcNh40fJsUS-sil6ekr5Negkf29H/s2048/Lattimore+6.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGJPyi1PkDAlqWHwXcNA5qyc5TPMiCvoO-nJ9pN6ecfnU4kdXPXT_e7GOi__oncrBkTmOeEdrgJPiQD5YSCQ-3RntmRpZwDMghuHiRR88l_VTrDs5TdcNh40fJsUS-sil6ekr5Negkf29H/w300-h400/Lattimore+6.JPG" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Owen Lattimore, on the Desert Road, 1926</i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: left;"><br /></p>Timhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11641833714036731203noreply@blogger.com0Mongolia46.862496 103.84665621.169162182985485 68.690406 72.555829817014512 139.002906tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-88759862385027089.post-80813097537199401032021-11-01T00:00:00.248+00:002024-02-25T02:37:36.749+00:00Himalaya - The Heart of Eurasia<p> </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Paro_Taktsang" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFKacgM3RGm3dH75xkuF67phm9hAsbnBzp4FQ6dR2YTQJsJibRJAZfVTpyU3cYY0Z6U6eRpMrPdewkTK5dHemXpxzDb4jo0U4K_KSqhQSu6qeI3NIjJHRrU1nOEbIN0jdV9GFrd9IXaCsj/w400-h300/Taktshang+Monastery+Bhutan.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Paro_Taktsang" target="_blank">Taktshang Monastery, Bhutan</a></i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">The Himalaya looms large in so many
aspects of contemplation – the highest point on our planet, set in the midst of
the Eurasian continent, the source of many of the world’s greatest rivers – the
Himalaya is perhaps as much a feeling as it is a geographical feature; an epistemic
phenomenon as much as an epochal phase of geological time. It’s both a barrier
and a bridge. Both bleak and barren, as well as vertiginously verdant, and, of
course, full of cultural complexity and diversity. The Himalaya is a heartland.
Its fascination is as multifarious as the shifting shades of sunlight passing
across the white faces of its eternally snow-clad peaks.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br /></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Man_Who_Would_Be_King_(film)" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="1069" data-original-width="1900" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSYJNAF64JvkJ98uK3zoFS08o_P5bnCvVYD19Uy1mHyfvWbjq3sB1mGVpoddo8zmADHNwdy1i_3L7QYJomlw8SHHFYDb_qiSfuf4nfY0kmSZ7dJ2XZhf1bsoIQpaN285L61tx1mcvOHW1Q/w400-h225/Man+Who+Would+Be+King.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Man_Who_Would_Be_King_(film)" target="_blank">The Man Who Would Be King (1975)</a></i></td></tr></tbody></table><o:p><br /></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">I’m not sure when I first became
aware of the Himalaya, nor what the original source of its saturation into my consciousness
was, but it was an interest which seems to have seeped deep inside my soul. I’m
certainly not the first person to have succumbed to its allure, nor will I be
the last. The indomitable permanence of this mountain range seems to have
echoed within me, reverberating as far back as I can recall. Like the Himalaya
itself, my interest in it – geographically, physically, culturally,
environmentally – has always seemed to have been there. I suppose I must have
first seen and heard about it on television programmes and in Hollywood films,
such as <i>The Man Who Would Be King</i> (1975), starring Sean Connery and
Michael Caine. I certainly read about it in adventure stories – I remember being
struck by one which I found in a children’s anthology about the first ascent of
Annapurna, though I’ve long since forgotten who it was written by. And, of
course, I clearly remember being taught about the Himalaya in terms of the
geological processes of its formation in geography lessons at school. Indeed, I
liked nothing more than drawing sectional diagrams illustrating how the
Himalaya arose from the processes of continental drift, plate tectonics,
subduction zones, etc. Attempting to imagine how innumerable strata of hard solid
rock could bend, buckle and crease under pressures which exert merely millimetres
of slow movement over immense tracks of time – millions of years in the making
– shaping and sculpting itself through the corrosion and erosion of the
elements into a magnificence and beauty that is simply awe inspiring.
Fossilised sea shells found at the top of Mount Everest. My jaw agape and my
mind agog at the unfathomable immensity and longevity of it all.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br /></p>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mount_Everest" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="978" data-original-width="800" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpPfgDqtdEW7q4fmFj9epcvsdactpLkTR59ICV0SlHmjMX1xH0rhNhiDiDT-jza6fgPvLniWNF6MnC3LFHXC4jDYKmJzeJ7nbD9ZX3hEpIvu_WW170G_tr4IW3XsjaGN0iwCgh6uTDbZH-/w328-h400/Everest.jpg" width="328" /></a></span></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mount_Everest" target="_blank">Chomolungma, also known as Mount Everest</a></i></td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Later on, when studying
anthropology at university, I remember reading about <i>The Political Systems
of Highland Burma</i> (1977) in Edmund R. Leach’s book, first seeding a
fascination with the human cultural aspects of the Himalayan region, an
interest which has been extended more recently by James C, Scott’s <i>The Art
of Not Being Governed </i>(2009). These two books look at the smaller
communities who have largely lived beyond the reach, if not necessarily
completely beyond the notional bounds of state control – both a concept and a
geographical region now referred to as ‘Zomia’ (a term originally coined by
Willem van Schendel, derived from the common Tibeto-Burman root linguistic term
for ‘highlander’), something which has been much contested and debated within
academic circles in recent years. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAF1jsbftMXII8j-598glb7fduOr88qURLbwV-Ilm3MvnNg86meK1akNkt3-izgF5Qjn2v4zE6prbxjBekFB_C3v-OnK6NXtl1BA284W0mtwnoQw4osU_5k0fvIkpB9Kjj99D0vnpN6pJL/s280/Political+Systems+of+Highland+Burma.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="280" data-original-width="174" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAF1jsbftMXII8j-598glb7fduOr88qURLbwV-Ilm3MvnNg86meK1akNkt3-izgF5Qjn2v4zE6prbxjBekFB_C3v-OnK6NXtl1BA284W0mtwnoQw4osU_5k0fvIkpB9Kjj99D0vnpN6pJL/w199-h320/Political+Systems+of+Highland+Burma.jpg" width="199" /></a> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhENSGNq-kaqqtcrUPzZ01o6kVpDOrFwgXqiBRmpmy36fq_w9l3GzRNlOvj6fBnDjRR6jsQsaeJ0iSYMEV_ybOme2ZTA28W64hUNNAU2z3x_8afM2nCFv6oYeJFIiyz41TMnIG2T7sheFsb/s475/Art+of+Not+Being+Governed.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="475" data-original-width="314" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhENSGNq-kaqqtcrUPzZ01o6kVpDOrFwgXqiBRmpmy36fq_w9l3GzRNlOvj6fBnDjRR6jsQsaeJ0iSYMEV_ybOme2ZTA28W64hUNNAU2z3x_8afM2nCFv6oYeJFIiyz41TMnIG2T7sheFsb/s320/Art+of+Not+Being+Governed.jpg" width="212" /></a><br /><br /></div><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">The geography of the Himalaya has
clearly shaped the societal forms as well as the histories of the various
polities which have settled there and the cultural distinctions which have
evolved to unite or divide them. The topography, the climate, and the extremes
of altitude that some of these places attain, for the peoples who live there,
have certainly moulded and defined who they are and how they see themselves, as
well as how they have interacted with various interlopers, traders and invaders,
who have strayed acquisitively into their remote territories over the
centuries. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEio1Sgr2zL6lo3w4qEt2_vmkuUixMdvBAAPhqPSccaPSos9GXqCo-_gUHmUpwhUjmsId2qrmccJSFl2zxyAnsZriLqsNqovmEwszU2sUyajfqukfLKN-AgMNwgvJcDaFvTzlyuvGg-nJXmK/s400/Seven+Years+in+Tibet.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="262" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEio1Sgr2zL6lo3w4qEt2_vmkuUixMdvBAAPhqPSccaPSos9GXqCo-_gUHmUpwhUjmsId2qrmccJSFl2zxyAnsZriLqsNqovmEwszU2sUyajfqukfLKN-AgMNwgvJcDaFvTzlyuvGg-nJXmK/s320/Seven+Years+in+Tibet.jpg" width="210" /></a> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiq_oaLFwF8BHAkQ2_U0Y6cSWTY8kMZwFWzD90JOUwccKdoLK1eB22fhV1NRf_6fPbVIWv0e_STlHaJrnfcIY-9O1ymwG0hdpEo2sM5dm4B6ln_zYfVUnzA75A_NVIoyaCRw7NPQhUlO1aU/s450/Land+of+the+Blue+Poppies.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="291" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiq_oaLFwF8BHAkQ2_U0Y6cSWTY8kMZwFWzD90JOUwccKdoLK1eB22fhV1NRf_6fPbVIWv0e_STlHaJrnfcIY-9O1ymwG0hdpEo2sM5dm4B6ln_zYfVUnzA75A_NVIoyaCRw7NPQhUlO1aU/s320/Land+of+the+Blue+Poppies.jpg" width="207" /></a><br /><br /></div><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">The library shelves devoted to the Himalaya
abound with a wealth of travelogues written over the last hundred years or so by
individuals who have sought to explore the region for all variety of reasons –
personal, political, economic, and scientific – all equally fascinated by the
terrain and the peoples: they recount the challenges of climate and altitude
encountered in scaling the highest peaks, simply “because they are there”;
intrigued and enchanted by the religion, the customs, and the kaleidoscope of
cultures found in the valleys folded between the Himalayan massif. Books by
travellers such as Sarat Chandra Das’s <i>A Journey to Lhasa and Central Tibet</i>
(1902), Ekai Kawaguchi’s <i>Three Years in Tibet</i> (1909), Heinrich Harrer’s <i>Seven
Years in Tibet</i> (1952), and the many travelogues of the botanist Frank
Kingdon-Ward (to name only a handful). Many of whom have been compendiously
chronicled by writers with interests entirely akin to my own, historians such
as Charles Allen and Peter Hopkirk. More often than not, though, the people who
write about this region do so because they have been there and because they
have fallen under the spell of this magical place.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYDYgxLvQnq9d5nAMAZGmwIaEIC1KuwNBPjwOIML5S9YGGGXHKsGa3kqsSgVacHAci0-i1MXuemSFJuTuE796dothdWTtdeF5nGEClY9q0oHLHnxRSZ1o9X09q5jea42qXrMlrPFWRxTM3/s253/Tibet+China+india.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="253" data-original-width="175" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYDYgxLvQnq9d5nAMAZGmwIaEIC1KuwNBPjwOIML5S9YGGGXHKsGa3kqsSgVacHAci0-i1MXuemSFJuTuE796dothdWTtdeF5nGEClY9q0oHLHnxRSZ1o9X09q5jea42qXrMlrPFWRxTM3/w221-h320/Tibet+China+india.jpg" width="221" /></a> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRgplEMMKg6K550V8jYsHJNNI0utUXbac-0G2Le4vHyRT0KR2QvmNfnGmBlNDhNl0MYrwfzETQLkLM-Hnyw2Q3eRKT1ok0WOF5XF4kRJ7Aiwwe3JfFkinZZ7WwStVMlXhfoukDIjLjMloP/s465/Tibet+and+the+British+Raj.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="465" data-original-width="300" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRgplEMMKg6K550V8jYsHJNNI0utUXbac-0G2Le4vHyRT0KR2QvmNfnGmBlNDhNl0MYrwfzETQLkLM-Hnyw2Q3eRKT1ok0WOF5XF4kRJ7Aiwwe3JfFkinZZ7WwStVMlXhfoukDIjLjMloP/s320/Tibet+and+the+British+Raj.jpg" width="206" /></a><br /><br /></div><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">There is also a rich historiography
mapping various geopolitical perspectives of the region over the last fifty or sixty
years which is worth surveying in greater depth too. Owen Lattimore’s <i>Inner
Asian Frontiers</i> remains an influential work, having lit the way when it was
first published in 1940. Alistair Lamb’s several highly notable works, along
with Dorothy Woodman’s <i>Himalayan Frontiers</i> (1969), and Alex McKay’s <i>Tibet
and the British Raj</i> (1997), seek to triangulate the rivalries between
British-India, Russia, and China, laying down the more recent historical
background to current geopolitical disputes, problems rooted in the colonial
era which remain as areas of on-going contestation, particularly along the
borders between China and India, today. A topic which Bérénice Guyot-Réchard’s
more recent <i>Shadow States: India, China and the Himalayas, 1910–1962</i> (2016)
re-examines – a book which, having heard Bérénice talking on this subject, sits
high up on my current wish list of books ‘to read.’<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbW1uSlTWDS0zbbrWvLm2zDnjeHIrM6RJMLeKxAQ4VqzR7_8eV9w0_RbcyeOP19RlD8kV4zx9cJ4dlMiQMbO71FvBwc0oa1KhgmF6EHuartAYHLkgYhYlPpAz2VK4Cc5gXeNHDNNwq1pgv/s475/Himalayan+Frontiers.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="475" data-original-width="303" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbW1uSlTWDS0zbbrWvLm2zDnjeHIrM6RJMLeKxAQ4VqzR7_8eV9w0_RbcyeOP19RlD8kV4zx9cJ4dlMiQMbO71FvBwc0oa1KhgmF6EHuartAYHLkgYhYlPpAz2VK4Cc5gXeNHDNNwq1pgv/s320/Himalayan+Frontiers.jpg" width="204" /></a> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhu5GMlJDh43R64-tztLFzycw4JRTaAMyHr6OLLAq-i9SePS7kT-HrFFKx9kVliCcSQIUF8yjORjcrX-FLIH1LzGn9zS1LhS-4xkAGdhwvCmDOkasavicSlRH9xv9vwwHDQLj8Iy0daIpVa/s500/Shadow+States.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="329" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhu5GMlJDh43R64-tztLFzycw4JRTaAMyHr6OLLAq-i9SePS7kT-HrFFKx9kVliCcSQIUF8yjORjcrX-FLIH1LzGn9zS1LhS-4xkAGdhwvCmDOkasavicSlRH9xv9vwwHDQLj8Iy0daIpVa/s320/Shadow+States.jpg" width="211" /></a><br /><br /></div><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">In many ways, in human terms, the
Himalaya can be viewed as a node or a nexus point, especially in the nineteenth
and early twentieth centuries. Seen as both a natural physical as well as a
social and political boundary, it is a place where civilisations and empires
met. But, like all boundaries and borders, despite its seemingly vast
dimensions, the Himalaya was and still remains a fluid and permeable place –
simultaneously constrained by its physical aspects, it channels human movement
whilst conveniently shielding the accessibility it provides, making it a hard
terrain to police and control. It’s often a case of geography and climate
thwarting the arbitrary ‘red lines’ drawn on maps; an immovable, mountainous
barrier which confounds attempts to define human jurisdictions; a place where
both notional and actual delimitations – <i>of necessity</i> – have ebbed and
flowed with the seasons, naturally moving with the earthly elements rather than
in accordance with official edicts. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Harmukh" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgM1ArbJGLWa5cWWiRWdqZ7ZpZPBLiTBC00LmfThf19QuE9lfxVNEbCFxMKclazDBBVD_4UQ2FKXwkUoVjQSBekEGA59hosXTfwygUqBFAnWEgw5hINlwE3topUIW22peSeHqrdZPILu7eL/w400-h300/Harmukh+Mountain.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Harmukh" target="_blank">Harmukh Mountain, India</a></i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">The Himalaya isn’t a landscape
shaped by people; however hard they might strive to impose such conformities. Rather
it’s a place which ultimately people mould themselves to fit into – at least,
those who live there most successfully seem to have learnt how to do so – but
this hasn’t yet stopped the wider human world of bureaucratically-minded nation
states located along its peripheries from trying. Perhaps it is simply a case
of an unstoppable (yet all too mortal) force meeting an immovable (and
comparatively immortal) object, but carrying on regardless, unbowed by the
futility of its own actions and endeavours in such an unforgiving and
ultimately unyielding terrain. I suppose that’s one of the reasons why it
captivates me. It is a vast region of both great heights and unfathomable
depths. A place of great confluences and contradictions.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gorkha_Kingdom" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="348" data-original-width="450" height="247" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFbpZRa35GH3fI6fjeLw7S4WY2SovA0Il3xBG4G9wUgKhErJQ-juPYvJmGNEgSEjb5oVu0Qz4SgeYYnAeBoiIrgapyYJnzEKF9cg4Jjdsr1pj1D9vqQR2qOQlkwyoMsiI7OQtm50tJUmdk/s320/Gorkha+Postage+Stamp+1907.jpeg" width="320" /></a></span></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gorkha_Kingdom" target="_blank">Gorkha Postage Stamp, 1907</a></i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">The Himalaya is a region where
people contend with enormous challenges. It’s a place where we can witness how
geological extremes have shaped the landscape and the environment, and, in
turn, where we can see how the extremes of landscape and climate have shaped
human beings. In a similar manner to the way in which I am fascinated by island
lives bounded by the oceans, so too I am intrigued by the ways in which
mountains mould the lives of those who choose to live (and/or travel) amongst
them, either by following or bisecting the parallel contour lines of their topographies.
<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7-g8ALM3dtN8UzauKv8uq2cQoCuFe5muLm_x9IMwjGJvFXfd-Af7cDFla4pwJvI3lwDUN6tlw7bohddwCGnaWFquPlUh7wKgrz8gY8L5tCKY_nWIi3XwXDA8QxWzdHnBXJn9rCVCLTgoQ/s447/Himalaya+-+Palin.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="447" data-original-width="318" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7-g8ALM3dtN8UzauKv8uq2cQoCuFe5muLm_x9IMwjGJvFXfd-Af7cDFla4pwJvI3lwDUN6tlw7bohddwCGnaWFquPlUh7wKgrz8gY8L5tCKY_nWIi3XwXDA8QxWzdHnBXJn9rCVCLTgoQ/w285-h400/Himalaya+-+Palin.jpg" width="285" /></a></div><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">As yet, I have only touched the
outermost fringes of the Himalaya myself, when in 2010 I travelled up into the
foothills of the Sino-Tibetan borderlands in Sichuan. But it was a tantalising first
taste which has left me wanting to return to range even further into the more
majestic heights of Tibet itself, as well as to the closely allied altitudes of
neighbouring Bhutan and Nepal. On that first trip I took Michael Palin’s <i>Himalaya</i>
(2004) as my amiable textual travelling companion, having already watched and
enjoyed his series of travel programmes which the book chronicles. But, the
next time I am able to venture back to this remarkable region, I know I shall
be taking a heftier – but no less amenable – tome as my ‘vade mecum’: – Ed
Douglas’s <i>Himalaya: A Human History </i>(Vintage, 2021).<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2DfMFCo3L9dsJpUuKo-IOMqMbgXKE05JcjWaJLY5cK9hwNm5f0oN2NoMQpx4A0E5Nxd0DS3C0no_46QDcLvfN8tk1StFx1JlKTL4HR8IW3n0eZeUMHCKQnPkqnZryUFlju-GV4op86Gxb/s475/Himalaya.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="475" data-original-width="317" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2DfMFCo3L9dsJpUuKo-IOMqMbgXKE05JcjWaJLY5cK9hwNm5f0oN2NoMQpx4A0E5Nxd0DS3C0no_46QDcLvfN8tk1StFx1JlKTL4HR8IW3n0eZeUMHCKQnPkqnZryUFlju-GV4op86Gxb/w268-h400/Himalaya.jpg" width="268" /></a></div><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">This is a wonderful book. From the
first page you can tell that it was written as the fruit of a lifetime’s worth
of reading about, as well as travelling in, the region it describes; hence the
‘human’ element of this history is exactly that, a personal and a personable
view. It is written with a lovely fluid elegance; reading its first few
chapters it feels like the reader is trekking through the Himalaya with the
author as their own personal guide. Ed Douglas has a beautifully well-honed style
of writing which effortlessly imparts information unobtrusively alongside his
own anecdotes of travel through the region, and vice versa. It’s a subtle <i>tour
de force</i> in the craft of good writing. The kind of book which invites
revisiting and sustains re-reading. It combines the best of first-hand travel
writing and historical narrative in well balanced measures of each, using the
lightest of touches to combine individual immediacy with the broader, big-canvas
sweep of time and place – because, after all, to attempt to distil and narrate
the history of such a vast region and all its different peoples, a region as
old and as diverse as the Himalaya, is no mean feat. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgapsr_SX4TIiHbP4VKEe-YhajgpdQiY2V6_SBxGhC4uI0aoavob2KU_VZut-TntuhBTdJX5HX-FCvC8OmLNIEioNeG3ZgnJ3bsn-mSo-oS93xBU4xHnsnHPa8GVWArNHw3IK8whP6XlMVf/s769/Durbar+Square+c1910.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="532" data-original-width="769" height="276" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgapsr_SX4TIiHbP4VKEe-YhajgpdQiY2V6_SBxGhC4uI0aoavob2KU_VZut-TntuhBTdJX5HX-FCvC8OmLNIEioNeG3ZgnJ3bsn-mSo-oS93xBU4xHnsnHPa8GVWArNHw3IK8whP6XlMVf/w400-h276/Durbar+Square+c1910.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Kathmandu, Nepal - c.1910</i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Clearly it is a terrain within which
Douglas is comfortably at home, roaming and writing as a mountain climber himself,
having first travelled to the Himalaya in 1995, he has spent much of his life
writing and reflecting upon mountaineering, having edited a number of
well-known climbing magazines, as well as the prestigious <i>Alpine Journal</i>
– the invaluable archive of which I am continually raiding (it is available
on-line <a href="http://www.alpinejournal.org.uk/" target="_blank">here</a>). Douglas’s love of Nepal shines through <i>Himalaya: A Human
History</i>, and, in many ways, it is Nepal which acts as a pivot to his
telling of the many stories which are rooted in the complex interrelations of
the broader Himalayan region, a vast area which extends out as much to the
Karakorum and the Kunlun as it does to the borderlands of Central Asia and the foothills
of India and China, as well as high up into the heart of the Himalaya itself.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjS1S7YxmnzU6EFRSvBt-jgZKO7aG0BnL1J9h04f8IUebOT0_de8g_H6ULZew25p0cEKV_HF-8EOsEgs8SJv5JZ4aMTuNBPVAu7TJ8YHvT7XO_eP_zfs5Q1BG27dea7LR82BKNb9tpf3lK2/s2985/Chumbi+Valley.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2985" data-original-width="2131" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjS1S7YxmnzU6EFRSvBt-jgZKO7aG0BnL1J9h04f8IUebOT0_de8g_H6ULZew25p0cEKV_HF-8EOsEgs8SJv5JZ4aMTuNBPVAu7TJ8YHvT7XO_eP_zfs5Q1BG27dea7LR82BKNb9tpf3lK2/w286-h400/Chumbi+Valley.jpg" width="286" /></a><br /><br /></div><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Tibet, naturally, is the other main
anchor point of the book. Tibet’s apparent isolation in effect transmuting
through time into a magnet attracting Western adventurers, travelling both
individually and in the name of empires, seeking to bridge borders through
trade and conquest, making famous names for themselves along the way. From
George Bogle and Thomas Manning to Francis Younghusband, by way of various
Indian ‘pundits’, as well as a wide scattering of European and American ‘plant hunters’,
and a host of tenaciously persistent missionaries, outsiders were forever
attempting to follow in the footsteps of local Himalayan porters and the long
established postal and trade routes of caravans, hoping to reach the much
fabled ‘forbidden city’ of Lhasa – historical seat of the Dalai Lamas. Douglas
introduces and discusses these Western interlopers in depth, but he also
balances them with an eye to the lesser-known local actors – both those in
positions of power as well as those with more lowly and locally-based agency – who
both helped and hindered these attempts to open up the Himalaya to the insatiable
voracity of an increasingly globalising world.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Hillary_Step_near_Everest_top_(retouched).jpg" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1200" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEf47Up2lw25G0T1-akaZVvyp4t-5Ol0zKCIpRQEn4G17JUpLtLMsgz_nc-RkX8BfXF0XIe8S8c5TtXSb3rRadzeCTDBiNiAqu_Wne3SSj6lHBBMcXO4c5IASUogta9MnikVF3w_FMpotC/w400-h300/1200px-Hillary_Step_near_Everest_top_%2528retouched%2529.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Hillary_Step_near_Everest_top_(retouched).jpg" target="_blank">Climbers ascending Chomolungma, Mount Everest</a></i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Likewise, the later chapters of <i>Himalaya: A Human History</i> do not shy away from contemporary issues affecting the region – from the decades of political unrest in Tibet since 1950, to the growing concerns relating to the escalating environmental degradation now being caused by the modern-day mass-tourism overload of trekkers queuing up to reach the summit of Mount Everest; as well as the fractious on-going border disputes which have dogged diplomatic relations between China and India from the colonial era right up to the present day. Douglas peoples this latter part of his narrative with his first-hand interviews with Tibetan prisoners of conscience, individuals who have devoted their lives to fighting for Human Rights at great personal cost, and with the Sherpas of Nepal, who perform a vital yet dangerous role in facilitating wealthy foreign trekkers, as well as those people (such as the journalist, Liz Hawley), who have long resided in and watched both the slow changes and the rapid transformations which have overtaken the region in recent decades. This element of contemporary reportage lends Douglas’s book a sense of journalistic immediacy which most modern history books tend to fall short on in their closing pages.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><a href="http://eccentricparabola.blogspot.com/2018/06/times-river-reflections-on-research-trip.html" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1162" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz6fYW_x3Ua-3WlGhoy6iPJ0vTreIT7N_NS7aKCPtt0djc72qHVg050rV1pa80uyai9RwREGKfJyZ86RISEzyaBGh9uT9NSXyhK1wxeM4gNqATbBSpNbQDYI00CblGWMYooCeyk1Nq2NYH/w290-h400/Himalayan+Blue+Poppy.jpg" width="290" /></a></span></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><a href="http://eccentricparabola.blogspot.com/2018/06/times-river-reflections-on-research-trip.html" target="_blank">The Himalayan Blue Poppy (Meconopsis 'Slieve Donard')</a></i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Nowadays, a lot of academic attention is most
frequently directed toward the strategic and geopolitical importance of the
Himalaya, but taking a broader scope we see that the influence of the region
permeates much deeper into the complex processes of cross-pollination within
our shared world. Early on, a significant part of the outside interest in the
Himalaya was rooted in botany. Economic botany was an area of scientific
interest which burgeoned with Western Imperial expansion from the Eighteenth
Century onwards. Botanical Gardens were set up across the British Empire and
these institutions were a huge motor in driving the machinery of empire. They
sponsored journeys of exploration in which botanists, as well as some very notable
missionaries with penchants for plant collecting, sought out new species while
studying the effects of climate, altitude, soil chemistry, etc. Collecting and
cataloguing ‘herbarium’ (dried plant) specimens, surveying vast regions in
order to map plant locations, enabling them to return in different seasons at
different stages of growth in order to study the lifecycles of plants, as well
as collecting their seeds at the most feracious moment. These seeds were sent back to the botanical gardens as well as commercial plant nurseries, who
then capitalised upon them; refining and sending different strains to different
parts of the globe which could in turn propagate and capitalise further from
producing and selling various crops in greater quantities, or processing
derivatives from their fruits, fibres, oils and sap.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrau90rGsjYX-QwvQXHO_KLgPFyVPzQMBVkdQ75buWIutfsPoL9nnYDQcIOVQQMyIHJDK23OLf28GxsSXDjkEowT4zQr0cv0qGN-fx8Z2E871Ce7ydStSYoG3o9KADaf9u1PQX1fy-DGpp/s2648/Tsangpo+Bridge.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2648" data-original-width="1942" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrau90rGsjYX-QwvQXHO_KLgPFyVPzQMBVkdQ75buWIutfsPoL9nnYDQcIOVQQMyIHJDK23OLf28GxsSXDjkEowT4zQr0cv0qGN-fx8Z2E871Ce7ydStSYoG3o9KADaf9u1PQX1fy-DGpp/w294-h400/Tsangpo+Bridge.jpg" width="294" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Rubber and tea were, of course,
perhaps the two most transformative in terms of both local ecologies and global
economies, along with the cinchona plant, from which the anti-malarial quinine
could be derived. Whole landscapes were biologically re-engineered as a result –
both in the Himalaya, in terms of the successful introduction of tea plants
from China – most notably in the hills around Darjeeling; and at home, in terms
of many of the flowering plants which we now unthinkingly accept as
quintessentially English – such as primulas and rhododendrons, which can be
found in the gardens of ordinary terrace houses as well as those of grand stately
homes across the UK. Taking the Himalayan blue poppy (<i>meconopsis</i>) found
in the forbidding terrain of the Tsang-po River region as a motif for all of
this activity, Douglas devotes a chapter to the fascinating endeavours of these
so-called ‘plant hunters’, who in many ways were perhaps the individuals who most
successfully managed to come to know the true essence of the Himalaya in a manner
which allied both the human and the natural worlds. One of my favourite books
on this topic is E.H.M. Cox’s, <i>Plant Hunting in China: A History of
Botanical Exploration in China and the Tibetan Marches</i> (1945).<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUt-zAvzYuzgc-EMhT0KSYUfzD7dhhLgzrWUTccfum6SiDO_rCU0t1RNrcudDxGD42qiXGAVnGWXyGgLL2wbHDBxAWBRgfkO-bI4WVnZ1d7qUGqir0XD8z3p-13qyPgco8njdqxDONP9aF/s475/Tibet.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="475" data-original-width="317" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUt-zAvzYuzgc-EMhT0KSYUfzD7dhhLgzrWUTccfum6SiDO_rCU0t1RNrcudDxGD42qiXGAVnGWXyGgLL2wbHDBxAWBRgfkO-bI4WVnZ1d7qUGqir0XD8z3p-13qyPgco8njdqxDONP9aF/w213-h320/Tibet.jpg" width="213" /></a> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOVZ1FpZKDh5sOQzzpDiXRg5SEA5Uxlzu-F74Q2vv3zr1ogNSkcKJfOv_2wYcIstjGxls_VTXouL-7mceKVkVIzomxNChBJPUVwRuxRAyGC7tzG2T4Pf-JAmKGZosGqPbFU5pt0-qaYzkW/s443/Sikkim.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="443" data-original-width="298" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOVZ1FpZKDh5sOQzzpDiXRg5SEA5Uxlzu-F74Q2vv3zr1ogNSkcKJfOv_2wYcIstjGxls_VTXouL-7mceKVkVIzomxNChBJPUVwRuxRAyGC7tzG2T4Pf-JAmKGZosGqPbFU5pt0-qaYzkW/w215-h320/Sikkim.jpg" width="215" /></a><br /><br /><br /></div><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Douglas’s <i>Himalaya: A
Human History</i> is a perfect introduction and an overview of a huge subject
area – both geographically and historically – an excellent book for orientating
oneself before setting off on more focussed and localised routes of enquiry. In
addition to some of the titles which I have mentioned above, some admirable companion
tomes to read on a regional trek of the Himalaya would have to include Sam Van
Schaik’s excellent, <i>Tibet: A History</i> (2011), and Andrew Duff’s, <i>Sikkim:
Requiem for a Himalayan Kingdom</i> (2015), as well as Charles Allen’s, <i>The
Prisoner of Kathmandu: Brian Hodgson in Nepal 1820-43</i> (2015). Travelogues
still continue to be written about the region by contemporary writers too.
Vikram Seth’s <i>From Heaven Lake</i> (1983) is one of my favourites,
recounting his journey hitching rides through Xinjiang and Tibet <i>en route</i>
home to India when he was a young student. Perhaps the best of late, though, is
Colin Thubron’s highly evocative prose, retelling a very personal journey he
made, following the pilgrims walking the sacred ‘Kora’ around Mount Kailas in, <i>To
A Mountain In Tibet</i> (2011). An excellent forum for keeping up-to-date with contemporary
writings upon a diverse array of topics relating to the Himalaya is via the ‘reading
lists’ which are regularly collated by the website: <i>High Peaks, Pure Earth</i>
(see <a href="https://highpeakspureearth.com/" target="_blank">here</a>). This website is a fantastic resource which has been hugely supportive
and very helpful to me in my research over the years.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfv0Y50GWAxLEXWksY3aoJDWH0wiUg1GtBHBUiAngiujO4-4l0MQEZsN5z0RHv7ewcvcwGPZv8hFOWgFJV9p4NmEIBmQqRm9ELEt6U5J28pB84vRTj7gZrt1DshCU8jUUR037q7Xn2ocy7/s475/From+Heaven+Lake.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="475" data-original-width="308" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfv0Y50GWAxLEXWksY3aoJDWH0wiUg1GtBHBUiAngiujO4-4l0MQEZsN5z0RHv7ewcvcwGPZv8hFOWgFJV9p4NmEIBmQqRm9ELEt6U5J28pB84vRTj7gZrt1DshCU8jUUR037q7Xn2ocy7/s320/From+Heaven+Lake.jpg" width="207" /></a> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqcPStL59VHvif4q9xM8-hbg7ixcOcp8KpRA26yt6TFUtLqPiynY0ZaPN1dl-t2_U41FNfa9enF7K59f06iRPhTrKh2MN_w4Q3UU9p7VWgqSW9UQDp_qxB8huop6ntNq0GwMul8_v5sghZ/s450/To+A+Mountain+In+Tibet.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="289" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqcPStL59VHvif4q9xM8-hbg7ixcOcp8KpRA26yt6TFUtLqPiynY0ZaPN1dl-t2_U41FNfa9enF7K59f06iRPhTrKh2MN_w4Q3UU9p7VWgqSW9UQDp_qxB8huop6ntNq0GwMul8_v5sghZ/s320/To+A+Mountain+In+Tibet.jpg" width="206" /></a><br /><br /></div><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Mountains are, of course, the most essential and characteristic element of the Himalaya. And mountains seem to hold a special sort of fascination, a fascination which has written itself its own special chapter in the history of exploration (as well as several chapters of Douglas’s book). The Himalaya has often been described as “the third pole.” In terms of mountaineering, the region is home to some of the world’s most legendary and much fabled peaks. Climbing mountains whether for sport or science, either individually or as a part of an expedition team, is an immensely challenging activity which requires careful planning, reconnaissance, training and organisation. It provides an elemental test of skills and wills, testing limits both physical and psychological. I’m not a mountain climber myself, but ultimately, it seems to me that the desire (or perhaps the <i>need</i>) to climb mountains is a siren call to the soul. It’s not always the achievement of reaching the summit which is the most important goal. But still, the lure of scaling mountain peaks, scarps, ledges and ridges is perhaps found in the fact that they are otherwise inaccessible places which inspire a unique sense of fascination and wonder quite unlike that of other remote points on the globe. </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tenzing_Norgay" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="847" data-original-width="640" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSgpnkCk5KrUhQKCIQ4vg0V8f0WzVOHFWOqALfia0B9OB3YGNgmRH4fpR7UNKPkBoD0ikSjLj6gJe6KX5POAGg5fzSdbztmuTxfY8u7hn1HXuR78WDNcKyATfZQMjjb0iXdTnvlKZTssAj/w303-h400/Tenzing+Norgay+29+May+1953.png" width="303" /></a></span></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tenzing_Norgay" target="_blank">Tenzing Norgay on the summit of Chomolungma, Mount Everest - 29 May 1953</a></i></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">While researching for my PhD,
leafing through the Foreign Office files at the National Archives in Kew, I
have often found myself inadvertently distracted into perusing the many notes
and letters relating to the British expeditions to Mount Everest (Chomolungma)
in the 1920s; forever fascinated by the speculation as to whether or not George
Mallory and Sandy Irvine disappeared perhaps having reached the summit, or
perhaps having fallen just short of it. There are many books both by and about mountaineers
from Mallory and Irvine’s day to the present, one of the most recent – which I
have duly added to my ‘to read’ list – is Mick Conefrey’s, <i>The Last Great
Mountain: The First Ascent of Kangchenjunga</i> (2020). </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><a href="https://www.wikiart.org/en/nicholas-roerich/nan-shan-tibetan-frontier-1936" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="323" data-original-width="480" height="269" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivUDZaI7GXPhsbJj0aysbMKZ3MIuuHBhxd5GOsj1dTpGLPpyUZWJQ2laetnJejZvh2vINDEgkys0MEnnKw-quXcFWnzSEi_E123ymq9qnBFjvQA792zJ5L-8rIgRNUwEYsSmxDZRZe75Ph/w400-h269/Roerich+-+Nan+Shan+Tibetan+Frontier+1936.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://www.wikiart.org/en/nicholas-roerich/nan-shan-tibetan-frontier-1936" target="_blank">Nicholas Roerich - Nan Shan, Tibetan Frontier, 1936</a></i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">My fascination for this region is a fascination which is shared by many and one which is unlikely to fade from prominence any
time soon. Like a shimmering glimpse of Shangri-La – in many ways, though it might well be an all too predictable cliché to
say it: the Himalaya is like a vast and limitless library – a geographical and
historical labyrinth – both real and actual, as well as a labyrinth which has
been transmuted into texts and maps, photographs and films. It is a place which
once entered, enters the soul and never leaves. A region of both the earth and
the mind, a region which we will never exhaust through exploration or idle
dreaming.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/1924_British_Mount_Everest_expedition" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="432" data-original-width="768" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQf5dpTbkvqvmzKoz4bk5IYSS9uJDEA_Bn6QlyYWGdBaQRcYG0BKrqhFQ04IS5l3CDvJ6sDjziw9WUMhCmPtEGHLB0GtmAksX_lPJMng89M2734abqF8apVgC8tpbFN6zITGrVWnKvXvvi/w400-h225/Irvine+and+Mallory.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/1924_British_Mount_Everest_expedition" target="_blank">Andrew 'Sandy' Irvine & George Mallory, 1924</a></i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><o:p> ~ * ~</o:p></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><br /></b></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.goodreads.com/review/show/4809573975" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="1373" data-original-width="898" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSwhM8ZqsrfyXLkhH03VTPVLLvXK7TbZY7G4cxqbfeAwNweZnHUL-RKE8dkFnPTZU1OsIec5LR0tg3CZ2iUBUo7rYCgg7uBwjK9XH7N4MyH9aZe9q5y-FJ00_5cwz_hkulxcndrAfaphqjqaqbC4kSA9uvbYlsnM_Ll0vHtGs8kw_Y36kKOZbD3j5_sQ/s320/Myth%20of%20Shangri-La.jpg" width="209" /></a> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZtodKRTFTn0RhWc2mcwXfhIqcmMIojuObTrQKK4ChT78ecehO-wwvIqzWOYrLUHW-cfQZclt9A3IO4HWuITai1uKjJf-t5dgbWcqOODq1XtBf0rCOddlUdTnaZyygPVno3VqKPY31L4itULRpysvTw9C_lij7znARNKwJGdZrIpEhdA1SKacLoqs-mg/s519/science-on-the-roof-of-the-world.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="519" data-original-width="353" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZtodKRTFTn0RhWc2mcwXfhIqcmMIojuObTrQKK4ChT78ecehO-wwvIqzWOYrLUHW-cfQZclt9A3IO4HWuITai1uKjJf-t5dgbWcqOODq1XtBf0rCOddlUdTnaZyygPVno3VqKPY31L4itULRpysvTw9C_lij7znARNKwJGdZrIpEhdA1SKacLoqs-mg/s320/science-on-the-roof-of-the-world.jpg" width="218" /></a><br /><br /></div><b><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Read my reviews of <i>Science on the Roof of the World: Empire and the Remaking of the Himalaya,</i> by Lachlan Fleetwood (Cambridge University Press, 2022) in <i><a href="https://tim-chamberlain.owlstown.net/publications/11261-book-review-science-on-the-roof-of-the-world-empire-and-the-remaking-of-the-himalaya-by-lachlan-fleetwood" target="_blank">The Alpine Journal, Vol. 126 (2022)</a></i></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>And of <i>The Myth of Shangri-La: Tibet, Travel Writing and the Western Creation of Sacred Landscape, </i>by Peter Bishop (The Athlone Press, 1989) on <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/review/show/4809573975" target="_blank"><i>GoodReads</i></a></b></div></b><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: 700;"><br /></span></div><p></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b>~ * ~</b></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><br /></b></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><i>A Playlist of <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9BubqzJ7p6g&list=PLn_wBoM2GcN8gzqpOR4gWQqryPpFx4PFF" target="_blank">Ed Douglas's Interviews</a> with Various Climbers</i></b></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b>Read an extract from <i><a href="https://lithub.com/on-the-mythologies-of-the-himalaya-mountains/" target="_blank">Himalaya: A Human History</a></i>, by Ed Douglas</b></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b>Ed Douglas's own <a href="https://www.theguardian.com/books/2020/oct/21/top-10-books-about-the-himalayas" target="_blank"><i>Top 10 Books about the Himalaya</i></a></b></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b>Ed Douglas <a href="https://www.theguardian.com/education/2001/apr/23/artsandhumanities.highereducation" target="_blank">talks to Sherpa Ang Tsering</a>, member of the 1924 British Everest expedition</b></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://www.ft.com/content/511daaf9-7830-48f8-8175-407965cb3ead" target="_blank"><i>In Search of Shangri-La in a Lost Himalayan Kingdom</i></a>, by Ed Douglas</b></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/w3ct42lh" target="_blank">Himalaya: The Human Story</a> - The Compass: BBC World Service</b></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><br /></b></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><a href="https://highpeakspureearth.com/" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="942" data-original-width="1800" height="209" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXF5oJAbd15eHoYeK-z_0FdhRCoSXfmvB07g61JDIJzKrHOccj7Zh_OAz-P1XpKu6rMJ7ZqVnoDThyphenhyphenOPelQBIUnOuqrPrYesxc0_g-L2gzh4cGlGZ4-vohuuotWRDICums2Sbl23V25mZQ/w400-h209/High+Peaks+Pure+Earth+Reading+List.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://highpeakspureearth.com/" target="_blank"><b>High Peaks, Pure Earth - Reading Lists</b></a></i></td></tr></tbody></table><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><i><div style="text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><b><a href="https://twitter.com/hashtag/TibetReadingList?src=hashtag_click" target="_blank"><span style="font-size: x-small;">#TibetReadingList</span></a></b></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><b><br /></b></i></div></i><br /><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhe_ujqGiznm40cN4V5CMHQ9F00maP2alifkmrIhrNTAzgVktC9bCfIhycXne7L3DYeErupMa1cWG2XZ6VMiRTd40UX8_n6Hazt96qganmQRAPe94TEZr1m1Q4a5SIiGaFZ5DXgaoaOvRKB/s778/The+Last+Great+Mountain.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="778" data-original-width="500" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhe_ujqGiznm40cN4V5CMHQ9F00maP2alifkmrIhrNTAzgVktC9bCfIhycXne7L3DYeErupMa1cWG2XZ6VMiRTd40UX8_n6Hazt96qganmQRAPe94TEZr1m1Q4a5SIiGaFZ5DXgaoaOvRKB/s320/The+Last+Great+Mountain.jpg" width="206" /></a> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJekI_EEgYNCPbQMRoP6AyD_LpQCC6xW2aT6HNEsfWVIhv-PODmjRjRIP-aRQ4i1BZ2PPpI__rFKxyoFvCxohnnJXV6INIjN2pof-n5MBqazhKcRfMB6dTQYWkLbA5JJC4rmqh7l7DjSfk/s475/Prisoner+of+Kathmandu.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="475" data-original-width="308" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJekI_EEgYNCPbQMRoP6AyD_LpQCC6xW2aT6HNEsfWVIhv-PODmjRjRIP-aRQ4i1BZ2PPpI__rFKxyoFvCxohnnJXV6INIjN2pof-n5MBqazhKcRfMB6dTQYWkLbA5JJC4rmqh7l7DjSfk/s320/Prisoner+of+Kathmandu.jpg" width="207" /></a><br /><br /></div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i><a href="https://www.himalmag.com/himalaya-keay-fatland-douglas-western-narratives-indigenous-histories/" target="_blank">Whose Himalaya Is It?</a> - Amish Raj Mulmi</i></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Himal SouthAsian | 01 March 2023</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><br /></b></div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">~ * ~</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24px; text-align: center;"><b><i>Also on ‘Waymarks’<o:p></o:p></i></b></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24px; text-align: center;"><b><i> </i></b></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24px; text-align: center;"><b><a href="http://eccentricparabola.blogspot.com/2015/06/betrayal-in-high-himalaya-sikkim-tibet.html" target="_blank">Betrayal in the High Himalaya – Sikkim & Tibet</a><o:p></o:p></b></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24px; text-align: center;"><b><a href="http://eccentricparabola.blogspot.com/2019/07/retracing-silk-road.html" target="_blank">Retracing the Silk Road</a><o:p></o:p></b></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24px; text-align: center;"><b><a href="http://eccentricparabola.blogspot.com/2014/04/reviews-of-some-recent-histories-of-asia.html" target="_blank">Reviews of Some Recent Histories of Asia</a><o:p></o:p></b></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24px; text-align: center;"><b><a href="http://eccentricparabola.blogspot.com/2016/07/language-landscape-in-west-china-tibet.html" target="_blank">Language & Landscape in West China & Tibet</a><o:p></o:p></b></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24px; text-align: center;"><a href="http://eccentricparabola.blogspot.com/2014/11/peter-hopkirk-historian-of-great-game.html" target="_blank"><b>Peter Hopkirk </b><b>– Historian of the "Great Game"</b></a></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24px; text-align: center;"><b><a href="http://eccentricparabola.blogspot.com/2016/11/mountain-climbing-by-mistake.html" target="_blank">Mountain Climbing by Mistake</a></b></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24px; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://eccentricparabola.blogspot.com/2022/07/other-everests-new-research-network.html" target="_blank">'Other Everests' - A New Research Network</a></b></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24px; text-align: center;"><br /></p><div style="text-align: center;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><a href="https://manchesteruniversitypress.co.uk/9781526179166/other-everests/" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="333" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNlgjiMfBoFVq5o1mbkIoI7g6GYvTzXfIt5NjI5tFWkZK2ehXjW5QQ4qz8iBMhrYG2S2Eu00lU7DSTSjJpgX-bL3k5DTtd2YBp6g2y-0qVk3wF1JgcAg6zFkFTwTqSAia9eV9pYuWPPp4gY9o-ESlimyvxq5WocIPz-hdZzSeSIyN43ngO7IagivR2fyk0/w266-h400/Other%20Everests%20Cover.jpg" width="266" /></a></span></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://manchesteruniversitypress.co.uk/9781526179166/other-everests/" target="_blank">'Other Everests: One Mountain, Many Worlds' Edited by Paul Gilchrist, Peter Hansen & Jonathan Westaway (MUP, 2024)</a></i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><span style="font-weight: 700;"><br /></span></div><p></p>Timhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11641833714036731203noreply@blogger.com0Himalayas28.5983159 83.93106230.28808206382115387 48.774812299999994 56.908549736178841 119.0873123tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-88759862385027089.post-51955846777771344402021-10-15T00:00:00.028+01:002022-05-26T13:49:12.392+01:00A Distant View of Harrow<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihqnC0BMFyeQPrulp27Wx8fK_V6h7k1AjFSJOrlDBYdjR8H4wNFTOOxnrZ56VHAGwDPby8zZhPcPYzR0MgeilL-vFwgJHPl9YmDSqdUnYrYsIsv1pSJGICBFchlcp0FXxig_8qtgeYeQab/s587/distant-view-of-harrow.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="386" data-original-width="587" height="263" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihqnC0BMFyeQPrulp27Wx8fK_V6h7k1AjFSJOrlDBYdjR8H4wNFTOOxnrZ56VHAGwDPby8zZhPcPYzR0MgeilL-vFwgJHPl9YmDSqdUnYrYsIsv1pSJGICBFchlcp0FXxig_8qtgeYeQab/w400-h263/distant-view-of-harrow.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-left: 1cm;"><i>Again I behold where for
hours I have ponder’d,<o:p></o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-left: 1cm;"><i>As reclining, at eve, on yon
tombstone I lay;<o:p></o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-left: 1cm;"><i>Or round the steep brow of
the churchyard I wander’d,<o:p></o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-left: 1cm;"><i>To catch the last gleam of
the sun’s setting ray.<o:p></o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://onemorelibrary.com/index.php/en/?option=com_djclassifieds&format=raw&view=download&task=download&fid=11380" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="693" data-original-width="412" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjN_v6UGrXfeNQinQFoFJ6kGXIrzcce2fWEllaXeMMipU8oaQNztNbYVSfFKuJQ5JC5LIvQjnD0RCou6h7YOH0gbA-UwHhX6e535OxgeW70TH2vQQLvaM9pOA1osZa0oGyiWXUozMnIOSkz/s320/Hours+of+Idleness.png" width="190" /></a> <a href="https://onemorelibrary.com/index.php/en/?option=com_djclassifieds&format=raw&view=download&task=download&fid=11380" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="1517" data-original-width="898" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi87aj0zRfHRCEBNgNB6ED1NtLwGjTfSqwdTKM8eiHPwHHB481HRmQemFZAcqMxBtjiZqd7p5HVv_rlNDLI6Td1-mVwf7ePBXhg_F3MFPfCbyQ3FoScGupgnFrNIa0uYJZVg_X2lTuBaHrL/s320/Lines+Written+Beneath+an+Elm.jpg" width="189" /></a><br /><br /></div><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Lord Byron and I have something in
common. We both went to school on "the Hill." That is, Harrow-on the-Hill. Except he went to <i><u>the</u></i>
School, whereas I went to a small Sixth Form College located a little further
down the road in the grounds of an old Dominican Convent. But, like Byron
before me, the Hill remains <i>“a favourite spot”</i> – associated in my mind
with a time of very happy friendships. That time was some 30 years ago now, but
those friendships have lasted through the decades, and only just this summer,
we managed to meet up once again on the Hill for a reunion at <i>The Castle</i>
pub on West Street.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhO9rxN3DjUxNfpj6ei6QbNvk_oE2p4Lw8ESkifjT2u6WfGKmH7z_KwQmrcjKAAXWUcbIcnqgeip9FJK9EK_apX0NzLJ-9KIeoXG_FT49d0o6SdxlmiQ6R2DR54-lktVj-YY0t5gPnfM6-X/s2048/Harrow+High+Street+4.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1283" data-original-width="2048" height="250" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhO9rxN3DjUxNfpj6ei6QbNvk_oE2p4Lw8ESkifjT2u6WfGKmH7z_KwQmrcjKAAXWUcbIcnqgeip9FJK9EK_apX0NzLJ-9KIeoXG_FT49d0o6SdxlmiQ6R2DR54-lktVj-YY0t5gPnfM6-X/w400-h250/Harrow+High+Street+4.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>High Street, Harrow-on-the-Hill, c.1950s</i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">The Hill is one of those places
which time never seems to change or alter. It looks much the same today as it
did when I was at Sixth Form in the early 1990s, just the same as it does in
old black and white photos from the early Twentieth Century, and the same as it
appears in even earlier drawings and engravings dating back to Byron’s day. Harrow-on-the-Hill
stands like a verdant island oasis rising out of the surrounding sea of suburbia
on the edge of London, made all the more distinctive by the tall church spire
which reaches out of the green swathe of trees which seem to engulf the Hill.
Travelling north on either of the mainline railways departing from Euston or
Kings Cross-St. Pancras, Harrow-on-the-Hill can be seen as clearly as if it
were a beacon. Long after I’d moved away from Harrow, whenever I travelled on
these routes out of London, I’d always make sure I sat on the left-hand side of
the train carriage to ensure I saw that familiar view of my old hometown passing
by in the far distance.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhD8OH3ZMhhOtMbjVhiOZU-2jy-Z4oWvTK4-O5XiM5ae50tM1mQ3sMMV-67_uWzOtxx13yy0QtGD2DUx-wVwlS1KpYSEywVtmn8Z7w5WBWYl5jen-6S_-Oa1J4sCSD24UAAMWikatOr8Hj5/s2048/DSCN8285.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhD8OH3ZMhhOtMbjVhiOZU-2jy-Z4oWvTK4-O5XiM5ae50tM1mQ3sMMV-67_uWzOtxx13yy0QtGD2DUx-wVwlS1KpYSEywVtmn8Z7w5WBWYl5jen-6S_-Oa1J4sCSD24UAAMWikatOr8Hj5/w300-h400/DSCN8285.JPG" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>High Street, Harrow-on-the-Hill, 2021</i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">From the top of the Hill, looking out
in the other direction, it is possible to get some wonderful views of London to
the southeast – I remember a window on one of the staircases in my college
building which framed a lovely view of faraway London, with the Telecom Tower
as the most recognisable landmark at that time. From ‘The Viewpoint’ on the
crest of the Hill in St. Mary’s Churchyard, looking west, there’s an open view
all the way to Windsor somewhere on the broad horizon. A brass plaque in the
form of a topographical map is set on the top of a kind of look-out-point built
of stone on which you can stand and strain your eyes as you try to make-out
Windsor Castle – something which I have never managed to do (and, to be honest,
I have no idea if it is actually possible).<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjd1FY4DWTvnvEiPzyBjZ1KZRXLYmy4BfkalZoP8VimaSXW7gBn22e25-wBozl5_25WGue6eQnarPPJXixBIN3V41_UKbGmfJM7xVWBhCYETaB6psfHEJ07MpMqH8F0pEST8uAsla-sWtT/s2048/DSCN8324.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjd1FY4DWTvnvEiPzyBjZ1KZRXLYmy4BfkalZoP8VimaSXW7gBn22e25-wBozl5_25WGue6eQnarPPJXixBIN3V41_UKbGmfJM7xVWBhCYETaB6psfHEJ07MpMqH8F0pEST8uAsla-sWtT/w300-h400/DSCN8324.JPG" width="300" /></a></div><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">The Viewpoint, however, is far more
famous for a sight you’ll see if you turn your back on Windsor and look towards
the Church itself. Here you will notice a low table-type tomb built of brick,
supporting a cracked stone slab, and protected by an ornate iron cage. This is
the Peachey Tomb. Although it is also more popularly known as ‘Byron’s Tomb.’ But
this name is somewhat misleading, for it is not <i>his</i> tomb in the sense
that this is the grave where he lies buried. Rather, it is ‘Byron’s tomb’ in
the sense that this is the spot where the poet says he used to enjoy idling the
hours away during his schooldays in the early 1800s. This is the place where he
liked to watch the sunset while lying on top of this tomb beneath an elm tree.
Indeed, it is a scene which he sketches out in two poems that featured in his
first published book of poetry, <i>Hours of Idleness</i> (1807). These were
poems which he wrote when he was 18 and 19 years old, around the same age I was
when attending Sixth Form. In one of the poems, he imagines, at the end of his
life, his body being buried in a humble grave here in Harrow churchyard.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijmk2KiOjQHbLbZqR2dwr4o3ROfC8fDH59vTvv-_UD3okchi_e67bbhnC-62eTwejE-3tjM6luE1YLg5YLyaD2ZwzviPftFwd0tfH_3GnSSptZ5JB2J2Vv7RAE2TrhsLEe6yYTMqc55LFw/s2048/DSCN8318.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijmk2KiOjQHbLbZqR2dwr4o3ROfC8fDH59vTvv-_UD3okchi_e67bbhnC-62eTwejE-3tjM6luE1YLg5YLyaD2ZwzviPftFwd0tfH_3GnSSptZ5JB2J2Vv7RAE2TrhsLEe6yYTMqc55LFw/w300-h400/DSCN8318.JPG" width="300" /></a></div><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-left: 1cm;"><i>Oft have I thought, ’twould
soothe my dying hour,—<o:p></o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-left: 1cm;"><i>If aught may soothe, when
Life resigns her power,—<o:p></o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-left: 1cm;"><i>To know some humbler grave,
some narrow cell,<o:p></o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-left: 1cm;"><i>Would hide my bosom where it
lov’d to dwell;<o:p></o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-left: 1cm;"><i>With this fond dream,
methinks ’twere sweet to die—<o:p></o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-left: 1cm;"><i>And here it linger’d, here
my heart might lie;<o:p></o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-left: 1cm;"><i>Here might I sleep where all
my hopes arose,<o:p></o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-left: 1cm;"><i>Scene of my youth, and couch
of my repose;<o:p></o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-left: 1cm;"><i>For ever stretch’d beneath
this mantling shade,</i><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-left: 1cm;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR42-9XZoKOm6ERQPrS7LU6z7kKMij85wjO6oF5zFQyooM3mPA4kgumo7EtEuYB6nROzSc3WWAbQ0tZ-CJhB3JvHSCFHzgAzubtgNm1RYGUFcItVRjTN1Ep3QXFZmX1TKG3yeeQB4L3Sbz/s900/Peachey+Tomb+4.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="780" data-original-width="900" height="346" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR42-9XZoKOm6ERQPrS7LU6z7kKMij85wjO6oF5zFQyooM3mPA4kgumo7EtEuYB6nROzSc3WWAbQ0tZ-CJhB3JvHSCFHzgAzubtgNm1RYGUFcItVRjTN1Ep3QXFZmX1TKG3yeeQB4L3Sbz/w400-h346/Peachey+Tomb+4.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeqMiS3NY7mxFRH6NAUXrJZlEjt-EcKufxOJRM-hVhajcRAmlYrnLHJ3kdZ3u9y9R1VdG-vaqKioDKaQ5OgQkfxpxzo5bYK39CzCh9C9XirHjjVpD54oM9tHbCjoNC8PjImKy_VFNQs-eI/s2048/DSCN8343.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeqMiS3NY7mxFRH6NAUXrJZlEjt-EcKufxOJRM-hVhajcRAmlYrnLHJ3kdZ3u9y9R1VdG-vaqKioDKaQ5OgQkfxpxzo5bYK39CzCh9C9XirHjjVpD54oM9tHbCjoNC8PjImKy_VFNQs-eI/w400-h300/DSCN8343.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">The opening lines from this poem,
written by Bryon while sitting atop the tomb – as the poem’s title attests –
were later carved in marble and set with lead-lettering as a memorial to Byron
which stands at the foot of the Peachey Tomb. The stone was placed there in
1905 by the son of Sir George Sinclair Bart, a schoolfellow of Byron’s, in
memory of his father and the poet’s friendship. I am not sure when the iron cage
was placed over the tomb, but, so the local story goes, this cage needed to be installed
because the spot became a place of pilgrimage for overly ardent Byron fans
during the heady days of “Byronmania,” because the tomb was suffering from
people emulating the poet by clambering onto it and lolling about on the top,
or even more destructively deliberately chipping off pieces to take away as
mementoes.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXxyQqVBaxZfFpOvPQscc_vtdfEhSSEkg5GlsDJbSlho5fIQ1VRY8iQ_KUbgF-a23FrIChSAvSJ2bq3vb5EFgCGrk8H3aNTvpHotU9Xu12u6pHhzkWAsi72ofDRzb7YUuHQ7XDGy2zBehN/s1644/Peachey+Tomb+3.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1214" data-original-width="1644" height="295" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXxyQqVBaxZfFpOvPQscc_vtdfEhSSEkg5GlsDJbSlho5fIQ1VRY8iQ_KUbgF-a23FrIChSAvSJ2bq3vb5EFgCGrk8H3aNTvpHotU9Xu12u6pHhzkWAsi72ofDRzb7YUuHQ7XDGy2zBehN/w400-h295/Peachey+Tomb+3.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaoQ3leqbfXuwrfBR8SZPIXWDq1rLs9A2cEvIUpjPlxSnF6sniYunWbIqun_iZ0Vx3c6nW_MPbezmZnHF_3QhboopvDEgB6vt73Z7Mo09dfxbQt8nXeIgJwJ0OQLnaZjFWpZjm_RbHVFkV/s2048/DSCN8315.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaoQ3leqbfXuwrfBR8SZPIXWDq1rLs9A2cEvIUpjPlxSnF6sniYunWbIqun_iZ0Vx3c6nW_MPbezmZnHF_3QhboopvDEgB6vt73Z7Mo09dfxbQt8nXeIgJwJ0OQLnaZjFWpZjm_RbHVFkV/w400-h300/DSCN8315.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">My friends and I used to come to
this ‘favourite spot’ quite a lot. We’d sit on the benches here during college
breaktimes, as well as passing by when <i>en route</i> at the end of the
college day, heading back down to Harrow town centre, where we’d then kill time
wandering around the shops before reluctantly parting and making our separate
ways home. And a couple of years before I went to Sixth Form, I stayed for a
weekend in the Vicarage of St. Mary’s Church during the religious studies prior
to my Confirmation. The room I stayed in had a window which looked out over the
same view as that seen from the Viewpoint, just a short stone’s throw from the
Peachey Tomb itself. All of which meant the Hill was a place I came to know
intimately during my teenage years, much as Byron must have done.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><a href="https://londonist.com/2016/03/graffitiroom" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="333" data-original-width="500" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMSXc5Vh5nOdTYtkMstNzUCbSFz4YP5wsDkwkPHtNoPf-3eQdLYASbbZnd0UHbCasTUTGNHsrOcnhe1XtKQJdvbMOZYE0NSTevlT6pdP53w0f_96GwhemrGiSlWLSSkHN8JjTkWVhnTV__/w400-h266/Byron+Harrow.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://londonist.com/2016/03/graffitiroom" target="_blank">Byron's name, Harrow School</a></i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">There are other traces of Byron too,
which can still be found lingering about the Hill. Perhaps the most direct
association is the carving of his name into the wooden panelling of the old
School Room. This particular piece of graffiti looks a lot neater than the
rendering of his name which is scratched into a stone pillar in the dungeon of
the Chateau de Chillon on the Swiss shores of Lake Leman, which is said to have
been inscribed by the poet himself while he was wandering through Europe during
his years of self-imposed exile, when his scandalous love life compelled him to
leave England. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWR7Zb5bktBeDmmRAR78e1uC_RpAo3RGVaA0JEY6m87epaCHFfHBtMnXMlf978KE8EzvQCGcXBVTYSNiENdScq4MfHJaaAeNQ2DqIr7-6K6urfdsLJyCiE9hiHLafuYRx-osVkU2T6n8Hz/s800/Lord_Byron_in_Albanian_dress.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="666" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWR7Zb5bktBeDmmRAR78e1uC_RpAo3RGVaA0JEY6m87epaCHFfHBtMnXMlf978KE8EzvQCGcXBVTYSNiENdScq4MfHJaaAeNQ2DqIr7-6K6urfdsLJyCiE9hiHLafuYRx-osVkU2T6n8Hz/w333-h400/Lord_Byron_in_Albanian_dress.jpg" width="333" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Thomas Phillips, George Gordon, 6th Lord Byron (1788–1824) in Albanian Dress, 1834</i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhx_0GGbEE3Sf6Uvl3piziP9RorOKqrwPBOVMPrBdwQMJmSxJycVKY85XvoOXuhCl2KO6uv8maMvEb90HhB0mEoPV5RYShKk0R3Nhyphenhyphen0U48fs84perWkLtgPtbJHm_eReWfqrsz8OkL5z-5O/s2048/DSCN8308.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhx_0GGbEE3Sf6Uvl3piziP9RorOKqrwPBOVMPrBdwQMJmSxJycVKY85XvoOXuhCl2KO6uv8maMvEb90HhB0mEoPV5RYShKk0R3Nhyphenhyphen0U48fs84perWkLtgPtbJHm_eReWfqrsz8OkL5z-5O/w300-h400/DSCN8308.JPG" width="300" /></a></div><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">A more poignant monument linking
Byron to Harrow Churchyard, however, is the one located low to the ground
beside the door of St. Mary’s South Porch. This is a small plaque commemorating
Byron’s daughter, Allegra. She was born ten years after Byron wrote his poem
beneath the elm tree here in the same churchyard, envisaging his own internment
there some day. Instead, it was his young daughter with Claire Clairmont who
was laid to rest here in 1822 in a very humble grave, so humble in fact that
only its rough location – somewhere near the porch door – is known. Allegra’s
grave remained unmarked until the Byron Society erected this plaque in 1980. At
the time of her burial, Allegra was denied a memorial, allegedly due to the
fact she had been born illegitimate, but the real reason was perhaps much more
likely due to the Church Authority’s aversion to Byron’s infamous immorality. Hence,
he knew they would never permit his body to be laid to rest there when the time
eventually came. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNifILIToNEO54XkCf6ERWG2EvfGu7vMrB6joDsPKfF0UDjEj2kfYmS0YdCdhP2QILhL6eotCpPuD3K9d_DFQ9kY5xQTkTTtqK1NSW-8C4HqAN0mUA4DANPfUq3c7mFwu2Nzhodr2DviGn/s2048/DSCN8310.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNifILIToNEO54XkCf6ERWG2EvfGu7vMrB6joDsPKfF0UDjEj2kfYmS0YdCdhP2QILhL6eotCpPuD3K9d_DFQ9kY5xQTkTTtqK1NSW-8C4HqAN0mUA4DANPfUq3c7mFwu2Nzhodr2DviGn/w300-h400/DSCN8310.JPG" width="300" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCjMx_zEpEIpVsd_MegsDxi2FP4uc-i0hW_Jc9fi_71Ps3g473522w0WXq2Hy3D4HQ9w5yLVFT3j__IJGwRZBIouLecq1emj3G_dS3az2bLz04uKKkv4gkjaIY9Cyu4KhzZDaGFa6ccgyB/s2048/DSCN8311.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCjMx_zEpEIpVsd_MegsDxi2FP4uc-i0hW_Jc9fi_71Ps3g473522w0WXq2Hy3D4HQ9w5yLVFT3j__IJGwRZBIouLecq1emj3G_dS3az2bLz04uKKkv4gkjaIY9Cyu4KhzZDaGFa6ccgyB/w400-h300/DSCN8311.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Allegra was just five years old
when she died, and although Byron had sent for her – her mother mistakenly
believing Allegra would have better prospects if she was raised by her famous
father – he neglected his daughter severely. First passing responsibility for her
care onto his friends, who were at best indifferent to her, and then subsequently
sending her off to a series of convents in remote parts of Italy, where he
wouldn’t have to see or think about her. It’s thought she died from typhus or
malaria. Her unexpected death shook her father to the core apparently. Guilt
and grief became transmuted. He had her small body sent back to England, where
he paid lavishly for her little coffin to be conveyed in a fancy horse-drawn hearse
from the London docks to Harrow. Where Allegra was buried in this ‘favourite
spot’ of his own youth, meaning that in some sense a part of him does lie here
in Harrow churchyard. It’s a sad story. But perhaps Allegra’s death embodies
the innocence, both hers and her father’s own, which Byron had so profligately
cast aside: <i>“Deplor’d by those in early days allied, / And unremember’d by
the world beside.”<o:p></o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjN_5vZld4ic3cWbVTCFj3O30TJBNQNZSiMkLW7zTGKyDw85vTnotmh4j6qarN111rTCrhAC-QsM0zJKk_IUnZWO-PK8-WrFB2L2nExUEdRMMnWelRhco_lpni4Ps8aJPjqc9ud6RPQl4rB/s1911/St+Marys+Harrow+1921.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1017" data-original-width="1911" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjN_5vZld4ic3cWbVTCFj3O30TJBNQNZSiMkLW7zTGKyDw85vTnotmh4j6qarN111rTCrhAC-QsM0zJKk_IUnZWO-PK8-WrFB2L2nExUEdRMMnWelRhco_lpni4Ps8aJPjqc9ud6RPQl4rB/w400-h213/St+Marys+Harrow+1921.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>St. Mary's, Harrow-on-the-Hill, 1921</i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">From The Viewpoint, St. Mary’s
Churchyard continues down the slope of the Hill. Filled with tall and imposing
Gothic Victorian headstones, there are many interesting graves and memorials to
be found hidden away here. It is a quiet and tranquil haven for birds and wildlife.
Wandering beneath the tall trees this summer, though, I was struck by how
unkempt and uncared for much of the churchyard seems nowadays. A lot of the
graves appear to have succumbed to the depredations of time and the elements in
the 30 years or so since my college days, when I used to pass through the old place
more regularly. At long last, outrun by time it seems, the names of many of
those who lived here long ago, and who have long since been laid to rest here
on the Hill, are no longer remembered by those ‘dearly beloved’ inscriptions which
have slowly eroded from their moss covered and ivy-swathed memorials. It seems
strange to think how a poet’s words and a poet’s fame can remain as something
more permanent than words and names which were intended to endure, wrought in
stone, forever. I suppose, as the Romantic poets knew and lamented only too
well, all things must pass in time. Though they change, places persist, while
memories fade.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4HISYz37AMzLxjvHvX31vulSiN7DacSXp8GMSkfY7Rf4xRVQfVGQSIww6_KG9H1tWnUsbt_-dDr75nVfWx5K3NC_l7cak5_8aAwS3JjMqxtg-kF2XqCsmntKvsV9_0qBlEUBD8kZf6VRL/s2048/DSCN8340.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4HISYz37AMzLxjvHvX31vulSiN7DacSXp8GMSkfY7Rf4xRVQfVGQSIww6_KG9H1tWnUsbt_-dDr75nVfWx5K3NC_l7cak5_8aAwS3JjMqxtg-kF2XqCsmntKvsV9_0qBlEUBD8kZf6VRL/w400-h300/DSCN8340.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">It was during my time at Sixth Form
College, here on the Hill, while studying for English A-Level, that I first
read the Romantic poets. We studied John Keats, but I remember reading Byron
too. I can still recite Byron’s <i>She Walks In Beauty</i> by heart even today.
It is definitely one of my favourite poems. Studying the Romantics certainly
helped to instil a love of literature which in later years lead me on to
delight in the wicked humour of Byron’s epic, <i>Don Juan</i>. One of the
things I most enjoyed at Sixth Form was being a member of the creative writing club,
which wasn’t quite <i>Dead Poet’s Society</i>, but something rather like it
given the small size of the college and its beautiful grounds. I genuinely
enjoyed Sixth Form, despite the fact that I found A-Levels pretty hard-going –
tougher in fact than my subsequent studies at university, both as an
undergraduate and as a postgrad. I suppose it was a combination of time and
place, but most especially people – my friends and fellow students were what
made my two years at Sixth Form College so special. Hence, the same as Byron, I
feel a deep and abiding affection for the Hill because of the warmth derived
from the memories I retain of it.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_A59W7FdCVTezFzUKoMz_cqXjsKyNl8g_96MLqt7SDY-R_W1NktNTjE3mVvXh0repQawxNBcgRN5y1lTFKd50tydKqi-ieNKfUNChGtt2YKdeQdyOmp9Hg_GshjFqPNAPnX1NDE-OMDkD/s2048/DSCN8247.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_A59W7FdCVTezFzUKoMz_cqXjsKyNl8g_96MLqt7SDY-R_W1NktNTjE3mVvXh0repQawxNBcgRN5y1lTFKd50tydKqi-ieNKfUNChGtt2YKdeQdyOmp9Hg_GshjFqPNAPnX1NDE-OMDkD/w400-h300/DSCN8247.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Beyond the graveyard of St. Mary’s
Church, there is a wide expanse of green grass which hasn’t changed at all.
This green space, where as kids we used to go tobogganing in winter, is crossed
by a narrow path which starts at the foot of the Hill beside St. Anselm’s
Primary School (named after the beatified priest who first consecrated St.
Mary’s Church in 1094). The path runs across the side of the Hill to West
Street. In the mornings I often used to walk this path to college from the bus
station in Harrow on the days when I didn’t cycle to Sixth Form. It was always
a nice way to start the day, getting a breath of fresh air while listening to
the wind soughing through the branches of the tall trees surrounding the
church, whatever the season and whatever the weather. But it was even nicer to
walk this path once again on a sunny afternoon this summer. A true homecoming,
long awaited. Making my way up to <i>The Castle</i> once more, to meet with my old
college friends, and to feel all those years simply melt away. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjy0TnUsIbtTOKLdQThZpEZbhsJ7RtDiHEUHFGgLfRHH2aVwXNEx6Iuz-CYeRs-FLvlhDvs8QcUnWHite5enGlHZgCq7zYV-O4qA6AI1TvJOR1QJ6bOGTe9ALuAQC4oA8_UKo7YaYZSgHS5/s550/The+Castle.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="365" data-original-width="550" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjy0TnUsIbtTOKLdQThZpEZbhsJ7RtDiHEUHFGgLfRHH2aVwXNEx6Iuz-CYeRs-FLvlhDvs8QcUnWHite5enGlHZgCq7zYV-O4qA6AI1TvJOR1QJ6bOGTe9ALuAQC4oA8_UKo7YaYZSgHS5/w400-h265/The+Castle.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-left: 1cm;"><i>Oh! as I trace again thy
winding hill,<o:p></o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-left: 1cm;"><i>Mine eyes admire, my heart
adores thee still,<o:p></o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-left: 1cm;"><i>Thou drooping Elm! beneath
whose boughs I lay,<o:p></o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-left: 1cm;"><i>And frequent mus’d the
twilight hours away;<o:p></o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-left: 1cm;"><i>Where, as they once were
wont, my limbs recline,<o:p></o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-left: 1cm;"><i>But, ah! without the thoughts
which then were mine:<o:p></o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-left: 1cm;"><i>How do thy branches, moaning
to the blast,<o:p></o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-left: 1cm;"><i>Invite the bosom to recall
the past,<o:p></o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-left: 1cm;"><i>And seem to whisper, as they
gently swell,<o:p></o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-left: 1cm;"><i>“Take, while thou canst, a
lingering, last farewell!”<o:p></o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhG6HkYPfHaDTdxm-LyxmgAo_zoXT9ACHKLbjaO48Tzq9m5TDNrPnJQ2_U_GCnu4ZZuhqlg4LSQtsdO_0Ce372r1qL9r8KKmxMDIdO8n9y0MZmTRgmS9QRxnzJqbW8wC8ICFBm-A3rpMJ2n/s2048/DSCN8313.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhG6HkYPfHaDTdxm-LyxmgAo_zoXT9ACHKLbjaO48Tzq9m5TDNrPnJQ2_U_GCnu4ZZuhqlg4LSQtsdO_0Ce372r1qL9r8KKmxMDIdO8n9y0MZmTRgmS9QRxnzJqbW8wC8ICFBm-A3rpMJ2n/w400-h300/DSCN8313.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><i>Also
on ‘Waymarks’<o:p></o:p></i></b></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><i><o:p> </o:p></i></b></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><a href="http://eccentricparabola.blogspot.com/2021/03/seeking-solace-sunshine.html" target="_blank">Seeking
Solace & Sunshine</a><o:p></o:p></b></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><a href="http://eccentricparabola.blogspot.com/2014/04/the-visitor-of-chillon.html" target="_blank">The Visitor of Chillon</a><o:p></o:p></b></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><a href="http://eccentricparabola.blogspot.com/2021/02/here-lies-one-whose-name-is-writ-in.html" target="_blank">“Here Lies One Whose Name Is Writ In Water”</a></b><o:p></o:p></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><br /></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh09hUT_188lYvkY3aIvN3wXcQAejtDCY5HoK3IOYiUIQaUyh1d_0NTXd2EnXY7jwDv1Tiwd4H53x9Eza4F-B4cfFl6QrFvSOxPECJAXlVtYRSYDLOPF6Ltx7y8-wiVqafpKMHcEfI6jcnU/s2048/DSCN8291.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh09hUT_188lYvkY3aIvN3wXcQAejtDCY5HoK3IOYiUIQaUyh1d_0NTXd2EnXY7jwDv1Tiwd4H53x9Eza4F-B4cfFl6QrFvSOxPECJAXlVtYRSYDLOPF6Ltx7y8-wiVqafpKMHcEfI6jcnU/w300-h400/DSCN8291.JPG" width="300" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHiwoLaIcLW3BFv4vuGtjXVPs7sOzKYdmh4ZrTfHZCwtWz3Eax-hZn5iPCcQBbUbI7bTAwYH_luugGttm-Wd4SRYbzURdhHWua-mCO-UcY0QszrB8iaX3KLZAKBtO6ujmU8a8meZOVRzd5Ufu0TXHsJ3EYn8ESPh1WK59LcZGriFQxL7KX_Yu3ZpnA6A/s1376/Byrons%20Elm%201910.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="896" data-original-width="1376" height="260" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHiwoLaIcLW3BFv4vuGtjXVPs7sOzKYdmh4ZrTfHZCwtWz3Eax-hZn5iPCcQBbUbI7bTAwYH_luugGttm-Wd4SRYbzURdhHWua-mCO-UcY0QszrB8iaX3KLZAKBtO6ujmU8a8meZOVRzd5Ufu0TXHsJ3EYn8ESPh1WK59LcZGriFQxL7KX_Yu3ZpnA6A/w400-h260/Byrons%20Elm%201910.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Byron's Elm & Church Terrace, Harrow - c.1910</i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><br /></p>Timhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11641833714036731203noreply@blogger.com0Harrow on the Hill, Harrow, UK51.5706321 -0.339636323.260398263821152 -35.4958863 79.88086593617885 34.8166137tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-88759862385027089.post-61034823037677802172021-10-01T00:00:00.147+01:002021-10-01T08:52:17.378+01:00Megaliths of Malta<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKayuq5NCxU1G9tSXQbRBmmwD8JSY3MnPQIvNjoBKBzmQshP4KWXFxSHmCrZJGJ2Sx9cb9K6GPZaLAuAkdLQS6FFh9qYrrcVc9MmUMFFFA-d6XwBHHy5IP9j0qv_Z7FEUuTlWuBzKxuXgC/s4608/P1040953.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKayuq5NCxU1G9tSXQbRBmmwD8JSY3MnPQIvNjoBKBzmQshP4KWXFxSHmCrZJGJ2Sx9cb9K6GPZaLAuAkdLQS6FFh9qYrrcVc9MmUMFFFA-d6XwBHHy5IP9j0qv_Z7FEUuTlWuBzKxuXgC/w400-h300/P1040953.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Writing in 1924, the
anthropologist, Leonard Dudley Buxton, observed: <i>“The student of human
history will find many remarkable things in Malta.” </i>– He’s not wrong. For
anyone with an interest in history, Malta is a genuine ‘Treasure Island.’ My
first memory of hearing about this remarkable place was from my grandmother.
When I was a child, she used to keep a handwritten list pinned by a magnet to the
door of her refrigerator. It was a list of all the places she wanted to visit
and all the adventurous the things she wanted to do. Once she’d done them, she
used to get me to cross them off using a red pencil. Two of the things I remember
listed on that piece of paper were a flight on Concorde and a visit to the
Island of Malta. My grandmother knew I was very interested in history; hence I
remember her showing me photographs of her and my grandfather riding the
beautiful old buses (which until relatively recently were still in service on
the island), visiting crumbling castles and sun-kissed harbours filled with beautiful
sailing boats. Malta certainly did appeal to me. To my young ears there was a
lyrical, lilting magic to the sound of its name, like honeycomb and milk chocolate
– Malta. It was something I never forgot, and so, several decades later, having
just finished my masters degree in history, I decided it was high time to
finally see Malta for myself.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgc5hlXzy1PgrY_wZf7cSmfZRAu-TmjoeAaXvAiIQN4fKCf8i5-hWLZpxZXhbdn0vUpRCuQd0y0ItnVjRzJN-m8g0hhzyZ3wnjsOZzS2qtecODhxrw6S3pq-K60A800XUNKuxB2WMSoYRLd/s4608/P1050147.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgc5hlXzy1PgrY_wZf7cSmfZRAu-TmjoeAaXvAiIQN4fKCf8i5-hWLZpxZXhbdn0vUpRCuQd0y0ItnVjRzJN-m8g0hhzyZ3wnjsOZzS2qtecODhxrw6S3pq-K60A800XUNKuxB2WMSoYRLd/w400-h300/P1050147.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Old buses at Mdina, Malta</i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Malta is a small archipelago of
five islands. The two main islands are Malta and Gozo, with two smaller
islands, Comino and Cominetto, set in the channel between them; plus there is
also a small outlying island, Filfla, located off the southwest coast of Malta.
It is only a modest archipelago. Malta is about 95 miles square, and Gozo just
25 square miles. Consequently, it is the perfect size to explore during a one
or two week holiday. I got myself a bus pass which enabled me to hop on and off
the buses which frequently crisscross the island, and this proved to be the
best way to navigate from one historical site to another because there are many
interesting places to see. Human occupation on the island goes back to at least
the Neolithic period when a flourishing culture constructed a series of unique
and unusual megalithic ‘buildings’ and subterranean crypts, some of which
predate other well known Neolithic sites such as Stonehenge in England. Many
centuries later the island was home to the Hospitaller Knights of St. John who
were displaced here from the island of Rhodes when Rhodes fell to the Ottomans
in 1523. The Knights of St. John are responsible for most of the formidable fortifications
which can still be seen in the main town of Valletta. In more recent history
the island was known as ‘Fortress Malta’ during World War 2, when it formed an
important naval base for the Allied resistance to the invading Nazi military
machine in the Mediterranean arena.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKAGk9flNnljDzZj37YTt0KY5SfLsm-s9ydBx0uOUMmIA_KgRXVdhiClpTxOIK8HyPV89sJ8EMOnhxe7dwYgtN8kUB_vasI_B_pIAZy2tjPmYlUe81x8tMjFEJdMzcDE3WXmqPs-v_hd4j/s4608/P1040734.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKAGk9flNnljDzZj37YTt0KY5SfLsm-s9ydBx0uOUMmIA_KgRXVdhiClpTxOIK8HyPV89sJ8EMOnhxe7dwYgtN8kUB_vasI_B_pIAZy2tjPmYlUe81x8tMjFEJdMzcDE3WXmqPs-v_hd4j/w400-h300/P1040734.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"><i>'Gallarijia' balconies in Valletta</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">I spent my first day on Malta
exploring the old town of Valletta which is a warren of narrow streets filled
with fascinating old buildings, gardens, churches and ramparts. It is a picturesque
place to wander around, the streets overhung by distinctive ‘gallarijia’
balconies, and plenty of churches to sneak a peek inside as you find them when
strolling the back streets. The Co-Cathedral of St. John is well worth a visit
with its grandly elaborate Barqoue interior lavishly decked out in gold, marble
and bright paint. The Cathedral’s Oratory holds two marvellous paintings by Caravaggio
– the <i>Beheading of St. John the Baptist</i>, painted in 1608, is Caravaggio’s largest
canvas and also the only one of his works which he signed; plus, a portrait of St.
Jerome writing, perhaps showing him translating the Bible from Greek into
Latin. It is one of two versions of this subject by him which I particularly
like. When Caravaggio was on Malta painting these works the Cathedral would have
looked much more austere. Its Baroque decorations were added later over the
course of many years. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><o:p> </o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLw8PKmMb-ruu_bI4DhoHHZphua3-gNWkeHJJz0dB0lMdYYU8F9GkG9vVu3GfnhtMqvk7ZkcELKu0KPVZMrL-Mm-GwoNtEgRj0ozRS3YVZN5oqksLk0oj2kcFVhDkjix3brk9Wz6yrgrGD/s4608/P1040705.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLw8PKmMb-ruu_bI4DhoHHZphua3-gNWkeHJJz0dB0lMdYYU8F9GkG9vVu3GfnhtMqvk7ZkcELKu0KPVZMrL-Mm-GwoNtEgRj0ozRS3YVZN5oqksLk0oj2kcFVhDkjix3brk9Wz6yrgrGD/w400-h300/P1040705.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOMXJxH2VEc6fhWcyLV5N8mXa5GCcNhvOspDDaPf7KGzMLxyhml_-3Y0KmEjuhuKzLkSiWJWXxv_JWz-nrx-ZAw0miwsjAJKR3pl30ks3ERT8l_AFaSHv9GapLVBzHMcOvCC5dO5Ie8fq8/s4608/P1040692.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOMXJxH2VEc6fhWcyLV5N8mXa5GCcNhvOspDDaPf7KGzMLxyhml_-3Y0KmEjuhuKzLkSiWJWXxv_JWz-nrx-ZAw0miwsjAJKR3pl30ks3ERT8l_AFaSHv9GapLVBzHMcOvCC5dO5Ie8fq8/w400-h300/P1040692.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"><i>The Co-Cathedral of St. John, Valletta</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIgz_J6S3_u6VkI7K8dGeAmWNs9MQl4MB3OtHAJUKmUjHFOWru0JzTlW4oDQQuaQncI9KAKqF0mw_VGwcUxtOSxjT14Hnq5ttId9Elw2bKIXkbwgzaS-WRNRzSxD6QKeqAhCGCCr07Fa5a/s1280/1280px-La_decapitaci%25C3%25B3n_de_San_Juan_Bautista%252C_por_Caravaggio.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="885" data-original-width="1280" height="276" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIgz_J6S3_u6VkI7K8dGeAmWNs9MQl4MB3OtHAJUKmUjHFOWru0JzTlW4oDQQuaQncI9KAKqF0mw_VGwcUxtOSxjT14Hnq5ttId9Elw2bKIXkbwgzaS-WRNRzSxD6QKeqAhCGCCr07Fa5a/w400-h276/1280px-La_decapitaci%25C3%25B3n_de_San_Juan_Bautista%252C_por_Caravaggio.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i style="text-align: left;">Beheading of St. John the Baptist, by Caravaggio</i></td></tr></tbody></table></div><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Caravaggio arrived here on Malta in
July 1607 and became a novice of the Order of St. John. He was a brilliant young
firebrand, noted for his prodigious talents in painting and picking fights.
Having killed a well-connected man in Rome the year before, he fled Italy and
found sanctuary on the island. Soon after his arrival he was involved in yet
another brawl, this time with six other Italian knights in which a knight of
high rank was shot and seriously wounded. Caravaggio was imprisoned in Fort St.
Angelo, but managed a daring escape (perhaps aided by influential friends) in
which he scaled the fort’s massive walls using ropes. He then fled once again,
this time on a boat bound for Sicily. From here he made his way north to
Naples, but his life on the run ended somewhat mysteriously when he died, it is
thought from a fever, at the age of 39. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgic4bC3AJ_OMBgQf7w7-N0E6iAsP6H3cjp05C8qYoPG1yg3uVQownHL_JIEGnSSWaIyp0XieVpnglSByhRaWj2xq_-m6DnlbtXJiFaOtkiswP16Dvgx_RLJEhOhz_ccpOUi9Q7D_aNpa31/s1037/CaravaggioJeromeValletta.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="716" data-original-width="1037" height="276" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgic4bC3AJ_OMBgQf7w7-N0E6iAsP6H3cjp05C8qYoPG1yg3uVQownHL_JIEGnSSWaIyp0XieVpnglSByhRaWj2xq_-m6DnlbtXJiFaOtkiswP16Dvgx_RLJEhOhz_ccpOUi9Q7D_aNpa31/w400-h276/CaravaggioJeromeValletta.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Saint Jerome, by Caravaggio</i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Caravaggio’s effect upon European
painting was profound, particularly on Mattia Preti, who later painted the
Cathedral’s six-section barrel-vaulted ceiling. Noted for its realism Caravaggio’s
style broke with the norms of religious painting, note the absence of chubby little
cherubs and winged angels in many of his works. His subjects can often be vividly
gruesome, choosing to focus on beheadings and the like, but he is also capable
of scenes of great serenity – as his two paintings of St. John and St. Jerome
found here in the Cathedral each amply attest. Whilst I was staying on Malta I
found an interesting book about Caravaggio’s time on the island, <i>Caravaggio:
Art, Knighthood and Malta, </i>by Keith Sciberras and David M. Stone (2006).<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOHIALqUizr5HytCaD68asaAYX0FWZplhBzraENS-wjsIQP-ml1DUCG2VYaSVpQSr4oWUjNXLcgTcf_m2IVvsSkMTELyfE1z7SxrRheYZkq8f5hOHFKgi9_jr1oNvL_tiJDXLGnlc9FCRx/s1099/Valentin_de_Boulogne%252C_Judith_and_Holofernes.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="770" data-original-width="1099" height="280" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOHIALqUizr5HytCaD68asaAYX0FWZplhBzraENS-wjsIQP-ml1DUCG2VYaSVpQSr4oWUjNXLcgTcf_m2IVvsSkMTELyfE1z7SxrRheYZkq8f5hOHFKgi9_jr1oNvL_tiJDXLGnlc9FCRx/w400-h280/Valentin_de_Boulogne%252C_Judith_and_Holofernes.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i style="text-align: left;">Judith and Holofernes, by </i><span style="text-align: left;"><i>Valentin de Boulogne</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNp1SJiD2R1jD-v_RqkZ42HRdPkvxsMSrVmJ1DIPAYn1_3_hR9synSY5v8Qj-F8myx7whe-211nG6FoKrqXSbZzGHS-wcgCE6KewEbjAqurRw37YkAvhqPTDOGs8tPnYl_7DT96O__KFMN/s4608/P1040721.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4608" data-original-width="3456" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNp1SJiD2R1jD-v_RqkZ42HRdPkvxsMSrVmJ1DIPAYn1_3_hR9synSY5v8Qj-F8myx7whe-211nG6FoKrqXSbZzGHS-wcgCE6KewEbjAqurRw37YkAvhqPTDOGs8tPnYl_7DT96O__KFMN/w300-h400/P1040721.JPG" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Heraclitus, by ?</i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Malta’s National Museum of Fine Art
(which I think has moved premises since I visited in 2014) also houses some
really magnificent paintings. Here the works which struck me most were Valentin
de Boulogne’s <i>Judith and Holofernes</i>, which shows clear influences of
Caravaggio’s treatment of the same gruesome subject, and a very moving painting
of an old man weeping, titled <i>Heraclitus</i> – which sadly I failed to note down
the name of the artist (and I’ve since been unable to find any reference to it on-line.
If anyone knows who it is by, please post a comment to let me know!). There are
also two lovely and evocative views of Malta done by the Scottish artist, David
Roberts, who is perhaps best know for his distinctive nineteenth-century views
of ruined temples and other monuments which he painted whilst on a tour of Egypt.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifEAoW09VqzrWoCGrIVGh3r4tEGXh7POtaOP450UhprJzaq7Pq2Vb0mz8ZAfXCxqHCWEyatWdV9QLZ-B_wxnzN2G4EK7Dy__ikwXlMmbc3c3IYH9HuLWBoItjrHUZn19vro85lzHg5CWqZ/s4608/P1040723.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifEAoW09VqzrWoCGrIVGh3r4tEGXh7POtaOP450UhprJzaq7Pq2Vb0mz8ZAfXCxqHCWEyatWdV9QLZ-B_wxnzN2G4EK7Dy__ikwXlMmbc3c3IYH9HuLWBoItjrHUZn19vro85lzHg5CWqZ/w400-h300/P1040723.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Valletta Harbour, by David Roberts</i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSQq_mvWYDBeKNPe_A_swNxCg8b5PoasM-1GxGOhFZ11izh5RU9ip04JmhlbFLubCCSCnsPtKez7rghxKmHQXmi0efbhWr8DChiANNI9rHW6T3zp-CQXIzT1Of_66lpiV2YAedIPRTJ55B/s4608/P1040625.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSQq_mvWYDBeKNPe_A_swNxCg8b5PoasM-1GxGOhFZ11izh5RU9ip04JmhlbFLubCCSCnsPtKez7rghxKmHQXmi0efbhWr8DChiANNI9rHW6T3zp-CQXIzT1Of_66lpiV2YAedIPRTJ55B/w400-h300/P1040625.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>The 'Sleeping Lady' from the Hypogeum</i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">The National Museum of Archaeology
in the centre of Valletta is also well worth a visit before heading out to the
various archaeological sites of interest for which Malta is most famous. A large
bust of Themistocles ‘Temi’ Zammit, the father of scientific archaeology on
Malta and former Director of the Museum, greets you as you arrive. Here artefacts
from Malta’s Neolithic Period (5000 BC) up to the Phoenician Period (400 BC),
including the ‘Sleeping Lady’ (from the Ħal Saflieni Hypogeum), the ‘Venus of
Malta’ (from Ħaġar Qim Temples), Bronze Age daggers (from Tarxien Temples), and
a Phoenician anthropomorphic sarcophagus, help to orient you and explain some
of the temple sites before you visit. When I visited, perhaps taking its cue
from Neil MacGregor, the Museum had put on a special exhibition illustrating
the ‘History of Malta in 100 Objects’, including the George Cross Medal which
was given to the island’s population as a whole in recognition of Malta’s key
role during World War 2. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLf0e5sIZGqTmrVBbutkcMnyFxD1dp8-Wzi4be5edbT2ZP5xhic9i6HPBx8DTxVVF-39M6KD2mmnLmXS70jI4rYodKVja_aJS57A-YCCi5v2DCnqAmpdj5p-1LcqjVXoDfVXK35llx83uu/s4608/P1040646.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLf0e5sIZGqTmrVBbutkcMnyFxD1dp8-Wzi4be5edbT2ZP5xhic9i6HPBx8DTxVVF-39M6KD2mmnLmXS70jI4rYodKVja_aJS57A-YCCi5v2DCnqAmpdj5p-1LcqjVXoDfVXK35llx83uu/w400-h300/P1040646.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxw2Y8hqPEqKvqZjJXfcrh5zEVtfqb8ZoIA1NLjI5ieZfskgkv99dSXIylD1ggSXs-QedmP5VgoNWbsgDIXoAdOC95xKxAeSmZwKQsQ4w6qaaM8QOy48rLB7X2lrr6Nw579sT7-SkQBEIx/s4608/P1040645.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4608" data-original-width="3456" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxw2Y8hqPEqKvqZjJXfcrh5zEVtfqb8ZoIA1NLjI5ieZfskgkv99dSXIylD1ggSXs-QedmP5VgoNWbsgDIXoAdOC95xKxAeSmZwKQsQ4w6qaaM8QOy48rLB7X2lrr6Nw579sT7-SkQBEIx/w300-h400/P1040645.JPG" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>The George Cross Medal presented to the Island of Malta</i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Since its independence from Britain
in 1964 the George Cross insignia has been incorporated into the national flag
of Malta, a curious choice when you consider the fact that the George Cross is
very much linked to the British Empire from which the island was then seceding,
as well as the fact that Malta already has its own long established and very distinctive
signature cruciform insignia – the Maltese Cross, which can be found on Maltese
1 Euro coins. I did read somewhere that this choice might have been made because,
when the British Empire became the Commonwealth, it was mooted that Malta might
be given British dependency status, in much the same way as Jersey and Guernsey,
but in the end Malta was made fully independent instead.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh56mHVzMU0GtidxO06yDjS-1vKAHLlUvGHmPyxdnM7Npz1XQ_AhwykBgCZyQVg2g55nDui6AyPXYoj1Hd148Mdd6oRvpsKlYofovOfso3sANdRgab-UKOhuEsIaNstqR_Whhq9phLecEhI/s4608/P1050106.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh56mHVzMU0GtidxO06yDjS-1vKAHLlUvGHmPyxdnM7Npz1XQ_AhwykBgCZyQVg2g55nDui6AyPXYoj1Hd148Mdd6oRvpsKlYofovOfso3sANdRgab-UKOhuEsIaNstqR_Whhq9phLecEhI/w400-h300/P1050106.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdfZdB-FGU31BKEmPWU9V_zllGSPrbUrknB4pJsRlvRQMFwmtBrTiyXVw_xZFeyT2DMX1aH_CQbADHr71vzfT4BLV2CmP7HnCJhe2FCBtlVx8zIN6fxvpaye6xXJxOpdyNdIvUYtmaLZ8Q/s4608/P1050109.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdfZdB-FGU31BKEmPWU9V_zllGSPrbUrknB4pJsRlvRQMFwmtBrTiyXVw_xZFeyT2DMX1aH_CQbADHr71vzfT4BLV2CmP7HnCJhe2FCBtlVx8zIN6fxvpaye6xXJxOpdyNdIvUYtmaLZ8Q/w400-h300/P1050109.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"><i>Għar Dalam, the 'Cave of Darkness'</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">If you want to begin a tour of
subterranean Malta chronologically then the place to start is the cave at Għar
Dalam, which means ‘Cave of Darkness’ – although the cave is far less
forbidding than its name might suggest, it is actually quite a nice escape from
the sun and heat of the day outside. The cave is said to be one of the first
places on the island to be inhabited by humans c.5200 BC. These early settlers
are thought to have migrated here from Sicily. Malta is only 93 km from Sicily,
apparently close enough to be seen on a very clear day. Excavations of the cave
floor have yielded all the typical finds indicative of human settlement, such
as human and animal remains, rubbish pits, ceramic sherds, etc., as well as
much older faunal remains of animals such as hippos, elephants, bears, foxes
and wolves. The archaeologists have left a section of the earth <i>in situ</i>
to show the stratigraphy of the cave floor, plus several enormous (and still
forming) stalactites and stalagmites. Walking the steps to and from the cave
there is an interesting defensive contrast between an old watchtower, built by
the Knights Hospitaller, and its near neighbour, a concrete ‘pillbox’ built
during World War 2.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLsp562p48z0ybLHKJGffmOTy_T3Ikl0wny1wAL0G0r5hcYz7B1qERUbLMvRtP7nhJDTWPN9nQPpayZZopMG4XoyWzZ-X8GkPT5SNH5ega30KY1qt9jPpyNC6xjdPzQtE7nen9nvhAsqIU/s4608/P1050103.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLsp562p48z0ybLHKJGffmOTy_T3Ikl0wny1wAL0G0r5hcYz7B1qERUbLMvRtP7nhJDTWPN9nQPpayZZopMG4XoyWzZ-X8GkPT5SNH5ega30KY1qt9jPpyNC6xjdPzQtE7nen9nvhAsqIU/w400-h300/P1050103.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Knights Hospitaller Watchtower and WW2 Pillbox (above)</i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">The main site of subterranean
interest on Malta is, of course, the famous Hypogeum (Ħal Saflieni). I remember
my grandmother telling me about this – maybe it appealed to her Irish roots,
thinking of similar sites such as Newgrange – because Malta’s Hypogeum is a
complex underground burial chamber, or a temple to the dead, its layout
reminiscent of the nearby Tarxien Temples. Its construction spanning three
distinct phases during the long period between c.3600-2500 BC. The site was
discovered in 1899 and first investigated by a Jesuit priest, Father Manwel
Magri, but unfortunately his notes regarding his exploratory excavations have
since been lost, consequently little is known about his early antiquarian investigations.
Temi Zammit began a systematic study of the site in 1910, and he estimated that
over its 1000 year period of continuous use the site may have held the mortal
remains of around 7000 individuals.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZkRz9xq4pnKSUmsCohD9yj6BL1gxRcPRXteLoZNA0etNsIgQUP7HMpA6F_ES3kX0df0MGb5ulH7XXCV7plCRpd88H8C_xHSsm7PgdVaIPrpbu8arh_nRoEwi7vHrCbeTBeQAFhyphenhyphenU7HESm/s4608/P1040669.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4608" data-original-width="3456" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZkRz9xq4pnKSUmsCohD9yj6BL1gxRcPRXteLoZNA0etNsIgQUP7HMpA6F_ES3kX0df0MGb5ulH7XXCV7plCRpd88H8C_xHSsm7PgdVaIPrpbu8arh_nRoEwi7vHrCbeTBeQAFhyphenhyphenU7HESm/w300-h400/P1040669.JPG" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Temi Zammit</i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">In order not to upset the
environmental preservation of the site, particularly in terms of maintaining
its levels of humidity, visitor numbers are carefully regulated. Consequently,
it is only possible to visit the site as part of a pre-booked tour. When I decided
to go to Malta all of these tours were already fully booked, but I’d read that
it was possible to buy tickets the day before for one particular day a week, so
I decided to chance my luck and see if I could get one of these tickets. The
staff at the museum which sold the tickets advised me to get there early on the
day the tickets go on sale because there’s always a long queue. They weren’t
kidding either. They said I should get there around 8am, so I got there around
7:30am and there were already 12 people in front of me and 6 more arrived
straight on my heels! And the queue continued to lengthen while I waited. I’d
been told that there were only 20 tickets for sale, hence it was hard not to
speculate how many tickets the persons in front of me might be hoping to
purchase. I felt sure most of those in front of me would be buying multiple
tickets for friends and family who might not have come with them, plus I
thought a couple of people near the front looked like local tour guides or perhaps
ticket touts. Of course, there was nothing to stop the first person in the
queue purchasing the lot outright. But doubts and uncertainties aside, all I
could do was to wait and see and hope the gods of old might favour me with a
stroke of luck – and favour me they did. When the place opened at 9am, everyone
ahead of me watched as shuffling forward we saw those at the front of the queue
leaving triumphant with tickets in hand, but there was no way to know how many
they’d bought. As I got closer and closer to the ticket counter I could see
people were beginning to leave with disappointed faces and empty hands. But it
seemed as though the tickets hadn’t run out yet, and it was only when I got to
the ticket counter that I discovered why – there was only a single ticket left.
Everyone ahead of me was looking for a pair of tickets or multiples of two. For
once, somewhat uncharacteristically, the lonesome traveller was at an advantage.
I found out the next day when I arrived at the Hypogeum that the chap at the
front of the queue had just bought one ticket for himself and this had thrown
the whole system and so secured me my precious ticket.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/78544870@N08/sets/72157629949425090/" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="600" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrjisKY4Zn0u2m5VYF1BIEWqYdVnxSgv0PKD0mgMlNNbDqD5OmOLtV-1YyMsWVq4rllGTiHTDT64JTbD9V7nr-kNE8LnkpBFjnmxxiWZEx7DIlXa9pNsDu0y_XVD3QKi6LjXVhlOpaH06A/w400-h320/Hypogeum+-+Heritage+Malta.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/78544870@N08/sets/72157629949425090/" target="_blank">Hypogeum (Heritage Malta)</a></i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">I was really glad to get that
ticket too, because the Hypogeum is well worth the visit and it would be a real
shame to go to Malta and not see this singular and remarkable prehistoric site.
Here’s what I wrote in my travel diary at the time: <i>“The Hypogeum is truly
amazing. A short film at the start explains its discovery and excavation. Amazing
to think this place was found under what was already quite an urban area –
hence who knows what might lie as yet undiscovered beneath our feet elsewhere. The
chambers are actually smaller than the photographs of them I’d seen make them
appear, but this is mainly because there’s nothing in any of these photos to give
an idea of scale. Nevertheless, they are still an astonishing sight. I was most
taken by the remnant drill marks in one of the chambers and by the ceilings of
two others which are painted with vivid red ochre spirals. Absolutely
fascinating. The main chamber and the ‘Holy of Holies’, of course, are
stunningly beautiful and fantastically symmetrical. I was struck by one small
passing comment on the film commentary – apparently no evidence of soot was
found anywhere inside, so how were the subterranean chambers lit during both
construction and use?”<o:p></o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><i><o:p> </o:p></i></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghjrwXua4D4L99xAKfNdFyKmVQxVi_mqOWSOE-BDpm2MeQOfTgmpkrKZMq9Uqr7-5EyJf24VsWVzK1Fc7ih7qPQ3oWomG6dpuykP7RSDMKdpGe0b2w7Wf-RYErgaikyDnH8Tyg_CleoRV6/s4608/P1050064.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghjrwXua4D4L99xAKfNdFyKmVQxVi_mqOWSOE-BDpm2MeQOfTgmpkrKZMq9Uqr7-5EyJf24VsWVzK1Fc7ih7qPQ3oWomG6dpuykP7RSDMKdpGe0b2w7Wf-RYErgaikyDnH8Tyg_CleoRV6/w400-h300/P1050064.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>The Tarxien Temples</i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i></i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHoUWyFuwKBhKyUMGdaBVaOVt64rRXN45UdnCf71juUDHS3562m-3Z-88Bmxj10dyke3gPYOaDUG3Qqki4J9LLz-E8vqKYvqhvsPLNbb1n8on2jB_bvS91LsKkdbngfC6USAeNxla4OYNL/s4608/P1050075.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHoUWyFuwKBhKyUMGdaBVaOVt64rRXN45UdnCf71juUDHS3562m-3Z-88Bmxj10dyke3gPYOaDUG3Qqki4J9LLz-E8vqKYvqhvsPLNbb1n8on2jB_bvS91LsKkdbngfC6USAeNxla4OYNL/w400-h300/P1050075.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br /><i><br /></i><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">From 1915-1919 the nearby Tarxien
Temples were also excavated by Temi Zammit. There are four temples here,
similarly dating to c.3600-2500 BC, and they must have been utilised by a
substantial sized Neolithic community. Once the temples fell out of use the
site has evidence of later activity during the Bronze Age and Roman period, as
well as during medieval times, after which the site was lost until its
rediscovery in the twentieth century. Many important finds have been made here,
particularly in terms of monumental sculptures. Spiral motifs can be found here
similar to those of the ochre-etched spiral designs on the roof of the Hypogeum.
I noted that many of the snail shells I came across on Malta had similar spiral
markings decorating their whorled shells, and so I couldn’t help wondering if
these motifs might have been inspired from such observations derived from the
natural world surrounding these sites. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaj_fBXT1LCMgrRjDR5nZxsrWhBg4WXHKO83e40xPeP8u4lh8xtsesQgUqnT-25miE59W3RHM6altjT_o888O1Tsf0YUQ9sFz3BnEFFrJHXVqkKkeYpgO2tKtLztK9JhcaE4KYfTyuFIcx/s4608/P1050429.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaj_fBXT1LCMgrRjDR5nZxsrWhBg4WXHKO83e40xPeP8u4lh8xtsesQgUqnT-25miE59W3RHM6altjT_o888O1Tsf0YUQ9sFz3BnEFFrJHXVqkKkeYpgO2tKtLztK9JhcaE4KYfTyuFIcx/w400-h300/P1050429.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Tarxien is possibly the key site
for archaeologists wishing to understand the Neolithic period on Malta, but it
is not the most picturesque of Malta’s Neolithic sites. Hence, a visit to
Mnajdra and Ħaġar Qim is essential. These two sites are located very close to
one another on the coast, far from any modern urban encroachment. The two sites
are now each covered by huge sail-like canopies which were built primarily to
protect these important sites from the elements, but they also protect the
visitor from the full force of the sun too, making it much more pleasant to
wander round and explore at leisure. And I don’t think it detracts from an
appreciation of the site’s natural setting because after all when the temples
were first constructed they would have had their own stone-corbelled rooves,
hence you do get some suggestion of them as enclosed spaces. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrouYGtym9XEnkbAmC0Jmzbmq5vRdvueY-BurWB4WotUH6l-0t62-f4ecrKKV7eUG_hdtRg8ZbpTO7Ew1CCROfUGn2cVhKKaUd6ZtUXIa9_NI_l60DxaHca4kaiZIBrlpUnVmPXgpEwDJX/s4608/P1050296.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrouYGtym9XEnkbAmC0Jmzbmq5vRdvueY-BurWB4WotUH6l-0t62-f4ecrKKV7eUG_hdtRg8ZbpTO7Ew1CCROfUGn2cVhKKaUd6ZtUXIa9_NI_l60DxaHca4kaiZIBrlpUnVmPXgpEwDJX/w400-h300/P1050296.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"><i>Mnajdra and Ħaġar Qim</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4ncgA24Oiag6FWEgDVgbYvxOwhxVY6CY04X_IYbkweyNZG29A-adPg3CbQ2_m4Tf3UO3uiB-ECw3TK1-9ZP_1c6FPwNOPU5kPsGIEXSVgvAvC4DYtzpM6YOEyGEwUhLkJ9n-vnlmHiBua/s4608/P1050303.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4ncgA24Oiag6FWEgDVgbYvxOwhxVY6CY04X_IYbkweyNZG29A-adPg3CbQ2_m4Tf3UO3uiB-ECw3TK1-9ZP_1c6FPwNOPU5kPsGIEXSVgvAvC4DYtzpM6YOEyGEwUhLkJ9n-vnlmHiBua/w400-h300/P1050303.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">The temples consist of a series of
rooms with rounded interiors connected by passageways. The walls are made of
large upright limestone blocks, and some areas are still paved. There are
niches, benches and ‘altars.’ Several of these yellow limestone megalithic
slabs are stippled with a pecked honeycomb-like decoration. And some of the
stones might have been configured to certain celestial alignments, although many
of these assertions have yet to be definitively explained or actually demonstrated.
A lot of prehistoric archaeology is speculative due to the nature of there
being no written records to help explain or corroborate the design and original
function of such sites and how these factors changed, evolved or were adapted
over time. Systems of knowledge at this time are largely a mystery to us as
modern interpreters, all we have to work with are the sites themselves and the
material finds discovered within them – such as fragments of pottery,
sculptures, remnants of food and fire use, tools, etc. But looking at the
spatiality of such sites and speculating as to how they related to the
surrounding landscape as it may have been at the time of construction, as well
as factors relating to the climate, possible population densities, and the like
are all things to consider and ponder about. A very interesting paper on these
elements by David Turnbull which appeared in the academic journal, <i>Theory,
Culture & Society, </i>in 2002, titled: <i>Performance and Narrative,
Bodies and Movement in the Construction of Places and Objects, Spaces and Knowledges: The Case of the Maltese Megaliths </i>is well worth a read in this
regard.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0GbVeAgw6Nit90C7W7TSt0pzdIChqTPl00-rhmNYidT513mY0bm_WaYho7TdlOKrH8GVhXvnjNaJZMSbaqBD7wzWscc7Q421DUIK37qt54xMLcJ8VqVgehlv2uqrrnpO_lUfHnk1-uLk6/s4608/P1050332.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0GbVeAgw6Nit90C7W7TSt0pzdIChqTPl00-rhmNYidT513mY0bm_WaYho7TdlOKrH8GVhXvnjNaJZMSbaqBD7wzWscc7Q421DUIK37qt54xMLcJ8VqVgehlv2uqrrnpO_lUfHnk1-uLk6/w400-h300/P1050332.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"><i>Mnajdra and Ħaġar Qim</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8XSGLyZeD3Sm-JMxnTOp79nFJzyhiL2vlZQ5wbI0ehfoLjwLEjK8ex9wFrsLdDE-TxiGR21T6b_xoVZxy7xDyXC4o-dakXFy0gjPe-iSbIEYFcufb3LVG7Dz2hVkgxNkooUqWF3eal6zb/s4608/P1050335.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8XSGLyZeD3Sm-JMxnTOp79nFJzyhiL2vlZQ5wbI0ehfoLjwLEjK8ex9wFrsLdDE-TxiGR21T6b_xoVZxy7xDyXC4o-dakXFy0gjPe-iSbIEYFcufb3LVG7Dz2hVkgxNkooUqWF3eal6zb/w400-h300/P1050335.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Further along the coast heading
west, the Dingli Cliffs are a lovely spot to walk and see the sunset. Turning
inland, however, there is another site of subterranean interest in the town of
Rabat – St. Paul’s catacombs. These are the largest and said to be the most
impressive of all Malta’s catacombs. Covering an area of over 2000m<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;">²</span> the catacombs date back to the Phoenician
period at the earliest, and to the period of Arab rule around 870 AD at the
latest, but the heyday of the catacombs was during the Byzantine or Romano-Christian
period, 4<sup>th</sup>-8<sup>th</sup> century AD. A flight of stone steps takes
you down into a wide atrium-like area where you can see two large round ‘agape
tables’ carved into the rock, these were designed and used for leaving food
offerings to the dead. From this atrium a labyrinth of low and narrow passageways
on multiple levels contain many different designs of tombs which have all been
cut into the rock. Some of these types are named as follows: ‘loculus’,
recessed graves or niches cut into the walls; ‘forma’, or graves cut into the
floor; as well as arched recess graves, known as ‘arcosolium’; and ‘window
graves’, which are more like small rooms; plus ‘table’ and ‘bench’ graves,
which look like stone chests; and the more elaborate ‘baldacchino’ or canopied
graves, which look like the stone tombs found in churches, except these are all
carved from the natural rock of the catacomb. The whole place is rather
reminiscent of the catacombs seen beneath the church in Venice in the film, <i>Indiana
Jones and the Last Crusade; </i>and like Indy, you can wander around in the
almost pitch darkness exploring this sepulchral space – although here the
graves are now empty of their ancient bones. When I went down into the catacomb
there were hardly any other visitors, and so I wandered at leisure for quite a
long time, exploring the length and breadth of the place – never quite sure of
how far it would go or if I’d lose my way and not know how to get back to the
entrance. But as I wandered, crossing and recrossing my own path, I began to
forma a mental picture of the layout in my mind until I felt fairly confident I
knew where I was and where certain passages would lead me. It was also a
wonderful escape from the intense heat and the bright sunshine of the day outside.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNybiVOlVqHEZ47gTW-dqv9AAsD3AEx0kEQsSYvFPnPE3A7uokfj4sUTLR4f6PMsi0RfdELb5R3Ra2m-IoqI3_Xk2IDelceLZ2RFgXfT_wFXSICJad5z9OXM5_7scv-s-K99V2aVvCT_Zw/s4608/P1050538.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4608" data-original-width="3456" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNybiVOlVqHEZ47gTW-dqv9AAsD3AEx0kEQsSYvFPnPE3A7uokfj4sUTLR4f6PMsi0RfdELb5R3Ra2m-IoqI3_Xk2IDelceLZ2RFgXfT_wFXSICJad5z9OXM5_7scv-s-K99V2aVvCT_Zw/w300-h400/P1050538.JPG" width="300" /></a></div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZgwrzyCzzL6x15YCjQvIFDfcXyJE4BcDPffKQoe9U-2P8gz4GTiolC9BwmJhhyphenhyphen6AiBVXYQ9sFLsbHKri6wSPfYLf4EIeX2fKasMRsVuGWdE1PVPRgB31GO-uLT9fhMDCpSEnH2Mlu-OC_/s4608/P1050513.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZgwrzyCzzL6x15YCjQvIFDfcXyJE4BcDPffKQoe9U-2P8gz4GTiolC9BwmJhhyphenhyphen6AiBVXYQ9sFLsbHKri6wSPfYLf4EIeX2fKasMRsVuGWdE1PVPRgB31GO-uLT9fhMDCpSEnH2Mlu-OC_/w400-h300/P1050513.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>St. Paul's Catacombs</i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Chronologically, the last or most
recent of subterranean sites of interest on Malta are the Lascaris War Rooms
back in Valletta. These reminded me a little of the Cabinet War Rooms in London
which I last visited when I was a child. The Lascaris War Rooms were built to
serve a similar purpose too. This was the place where General Eisenhower
oversaw the operations of the Allied Forces based in the Mediterranean during
the latter part of World War 2, including the invasion of Sicily (which I think
my grandfather might have been a part of; he certainly served in Italy later
on). A forlorn and somewhat moth-eaten crowd of manikins populate the old bunk
room dormitories, the map rooms and radio stations here, lending the place a
spooky and surreal aspect as though it were designed to bemuse and befuddle
John Steed in an episode of 1960s TV drama, <i>The Avengers</i>. The
underground HQ was known to the troops it housed as ‘The Hole’, but it was really
named after the knight, Jean Paul de Lascaris Castellar, because the tunnels
were originally dug by the knights as living quarters for their galley slaves. After
the War these rather dank and musty old tunnels were extended even further,
although the works were abandoned before they were completed with much of the excavation
equipment simply left behind, hence no one now really knows what the intended
purpose for this was, but, had it been finished, it would have been a huge military
warren hidden beneath the ancient streets far above.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSB2h-Ew3IPoRO9beX6i5zw791YXv0G2gcmjcYlVAf0onntVlRvrHLaGns8eEkhAfdlDwyCtJRzlXqSLqpBGMUcIQANCd3lgUhtOEAM_SMq01SOOHyD-GqfGzgANldZvISUqA0cTI3OWno/s4608/P1040834.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSB2h-Ew3IPoRO9beX6i5zw791YXv0G2gcmjcYlVAf0onntVlRvrHLaGns8eEkhAfdlDwyCtJRzlXqSLqpBGMUcIQANCd3lgUhtOEAM_SMq01SOOHyD-GqfGzgANldZvISUqA0cTI3OWno/w400-h300/P1040834.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Lascaris War Rooms</i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Malta is certainly steeped in
history. It’s hard to set foot anywhere on Malta without some historical
feature from the near or remote past catching your eye. And for the solo
traveller it is a wonderfully accessible and easily navigable place to get
around. I managed to fill a week with plenty of historical sites, churches and
museums – and there were still places I didn’t manage to get to see on Malta,
let alone Gozo. It’s definitely a place which I can’t imagine I’d ever get
bored of exploring. I’d long wanted to come here, and so, sitting at the
airport, waiting to board my flight home, I reflected on the fact that I could now
draw a red pencil line through it on my own personal wish list of places to see
and visit in my lifetime. It is a place which will linger long in my memory.
Maybe one day I will return, but for now – for this history buff, it was the
perfect place to have celebrated the personal milestone of achieving my MA in
history.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibg9E9cNEXJOX4GD2BNWRoqRSzLe3EDPtryUPi8WxuNIlTMEQwIsgis4-myFmDZ8NfDhCVuDGUh9iKLcWpSkc67MeoXZ6QE4MYFQUtzDqUOk8pY-uG-GyI8G3AbIf1pO26i_zHqNdGj9dc/s4608/P1040758.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4608" data-original-width="3456" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibg9E9cNEXJOX4GD2BNWRoqRSzLe3EDPtryUPi8WxuNIlTMEQwIsgis4-myFmDZ8NfDhCVuDGUh9iKLcWpSkc67MeoXZ6QE4MYFQUtzDqUOk8pY-uG-GyI8G3AbIf1pO26i_zHqNdGj9dc/w300-h400/P1040758.JPG" width="300" /></a></div><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><i>See
more photographs from my trip to Malta <a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/eccentricparabola/albums/72157656743678999" target="_blank">here</a><o:p></o:p></i></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><o:p> </o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFhqNj_ggwKd7zRaiQOB2BDBVG5ONrsRCwXrJf6d_zUx4fWofR8thggi6QBwzgsAWfugAjQamJgcTWzw1yYZJO_kiJf2dSfJgx4N9U47lLXbgdySKIAbC48QDQgvzNvNs8g3zYnmxRHYZN/s4608/P1050292.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFhqNj_ggwKd7zRaiQOB2BDBVG5ONrsRCwXrJf6d_zUx4fWofR8thggi6QBwzgsAWfugAjQamJgcTWzw1yYZJO_kiJf2dSfJgx4N9U47lLXbgdySKIAbC48QDQgvzNvNs8g3zYnmxRHYZN/w400-h300/P1050292.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p><br /></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><b><i>References</i></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEfdZdaaHD6LfnP9GF25TdDw5JNaIlNu49ks9fDH1JUFSvb99GH6Tbv0reMlqSdAhUS_0D89M2ydIYFZbhO4vFBkok5bqZklyWgN54FzXQ3ur_oNXJBRZBmI-YeHdtHAJ9_0BfDcqtTT3a/s400/Sciberras+Stone.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="283" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEfdZdaaHD6LfnP9GF25TdDw5JNaIlNu49ks9fDH1JUFSvb99GH6Tbv0reMlqSdAhUS_0D89M2ydIYFZbhO4vFBkok5bqZklyWgN54FzXQ3ur_oNXJBRZBmI-YeHdtHAJ9_0BfDcqtTT3a/s320/Sciberras+Stone.jpg" /></a></i></b></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br /></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">L. H. Dudley Buxton, <i>Malta: An
Anthropogeographical Study, </i>in <i>Geographical Review, </i>Vol. 14, No. 1
(January, 1924), pp. 75-87<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Keith Sciberras & David M.
Stone, <i>Caravaggio: Art, Knighthood, and Malta</i> (Valetta, Malta: Midsea
Books Ltd., 2006)</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">David Turnbull, <i>Performance and
Narrative, Bodies and Movement in the Construction of Places and Objects,
Spaces and Knowledges: The Case of the Maltese Megaliths, </i>in <i>Theory,
Culture & Society, </i>Vol. 19, No. 5/6 (2002), pp. 125-143</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVl_273KDW1A6xSETKM8a8powqCWNw_j8yTV0cTtz_88HaEiiAmXpTOvPYdz4_qH599wmwYOTh4eKsHG2u5iA2olfrZBimMrCNxxvlGU_VtOfC-JeyF2xE8XGaA2qCcM878GG253QvVVKd/s4608/P1040750.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4608" data-original-width="3456" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVl_273KDW1A6xSETKM8a8powqCWNw_j8yTV0cTtz_88HaEiiAmXpTOvPYdz4_qH599wmwYOTh4eKsHG2u5iA2olfrZBimMrCNxxvlGU_VtOfC-JeyF2xE8XGaA2qCcM878GG253QvVVKd/w300-h400/P1040750.JPG" width="300" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /><br /></div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>Also on 'Waymarks'</i></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i><br /></i></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><a href="http://eccentricparabola.blogspot.com/2011/08/guam-jungle-trekking.html" target="_blank">Guam - Jungle Trekking</a></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><a href="http://eccentricparabola.blogspot.com/2012/07/temples-feluccas-travelling-in-egypt.html" target="_blank">Temples and Feluccas - Travelling in Egypt</a></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><a href="http://eccentricparabola.blogspot.com/2021/09/summer-in-madeira.html" target="_blank">Summer in Madeira</a></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><a href="http://eccentricparabola.blogspot.com/2020/07/the-isle-of-bow-voyage-of-discovery.html" target="_blank">The "Isle of Bow" - A Voyage of Discovery</a></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMwaI2-eBeZnEGP7BC9yRJeiF-0VL_9ntG-eNaxj05CYFhlIDCt-_u5XHHPe_tS_WBapJFWK4rclaaMlTnor2nh77SHZLYHFB1R-GPV4oueg0Vr5MRD8bvS_TACaXniVrfcya7RmbcEyIG/s4608/P1050770.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4608" data-original-width="3456" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMwaI2-eBeZnEGP7BC9yRJeiF-0VL_9ntG-eNaxj05CYFhlIDCt-_u5XHHPe_tS_WBapJFWK4rclaaMlTnor2nh77SHZLYHFB1R-GPV4oueg0Vr5MRD8bvS_TACaXniVrfcya7RmbcEyIG/w300-h400/P1050770.JPG" width="300" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br />Timhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11641833714036731203noreply@blogger.com0Malta35.937496 14.3754167.6272621638211575 -20.780834 64.247729836178848 49.531666tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-88759862385027089.post-59687518203283588372021-09-15T00:00:00.036+01:002021-09-15T00:00:00.231+01:00100 Views of Mount Fuji<p> </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><a href="https://www.britishmuseum.org/collection/object/A_1937-0710-0-147" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="592" data-original-width="857" height="276" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhx_qvpsmqK9UcuhxuX7emFpOS6LHvQpFI4RJAxaTsmUPL-PjONLsWGU7ZFbMPDClt8K_4a6ZdIKkvzWbaD82juS0nNCGRJQYJ5dxeJO-BIrcEjtpAKGGG6UeLXcNuaab8T8BNPgCDyqXYP/w400-h276/Hokusai+-+Great+Wave.png" width="400" /></a></span></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://www.britishmuseum.org/collection/object/A_1937-0710-0-147" target="_blank">The Great Wave, Kanagawa - Hokusai</a> (British Museum)</i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">There are certain threads which run
through our lives. Interests which never seem to diminish with the passing of
time. If anything, they tend to get stronger and develop deeper meanings for us
as we get older. My love of Japanese art is one such thread. I first
encountered Japanese paintings and prints when visiting the British Museum as a
child. I remember at the time I bought some postcards of prints by Hokusai and
Hiroshige in the museum shop, postcards which I treasured for many years
thereafter. I’d often look at them and sometimes I’d try to imitate their style
in my own pencil drawings.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><a href="https://www.britishmuseum.org/collection/object/A_1906-1220-0-778" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="601" data-original-width="931" height="259" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPnvCiAsTR51O5Zh45NRawQ2S4bpYsF7-5Tp9SCm3XJKIRSXA6h5h6Pz7BYu3BW7IQkfSqnf8Ly0-gcyTR5KPYaGbEf1lE8MWYVw-_KNbpCHVINNIeAYP3IJHb4foBGD5z3Fpg6QIggKv9/w400-h259/Hiroshige+-+Hakone.png" width="400" /></a></span></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://www.britishmuseum.org/collection/object/A_1906-1220-0-778" target="_blank">View of Fuji from Hakone - by Hiroshige</a> (British Museum)</i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Exactly twenty years ago, during
the summer of 2001, there was a small exhibition in the BM’s Japan gallery
titled, <i><a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/509687.100_Views_Of_Mount_Fuji" target="_blank">100 Views of Mount Fuji</a>.</i> I lost count of how many times I went
to look at it during my lunch breaks. I found it mesmerising. It showcased
works drawn from the BM’s collection dating from the 17<sup>th</sup> century to
the present – from the traditional schools of Kan<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">ō</span>, Sumiyoshi, and Shij<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">ō to</span>
later and more personal interpretations by individual artists, such as
Katsushika Hokusai and Utagawa Hiroshige. The exhibition catalogue, by Timothy
Clark, succinctly describes the undying fascination for this enormous yet graceful
and compelling landmark: <i>“Mount Fuji is renowned worldwide as Japan’s
highest and most perfectly shaped mountain. Serving as a potent metaphor in
classical love poetry and revered since ancient times by mountain-climbing
sects of both Shint</i><i><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">ō</span> and Buddhist faiths, Fuji has taken on many roles in
pre-modern Japan.”<o:p></o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p><i> </i></o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-style: italic; text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.britishmuseum.org/collection/object/A_1913-0501-0-298-299" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="666" data-original-width="224" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrN2dz2CT_LaQgm_5HOhutnJl30Qssz_Os9SpYBMeptkqf5kTYz4-HBvL4L8_nNE3vqdarfCK6Cv3XjoZny8rlwzg2HTblhbKrFKkzPnXEm1xVDUIvLFwC1eZeTJcaF-AJEB79bXeBwU9B/w135-h400/Hiroshige+1.png" width="135" /></a> <a href="https://www.britishmuseum.org/collection/object/A_1913-0501-0-298-299" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="693" data-original-width="250" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZtc5g0AZG25rnUZi1dajscd2_Nx5JjG0ipx_yZKIc284M_aXYiOMmYGMUD33ZuSCi2yWf8C6ZfzRgq0ioLhtSRU-ozml0bMvVSyYWT61mafzikkkg-bAiyxlzlF5ixNGoY6rAfx4Gr-ya/w144-h400/Hiroshige+2.png" width="144" /></a></div><i><span style="font-size: x-small;"><a href="https://www.britishmuseum.org/collection/object/A_1913-0501-0-298-299" target="_blank">A Pair of Hanging Scroll Paintings of Fuji - by Hiroshige ?III</a> (British Museum)</span></i></div><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">The beauty of Mount Fuji is truly
majestic in whichever season you view it. I’ve seen it in Spring, Summer,
Autumn, and Winter. The first time I saw it though was from a high-rise hotel
in Tokyo’s north-eastern neighbourhood of Ueno in October 2003, just two years
after the <i>100 Views of Mount Fuji</i> exhibition. It was a tiny but
perfectly white, snow-clad triangle glimpsed in the far distance on the horizon
above the vast metropolis of buildings. I saw it on the last day of my first
trip to Japan, and it felt like a final gift from the Gods, marking the end of
a wonderful journey. I was very fortunate to have Tim Clark as my travelling
companion on that first journey. We were accompanying a BM exhibition to Tokyo’s
Metropolitan Museum. On our arrival we’d had a long wait at Narita Airport
before loading the trucks and finally rolling out onto the road. Jetlag was
getting the better of me. I dozed off while the truck was motoring along,
lulled by the motion of the wheels on the road. Tim gently nudged me awake,
saying: “Sorry to wake you, but I’m sure you won’t want to miss this.” I looked
out of the window to find we were still driving along the highway, but now the
road was arching gracefully up onto the Rainbow Bridge, crossing Tokyo harbour.
The bridge, as befits its name, was lit up brightly in the night sky, changing
slowly through a myriad cycle of multifarious colours. And there, beyond the
bridge and the Odaiba Ferris Wheel, I could now see the glittering cityscape of
Tokyo itself. Tim was right. It was a stunning and unforgettable introduction
to the city which I’d read and heard so much about. It was probably no surprise
that I fell irrevocably in love with the place during that first trip. The fact
I came down with a streaming cold at the end of our time there didn’t dampen my
enthusiasm at all.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><a href="https://www.britishmuseum.org/collection/object/A_2000-0329-0-3" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="614" data-original-width="462" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrEGEYQA9SngCXUeHuCGmOBPN_3jdDA5v0aOLm6A7XtbVhyqJzJrLP7uXmCpQhxIApBVX6Du3FjB-Xn-UZlyDxanTStWtRFv3OF1j3QkIWXfppdHuUZoSOQDs7zo06KuJC9ljwd220KClY/w301-h400/Biru+no+tanima+ni.png" width="301" /></a></span></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://www.britishmuseum.org/collection/object/A_2000-0329-0-3" target="_blank">Biru no tanima ni - by Hagiwara Hideo</a> (British Museum)</i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">My second trip to Japan a few
months later was when I managed to get much closer to Mount Fuji. I’d read
about Kawaguchi-ko in my guidebook and it seemed like the perfect spot to get
some scenic photos of Mount Fuji with the five lakes area in the foreground.
Back in 2001, I’d spent hours studying Tim’s exhibition catalogue, and I’d
turned my own hand to painting views of Mount Fuji in watercolours. Some were
modelled on the paintings and prints in Tim’s exhibition, others were more
free-form efforts, inspired by the styles and schools he described. One
painting which evidently struck me was a view painted by <a href="https://www.britishmuseum.org/collection/object/A_1973-0226-0-13" target="_blank">Niwa Kagen</a>
(Yoshitoki), titled ‘Mount Fuji Seen from Hara, Fourth month, 1770.’ Kagen’s
painting looks perhaps more Western than Japanese, which is surprising (as
Tim’s book notes) given that Kagen’s later works are much more influenced by
Chinese styles of painting. It’s thought that this view was probably painted
from life while Kagen was travelling along the <a href="http://eccentricparabola.blogspot.com/2012/05/walking-tokaido-japan.html" target="_blank">T<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">ō</span>kaid</a><a href="http://eccentricparabola.blogspot.com/2012/05/walking-tokaido-japan.html" target="_blank">ō</a>, one of Edo-era Japan’s main trunk roads,
from his native city of Nagoya. My version differs in the foreground,
where I’ve added a scattering of trees and used more green tones in the
landscape at the foot of the mountain, attempting to echo the styles of later artists such as <a href="https://www.britishmuseum.org/collection/object/A_1881-1210-0-2292" target="_blank">Ishibashi Richō</a>, <a href="https://www.britishmuseum.org/collection/object/A_1881-1210-0-2375" target="_blank">Oki Kangaku</a>, and <a href="https://www.britishmuseum.org/collection/object/A_1990-0704-0-1" target="_blank">Suzuki Nanrei</a>. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><a href="https://www.britishmuseum.org/collection/object/A_1937-0710-0-159" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="733" height="272" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgI8U1GVRTDR3fHi0-oePWyJ8ueAUUjjsI1k1khsCWEHl9owlpQTc6kAFv8I0V4yZMcBiKq4GW5Nr9Y01MJLZ8flrmpWDd3OzqgnxLZRkEzMdVKCBlME-ykLoPdqoWi11PAPdQpUF83q-_3/w400-h272/Kawaguchi-ko.png" width="400" /></a></span></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://www.britishmuseum.org/collection/object/A_1937-0710-0-159" target="_blank">A View of Fuji from Kawaguchi-ko - by Hokusai</a> (British Museum)</i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">At the time I painted this picture
I never dreamed I’d ever go to Japan, at least not so soon after I’d painted
it. I’d always hoped I get the chance to go someday, so when I boarded a bus at
Shinjuku during the Christmas and New Year holidays of 2003-2004, and found
myself journeying alone out to the foothills of this stunningly sublime
mountain which I’d seen so much of in Tim’s book, life seemed to have heeded my
heart and effortlessly followed my dreams, magically taking me along too,
transporting me there. When I got off the bus, just as I was about to set off, an
old man who’d been a fellow passenger hailed me and asked where I was going. In
a mixture of my broken Japanese and his broken English I managed to convey I
was there to view Mount Fuji. He asked if I was staying the night here in
Kawaguchi-ko, or heading back to Tokyo the same day. I said I was heading back
later that day, and so he motioned for me to follow him. He then sought out the
bus stop I’d need to return to and checked the timetable, telling me what time
the buses departed and most importantly when the last one would leave. This was
exceptionally kind and very thoughtful of him, I realised, because he knew better
than I did that the last bus of the day would be leaving in just a couple of hours’
time. If I missed it, I’d be stuck there for the night! – I thanked him very
much and we both bowed low and then went our separate ways.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbuTapyHeQ16eel2SXUiPr1o4T54XnhW5XLebsSLAtqv4VCoaHgKdMJ2vZvef5lI_RT2BgIL5uynACs0vdMbzKXUTtdpSvum1T-fQcOmeqiMDoYamzOpmicyNfm4FMs95K7HhYvhRrp9iF/s2048/DSCN8771.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbuTapyHeQ16eel2SXUiPr1o4T54XnhW5XLebsSLAtqv4VCoaHgKdMJ2vZvef5lI_RT2BgIL5uynACs0vdMbzKXUTtdpSvum1T-fQcOmeqiMDoYamzOpmicyNfm4FMs95K7HhYvhRrp9iF/w400-h300/DSCN8771.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">I took the cable car up the side of
a small hill, called Mount Tenjo, overlooking the town and the lake. There I
managed to get some stunning photos of the wintry sun setting beside Mount Fuji
in a crystalline blue sky. I had a 35mm film SLR camera with me, plus the first
digital camera I’d ever owned, which I’d bought just a week or two before in
Tokyo’s electric town, Akihabara. Reviewing some of the photos I’d taken with
this little digital marvel in the darkness during the return bus ride to
Shinjuku, I saw I’d managed to get some decent shots, firstly through the bus
window whilst on the highway travelling out and also at the top of Mount Tenjo
too. My 35mm photos later came out rather well too. These <a href="http://eccentricparabola.blogspot.com/2016/10/photographic-memories.html" target="_blank">images</a> seemed to live
up to those I’d seen and studied so intently in Tim’s <i>100 Views</i> book. In
my mind, while sitting on the bus, driving through the night back to Tokyo, I
recalled the small painting I’d done after Niwa Kagen’s and I decided that the
smaller peak in my rendering of the scene was perhaps a foreshadowing of this
trip to Mount Tenjo, as if it were fated that one day – this day, in fact – I’d
reach this particular place, a region far distant from home, where my
imagination had been transformed into my present reality.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicpHOj-tW-SdMrVegvlabotTKngtTlaZf0AES3JE5RVQoxijBGSYctCXQk4ROM7RH8fp3nGhRk-ht_YuVsuSH_GZKZattM1jbVvkY_9HPgA-4mBXyXe44hLgECpdVh9BA3718khUAA0FxI/s2272/DSCN8769.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1704" data-original-width="2272" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicpHOj-tW-SdMrVegvlabotTKngtTlaZf0AES3JE5RVQoxijBGSYctCXQk4ROM7RH8fp3nGhRk-ht_YuVsuSH_GZKZattM1jbVvkY_9HPgA-4mBXyXe44hLgECpdVh9BA3718khUAA0FxI/w400-h300/DSCN8769.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>My painting of Fuji, after Niwa Kagen - by Tim Chamberlain, 2001</i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><a href="https://www.britishmuseum.org/collection/object/A_1973-0226-0-13" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="509" data-original-width="705" height="289" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8M_TDhOW_laL7juq8BLmyMLRshKuKEQSOdmAx2kz7aIyF_CbWd8UB6vkstPhmejrBzv1HQ6h4u77YM9qtDVCgf8waIvHfy3suIC-l1QcIxkz-1sfwOl46jcpsJBQeVejfQlfz0FIimjjX/w400-h289/Niwa+Kagen.png" width="400" /></a></span></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://www.britishmuseum.org/collection/object/A_1973-0226-0-13" target="_blank">View of Fuji from Hara - by Niwa Kagen, 1770</a> (British Museum)</i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><o:p><br /></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">I have seen Mount Fuji many times
since during my subsequent travels to Japan, either from the highway or from
the bullet train, or from other tall buildings in Tokyo and the countryside
thereabouts, during the times when off-and-on I’ve been staying or living in
Tokyo for extended periods. But I never imagined that one day I’d be able to
see Mount Fuji from the balcony of my very own home here. A home in which my
own little painting of this magnificent mountain now hangs upon the wall. Yet
each morning and evening I make a point of parting the curtains to see if Fuji-san
is visible and not hidden by clouds. It’s always such a magical sight to behold
when the sky is clear, I love to stand on the balcony and gaze at it. Fuji
often seems to hang in the air, emerging from the sky with the most elegant of lines
as if ever so lightly traced by the sharp edge of a soft brush, just like in
the paintings and prints in Tim’s exhibition which I’d first seen exactly
twenty years ago back in London. I was very lucky to have travelled to Japan that
first time with Tim, and again on several subsequent occasions too. He
understood and shared my affinity for Japan, he also encouraged me to learn the
language. <a href="https://www.sainsbury-institute.org/info/an-interview-with-tim-clark" target="_blank">Tim retired from the BM last year</a>, and although I told him during our
first trip together to Japan how much I’d enjoyed his exhibition, I’m not sure
if I myself really knew at that time just how deeply his <i>100 Views of Mount
Fuji</i> had affected and influenced me, because looking back on that time now,
I can see Mount Fuji has certainly remained a constant presence, abiding with
me ever since.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhx0XxC6Lrbhm_0W4JouhQIxQ1VK1Z9OPgIh1KLhaJIsPLMZeGhbGFjqgnlKzAfFjn43Jlc8T7rpiCskXTNAkoNlObvYDuzd0ui9a2TwFtJtx-18w-Que9I1bvIiDQh-wouEnl9uEaF8TGK/s2048/DSCN8666.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhx0XxC6Lrbhm_0W4JouhQIxQ1VK1Z9OPgIh1KLhaJIsPLMZeGhbGFjqgnlKzAfFjn43Jlc8T7rpiCskXTNAkoNlObvYDuzd0ui9a2TwFtJtx-18w-Que9I1bvIiDQh-wouEnl9uEaF8TGK/w400-h300/DSCN8666.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>View of Mount Fuji from our balcony, 2021</i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Like the sacred ropes seen in
certain Shint<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">ō </span>shrines here in Japan, that eternal perfect view of Mount
Fuji has become a thread running through my life – tugging me back to the past,
now anchoring me to the present, and very likely pulling me towards the future.
Each time I look at Fuji-san, I thank the Gods (the Shint<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">ō <i>Kami</i>)
</span>and my lucky stars that I have been so fortunate to have found myself
allied to this great mountain, like a totem. Perhaps, in some transcendental sense
– Mount Fuji is synonymous with the Japanese character <span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "MS Gothic"; mso-bidi-font-family: "MS Gothic";">縁</span> –
‘en.’ Meaning a sense of <i>fate</i> or <i>destiny</i>, something unseen yet
strong which <i>joins</i> and <i>binds</i> two living things to one another – a
bond which cannot easily be broken. Such are the threads which run on and on
through our lives, after all, leading us wherever we will ourselves to go.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinaxd6NQldtc2_Hf3bh43Z6S5u5NJuszyJi3ilhfya0Zmc7vZ9UaEmWlgKcoPnLUQ6e8Ju5yR_bFJzfiPez2kIRbR3vAqKggouYaKp0Px7xBxlhFAHmvH4CQuGyWsSSqvOJb2pH4CkwU5_/s2048/DSCN8694.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinaxd6NQldtc2_Hf3bh43Z6S5u5NJuszyJi3ilhfya0Zmc7vZ9UaEmWlgKcoPnLUQ6e8Ju5yR_bFJzfiPez2kIRbR3vAqKggouYaKp0Px7xBxlhFAHmvH4CQuGyWsSSqvOJb2pH4CkwU5_/w400-h300/DSCN8694.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><i>Also on 'Waymarks'</i></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><i><br /></i></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><a href="http://eccentricparabola.blogspot.com/2012/05/walking-tokaido-japan.html" target="_blank">Walking the Tokaido</a></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><a href="http://eccentricparabola.blogspot.com/2015/06/the-dancing-girl-of-izu.html" target="_blank">The Dancing Girl of Izu</a></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><a href="http://eccentricparabola.blogspot.com/2020/04/a-visit-to-temples-of-hiei-zan-japan.html" target="_blank">A Visit to the Temples of Hiei-zan</a></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><a href="http://eccentricparabola.blogspot.com/2019/06/a-poetic-pilgrimage-to-matsushima.html" target="_blank"><b>A Poetic Pilgrimag</b><b>e to Matsushima</b></a></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><a href="http://eccentricparabola.blogspot.com/2015/02/health-safety-at-work.html" target="_blank">Health & Safety at Work - Handling Japanese Swords</a></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOiiUswEe6yKdepxt50PjanKcexGQ6RdMmPA023WYe8aJ5AfB9VBr3BD4GOU1Y2IYYcVkWGQKbLV7iJq8a0BYaVKamkdY_ZEzw4EIBNjLIe4bTp77rOHfe4bhUrSokq6wlOwOqQ3HDsvBq/s2048/DSCN8770.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOiiUswEe6yKdepxt50PjanKcexGQ6RdMmPA023WYe8aJ5AfB9VBr3BD4GOU1Y2IYYcVkWGQKbLV7iJq8a0BYaVKamkdY_ZEzw4EIBNjLIe4bTp77rOHfe4bhUrSokq6wlOwOqQ3HDsvBq/w400-h300/DSCN8770.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Click on the images of the original Japanese artworks above to link to more information on the British Museum's website</i></span></p>Timhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11641833714036731203noreply@blogger.com0Mount Fuji, Kitayama, Fujinomiya, Shizuoka 418-0112, Japan35.3606255 138.72736347.0503916638211521 103.5711134 63.670859336178843 173.8836134tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-88759862385027089.post-80066310036359594962021-09-01T00:00:00.009+01:002021-09-01T00:00:00.224+01:00Summer in Madeira<p> </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJAUAoE-dmGKtH39PULS_WIOLn7fFdfF1KVrm80pdX4MSbxeoPofu6HJIdywj-RSsVN_UHJcjQ6dOGPOPsGhCXfkM7inXTyf3zjub4NBqycEidKZvWn21FRL35mE_bC6u6URxoO4Adrx0b/s725/Paul+Bowles+1910.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="704" data-original-width="725" height="389" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJAUAoE-dmGKtH39PULS_WIOLn7fFdfF1KVrm80pdX4MSbxeoPofu6HJIdywj-RSsVN_UHJcjQ6dOGPOPsGhCXfkM7inXTyf3zjub4NBqycEidKZvWn21FRL35mE_bC6u6URxoO4Adrx0b/w400-h389/Paul+Bowles+1910.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Paul Bowles</i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><i>“When I first thought of
visiting Madeira I was advised by my English friends to reconsider. “You’ll
loathe it,” they told me. “No character whatever.”<o:p></o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><i>“Dreary, stuffy little place.”<o:p></o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><i>“Nobody goes there but very
elderly ladies.”<o:p></o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><i>“Madeira! Whatever for?”<o:p></o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><i>“I had a great aunt who used to
go religiously. I believe the poor thing eventually died out there.”<o:p></o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><i>“It’s the absolute end!”<o:p></o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><i>This unanimity of adverse
opinion might have dissuaded me had I not already made up my mind that I was
going there no matter what; besides, it turned out each time that my informant
had not actually been there, but was expressing an opinion prevalent nowadays
in literary London.”<o:p></o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><i><o:p> </o:p></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://forums.flyer.co.uk/viewtopic.php?p=1418157#p1418157" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbWCEjmt6jjlrmYXtq3BP36fXNAiBJaRnFeFAu66tuRTmA1i8GPSYrx3qVtdb3C69jQUtybAbFOkHvrV3AwrmdDA997Leb1KOyLU9zSuziQJTgovEbHTMLHcmXkT4ffcGqmlNe05kIsH1J/w400-h300/Funchal+City+Seaplane.jpeg" width="400" /></a></i></div><i><br /></i><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Much the same advice was given to
me some sixty years later when I was first thinking of travelling to Madeira. The
American novelist and composer, Paul Bowles, spent a month on Madeira in 1959
(he wrote the piece quoted above for <i>Holiday</i> <i>Magazine</i> in 1960). At
that time the only way to get there was by ship: <i>“There is no airstrip, and
the seaplane service was discontinued in 1958.” </i>This has changed now. I
would dearly love to have arrived by the imagined genteel Art Deco era elegance
of a large, sleek Aquila Airways seaplane, but nowadays Madeira has a modest yet
very modern airport. The landing approach to which is quite definitely one of
the most spectacular in the world, it’s almost aerobatic in fact! <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><a href="https://forums.flyer.co.uk/viewtopic.php?p=1418157#p1418157" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJPkV6-oloIFENZyQHIdYDLeycgs2EakRGHHlwO7ZDsmpRu1bnoQMDwMncNbdRy8jLsH7bhzIkIrmYo5qql2BFaAiNYBUl6SJvS-ambiI7P6LwPmJvLjbdH9ve7IJF0sGr7WIqtUy_VtsY/w400-h300/Funchal+Seaplane+1956.jpeg" width="400" /></a></span></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://forums.flyer.co.uk/viewtopic.php?p=1418157#p1418157" target="_blank">An Aquila Airways Seaplane arriving at Funchal, 1956</a></i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">It is quite a sight. Set in the
midst of the vast flat nothingness of the Atlantic Ocean, seeing the island slowly
rising up out of the white mist was genuinely magical. Approaching the island
from the north, our plane headed towards Ponta de S<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">ã</span>o Louren<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">ç</span>o,
the easternmost tip of the main island of Madeira. As we began to descend, the
aeroplane arced around the headland to the island’s east coast, levelling out
and heading south along the rugged sheer-sided shoreline. The plane then banked
steeply round, doubling back upon itself as it zeroed in on the runway of the
new airport, which looks like a tall-stilted balcony clinging to the cliffside
overhanging the sea. Watching the passing coastline rapidly magnifying itself from
far below as the plane dropped its altitude. I could see the white foam of the
dark blue sea breaking on the black rocks, the town of Santa Cruz and the tall
green slopes of the hillside rising high above the town. The plane banked sharply
round first one way then the other. It is quite an exhilarating, rollercoaster-like
way to arrive. I imagine it must be even more ‘fun’ to experience when there
are crosswinds and turbulence; fortunately for us though, it was quite a
tranquil and sun-drenched day when we arrived.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5iunq-Atl6oPsBfd_kRpkez-CBhcJGXez24dLWJJy6rpVSsx1h2BGWfUSERxp1YMAvs3UAEaOKaUqiTC_cbyUIm7VumdCIRjvDpIZaDsuztC_jfDYu07pSlrB3rbL1AdnOV2cQlY4CEV2/s2048/DSCN3084.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5iunq-Atl6oPsBfd_kRpkez-CBhcJGXez24dLWJJy6rpVSsx1h2BGWfUSERxp1YMAvs3UAEaOKaUqiTC_cbyUIm7VumdCIRjvDpIZaDsuztC_jfDYu07pSlrB3rbL1AdnOV2cQlY4CEV2/w300-h400/DSCN3084.JPG" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Our first view of Madeira</i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Madeira means a ‘wood’ in
Portuguese. The island’s name is thought to derive from the fact that when
Portuguese explorers, led by Jo<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">ã</span>o Gon<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">ç</span>laves Zarco and Trist<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">ã</span>o
Vaz Teixeira, first took possession of the uninhabited islands in 1419, it was
very densely wooded. The Portuguese first settled on the smaller and flatter
nearby island of Porto Santo. As many of the guidebooks and Bowles recounts, in
a first attempt to tame Madeira, the Portuguese set fire to the impenetrable
woodland on the main island and it subsequently burned for seven years,
decimating the original ancient forest cover. Over the subsequent centuries as
the vegetation recovered, the tropical abundance of the island has been
bolstered by the introduction of numerous plants gathered from all corners of
the earth during those early days by roving Portuguese mariners. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjU-eF9gh9mYEu8mQg7thYO7y9cuwcAlnshmbWbIkS6lJ8kzNto544aybVaQr3_wNMaKBM2RqhPEBcjcWTe1ahA5HY50xtZbJ8sO7nG6xC37caGtFGNaR6ZFYX2IWo-zXPDAh1HKOxp_xLj/s2048/DSCN3093.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjU-eF9gh9mYEu8mQg7thYO7y9cuwcAlnshmbWbIkS6lJ8kzNto544aybVaQr3_wNMaKBM2RqhPEBcjcWTe1ahA5HY50xtZbJ8sO7nG6xC37caGtFGNaR6ZFYX2IWo-zXPDAh1HKOxp_xLj/w400-h300/DSCN3093.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Coming in to land</i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">The mild, stable year-round climate
and plentiful rainfall enable a wide range of trees and flowering plants to
flourish here, so much so that the Portuguese have long described the island as
the ‘Flor do Oceano’ or the ‘Flower of the Ocean.’ The volcanic origins of the
island also mean it has a dramatic topography with soaring hills, precipitous ridges
and sheer cliff-faces. This also means that the island doesn’t really have any
beaches, at least none of the golden sandy sort so beloved of sun-worshipping
tourists, hence perhaps why Madeira is not commonly seen as a young person’s
holiday destination. And the fact that the weather can turn in an instant,
being stuck out in the notoriously changeable and often inclement Atlantic mean
that rain showers are a fairly regular occurrence. Another reason perhaps as to
why the island has been a popular year-round holiday destination for the
British, who are perhaps climatically predisposed not to mind a drop or two of
rain!<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLU1HRU0ZxE9sfcUa2yuZ86ELQub1c5PxtujO_jTRXpc9yKlVoeXsooowqSAPR02cmpV95u6WWmLaTJ0yG4o18FKnx0hWR9KANyMyeCakt_ZjqAEbVkrp5UqusMB98ld211Pv5_grmvXJz/s2048/DSCN3167.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1512" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLU1HRU0ZxE9sfcUa2yuZ86ELQub1c5PxtujO_jTRXpc9yKlVoeXsooowqSAPR02cmpV95u6WWmLaTJ0yG4o18FKnx0hWR9KANyMyeCakt_ZjqAEbVkrp5UqusMB98ld211Pv5_grmvXJz/w295-h400/DSCN3167.JPG" width="295" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Prince Henry, 'The Navigator'</i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Although the island was first
settled under the orders of Prince Henry ‘the Navigator’ in the 1400s, at the dawn
of the Portuguese ‘Age of Discovery’, intended to serve as a staging post for
further explorations down the coast of Africa, it is thought that the island
was already known about beforehand, having very likely been discovered by Arab
seamen, or perhaps even earlier by the Romans, Carthaginians, or even the
Phoenicians. Madeira was first noted on a Florentine nautical chart in 1351,
but there are various iterations of a myth involving an English nobleman and
woman arriving here which precede this date. The various versions of the myth
describe Sir Robert Machyn (or Machin) and Anne Dorset as ill-fated lovers who
were exiled here in 1346, with one or other of them leaving the island when
their partner died, although another version has them both dying on the island
together. There are no records extant to substantiate any part of this story,
but it is said that Zarco discovered a wooden cross inscribed with the couple’s
story, perhaps marking their joint grave (or the grave of one or other of
them), and that he built a church on the site to honour their memory at the
place now known as Machico, not far up the coast from the modern-day airport.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7tnEjh78gRB1hJqD9WvXli_6nwjof8KAMmL86uFpFVC2eaM33-QbEG3x4YGLb2oI3Hr4FCSprZW37dF-aDKlXl_kg4eSvowRJ0m7d5kRAw-ZV0MbZrbg_j7OSWCWC5YxLk8r9Jxq91gBL/s2048/DSCN3116.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7tnEjh78gRB1hJqD9WvXli_6nwjof8KAMmL86uFpFVC2eaM33-QbEG3x4YGLb2oI3Hr4FCSprZW37dF-aDKlXl_kg4eSvowRJ0m7d5kRAw-ZV0MbZrbg_j7OSWCWC5YxLk8r9Jxq91gBL/w300-h400/DSCN3116.JPG" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Christopher Columbus</i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnXPHUJFC9QQdQyeDsbBVek1rdSlejQetGiku8B-p2SsC6h58PmfCMFG2Cq6EURtJJicec6x6wBD_NKY-uQP1mqQnUrgD14ldKUFapyA4W7PpOsPZAz5uaFfFTmUtZuLW1s7cfaAbnPudi/s2048/DSCN3121.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnXPHUJFC9QQdQyeDsbBVek1rdSlejQetGiku8B-p2SsC6h58PmfCMFG2Cq6EURtJJicec6x6wBD_NKY-uQP1mqQnUrgD14ldKUFapyA4W7PpOsPZAz5uaFfFTmUtZuLW1s7cfaAbnPudi/w300-h400/DSCN3121.JPG" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="text-align: left;">Jo</span><span style="text-align: left;">ã</span><span style="text-align: left;">o Gon</span><span style="text-align: left;">ç</span><span style="text-align: left;">laves Zarco</span></i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Prince Henry was the main reason
why I wanted to visit Madeira, and during my trip there I was engrossed in reading
Peter Russell’s excellent biography. A statue of Prince Henry now keeps a
doleful watch over a roundabout in Funchal, not far from a similar statue
honouring Christopher Columbus, who before his famous voyage to the Americas
came to Madeira as a merchant buying sugar. Columbus lived on nearby Porto
Santo in the early 1480s and there married the Portuguese governor’s daughter,
Filipa Moniz Perestrelo. Another statue in the centre of Funchal honours Jo<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">ã</span>o Gon<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">ç</span>laves
Zarco, such that Madeira’s long history and its pivotal position in the era of
Portuguese maritime exploration is very apparent still. In a sense, reaching
Madeira was for me a kind of homecoming as well as another step in my own
personal exploration of the globe, given that my first trip overseas was to the
Algarve when I was just eight years old. On that first holiday abroad we
visited the old navigation school at Cabo de S<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">ã</span>o Vicente, a place which had
quite a deep effect upon me and perhaps first seeded my deep interest in the
history of exploration and explorers. The familiar sights, sounds, smells and
tastes of Portuguese architecture, everyday life, and Portuguese cuisine certainly
made me feel instantly at home here on the island of Madeira.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXzcOQ2mDVOEvqKEwDEtH4BE2mvxc3FZOgz9e4OsZaqMCCMwPTpyMjKsld45IXepgGCsl0e9QjkerjRxTfwE2re5UyHZmMp67yzaEuCwDxvBm41dfAZusaTGmTXcs-OYOT13Nw5lxYg1qV/s2048/DSCN3194.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXzcOQ2mDVOEvqKEwDEtH4BE2mvxc3FZOgz9e4OsZaqMCCMwPTpyMjKsld45IXepgGCsl0e9QjkerjRxTfwE2re5UyHZmMp67yzaEuCwDxvBm41dfAZusaTGmTXcs-OYOT13Nw5lxYg1qV/w400-h300/DSCN3194.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Funchal Harbour</i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">The island’s capital, Funchal, is a
wonderful little town to wander around. Filled with old churches and
picturesque squares with distinctive black and white patterned pavements which also
reminded me a lot of my several trips to Macao. For me, thoughts of Portugal
are always linked to food, and seafood in particular: grilled sardines and
buttery boiled potatoes being a particular favourite of mine. Tastes and smells
are some of the most evocative sparks to memory that we have, and the smell and
taste of grilled fish always reminds me of that first trip I made as a child to
Portugal. In Macao I would always seek out a wonderful family-run restaurant
called <i>Alfonso III</i>, not far from the main square. The food there always
instantly transported me back into my eight-year-old self on holiday long
before in the Algarve. As I get older I’ve come to realise that such sensory
memories have begun to accrue within me like archaeological layers of personal
journeys and places previously visited; because now a plate of grilled sardines
evokes a series of memories which are all linked through the long slow passing of
time from childhood to adulthood, in this instance, running back from Madeira,
through Macao to the Algarve.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpgbdPVGeqGPqUa3RtNeb5tR7i2Kp_OAVvP5dIdZxphMY_NSAZnWBXPK2N4Akt2peKBnUV_nH6Zb3D62lqbx3UQoqKezPTBVX24sPOsSxi7j2NCcAGMbQv7CRds6oDABTIE-YU_yq8SIV7/s2048/IMG_7787.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpgbdPVGeqGPqUa3RtNeb5tR7i2Kp_OAVvP5dIdZxphMY_NSAZnWBXPK2N4Akt2peKBnUV_nH6Zb3D62lqbx3UQoqKezPTBVX24sPOsSxi7j2NCcAGMbQv7CRds6oDABTIE-YU_yq8SIV7/w400-h300/IMG_7787.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Here in Madeira one of the local specialities
is a fish which you don’t come across on the Portuguese mainland and that is
the black scabbard fish, or ‘espada preta.’ The <i>espada</i> is a curious-looking
fish, scaleless and eel-like in appearance with large glassy eyes and a
ferociously toothy mouth, it looks almost prehistoric. It grows up to two metres
or six feet in length and lives roughly 1000m/3300ft below the ocean’s surface
during the day, but rises to around 800m/2600ft at night when it is caught by
local fishermen trailing long lines from their boats. Given the fact that it
normally lives at such depths, the process of hauling it to the surface and the
attendant change in pressure is what kills the fish; hence it loses its
iridescence turning jet black and its eyes acquire that milky-glassy appearance
as they burst inside with the sudden decrease in pressure as they swiftly reach
the surface. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYTfxl2AXZRXEPXFlwwqPjXOo_QLxbVIHiXQbk_0xlmqft3-fMIt5fCg9BThMInlKmmR66N1xseKXHtNxglX-zAEl9SyZf7PmdjgA-my39ad-B8L7Y6nTWYP5A7PJ_IMJIfYp5G3rr-MII/s2048/DSCN3606.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYTfxl2AXZRXEPXFlwwqPjXOo_QLxbVIHiXQbk_0xlmqft3-fMIt5fCg9BThMInlKmmR66N1xseKXHtNxglX-zAEl9SyZf7PmdjgA-my39ad-B8L7Y6nTWYP5A7PJ_IMJIfYp5G3rr-MII/w400-h266/DSCN3606.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Black Scabbard Fish</i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">The <i>espada</i> are only found
here in the waters off Madeira and curiously also off the coast of Japan
(although I’ve yet to see them on sale in the fish markets there). One of the
best places to see these unusual fish is where they are sold at Funchal’s
‘Mercado dos Lavradores’, or the ‘Peasant’s Market.’ The name rather belies the
reality somewhat, as this is a magnificent Art Deco market hall built in the
1930s. The first part of the hall is split level and sells a colourful
assortment of fruit and vegetables on the ground floor; the top floor has a
fantastic array of candied fruit for sale. It’s a beautiful building to wander
around, with its decorative blue and white tiled frescos. At the rear of the
market hall is the fish market where you can see all sorts of fish on sale from
huge tuna to small sardines, along with all sizes of fish in between, including
the ferocious looking black scabbard fish. It’s well worth a trip to see both
markets when trading is in full flow. The more usual way to see the black
scabbard fish though is probably on your dinner plate in one of the many
restaurants across the island, where it is served in a variety of ways but
usually accompanied by a cooked, locally grown banana – which might sound odd,
but the two tastes complement each other perfectly.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihYFlxCC1qVh7kuCC6rtWprXnvNDde5dJuSzT4qRR06L40McmV95JgI7updouW4z5NxVW_MzLrZ0Wns_km_TLDFVwVEvdZdUNj0R2ibWQ-DxPH0zmec-IvtkQj4GEGMRK1oLha8DVRU5-O/s1922/DSCN3151.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1679" data-original-width="1922" height="350" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihYFlxCC1qVh7kuCC6rtWprXnvNDde5dJuSzT4qRR06L40McmV95JgI7updouW4z5NxVW_MzLrZ0Wns_km_TLDFVwVEvdZdUNj0R2ibWQ-DxPH0zmec-IvtkQj4GEGMRK1oLha8DVRU5-O/w400-h350/DSCN3151.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"><i>Mercado dos Lavradores</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwb37BU2wXZGmORN8b6M94tgJIyxj68NAlD58Yo6XSVpbLROUgYcuDw0qxgsvTfS6DqqKYxMaYHoYhCv3IQJ3bsg0Uw27XeaTII1heJY7u9o_vK_gWx8NRgpqJveT7e-MLDBjLvn__QEFd/s2048/DSCN3620.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwb37BU2wXZGmORN8b6M94tgJIyxj68NAlD58Yo6XSVpbLROUgYcuDw0qxgsvTfS6DqqKYxMaYHoYhCv3IQJ3bsg0Uw27XeaTII1heJY7u9o_vK_gWx8NRgpqJveT7e-MLDBjLvn__QEFd/w300-h400/DSCN3620.JPG" width="300" /></a></div><br /><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_gCyznpQ7pzd13FmUoBu1X3MqzbbIoJvupAV3DOV5XVl601GiaKd703oB3qhYOYcbviL9_mblcMgM7ZAibWngHI0u7Rzl-A_slIR7JoLnYBqzmkejNlfuCvIoWf8teLwyJNba1goyy6Qm/s2048/DSCN3653.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_gCyznpQ7pzd13FmUoBu1X3MqzbbIoJvupAV3DOV5XVl601GiaKd703oB3qhYOYcbviL9_mblcMgM7ZAibWngHI0u7Rzl-A_slIR7JoLnYBqzmkejNlfuCvIoWf8teLwyJNba1goyy6Qm/w400-h300/DSCN3653.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br />
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Comparing my impressions of Madeira
in 2017 to those of Paul Bowles in 1959, there were quite a few continuities: <i>“In
one respect my London friends were right: most of the visitors to the island
are British.” </i>He notes that they all seem to stay in ‘British-run’ hotels,
where the food is awful and they spend all their time talking about the weather:
<i>“It was the monotony of the ‘English’ meals which finally decided me to
change living quarters. I moved into town to a Portuguese hotel with a brazenly
Portuguese bill-of-fare, and never looked back with longing on the roast beef
and Yorkshire pudding.” </i>Certainly, some of the best food I’ve ever had
during my travels I ate here on Madeira which has many good restaurants. It’s
true though that most of the overseas visitors to the island come from the UK,
but we did meet a few other Europeans. Most of the people we chatted with
talked about the recent shock of Brexit. There was one English couple we met
who were apoplectic about the UK’s decision to leave the European Union.
Madeira and Portugal have connections to Britain which go back far further than
the founding of the EU. Indeed, in 1660 Catherine of Braganza, daughter of
Portugal’s King Jo<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">ã</span>o IV, married England’s King Charles II. The marriage
contract secured Britain certain trading rights in Madeira which enabled
English merchants to prosper here and Madeira wine soon became a chief export
to Britain as a consequence. The British also defended Madeira when Napoleon’s
troops occupied mainland Portugal in 1807. It was during this time that the Anglican
Holy Trinity Church and the British cemetery were established in Funchal. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVRp3089R9a3niR5K5Q4i1zjtyYhT3HB0KAG1Ve338zTFKi_-JecsN6SMdmybYeNPmYC9errUw7PgnZNsUef5MMZpUPkllAnj5EnLriAc8HCrggswiDyTdTz_oeSD8z_yPiayj3PVKpUb5/s2048/DSCN3569.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVRp3089R9a3niR5K5Q4i1zjtyYhT3HB0KAG1Ve338zTFKi_-JecsN6SMdmybYeNPmYC9errUw7PgnZNsUef5MMZpUPkllAnj5EnLriAc8HCrggswiDyTdTz_oeSD8z_yPiayj3PVKpUb5/w400-h300/DSCN3569.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>The bust of Philippa of Lancaster, Holy Trinity Church</i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">In the grounds of Holy Trinity Church
there is a bust of Philippa of Lancaster which commemorates an earlier
connection between the Portuguese and British Royal families. Philippa was the
daughter of John of Gaunt and in 1387 she married King Jo<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">ã</span>o
I, thereby sealing the Anglo-Portuguese Alliance, which is said to be the
longest standing political alliance still in effect between two nations today.
It was also here in the Church grounds that the English chap we met, who was
bereft because of the UK’s Brexit vote, told us that he’d got talking to an
English ‘Ex-pat’ who he said lived permanently here on Madeira. He asked this expat
fellow how he had voted in the referendum and the expat told him he’d very
firmly voted for leaving the EU. “But why?” our new-found friend asked, and the
expat replied that he was “fed up of bluddy foreigners coming to the UK to use
the health service for free.” And so our friend asked him if, as a British long-term
resident of Madeira, he always flew back to the UK when he got ill, or did he
use the local doctors service here on Madeira? – Of course, he used the medical
services there on Madeira, he replied somewhat baffled; clearly he couldn’t see
the irony in this cognitive dissonance, nor the fact that he himself was as much
an EU immigrant as a British ‘expat.’<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEcs3al7Ng3XbPBfBLM9sjnnVTve9B1ATTlTCd2nNHJZ1vEjH5_X4Cg0CJTWtYuP10hkZz81FFo4jU_lCMnXta0PXHQs8XNo6EvPOJLmxLjdzlIkpxRWFniiXOvnZuiNiw-mDeNgMcNeUM/s2048/DSCN3397.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEcs3al7Ng3XbPBfBLM9sjnnVTve9B1ATTlTCd2nNHJZ1vEjH5_X4Cg0CJTWtYuP10hkZz81FFo4jU_lCMnXta0PXHQs8XNo6EvPOJLmxLjdzlIkpxRWFniiXOvnZuiNiw-mDeNgMcNeUM/w300-h400/DSCN3397.JPG" width="300" /></a></div><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">As Bowles noted in 1959: <i>“Certainly
Madeira is a quiet place. It is too remote to feel the emotional impact of the
world events, and too small to create much agitation of its own. Life on such
an island is necessarily tranquil. But Madeirans somehow manage to get a great
deal of pleasure out of that life, in spite of the isolation of which they
complain.” </i>I can’t help wondering how the British expats living on Madeira are
faring now and whether or not their tranquillity has been upset by the need for
new paperwork and visas given that Britain has at long last firmly thrown off
the burdensome shackles of its former privileges, such as ‘freedom of movement’
and the right to live unhindered in any one of the 27 EU member states,
including Portugal and Madeira? – Perhaps now they are beginning to discover
that ‘leave <i>means</i> leave’ for real and in ways which they might not have
expected?<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoIxDLER4NV_NsqzXCcJPFuieM01vQUX3wrQpiDXeYbM8Ba16_gKPIKrKZjesE-NE1_x6UxJR92opiufm_OCNTstCK3gZL44pYPMGc5HGaX_yKa0wRRMc8ZVCo5lhiA0nyiDw1I6N8RJrj/s2048/DSCN3249.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoIxDLER4NV_NsqzXCcJPFuieM01vQUX3wrQpiDXeYbM8Ba16_gKPIKrKZjesE-NE1_x6UxJR92opiufm_OCNTstCK3gZL44pYPMGc5HGaX_yKa0wRRMc8ZVCo5lhiA0nyiDw1I6N8RJrj/w400-h300/DSCN3249.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="text-align: left;">Jardim Bot</span><span style="text-align: left;">ânico e Loiro Parque</span></i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT7Xv4xMH-fZ8AQJb_hdjEtl9HQuOS_CCKSvRwDaCHKQwv_GJNxVEZs8zZJxXvPtffRXy1AUeA6G2FeIYUi8euDu-Yt3Y0QKU0wtSttNMFMMb4Zwyv5VBrwFwN8Sl2XkDTyXHPIUHwC2xE/s2048/DSCN3254.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT7Xv4xMH-fZ8AQJb_hdjEtl9HQuOS_CCKSvRwDaCHKQwv_GJNxVEZs8zZJxXvPtffRXy1AUeA6G2FeIYUi8euDu-Yt3Y0QKU0wtSttNMFMMb4Zwyv5VBrwFwN8Sl2XkDTyXHPIUHwC2xE/w300-h400/DSCN3254.JPG" width="300" /></a></div><br /><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRX9OceO4juoJTxskNFjnc8Di2iDF2GAsp_ZUpnP2z3eGNcFF7ouVb9N5Tk985do2ylVEvqHuuZ1rPyeCtz2f_j42U0RJ4VY7fMuSL3BFH1v8ATRVYYeScNIiXAlPMJdvd2tdBCq23Qelp/s2048/DSCN3310.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRX9OceO4juoJTxskNFjnc8Di2iDF2GAsp_ZUpnP2z3eGNcFF7ouVb9N5Tk985do2ylVEvqHuuZ1rPyeCtz2f_j42U0RJ4VY7fMuSL3BFH1v8ATRVYYeScNIiXAlPMJdvd2tdBCq23Qelp/w400-h300/DSCN3310.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"><i>Azulejos, Jardim Tropical Monte Palace</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><br />
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><i>“Here and there on the forested
slopes, two or three thousand feet above the city, are several parks. One of
these is a former private estate which is thrown open to the public on certain
days. </i>[…] <i>The park itself was splendid – a great bright cape of
stairways and gardens and balustrades spread out across the lap of the
mountain. I had the feeling there were flowers everywhere: on the ground, in
the trees, in the arms of passers-by.” </i>Like Bowles before us, we too went
to the top of the hills overlooking Funchal, but unlike him – he took a bus –
we rode up the hillside on the ‘Telef<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">é</span>rico’, or cable car, in order to
explore the botanical gardens. The ‘Jardim Bot<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">ânico e Loiro Parque’ used to be the
estate of the English hoteliers, the Reid family, wine merchants who built the luxurious
Palace Hotel in 1877, and which stands looking over the sea on the other side
of Funchal, still welcoming a rarefied clientele to this day. The botanical
garden is filled with both indigenous and imported plants including palms,
bromeliads, succulents as well as medicinal plants, and many beautiful flowers,
including orchids. The old house contains a rather old-fashioned museum of Madeiran
natural history, with simple displays of pressed flora and stuffed fauna, as
well as a collection of fossils. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkF0RUgq1o9BXDeN7XpH5xdpNHkDY-o3PZTSKozFRQSI3q-Xl9J3i0ST4zXOdTldTEthsiwVRWh5LL7C8UNJ-q3nwlAP81ftiEOOu5_5FRWQPUA-_jz5Itcej_kmxGIqAD3TtXYIZsWn9l/s2048/DSCN3347.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkF0RUgq1o9BXDeN7XpH5xdpNHkDY-o3PZTSKozFRQSI3q-Xl9J3i0ST4zXOdTldTEthsiwVRWh5LL7C8UNJ-q3nwlAP81ftiEOOu5_5FRWQPUA-_jz5Itcej_kmxGIqAD3TtXYIZsWn9l/w400-h300/DSCN3347.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">The Quinta do Palheiro, </span>which I
suspect might be the unnamed ‘park’ which Bowles is referring to,<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"> was first
laid out in 1790 by a French landscape designer for the Conde de Carvalhal. A
30-acre estate, it was later redesigned as a park in the style of an English
garden, and so became a curious mix of English and French horticulture. It was
bought by the English family named Blandy in 1885, like the Reids they were
prominent wine merchants, profiting from the export of Blandy’s Madeira Wine. In
1936 they took over the running of Reid’s Palace Hotel, until they sold it to
an international hotel chain in 1996. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgijAUHyLDVhwcqxxuh4Y6iUTgOJPu6srZKauA44mhvxffqjggwsDLfJ4mBCcZkw71mvn6Fc19QXr2ycHaAwYCJCuDxwj3hnpbSmI8gbXwuGKclYo3xC9pWu-pI_MUC6MwhrLI62piKsFz-/s600/Reids+Palace+Hotel.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="438" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgijAUHyLDVhwcqxxuh4Y6iUTgOJPu6srZKauA44mhvxffqjggwsDLfJ4mBCcZkw71mvn6Fc19QXr2ycHaAwYCJCuDxwj3hnpbSmI8gbXwuGKclYo3xC9pWu-pI_MUC6MwhrLI62piKsFz-/w293-h400/Reids+Palace+Hotel.jpg" width="293" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbz-86IDHFejMfrrRe8NWKeNrtigP8SFxjH907VtpkL-lSAjgYoPeqeXbvEHTlVJlYMcyJpsfN9gomj59-XHnrs-w-QsFQDuy-sMN3OLJaMBcwfTLITZYLl-JvdUvSCXFf-vTrsGRBVqUd/s910/blandys-vintage-madeira-1976.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="910" data-original-width="600" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbz-86IDHFejMfrrRe8NWKeNrtigP8SFxjH907VtpkL-lSAjgYoPeqeXbvEHTlVJlYMcyJpsfN9gomj59-XHnrs-w-QsFQDuy-sMN3OLJaMBcwfTLITZYLl-JvdUvSCXFf-vTrsGRBVqUd/w264-h400/blandys-vintage-madeira-1976.jpg" width="264" /></a></div><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Although we were aiming for it, we
didn’t make it quite so far as the Quinta do Palheiro as we spent a leisurely
part of the long afternoon exploring the leafy shade of the ‘Jardim Tropical
Monte Palace’ instead; which is filled with cascades of water, sculptures and ‘azulejos’
– distinctive decorative blue and white tiled panels, here depicting the
history of Portugal. When this eventually closed, we climbed up the hill to see
the Church of Nossa Senhora do Monte. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhStVO-owhdab0p6PtAy5k4qk5Cyb7ccCtE2usHjwro1feZRDt_oEb06tc7vQjp9h4sYyH3uEmjreujn-inTFwOyTvDvmPKs5GDRZQYq_YmGCm1NEB0pWVlPMznCDrB1VrGiLsq9eM8OGjU/s2048/IMG_7707.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhStVO-owhdab0p6PtAy5k4qk5Cyb7ccCtE2usHjwro1feZRDt_oEb06tc7vQjp9h4sYyH3uEmjreujn-inTFwOyTvDvmPKs5GDRZQYq_YmGCm1NEB0pWVlPMznCDrB1VrGiLsq9eM8OGjU/w300-h400/IMG_7707.JPG" width="300" /></a></div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtCN-J_gPNHON_QFvaXX8bLUuOxKB8nV-Y-HK5zSfSYZPbZXJ3o4SNtCZBdey245HgVYEdEh1qi5zzDdEy2XGZKO_ZR2021fDgjToqzfmOQrAiA0hYYpY3inhPd7dphzbE_dI8bz1et2Yn/s2048/IMG_7709.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtCN-J_gPNHON_QFvaXX8bLUuOxKB8nV-Y-HK5zSfSYZPbZXJ3o4SNtCZBdey245HgVYEdEh1qi5zzDdEy2XGZKO_ZR2021fDgjToqzfmOQrAiA0hYYpY3inhPd7dphzbE_dI8bz1et2Yn/w300-h400/IMG_7709.JPG" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"><i>Nossa Senhora do Monte</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">This rather modest little church
houses the sarcophagus of the Austro-Hungarian Emperor, Karl I. The last of the
Habsburg dynasty, dethroned, he died in exile here on Madeira in 1922. He was
beatified by Pope John Paul II in 2004, in recognition of his efforts as a devout
Christian peacemaker in the wake of World War I. The church is also a popular site
of pilgrimage due to the story that during the fifteenth century a young girl,
a local shepherdess, is said to have experienced several visions of the Virgin
Mary in the woods nearby. The current Baroque-style church was rebuilt in 1818 after
the previous church was severely damaged during an earthquake in 1748. A Pietà
set in silver in the high altar survives from the previous church. The church
itself sits atop an impressive flight of 68 stone steps and commands an expansive
view of Funchal and the bay looking towards Cabo Girão. At the foot of these
steps you can hitch a ride on one of Funchal’s famous basket sleds. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaivO3Psop_R7MO9VPBwGDookY_9lii3DLMz50VF_AktTGTASv-py8rJ16WwLNOZXZLYFplVNqPJaZzg0plH9L0XbmC_2mhX0BspnUiqreBtrXyB0H4r3ihHGtmomgu6esBNryQnrWvS_w/s2048/DSCN3277.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1367" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaivO3Psop_R7MO9VPBwGDookY_9lii3DLMz50VF_AktTGTASv-py8rJ16WwLNOZXZLYFplVNqPJaZzg0plH9L0XbmC_2mhX0BspnUiqreBtrXyB0H4r3ihHGtmomgu6esBNryQnrWvS_w/w268-h400/DSCN3277.JPG" width="268" /></a></div><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">These wicker toboggans are a tradition
which date back to the nineteenth century. The patrons sit in the spacious
basket while two burly Madeiran men act as both drivers and brakemen, as Bowles
describes: <i>“The two men will run rapidly along beside you, exerting all their
strength to hold the contraption back as it gathers momentum, and straining
like dray horses to pull it ahead along the flatter portions of the course.” </i>The
distance they cover down the steep slopes is around two kilometres and the
toboggans can get up to a speed of around 30 kms in some places. The main thrills
of the ride come from the combination of speed and the hazardous feeling that
the toboggan might tip up or collide with one of the walls which line the road,
or that you might catch up catastrophically quickly with the braking toboggan
in front of you. The fact that the speeding toboggans cross some quite busy
roads with cars driving on them too (although these crossings are watched over
by safety marshals), with the cars’ bumpers at about eye-level with you, is
also quite disconcerting.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><a href="https://carreirosdomonte.com/v2/en/history.php" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="644" data-original-width="966" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-O6Xbq2GWJxs8WyOxtLcLiC0YzBm2u3kMe0aJVjf8ieghXmw5KIGXnyPa9be6WN4BFvcynfYWPW8qZSoQAkA5dcL2ygQvgcQfpI1Z8JQMh-qgbbwKBmMaz5aLTyRWpFe5NjnTdt2V53yx/w400-h266/madeira+sleds+1.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://carreirosdomonte.com/v2/en/history.php" target="_blank">Wicker Basket Sled Ride</a></i></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><br /></span><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/vIaFlds8HFE" width="320" youtube-src-id="vIaFlds8HFE"></iframe></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://carreirosdomonte.com/v2/en/history.php" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="758" data-original-width="988" height="308" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWU9tnKtL9Ja_cEIUPm_-e3D73S2YXG9xKpPgIPqONjS7tAHs83olmhUL_IXD2_VaAfRe7toWpWASlFnXyIU0MX3oCoZhNHvjFvX4IZcwubhGnqshoveQHYQdA5ze6qBmAK95lx948ZVbC/w400-h308/madeira+sleds+2.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaXDZ3l2GpdQ_O4u-55Q9kfzABjYJoNo0P_CtNduNVgA5l1QHt7eBQ6atUwjVOBcFzf4PEo25YoEu8ReNdrNXlmL5pUg8kJut2ERdFJ-yuEJGbqNR5pPHrqdDzoA1jB8DqOLWcr-Y_3vr-/s2048/DSCN3264.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1366" data-original-width="2048" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaXDZ3l2GpdQ_O4u-55Q9kfzABjYJoNo0P_CtNduNVgA5l1QHt7eBQ6atUwjVOBcFzf4PEo25YoEu8ReNdrNXlmL5pUg8kJut2ERdFJ-yuEJGbqNR5pPHrqdDzoA1jB8DqOLWcr-Y_3vr-/w400-h266/DSCN3264.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">The steep slope of the basket sled
ride is nothing compared to some of the roads of the island’s interior. It’s
well worth taking some time to explore Madeira beyond Funchal, to get a taste
of the island’s wild topography, its verdant hills and stony cliffs with
waterfalls plunging straight down to the rugged coastline. Bowles describes it
best: <i>“For a moment it looks like a very expensive production of
‘Götterdämmerung.’ From here on the voyage is down and up, across valleys and
along the edges of cliffs. You swing around a curve and are poised above a
village some two thousand feet below. A half hour later the bus rocks through
its main street; the church bell is clanging in the steeple as you bump across
the sunlit ‘praça.’ There are stops where it is so quiet that from your seat
you hear the water gurgling in the ‘levada’ beside the road. And when you
finally arrive, you have a very clear sensation of being somewhere else, not so
much in place as in time.” <o:p></o:p></i></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><i><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><o:p> </o:p></span></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ8gXP9QhVvdfSXkBF3uB1G6APDbxNcxNXDqlnfbRerh0lvZIGiT26RudZV0xzcCvttHf9K8OIxxTZIAUQGMZ53Iu7C62ovz8G-CObU3BtCXzlnApQjYmbAjVTSIx5EXBoFwWsev8qGO6A/s2048/DSCN3528.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ8gXP9QhVvdfSXkBF3uB1G6APDbxNcxNXDqlnfbRerh0lvZIGiT26RudZV0xzcCvttHf9K8OIxxTZIAUQGMZ53Iu7C62ovz8G-CObU3BtCXzlnApQjYmbAjVTSIx5EXBoFwWsev8qGO6A/w300-h400/DSCN3528.JPG" width="300" /></a></i></div><i><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgynrem-JFrBvlwv9kP8LkLpXYksCcAbuQ62bzjm7nXoUQy1Vwi3_bo3iLvC13FJ8QE5VXtJORzrwqAnqHs87snzlAOLHQbHihb5jC6ARti6gX4PZl-ny8fSI-2u0FYXku3AvDihDqr0bmG/s2048/DSCN3504.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgynrem-JFrBvlwv9kP8LkLpXYksCcAbuQ62bzjm7nXoUQy1Vwi3_bo3iLvC13FJ8QE5VXtJORzrwqAnqHs87snzlAOLHQbHihb5jC6ARti6gX4PZl-ny8fSI-2u0FYXku3AvDihDqr0bmG/w400-h300/DSCN3504.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br /></i><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">There is certainly something ruggedly
elemental about the rocky coastline and the high interior scarps of the island;
an outpost in the Atlantic, located far enough away from the coast of Africa to
feel truly isolated, as any decent island should make one feel – far from home,
far from the familiar, far away from the rest of the world. For me at least,
despite all its touristy aspects – with its comfortable hotels, and relaxing
restaurants, all providing welcome retreats – there is also something of the
eternal about Madeira. For me that’s what Bowles means when he describes that
sensation of “being somewhere else” not just in place but also in time. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOvmum0LtCDWaacPQ6Bt7VR5WWM6cLg4qs_SK4n4FcidVPBsRWlHWTpPDbCuBq0BUtqCtrrxwiT8CSmjf1XyodjuiCH9Wm1ynW_Yfz4ElUb_gNf3aMRbwqNtE-M2QVWX0mozI-W3DkzfpO/s2048/DSCN3402.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOvmum0LtCDWaacPQ6Bt7VR5WWM6cLg4qs_SK4n4FcidVPBsRWlHWTpPDbCuBq0BUtqCtrrxwiT8CSmjf1XyodjuiCH9Wm1ynW_Yfz4ElUb_gNf3aMRbwqNtE-M2QVWX0mozI-W3DkzfpO/w300-h400/DSCN3402.JPG" width="300" /></a></div><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">For me, sitting in the gorgeous old
cathedral, the Catedral Sé, in the centre of Funchal, looking up at its
wonderfully antique ceiling (which reminds me of the elaborate ceilings of the ‘Alcazar’
at Segovia), seeing the large Chinese vases flanking the altars in the side
chapels (wondering how and when they first came to be placed there), all serve
to remind you of the long history of this place stretching back to the days of
Henry ‘the Navigator’ and beyond, back into the elemental days when this sharpened
volcanic rock first rose up out of the ocean, and, swathed in white mist, began
to be seeded by the lush, verdant vegetation which made it a rounded little world
impenetrable and imponderable in itself. For me, having long imagined it, now
that I was finally here, Madeira was a place which I <i>felt</i> just as much
as a place which I saw and experienced. And this is the mysterious magic of
Madeira; it is a place which lives long and dwells deep within you. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3H0yZNP-P8wClEpEQ2tYOsDHDlDGRSaFJXGqvBK4O15ow8Egh8K2sliWJ-eoIt3AuVzC1k_FJRgjgHKf73kq5D6wsnZCaaW9n2aHjDOLYqYUGvPe_K9LmXkkOvgZjdQn8f5ItXCMZRg47/s2048/DSCN3149.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3H0yZNP-P8wClEpEQ2tYOsDHDlDGRSaFJXGqvBK4O15ow8Egh8K2sliWJ-eoIt3AuVzC1k_FJRgjgHKf73kq5D6wsnZCaaW9n2aHjDOLYqYUGvPe_K9LmXkkOvgZjdQn8f5ItXCMZRg47/w300-h400/DSCN3149.JPG" width="300" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikjlJ5zOiLYf49wcPZIsDNvukhnyG4IdrTxpMg2E-63W_bqxAahwB9TyWF3y8hi9VajWB_6yShM2iuiXGpR7LKaRVv8cQuTDfkcfZlvRHDbXkTT0iGKABH70Cirb6pVCFY3hzsKrt3wvB4/s2048/DSCN3147.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikjlJ5zOiLYf49wcPZIsDNvukhnyG4IdrTxpMg2E-63W_bqxAahwB9TyWF3y8hi9VajWB_6yShM2iuiXGpR7LKaRVv8cQuTDfkcfZlvRHDbXkTT0iGKABH70Cirb6pVCFY3hzsKrt3wvB4/w300-h400/DSCN3147.JPG" width="300" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKjOrCVj5UOpwwb_v5gLWHuKR3sWCgGn9pQShanx0koHrVS9mom-hYt7v6UYC2QlSBizi-7Kh-luWAc9vUy_E5lLMsp9PUrPGu4L3f2-2TFnfqB4q5rBj52ysfWm5Ok6nHYnHfxSSEvzqA/s2048/DSCN3133.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKjOrCVj5UOpwwb_v5gLWHuKR3sWCgGn9pQShanx0koHrVS9mom-hYt7v6UYC2QlSBizi-7Kh-luWAc9vUy_E5lLMsp9PUrPGu4L3f2-2TFnfqB4q5rBj52ysfWm5Ok6nHYnHfxSSEvzqA/w400-h300/DSCN3133.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">As our plane lifted us back up into
the vast dome of the blue sky, carrying us away, we looked down upon this small
remarkable ocean-bounded island, now slowly receding from us, set amidst the heaving
dark waters of the Atlantic, I felt myself akin to both the place seen far
below for this last time, and to Bowles’s concluding words about it: <i>“You
know now that such a place exists and that you can get back to it someday if
you want to, and it is satisfying to have that certainty.”</i></span><i><o:p></o:p></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><i><br /></i></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLbiQEpgLW5_-g3j5MKwpefe0IwxdvbafM5LVV8YILkUTg_YNrerbDLnwgNQpZZmWTJ9wE0LU_oMuUZASWh8cXL4VAMdniRxyGWZscUiM072dlO6g4udsVrONMBwZxpkB7waEoU9vKddLK/s2048/IMG_8084.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLbiQEpgLW5_-g3j5MKwpefe0IwxdvbafM5LVV8YILkUTg_YNrerbDLnwgNQpZZmWTJ9wE0LU_oMuUZASWh8cXL4VAMdniRxyGWZscUiM072dlO6g4udsVrONMBwZxpkB7waEoU9vKddLK/w400-h300/IMG_8084.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAqlUJvDEIe4GzNHKZH35bQDOFrcxVVTtUzwMW8Z12aYbGV_mEVCs1_-lwW_HGN6rUZJQNtPZDyj1iLPlISeHCqUcp9TJUDB0V7H_C7Ko2MeacOJA4zbVXHLKVRtWh8duve0TUx7ySvRPg/s487/Madeira+Poster+2.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="487" data-original-width="283" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAqlUJvDEIe4GzNHKZH35bQDOFrcxVVTtUzwMW8Z12aYbGV_mEVCs1_-lwW_HGN6rUZJQNtPZDyj1iLPlISeHCqUcp9TJUDB0V7H_C7Ko2MeacOJA4zbVXHLKVRtWh8duve0TUx7ySvRPg/w233-h400/Madeira+Poster+2.jpg" width="233" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><i><u>Further Reading</u></i></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><i><br /></i></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;">Paul Bowles, <i>Travels: Collected Writings, 1950-1993 </i>(Sort of Books, 2010)</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;">Peter Russell, <i>Prince Henry 'The Navigator' - A Life </i>(Yale University Press, 2001)</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRazMKZbGNZJ8cnK9QtZrO5X63dLBANHMXKl4rwy9_KDL386MMp76hQqM33U7oJqVy7e_GXboPysB-DWM-vHSzacrmnBLIe5n75qvve0jpXy7OgP2co2EnRsM1hc6aSxs95wh42N3C401E/s400/PB+Travels.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="249" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRazMKZbGNZJ8cnK9QtZrO5X63dLBANHMXKl4rwy9_KDL386MMp76hQqM33U7oJqVy7e_GXboPysB-DWM-vHSzacrmnBLIe5n75qvve0jpXy7OgP2co2EnRsM1hc6aSxs95wh42N3C401E/s320/PB+Travels.jpg" /></a> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYVZgMTJ_0c11eSfLTZKUBtK2un3x4lqFjHG_gfcOmylBVzTWHhrxsjQTM4DJ4pNk3DftuEHT7Czc3yoXU8lNnT1Ttvg59dRltJoKuiEZjJsci5155T04r4clhGAnSvklju7H6EGp7acqd/s400/Peter+Russell.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="254" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYVZgMTJ_0c11eSfLTZKUBtK2un3x4lqFjHG_gfcOmylBVzTWHhrxsjQTM4DJ4pNk3DftuEHT7Czc3yoXU8lNnT1Ttvg59dRltJoKuiEZjJsci5155T04r4clhGAnSvklju7H6EGp7acqd/s320/Peter+Russell.jpg" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /></b></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><i>Also on 'Waymarks'</i></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><i><br /></i></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><a href="http://eccentricparabola.blogspot.com/2011/08/getting-ones-barings.html" target="_blank">Getting One's Bearings - My First Trip Overseas</a></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><a href="http://eccentricparabola.blogspot.com/2020/07/the-isle-of-bow-voyage-of-discovery.html" target="_blank">The "Isle of Bow" - A Voyage of Discovery</a></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><a href="http://eccentricparabola.blogspot.com/2021/06/segovias-el-puente-spain.html" target="_blank">Segovia's "El Puente" - Spain</a></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b>Christmas in Macao (forthcoming)</b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQg_wUMB_s-8Q11i6bCYybU2_wnBDGV-5aU8yPeCDuTzRweTI3NpdIxAnNKSB7e4Dgqc-ifLPTG6MnYpmBTEeiAHJn4voYKvlQFRnedSZB6Sm9kNTz5BPMtYEuahLKTdD2JGpfEaE1Au-A/s2048/IMG_7987.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQg_wUMB_s-8Q11i6bCYybU2_wnBDGV-5aU8yPeCDuTzRweTI3NpdIxAnNKSB7e4Dgqc-ifLPTG6MnYpmBTEeiAHJn4voYKvlQFRnedSZB6Sm9kNTz5BPMtYEuahLKTdD2JGpfEaE1Au-A/w400-h300/IMG_7987.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><br /></p><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggjzsccJ_9DXftZMJLvolUR8jAjATmPeGH7cvZbt5kAqBga3_-2FL58AsMwqXjNmLeaxRwMkhBZK8I8qPmttLvEnL_0-vZsWJz_k6MqlENCRytZlUVbvFRRqS8hsJic_gM_durtbFQpa0l/s726/Madeira+Poster+1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="726" data-original-width="500" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggjzsccJ_9DXftZMJLvolUR8jAjATmPeGH7cvZbt5kAqBga3_-2FL58AsMwqXjNmLeaxRwMkhBZK8I8qPmttLvEnL_0-vZsWJz_k6MqlENCRytZlUVbvFRRqS8hsJic_gM_durtbFQpa0l/w275-h400/Madeira+Poster+1.jpg" width="275" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><b><br /></b><p></p>Timhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11641833714036731203noreply@blogger.com0Madeira, Portugal32.760707400000008 -16.95947234.4504735638211628 -52.1157223 61.070941236178854 18.1967777tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-88759862385027089.post-49787875516838085822021-08-15T00:00:00.025+01:002021-09-04T02:59:04.684+01:00Hotel Quarantine<p> </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRVen2DGn4RL3o-prbqDrPL3VBe3iawvAdLXPzC38T3S7MFR-QkWRAvoTN2T7-ZO3uoruyIibUA2XAZIGl23qMZwcK4tSdBgTsHTArrbmlp6-Z9L18dc1chvpgDWaXXQmlVAR9zwwrUbQT/s2048/DSCN8577.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRVen2DGn4RL3o-prbqDrPL3VBe3iawvAdLXPzC38T3S7MFR-QkWRAvoTN2T7-ZO3uoruyIibUA2XAZIGl23qMZwcK4tSdBgTsHTArrbmlp6-Z9L18dc1chvpgDWaXXQmlVAR9zwwrUbQT/w400-h300/DSCN8577.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>'Welcome to the Hotel Quarantine' - A Pilgrimage during a Pandemic</i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><b><i>Life under “Lockdown” – A
London to Tokyo, via Yokohama Diary #8<o:p></o:p></i></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">A global pandemic is not the most
ideal time to emigrate. But life goes on. By increments we are all, hopefully,
progressing inch by inch closer to a new normality. After the last year and a
half, I couldn’t imagine life becoming any more dystopian. Surreal memories of finding
myself to be the only pedestrian walking through a deserted Canary Wharf, the heart
of London’s financial district eerily devoid of traffic, in the middle of the
day in the middle of the working week was weird enough, invoking recollections
of disaster movies, such as <i>28 Days Later</i> and <i>I am Legend</i>. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Checking in for an international
flight, just a few weeks ago, in a near empty Terminal 5 at London’s Heathrow Airport
comes perhaps a close second. Everyone, at all points of the process, strangely
anonymised, wearing face masks. Everyone ritually disinfecting hands as they
pass by a succession of sentinel hand-sanitizer posts, as though genuflecting
at the Stations of the Cross, embarking on some bizarre Sci-Fi-like modern
pilgrimage – perhaps fleeing from (or towards?) Armageddon. Normal questions
about hazardous articles in luggage now taking second place to questions about
the state of your health and requests to see the sheafs of certification concerning
Covid-19 tests and other medical declarations, as required by the Governments
at your intended destination. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br /></p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">The weeks leading up to my
departure were a recurring nightmare of fears: fears that I might have
overlooked a crucial piece of necessary bureaucracy; fears that I might not get
the certificate attesting to my double-jabbed vaccination status in time; fears
that I might not make it to my “72 hours prior to travel” Covid-19 test because,
of all the weekends on which I’d chosen to fly – <i>inevitably</i> – this one was
one of those weirdly normalised London weekends when the entire Piccadilly Line
was closed for never-ending engineering works; fears that I might get a
positive test result, thus voiding all my plans and intentions entirely, not to
mention the vast expenditure of it all. By comparison, the formalities of
actually getting a visa and the attendant documentation required for the
granting of resident status in Japan when the Embassy finally reopened back in
May seemed a doddle. Hence, the moment I placed my boarding pass on the scanner
and the security gates magically parted seemed unreal in the extreme.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/eccentricparabola/9228103033/in/photostream/" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="637" data-original-width="848" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhY8d-VRFhY_5LHoR1tcJLfwojvMWvsXx3uYT5ZGgb5e2XOTeU6mh8ObM48V66gbvK30qaheKms69Qv82b8m5fD5wddFlLOsAO7hw8E3ilmi-e4PW09Bp5NEvJI1aShC0sktHl19MoKcLs5/w400-h300/Alaska+Stopover+2004.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/eccentricparabola/9228103033/in/photostream/" target="_blank">Stopover in Anchorage, Alaska - 2004</a></i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><o:p><br /></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Fortunately for me, my previous
career, having spent the last 20+ years ferrying international touring
exhibitions around the world for the British Museum, was ample preparation for
all of this oddness. I’ve spent a large proportion of my time navigating my way
through unusual situations in airports across four different continents. I’ve
also spent many hours waiting in such places, having wrangled with many
different visa systems and the associated processes which enable an air
traveller to get from A to B with the correct permissions, stamps, finger
prints, facial scans, metal detector checks, airway bills, customs paperwork, and
the like. The key to the whole scenario is to keep a nimble eye on what is
happening and being prepared to act quickly at the required moment should
anything appear to be in danger of going awry; that, along with a hefty portion
of patience, knowing that more often than not these long-haul journeys will inevitably
be punctuated by interminable stretches of waiting, the long hours in which you
are powerlessly held in thrall to the system which you are simply passing
through.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Sitting in the Departures Hall, I
couldn’t help reflecting on many of the strangest journeys I’ve made, such as:
circumnavigating the globe from London to Tokyo to London, via Anchorage
Alaska; or, crossing the equator for the first time after a 24-hour stopover in
Hong Kong on the eve of the first umbrella protest. I’ve done some decidedly
long journeys too. I once flew from London to Beijing, where I stayed less than
24 hours, before flying back to London, only to fly from London to Seoul just a
day or two later. But I think my longest single journey was flying from Tokyo
to Mexico City, via Krasnoyarsk, Frankfurt, and Chicago (a strange scenario
which means I have entry stamps in my passport for both Chicago and Mexico City
issued on the same day). <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><a href="http://eccentricparabola.blogspot.com/2014/08/first-crossing-equator.html" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="336" data-original-width="448" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghAOcf6BiWWvl9SaPkVs78pXf4Q5uU5s-oCi7QyEYsJRGc6D1-ytO7DF4VwCCinXL68pyX4cbNXdVtMJXgydRKV7Y6Nly4E_XlSMaB_uhb3NV7eXFsRBR28vdBXMcc4tNItyV3617RNae_/w400-h300/My+Private+Jet.JPG" width="400" /></a></span></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><a href="http://eccentricparabola.blogspot.com/2014/08/first-crossing-equator.html" target="_blank">En Route : LHR >> HKG >> SYD >> MEL - 2014</a></i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Flying over the Ukraine in a cargo
plane the day before flight MH17 was blown from the sky was a sobering
experience (TV News reports the following day, speculating that it had “probably
been a mistake shooting down an airliner” and that “they were more likely
aiming to shoot down a cargo plane instead”, seemed to overlook the crucial fact
that cargo planes have people on board too!). I was once on a flight which was
struck by lightning as we were crossing the English Channel. I saw a white
flash swiftly pass through the cabin like an ethereal ghost hurrying to the
rear of the plane (I did briefly wonder at the time, if, like the Highlander,
this might have made me immortal?). <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">On several cargo flights I was
lucky enough to sit in the cockpit with the pilots during take-off and landings
in different airports, such as: Mexico City, Chicago, Krasnoyarsk, and Taipei.
One of the best was Hong Kong. Watching as we weaved between clumps of clouds
which were flickering with summer lightning like incandescent candyfloss. With
Victoria Harbour passing by so close below, it felt like if I reached out I’d
be able to touch the tall buildings, all of them lit up brightly, sparkling in
the dark warmth of the night. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br /></p>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><a href="http://eccentricparabola.blogspot.com/2020/01/transporting-treasures.html" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgosK6z9vGNaSjvV1dz3n6FM2ydSPD_PtOQFKJccUrBuL8rEEWQxqMTXMTrhkyg_vTbG8xDK82rccMGB9fDXtvUQKljNP2KpifiBIYNAXLybyb46uf_K-UawZ9Y7_0NRNA3r_bSQxeAaAY3/w400-h300/P1000039.JPG" width="400" /></a></span></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><a href="http://eccentricparabola.blogspot.com/2020/01/transporting-treasures.html" target="_blank">Loading Cargo at Incheon, South Korea, 2011</a></i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">I’ve also spent many an hour
sitting in airports as they have slowly emptied of passengers with all the
shops closing down for the night. It’s quite an eerie and sometimes unnerving
experience. You hope that your contacts won’t forget you, or that when the time
comes you won’t miss meeting your aircrew. There was one occasion in Luxembourg
when we met a pilot and his co-pilot, who were both happy to find they’d have
some company on their flight. It was only after we’d been chatting for about
ten minutes that we discovered they and we were flying to different
destinations entirely – thus we very narrowly avoided following the wrong
aircrew onto the wrong flight! – If this had happened, once on-board, I’m sure
the aircrew would have checked their paperwork more closely and realised we
weren’t meant to fly with them before we got underway; but the delay this
unintended misdirection would have caused would probably have meant we’d have
missed our intended flight because the aircrews of cargo planes don’t tend to
hang around for late running passengers – as I found out once, just in the nick
of time, when clambering up the ladder to board a cargo plane which was just
about to close its door and get underway!</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">In some ways though, it’s a real
joy to pass through a near empty airport. The place feels less fraught. There’s
less of that nervous jockeying to get a spot on the shuttle train between the
terminals. Less stressing over squeezing into the lifts crammed with unwieldy
baggage trolleys. There’s more time to step back and assess, to realise that
you <i>are</i> heading in the right (or wrong!) direction. And the queues for
the loos are mercifully shorter or non-existent. The shop staff in the Duty
Free shops, if they are still open, look decidedly bored. My flight to Japan had
been delayed by four hours which meant we were either the last or last-but-one passenger
flight to depart Heathrow T5 that night. The passengers on my plane were all
well-spaced out across the rows of seating, as 'socially distanced' as the
cramped Economy Class cabin would permit. First and Business Class were both
almost entirely empty. Everyone wore face masks throughout the duration of the
flight, only taking them off briefly to eat. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">I’d read about the exacting processes
to be expected on arrival in Japan, and this information turned out to be
accurate. It was a long gauntlet which needed to be run as each part of every
traveller’s paperwork was checked thoroughly and then double-checked again at
desk after desk. Unlike at Heathrow where the Covid-19 test was a nasal swab
which made my eyes water involuntarily, here at Haneda we had to spit into a test
tube – a process which feels a lot less invasive and a lot less uncomfortable,
but each passenger was ushered into a small booth in which to spit more
discreetly. The tedious paperwork processes actually alleviated some of the
long wait for this test to be processed, but there were still long interminable
stretches of waiting too. On the whole the few children who were travelling
with their parents were remarkably well behaved; only a few whined quietly at
their parent’s elbows due to a very forgivable combination of boredom and extreme
tiredness. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGZFDRerHhlDZKn4cuxr7a8eiW8S1enz7XMsczAWrFLl-Ni3PMVTjwjTT6N0ynOfGXnmb7O6OguIPVy6lyXNHRTUOojuR9drahQDUv-eX4LEVtG17FV-nO3ittvogvQy5-ZleaUEv6GJlj/s2048/DSCN8621.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1399" data-original-width="2048" height="274" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGZFDRerHhlDZKn4cuxr7a8eiW8S1enz7XMsczAWrFLl-Ni3PMVTjwjTT6N0ynOfGXnmb7O6OguIPVy6lyXNHRTUOojuR9drahQDUv-eX4LEVtG17FV-nO3ittvogvQy5-ZleaUEv6GJlj/w400-h274/DSCN8621.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Once our test results were returned
(happily mine was still negative) we were led through to Immigration, which
rather comfortingly was dealt with far more informally than usual. Stewards remained
close at hand throughout to direct us travellers at all points with friendly
deferential but decisively firm instructions, marching us back and forth along
a beguiling maze of ribbon-barriered corridors. Once all my paperwork was at
last in order and with my residence permit now reassuringly in hand, I passed
through the last of all these checks where a Customs officer looked at my
passport and then, returning it, looked up over his facemask and said warmly
“Okaeri nasai” (Welcome home) instead of the usual “Yokoso Nihon” (Welcome to
Japan).<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">But I wasn’t home just yet. My
fellow passengers and I were then marshalled down to a bus, where we were in
for another long wait. Eventually though, the bus moved off into the night.
Winding through the near empty streets it took us to a hotel in Yokohama. Again,
here in the lobby, another long process of form filling ensued and instructions
were relayed and affirmed. Once again, the staff were faultlessly polite and
friendly throughout. I was issued with a thermometer and a boxed meal. I was
then led to my room on the 28<sup>th</sup> floor, where at 3am – a full seven
hours after landing, and almost 24 hours total in transit – I was able to
collapse into bed with no further obligations until I awoke later that morning.
<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">For the next 6 days I was required
to live in this small hotel room like a monk in his cell. Isolated, no going
out whatsoever. A meal box (<i>Obento</i>) delivered three times a day: for
breakfast, lunch and dinner. With a bottle of water each time (no alcohol was
allowed). My daily rituals required taking and reporting my body temperature to
reception each morning, and answering the random spot checks on my location demanded
by the Japan Government’s panopticon-like mobile phone App, which also wanted
to know how I was feeling each day. My own phone was too old to support the App,
so I had to rent a rather expensive one expressly for this purpose from the
Government, to be returned on the first day of my eventual release from
quarantine. I didn’t regret the expense too much though, because the staff very
helpfully set the whole thing up for me (which, watching them, I feared would
have been well beyond my Luddite-like capabilities had it been left solely up
to me), and also because, unlike for anyone arriving in the UK, here in Japan
the cost of bed and board in the quarantine hotel was borne entirely by the
Japanese Government (<i>Arigatou, Nihon</i>).<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjuBmp83o8r2j2a_2y8Ab3le10vB5Ua7lMcftTunq7zBe1GztyCunolga7BaRJCFi0Qw0jKo1cNfDnyfli4bG3jnrFY_uMJD4jyCanCWOSI2mIPbxpjljxcdnev37kM93LITBnYAVKi9W1/s2048/DSCN8622.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjuBmp83o8r2j2a_2y8Ab3le10vB5Ua7lMcftTunq7zBe1GztyCunolga7BaRJCFi0Qw0jKo1cNfDnyfli4bG3jnrFY_uMJD4jyCanCWOSI2mIPbxpjljxcdnev37kM93LITBnYAVKi9W1/w400-h300/DSCN8622.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Akarenga Soko & the Hikawa Maru, Yokohama</i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">The hotel was much more comfortable
than I had been expecting. Plus, opening the curtains when I woke up later that
morning, I found I had a wonderful view of the seafront at Yokohama,
overlooking the landmarks of <i>Akarenga S</i><i><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">ō</span>ko</i>, the red brick
warehouses built by Western traders in the nineteenth century, plus the old NYK
<i>Hikawa maru</i> ocean liner. I’d walked along that promenade many times
before with friends and family, but for now all I could do was watch it from my
solitary confinement in my hermetically sealed room. I had six days to seek
spiritual <i><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Satori" target="_blank">satori</a>,</i> and to sleep off my jetlag. Keeping myself busy with
my PhD studies, messaging my family and friends, meditating upon the transience
of the boats coming and going from my window’s high vantage. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhX-ZOMnzsqe8xUOaT7bRiyrS3WUVwMfMu5paCwuSJe5Exd-BSBoPQ4UjXG1nHLWgz-pPl8TB3xkITNcCD1iZsSORIzaqR0egkU7kvtRvsGe2bmsRVhnEZx1QFRt_8rCOBNkpugozVQ95oj/s2048/DSCN8625.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhX-ZOMnzsqe8xUOaT7bRiyrS3WUVwMfMu5paCwuSJe5Exd-BSBoPQ4UjXG1nHLWgz-pPl8TB3xkITNcCD1iZsSORIzaqR0egkU7kvtRvsGe2bmsRVhnEZx1QFRt_8rCOBNkpugozVQ95oj/w400-h300/DSCN8625.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>NYK Hikawa Maru - Yokohama</i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">I joked via social media with my
former colleagues at the BM who asked how I was coping with life under
quarantine, saying that all of my life for the last twenty years – spending
most of my time living for long periods in hotels – was the perfect preparation
for this. It was in fact <i>my moment</i>. As if, all my life, I’d been in
training for <i>exactly</i> this – as though <i>this</i> was my own personal
Olympics. A lot of people had asked me before I left the UK if I might get to
see any of the Tokyo 2020 Games when I reached Japan, and I’d replied: ‘probably
not.’ But from my hotel window I could see one of the venues, Yokohama Baseball
Stadium, lit up at night with a sprinkling of spectators in the stands. At Haneda
Airport too, I’d seen the Cuban and Moroccan Olympic teams arriving. The TV was
wall-to-wall with seemingly non-stop coverage, exclusively focussed on the team
of the host nation. There was absolutely no escaping the Olympic Games, just as
I’d experienced previously in Britain in 2012, and in China in 2008.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8g3rjLZOdKwVUu9hEROOfonxA6tuMsISvnevl2apEZYCMhQUSlHMalRv2TGCF0KZvprH0C43J0kDo4oprgQ7712hmOmBJPrCfr_ChsXhXTXHPnn2RDKX0CGQblAYWvX1mdqSgzDzhHWb-/s2048/DSCN8581.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8g3rjLZOdKwVUu9hEROOfonxA6tuMsISvnevl2apEZYCMhQUSlHMalRv2TGCF0KZvprH0C43J0kDo4oprgQ7712hmOmBJPrCfr_ChsXhXTXHPnn2RDKX0CGQblAYWvX1mdqSgzDzhHWb-/w400-h300/DSCN8581.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Yokohama Baseball Stadium - 'Tokyo 2020' Olympic Games</i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">The monotony of life in my hotel
room wasn’t too bad though. After the prolonged periods of living alone through
the last two ‘lockdowns’ in London, long periods of solitary study were now a
routine normality for me. Reading books and articles, updating my bibliography,
or watching history documentaries (such as my perennial favourite, John Romer’s
<i><a href="http://eccentricparabola.blogspot.com/2013/07/testament-john-romer.html" target="_blank">Testament</a></i>) helped to pass the time. The view from the window was an unexpected
pleasure too. I’d assumed I’d end up with some non-descript view of an office
block wall or something similarly dull, but watching the maritime activity in
the harbour as well as the sunrise each morning was wonderfully relaxing.
Outside it was clearly baking hot during the daytime. The air con system kept
me from roasting when my room caught the full blaze of the midday sun. But, by
day five I was getting a little desperate for some fresh air and the
opportunity to stretch my legs properly. The thing that surprised me the most
though was the <i>bento</i> box meals – no two of them were ever the same! – They
were delivered three times a day. And there was never any choice. You ate
whatever you were given, and, even though I was asked what allergies I had on
arrival, I was simply told <i>not</i> to eat those things if they appeared in
the boxed meals(!). <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguXQXufhfNxF5asnzOpkyvLtOLLFE6Cw5RT0Hd53QCGabjOinDwm6mASH2trreMOOEdhCPgIOU8zuS0etdOTd2ujZjcxk5Se-Zr81fLTqPr1cUK4L3F3WcJy7vKEFbW88hiXsiP_9sWG5a/s2048/DSCN8608.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguXQXufhfNxF5asnzOpkyvLtOLLFE6Cw5RT0Hd53QCGabjOinDwm6mASH2trreMOOEdhCPgIOU8zuS0etdOTd2ujZjcxk5Se-Zr81fLTqPr1cUK4L3F3WcJy7vKEFbW88hiXsiP_9sWG5a/w400-h300/DSCN8608.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Breakfast 'Obento'</i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Covid-19 tests were taken early in
the morning on days three and six; once again, mercifully, they were the
spitting into a test tube kind, the same as at the airport. ‘Holiday camp’-like
tannoy announcements reminded you each meal time to wear your facemask and to
be careful not to lock yourself out of your room when you opened your door to
take in your <i>bento</i> box which had been hung silently on your door knob.
It was an odd way too live, strangely Sci-Fi in many respects – but I still
can’t decide if it was more like something out of the imagination of J. G.
Ballard, Philip K. Dick, or Stanley Kubrick. It was a kind of ‘Silent Runnings’
meets ‘The Andromeda Strain’, I suppose – with visits on test days from a group
of medical personnel swathed head to toe in anonymising PPE.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">The result of my final test came
via the hotel telephone just after lunch. I was still negative. I’d already
readied my luggage in optimistic anticipation of this moment, and so I was out
of the room an instant later, riding the lift down to the lobby. Handing back
my thermometer, my luggage was stowed under the bus as I quickly climbed
aboard. Ten minutes later the bus was rolling rapidly through the streets,
heading back to the airport, crossing the suspension bridge over Yokohama
harbour which I’d spent so much of the last few days wistfully viewing from the
close confines of my tiny room in the quarantine hotel. My family met me at the
airport – the first time I’d seen them in over a year and a half – a happy
reunion full of hugs, grins and happy tears. We then drove home, as I was still
not allowed to use the public transport system. Finally reaching home I still
wasn’t free, I had 8 more days of quarantine ahead of me. Life in ‘lockdown’
once again, but this time on the other side of the globe in a city where the
infection rate was rapidly rising. Mercifully for me, however, there was now more
space for me to move around in, plus a balcony on which I could stand and at
last breathe fresh air once again. And, of course, most important of all, I
could now relax in the long-missed company of my nearest and dearest. Watching
the sunset together behind the beautiful silhouette of sacred Mount Fuji.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEin6XhbwFabPzVUEbJeOzl0YlVxIWOjDEXxqRsc4XlxBYhVfqFk7PLGiBfH-0ubdtGDKXU4WTUpJndyorlcXSMsLL6S5SuoxEp7aZOUV9-ZN4nry7A9FNWdMZ-bBGy_y8lJXpHp8oWPmFAD/s2048/DSCN8614.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEin6XhbwFabPzVUEbJeOzl0YlVxIWOjDEXxqRsc4XlxBYhVfqFk7PLGiBfH-0ubdtGDKXU4WTUpJndyorlcXSMsLL6S5SuoxEp7aZOUV9-ZN4nry7A9FNWdMZ-bBGy_y8lJXpHp8oWPmFAD/w400-h300/DSCN8614.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Sunrise over Yokohama</i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Though I was now home at last, I
was still under surveillance – required to report my state of health each
morning and answer the random spot checks on my current location which either
came in the form of push-notification ‘pings’ or actual phone calls. These
phone calls were either AI operated video calls in which I had to stare into
the camera with my background clearly visible while my phone’s silent mechanical
eye recorded for 30 seconds. I’ve no idea if these visual recordings were
checked by people or computers, but I waved politely cheerful from time-to-time
just in case it was an actual living breathing human being who had to watch back
half a minute’s worth of footage of me staring at them like a bug-eyed goldfish
stuck in a glass bowl. The other kind of phone call came from an actual person,
speaking either in Japanese or English, asking me where I was and if I was
unwell. Nevertheless, these video calls were oddly ‘big brother’-like because I
could see myself, but the screen I was talking to was completely black, so I
could not see the caller. This always reminded me of the scene in both the old
1953 and more recent 2005 film versions of H.G. Wells’ <i>War of the Worlds</i>
in which the Martian’s cobra-headed mechanical eye snakes around the basement
of the building in search of hiding humans. Mercifully, these calls were always
fairly quick, but it was the uncertainty of <i>when</i> they might call which
became somewhat wearing if not quite so unnerving as a probing alien mechanical
eye. Each day I’d receive several locator pings and an AI recorded phone call,
and usually a human operator phone call as well. This meant the phone needed to
sit by my side at all times during the day, though calls and pings rarely ever
came much before 8:30am, or later than 6pm. Such dystopian surveillance seemed
politely civilised in this respect, but I was very glad to get shot of the
infernal device as soon as I could when the 15 days of quarantine were done.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSjFj6rGgXApE_8AQyBjYgJh0J19R-CTRnJciHIHzWvM-JsjeNvCKNmMzT-msbbYb8LP12r7hP7xLXyToeUdVEQTYumraX5vBObkC3eqW_RPkFvVhQSaB21KS00QxQwe2wCvcLWmzrSXGf/s2048/DSCN8630.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1535" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSjFj6rGgXApE_8AQyBjYgJh0J19R-CTRnJciHIHzWvM-JsjeNvCKNmMzT-msbbYb8LP12r7hP7xLXyToeUdVEQTYumraX5vBObkC3eqW_RPkFvVhQSaB21KS00QxQwe2wCvcLWmzrSXGf/w400-h300/DSCN8630.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>The thin line of Mount Fuji traced on the haze of the horizon</i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">On my first day of freedom, proving
the old adage that ‘only mad dogs and Englishmen go out in the midday sun’, I
went for a stroll on the hottest day of the year so far in Tokyo. “The mercury topped
somewhere around 36<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">°</span>C”, as the over-dubbed TV News channels here like to say.
But it was a real relief to stretch my legs at last. I noticed that everyone
here in Tokyo is wearing their facemasks. This isn’t so unusual. You often see
people on the trains here wearing them throughout the year. It’s long been the
custom in Japan for those with a bit of a sniffle to wear them, mostly out of
politeness more than anything else. So this wasn’t unusual, but what was
different now was the fact that people were wearing them at all times, even
whilst walking down empty streets. An entire metropolis anonymised. And, though
there were still plenty of people out and about, there did seem to be fewer
people commuting – but it would take a keen eye to spot the difference, because
the trains were just as crowded as the pre-pandemic rush hour on the Tube in
London. Tokyo might currently be under ‘a state of emergency’, but on the face
of things, apart from wearing facemasks at all times, life in the city seems to
be going on much as it always has. A less perceptible pandemic than in the UK perhaps?<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0T0SzBuEZiHqs2G9XCtdYiXzyb2QbCGvCrxlbpJyMvWUE33Za9HOVUdKeuWUhaKlpbny24NHU_IWy0EMN_a7xoSa-DslzeUJySAKIw-x2d-Nm5MkmfldTEIRRZRK52IJXrJ2RwPZsfRRL/s2048/DSCN8733.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0T0SzBuEZiHqs2G9XCtdYiXzyb2QbCGvCrxlbpJyMvWUE33Za9HOVUdKeuWUhaKlpbny24NHU_IWy0EMN_a7xoSa-DslzeUJySAKIw-x2d-Nm5MkmfldTEIRRZRK52IJXrJ2RwPZsfRRL/w400-h300/DSCN8733.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">I thought it only proper that the
first place I visit should be the local Shinto shrine. To say ‘hello’ to the
local Gods. Here though there were subtle indicators that all was not well with
the world. The <i>ch</i><i><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">ō</span>zuya</i>, the place where you should
ritually cleanse your hands and mouth when entering the shrine, was dry and
without its attendant utensils. Instead, stood sentinel beside it was one of
the now ubiquitous hand-sanitizer stands found at every point of entry and exit
in our daily lives. Plus ringing the bell to attract the Gods’ attention when
praying at the shrine was now no longer allowed. One just had to hope that the
ritual three hand claps would suffice to attract their favourable hearing.
While I was there a few other visitors came and went, throwing their coins,
clapping their hands and saying a silent prayer each. I’m sure all of us each
made the same request alongside whatever else we were hoping for divine assistance
with – that request being, of course, an end to this interminable pandemic soon.
<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYRzsIuBYPLVdtGiIVh5ZkKfuHOEqhanAWVZ3ag-obz2YKnkgaRhyphenhyphenfdn6OpBZgbAnnQEhmqcdnnlfLrbnLngpjS__fFEr9kq8OocW7ZDClgZlKAuAZf_YAeIpj6BD4QjQfmJUh_Ha-b_jU/s2048/DSCN8746.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYRzsIuBYPLVdtGiIVh5ZkKfuHOEqhanAWVZ3ag-obz2YKnkgaRhyphenhyphenfdn6OpBZgbAnnQEhmqcdnnlfLrbnLngpjS__fFEr9kq8OocW7ZDClgZlKAuAZf_YAeIpj6BD4QjQfmJUh_Ha-b_jU/w400-h300/DSCN8746.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">The Buddhist Temple next door was
almost entirely deserted. I saw just one other person coming and then going; a
young girl who evidently had gone to pick her younger sister up from the nearby
kindergarten, both of them, hand-in-hand, returning home. It was nice to sit
for a moment under the dappled light shed by the dense canopy of green maple leaves
overhead. But it was really far too hot to linger long. The loud rhythmic noise
of the cicadas rasping, rising fast and falling slow all around me. I couldn’t
help reflecting how the pandemic and the periods of ‘lockdown’ and quarantine I’ve
had to live through over the last year and a half has slowed life down a lot.
Though these times have been punctuated by periods of almost frenetic activity,
attempting to catch up with the world as it continues to turn. Life’s tempo is undoubtedly
all out of kilter, but I hope we learn from these experiences of upheaval and
uncertainty, so that when life does return back to some sort of normality we
can improve upon the way we lived before – so that we can all live in a new world
made fresh once again. A world hopefully with more balance, with the good things
in life shared more equitably, and a greater emphasis on care and calmness. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQ5U0EDP3Gdm5BtvOt9PmhHIsWQZT2om5Kj1RJQU8YHKGdEmbzydNw4u_0o6QRVez4XmaJYmrprKimXibSksvPAULtx7KXIZ4Zaohi69OWCS3yGlUIRgPEKPCd2qxVRRxwglu1bRpr9yrX/s2048/DSCN8722.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQ5U0EDP3Gdm5BtvOt9PmhHIsWQZT2om5Kj1RJQU8YHKGdEmbzydNw4u_0o6QRVez4XmaJYmrprKimXibSksvPAULtx7KXIZ4Zaohi69OWCS3yGlUIRgPEKPCd2qxVRRxwglu1bRpr9yrX/w400-h300/DSCN8722.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">I hope, too, that sooner rather
than later, I can stop writing these pieces, because I really don’t want to
write any more entries here in this seemingly never-ending <a href="http://eccentricparabola.blogspot.com/search/label/Lockdown%20Diary" target="_blank">‘lockdown diary’</a> of
mine. But, such is life, sadly – <i><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Shikata_ga_nai" target="_blank">shikata ga nai</a>, ne.<o:p></o:p></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><i><br /></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigM7k7zCuFd74zzZwtrt9BJTISYCc3fj5uhjQ9MyzxALZQJaop6pgA_3Vv57iHUoaXhfPyIvjF9l3elsNLpVDD-Ycq7QLAkTRsBGJcjNSGLS1M5DzBcc_7jqex-sxaux57UToiEbLrtu9C/s2048/DSCN8713.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigM7k7zCuFd74zzZwtrt9BJTISYCc3fj5uhjQ9MyzxALZQJaop6pgA_3Vv57iHUoaXhfPyIvjF9l3elsNLpVDD-Ycq7QLAkTRsBGJcjNSGLS1M5DzBcc_7jqex-sxaux57UToiEbLrtu9C/w400-h300/DSCN8713.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br /><i><br /></i><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><i><br /></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><i><b>Also on 'Waymarks'</b></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><i><b><br /></b></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><a href="http://eccentricparabola.blogspot.com/2011/11/on-top-of-world.html" target="_blank">On Top of the World</a></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><a href="http://eccentricparabola.blogspot.com/2014/08/first-crossing-equator.html" target="_blank">First Crossing the Equator</a></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><a href="http://eccentricparabola.blogspot.com/2020/01/transporting-treasures.html" target="_blank">Transporting Treasures</a></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><a href="http://eccentricparabola.blogspot.com/2016/02/behind-scenes-25-years-at-bm.html" target="_blank">Behind the Scenes - 25 Years at the British Museum</a></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><a href="http://eccentricparabola.blogspot.com/search/label/Lockdown%20Diary" target="_blank">'Lockdown' Diary</a></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcx8XtjzPzP88fZcuTF8xVK3_TYI9XyhOsA5rbODjdVpJYyoPcLiQhBP0Ov8vZ2G4wZ79IvU_4-ZA0qgLGm9xxuIHLW8K3GFJldkqKPvUHp2uX6lKrmU_M_i7COFW8hu1hP_w81RTjpKAT/s2048/DSCN8709.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcx8XtjzPzP88fZcuTF8xVK3_TYI9XyhOsA5rbODjdVpJYyoPcLiQhBP0Ov8vZ2G4wZ79IvU_4-ZA0qgLGm9xxuIHLW8K3GFJldkqKPvUHp2uX6lKrmU_M_i7COFW8hu1hP_w81RTjpKAT/w400-h300/DSCN8709.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><br /></p>Timhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11641833714036731203noreply@blogger.com0Tokyo, Japan35.6761919 139.65031067.3659580638211537 104.49406060000001 63.986425736178845 174.8065606tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-88759862385027089.post-43618182292181142422021-08-01T00:36:00.000+01:002021-08-01T00:35:13.321+01:00The Old Bridge at Mostar<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjegqYY9GiSTqnXhkyTyz4nbfwXiE40KSGmAGAI8MMjxH-DqR0DSCJOC7ARi38u7SR1GR6zeVDuMR7pm1dx_Vb8mUkTY-XIIuhN0W4ZuYD1RIEG_3P06o8vIwljtILKNflNVDoxh5fR0reK/s1024/DSCN1508.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjegqYY9GiSTqnXhkyTyz4nbfwXiE40KSGmAGAI8MMjxH-DqR0DSCJOC7ARi38u7SR1GR6zeVDuMR7pm1dx_Vb8mUkTY-XIIuhN0W4ZuYD1RIEG_3P06o8vIwljtILKNflNVDoxh5fR0reK/w400-h300/DSCN1508.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Crossing international borders
always has a funny feel to it, for me, at least. I’m not sure why. I know
borders are simply manmade concepts. Arbitrary lines on maps that only apply to
human beings. Animals, plants, breezes, sunshine, rain, rivers, oceans don’t
seem to pay them any heed at all. But to people they can and often do mean and
make a world of difference. Crossing international borders by air or by sea,
arguably, feels somewhat more normal than crossing land boundaries. There’s
something solid about making such a transition, passing through another element
to get to your destination. Crossing the ether, or crossing the water, really
does feel like a making a leap from one place to another. Land borders on the
other hand – to me at any rate – have always felt somewhat more fuzzy, and
sometimes far more sinister and forbidding.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p></o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRzD4R8Ej48lJvWt7d3us49nkFT-cy8C81NarJ5Cg0NnbZA_wFOLw0hgeTyzZyf7JfGQe6PPjIoQsHn1CazBrYBNd4fCpPvpLEe82_OAkHfKS1_pBZjNy8z5OPFHBZ6BmQE_PaiC0Mj7G2/s1024/DSCN1477.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="768" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRzD4R8Ej48lJvWt7d3us49nkFT-cy8C81NarJ5Cg0NnbZA_wFOLw0hgeTyzZyf7JfGQe6PPjIoQsHn1CazBrYBNd4fCpPvpLEe82_OAkHfKS1_pBZjNy8z5OPFHBZ6BmQE_PaiC0Mj7G2/w300-h400/DSCN1477.JPG" width="300" /></a></div><br /> <p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">I guess it has something to do with
the checkpoints, with their barbed wire fences, their red and white swing-arm
barriers, their uniforms, their guns, etc. Being asked to surrender your
passport, especially when it is physically taken away from you and disappears
somewhere out of sight in response to the ‘requirements’ of unseen checks and
procedures. Similarly, hearing the loud clunk of the stamp being hammered into
your passport when you have been cleared and approved is the quintessential
sound of your arrival. It’s a very definite sound, it’s the sign that you can
proceed, you can step over that invisible line, cross that threshold, pass
through the boundary from ‘here’ to ‘there.’ Affirmative. You may proceed.
Welcome to wherever you are.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj68y_-hnC59r7TyTIJpd7QRWqBYdLBdGole6chE0XcTf1TaCP4HY0iTdNLYfxFXeQy0-Soe5A615Yj3-u6jNQVyThyphenhyphen1rdXw9cIDvdvsRA982Ixe1BPlhgbTj2yOAAp7LmBL82TmeQ1ZEfN/s1024/DSCN1469.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="768" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj68y_-hnC59r7TyTIJpd7QRWqBYdLBdGole6chE0XcTf1TaCP4HY0iTdNLYfxFXeQy0-Soe5A615Yj3-u6jNQVyThyphenhyphen1rdXw9cIDvdvsRA982Ixe1BPlhgbTj2yOAAp7LmBL82TmeQ1ZEfN/w300-h400/DSCN1469.JPG" width="300" /></a></div><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">I was quite young when I made my
first land border crossing. It was on a trip to Amsterdam. We’d crossed the
Channel by hovercraft – an oddly antiquated-yet-futuristic (and very sea-sickening)
means of transport at the time, but now utterly defunct. We then travelled onwards
by coach through France and Belgium to Holland. It was pre-Schengen era, so we
stopped at each border and a very severe-no-nonsense-looking policeman boarded
the coach and walked down the centre aisle. He collected up everyone’s passport
and then exited the bus for a while. We all had to sit there and wait. It all
felt very John Le Carr<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">é</span>. The policeman later got back on-board, now accompanied
by a fellow officer, and asked two young men sitting at the back of the bus,
two British servicemen travelling in uniform (RAF, I think), to get off the bus
for “further checks.” They eventually came back looking rather disgruntled and
murmured that it was something which “happened <i>every</i> time.” <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhMyX1-XZBUu_lYShClduhUG4m2hriGqGhL9Lylwm2W-CW-FsGRYLnRoY-MzodK8aPmhYY-pJihIWNMKRhWecj9hUN3jXdsj4MBtlmt4aXR721Iesi8EUklNnTSyJt15eQbd6sqo-b8iM-/s1024/DSCN1467.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="768" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhMyX1-XZBUu_lYShClduhUG4m2hriGqGhL9Lylwm2W-CW-FsGRYLnRoY-MzodK8aPmhYY-pJihIWNMKRhWecj9hUN3jXdsj4MBtlmt4aXR721Iesi8EUklNnTSyJt15eQbd6sqo-b8iM-/w300-h400/DSCN1467.JPG" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>A local lad describing the daring tradition of bridge diving</i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">As I was then still only a kid,
seeing the heavy handguns hanging from these border policemen’s belts impressed
me greatly. Back then, in the UK, you didn’t see many armed policemen. But
something I recall equally vividly was looking out of the coach window when we
were allowed to resume our journey. The bus motoring on, I keenly scrutinised
the scenery as it began to slip past the window, trying to see what was <i>different</i>
on this side of the border compared to the side we’d just left behind. In truth,
I couldn’t see much of a difference at all. It all looked very boringly the
same to me. It had been raining in France, and it was still raining here in
Belgium.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibXzD8bTWUiS3qY5Gnp21Gb3pd_8ECUeBneZTPyoxXTTw2ZpzvEnIxS1LKyOfTx4p2QP3GPAIZLtOc7FCBPSO8x7awdj7OJLZfsdSqLKmgaPjXMFMHCzHedosC5h4Xkkh36AiU6J0nlNG_/s1024/DSCN1455.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibXzD8bTWUiS3qY5Gnp21Gb3pd_8ECUeBneZTPyoxXTTw2ZpzvEnIxS1LKyOfTx4p2QP3GPAIZLtOc7FCBPSO8x7awdj7OJLZfsdSqLKmgaPjXMFMHCzHedosC5h4Xkkh36AiU6J0nlNG_/w400-h300/DSCN1455.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPz-Q1ZZaMgOfnPOF3MxpOUdXTkrNE6c1qfqa9dREQ4y3PQHVfXOpOplf0-8fnNuP02S7-IFq1YCXwsOI59WYHHRZKB_5uB61tb0PiM-0kBsO3PwaQsyNv0ukLPnGfx2Z2TahwMuEZx7KW/s1024/DSCN1475.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPz-Q1ZZaMgOfnPOF3MxpOUdXTkrNE6c1qfqa9dREQ4y3PQHVfXOpOplf0-8fnNuP02S7-IFq1YCXwsOI59WYHHRZKB_5uB61tb0PiM-0kBsO3PwaQsyNv0ukLPnGfx2Z2TahwMuEZx7KW/w400-h300/DSCN1475.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">That trip, and that very thought,
came back to me many years later whilst I was on another overland trip. This
time I was travelling from France to Spain; we crossed the border in the high
Pyrenees mountains. There was no stopping for any border checkpoint due to Schengen.
The only thing which told me we’d crossed the border from one country into
another was a sign on the side of the road, but I noticed something far more
distinctly, and that was a dramatic change in the style of the buildings. They
were suddenly shaped very differently; their style and colour of roofing material
was completely different too. Street signs looked different; different colours,
different fonts, different sounding words, place names, different ideograms.
Removing borders doesn’t always remove differences. There are satellite photos
of Berlin taken at night which still, thirty years after the fall of the Berlin
Wall, distinctly show the area which used to be known as ‘West Berlin’ because
the street lights there still use a different sort of lightbulb, which means
the street lighting is a different colour to the rest of the city.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigOE5XwH-UtL7VKbH1ibhPuqR0HQYWncmcckGnXCNbm85UnGRglP98gNfIEArfFc7SJWKjXpXw8x15HHKlxIIgnSdI39UR1kwdSO0EGXPmd4ThwWSm9tXiFbzaFBgmgL2SSjjSLVPkG8GM/s1024/DSCN1524.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="768" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigOE5XwH-UtL7VKbH1ibhPuqR0HQYWncmcckGnXCNbm85UnGRglP98gNfIEArfFc7SJWKjXpXw8x15HHKlxIIgnSdI39UR1kwdSO0EGXPmd4ThwWSm9tXiFbzaFBgmgL2SSjjSLVPkG8GM/w300-h400/DSCN1524.JPG" width="300" /></a></div><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">I’ve crossed other land borders,
from the UK into France (via the Channel Tunnel); from France into Switzerland;
from the USA into Canada; but there was something different about crossing the
land border from Croatia into Bosnia-Herzegovina in 2016. I suppose in some
ways it was akin to when I crossed over from West Germany into East Germany,
shortly after the fall of the Berlin Wall. The civil war in the former
Yugoslavia in the early 1990s was now some 25 years ago. Both of these newly
independent states were once part of that defunct Federation, but only Croatia
has since joined the EU. Schengen doesn’t apply here. And so, our passports
needed to be collected up and handed over. This time, thankfully though, it
wasn’t an armed policeman eyeing us all suspiciously, but rather it was our
tour guide, cheerily apologising for the inconvenience. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPZ7hlXuJrlOOez0BIwmJUO8tnS2HwHU_EaiswcAZLi02lOHnjsT5jXBLYIFgXDnEkroaSVDrltD_rr8ZPncwPqpNM98ynwab4tVdJFbYKbwh1jlICak7qGPWBYhQO14L0vUTozA86b6ND/s1024/DSCN1472.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPZ7hlXuJrlOOez0BIwmJUO8tnS2HwHU_EaiswcAZLi02lOHnjsT5jXBLYIFgXDnEkroaSVDrltD_rr8ZPncwPqpNM98ynwab4tVdJFbYKbwh1jlICak7qGPWBYhQO14L0vUTozA86b6ND/w400-h300/DSCN1472.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">The border here is a bit strange,
because there is a short stretch of coast which is Bosnia-Herzegovina and which
cuts through the longer coastline of Croatia – hence a deal has been struck on
certain stretches of the coast road to allow Croatians (and their visiting
tourists) to get from one part of their country to the other without the need
for passport checks. Here though we tourists were crossing the border proper and
turning right, heading away from the sea, motoring inland for the day to visit
the town of Mostar. Our tour guide shuffled back down the aisle, returning our
passports. Opening them, we were each slightly disappointed to find we hadn’t
acquired a stamp that read “Bosnia-Herzegovina.” Despite the border checkpoint,
us day-trippers are exempt – on the condition that we leave by the same point
of entry before the end of the day. It might feel like a merely arbitrary line
on a map, but the point is that it’s a line which is a closely monitored one.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiISJ_Wnvumx56DL6yBLNjrDbP3Mf-3JaS1HgXsoLEhfUdFykznJ2-vZsVwblVQ02YQK_RjO7oy_45OvhDJ-8K7ZyUf7yIBPiTGO3YzdB2I1c1BEzN9jso9THRV9FgwgsZwr5WE9w25UC8-/s929/DSCN1486b.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="697" data-original-width="929" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiISJ_Wnvumx56DL6yBLNjrDbP3Mf-3JaS1HgXsoLEhfUdFykznJ2-vZsVwblVQ02YQK_RjO7oy_45OvhDJ-8K7ZyUf7yIBPiTGO3YzdB2I1c1BEzN9jso9THRV9FgwgsZwr5WE9w25UC8-/w400-h300/DSCN1486b.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">As we motored on, I looked out of the
window and I remembered once again those border crossing thoughts I first had
as a kid on my way to Amsterdam, and then once again many years later when I
crossed over from France into Spain, because here too I can see a distinct
difference. The houses are different, the roads look different, and, because we
are heading inland, the scenery begins to look a little different too. There
are genuine cultural differences here though. Bosnia-Herzegovina is a largely
Muslim country (whereas Croatia is predominantly Christian). Orthodox and
Catholic Christians form the next sizable religious group. And, like several
other formerly Ottoman controlled Balkan states, its population is ethnically
diverse – predominantly home to Bosniaks, Serbs, and Croats. Relationships
between these different groups historically has been fraught, especially in the
wake of the collapse of the Yugoslav state in 1991, hence the bloody civil war
which was fought here until 1996. In many respects the town of Mostar is a
symbol of that mix and those tensions.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhj1n-IBmU-z9nq4hfVHWL6SJQNiZw7rOE1yLSYJdMPdBXvcXQ_hvValOVx-x-N0Mvr3Ei8quue5jpqGGO-shI47hubK3cc8KaUN5GmumiUNPbLL5nK9GRybInURUFrQ7QZxTB6bZDKGvE1/s1024/DSCN1481.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhj1n-IBmU-z9nq4hfVHWL6SJQNiZw7rOE1yLSYJdMPdBXvcXQ_hvValOVx-x-N0Mvr3Ei8quue5jpqGGO-shI47hubK3cc8KaUN5GmumiUNPbLL5nK9GRybInURUFrQ7QZxTB6bZDKGvE1/w400-h300/DSCN1481.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Mostar was symbolic before the
Bosnian war, as a town divided between Muslims and Christians, and a town
divided by a river, but with both sides united by a remarkable bridge of
stunning architectural grace and beauty. It took nine years to build and was
completed sometime around 1566-1567. Commissioned by the Ottoman Sultan,
Suleiman the Magnificent, it was intended to be a more durable replacement for
a wooden suspension bridge. The building works were overseen by a man named
Mimar Hayruddin or Mimar Hajrudin. Some stories state that Hajrudin was
commissioned under pain of death should the bridge fail, and that he ran away
on the day that the scaffolding was removed, such was his fear that the bridge
would not hold. But it did hold – and in fact it stood for more than 400 years;
until on the 9<sup>th</sup> November 1993 it was deliberately destroyed by the
Christian Bosnian-Croat artillery who were perched on the high ground of the
steep hill overlooking the town.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVSyY38ookfXexthNyRzLGF7E72AjbhxT-yQ2BwoMt4wdLraqn9Tv69DgtUlp0nBoUv2zdgwq-j17T2rpUCobmAEgUxABarP6QKdqCupegqVKegSNdCxUKVb093iBNsg2RrGPHwChku1Mf/s1024/DSCN1479.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVSyY38ookfXexthNyRzLGF7E72AjbhxT-yQ2BwoMt4wdLraqn9Tv69DgtUlp0nBoUv2zdgwq-j17T2rpUCobmAEgUxABarP6QKdqCupegqVKegSNdCxUKVb093iBNsg2RrGPHwChku1Mf/w400-h300/DSCN1479.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>The hill from which the Old Bridge was destroyed by artillery fire in 1993</i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6nppFyl537_reWzrNvn_cmaVXBSyD7u3g2q2ujIFZhbvvM9pMaZhqOSulSY2i8ZWFsgLqUENUX7_a508aytx5-icua0EqFjtNyMqOzU7MXSeQIUzJv5XzYCpnHLUKf0yDzLfpEphx_Dqi/s1024/DSCN1530.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6nppFyl537_reWzrNvn_cmaVXBSyD7u3g2q2ujIFZhbvvM9pMaZhqOSulSY2i8ZWFsgLqUENUX7_a508aytx5-icua0EqFjtNyMqOzU7MXSeQIUzJv5XzYCpnHLUKf0yDzLfpEphx_Dqi/w400-h300/DSCN1530.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>The smaller Ottoman bridge at Mostar</i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Hajrudin’s achievement was an unparalleled
feat of engineering at the time. Some 30 metres in length and its soffit around
20 metres in height from the beautiful turquoise waters of the River Neretva
below, it was then the largest single span stone arch which had ever been
constructed. A smaller bridge of the same design can be found close by to the
main bridge at Mostar, which some people believe was constructed in order to
test out the practical application of the theory behind this type of bridge construction
technique – an architectural form which was subsequently used in other extant bridges
in various parts of the Ottoman Empire (see <a href="https://twitter.com/JulianHoffman/status/1325505633119055879?s=20" target="_blank">here</a>). As is often the way, when
such things of great age and beauty are destroyed, that destruction enables us
to better understand the mysteries as to how exactly they were built – much
like the monumental stone Buddha statues at Bamiyan in Afghanistan, which were
destroyed by the Taliban in 2001 (see <a href="http://eccentricparabola.blogspot.com/2012/08/rebuilding-bamiyan-buddhas.html" target="_blank">here</a>). But, unlike the Bamiyan Buddhas,
the “Old Bridge” (Stari Most) at Mostar has been rebuilt.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTHc88Vue9CX2x8kAtWIeX56rWbEraLaaHOrMhj9fauXjNJp2ay4s1XC3lHo3kme2a5EKYvwmLKNJDk2gwcbg2amos3NTFxwwfDQWTx5xjxb3dn4eL217yVEjB-zrVjBbxFq4zeG2r7w8T/s1024/DSCN1506.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTHc88Vue9CX2x8kAtWIeX56rWbEraLaaHOrMhj9fauXjNJp2ay4s1XC3lHo3kme2a5EKYvwmLKNJDk2gwcbg2amos3NTFxwwfDQWTx5xjxb3dn4eL217yVEjB-zrVjBbxFq4zeG2r7w8T/w400-h300/DSCN1506.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Its destruction was a highly
symbolic act, hence so too was its reconstruction. At the time there was no
military tactical or defensive reason for destroying the bridge, other than to
symbolically break that cross-cultural unity which the bridge itself represented.
Rebuilding it was seen as more than just a physical reconstruction project. To
reinstate the bridge as accurately as it had been before was widely seen to be
a matter of the utmost importance. Consequently, an international cooperative
effort was mobilised to make it happen, with several countries – including Italy,
Turkey, Hungary, the Netherlands, as well as the Croatian and Bosnian
governments – contributing funds, equipment, expertise and manpower to the
project. As many of the original stones as possible were recovered and reused
from the riverbed. And a lot was learned in the process, particularly regarding
the three types of stone (soft local Tenelija limestone, harder Dolomite
limestone, and local Breca, a porous conglomerate) which were utilised for
their differing properties, as well as the metallurgical materials and methods,
using iron swallow-tailed clamps, pins and molten lead, which were used to
brace, hold and lock the stonework firmly into place, plus the unique type of
mortar which was used to cement the masonry – an unusual pink coloured mortar
which was thought to have been the main reason why the river ran red like the
Old Bridge itself was bleeding once it had been felled.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilOAQcDyy0hOmsqTC0hJz60dcUMhxVhlcfUiskeeibu8aDR37ibdnM5jrrKdApAv9rEfq0bIqmbTqXLZNJnFuRZtPXZUfrIfY3tdR32gM8mnfRwJn-tMVplXJMIIfKRw3cCB9cfLC9SWDl/s1024/DSCN1464.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilOAQcDyy0hOmsqTC0hJz60dcUMhxVhlcfUiskeeibu8aDR37ibdnM5jrrKdApAv9rEfq0bIqmbTqXLZNJnFuRZtPXZUfrIfY3tdR32gM8mnfRwJn-tMVplXJMIIfKRw3cCB9cfLC9SWDl/w400-h300/DSCN1464.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Some of the original stones from the Old Bridge which were not reused</i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">It took three years to rebuild the
Old Bridge, re-opening some eleven years after its destruction in 2004. The
timeless elegance of that perfectly circular arch which had previously
withstood four centuries, unchanging while various rulers came a went, from the
Ottomans to the collapse of the Communist Eastern Bloc, really does appear to have
defied the passage of time; especially now, having arisen once more like a
phoenix from the ashes of a bitterly divisive civil war. Photographs of the
bridge before and after the recent conflict look almost indistinguishable. And
rather poignantly, a rooftop nearby in the heart of the old town overlooking
the riverbank is painted with large letters which read: “Don’t forget, but do
forgive forever.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg24aw_SiV_gc8roNuWsqgh2eTA35UK17QbV3StaXYy9tkRtbedGjn5j_y26nfCHkRZoCHt6qQzf5l5dmnhwd-PotO3lRK35u0UAKYyWGdNJ91poP1xIuolsAOxpr5eCRgfElSi-Ly350s-/s1024/DSCN1523.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg24aw_SiV_gc8roNuWsqgh2eTA35UK17QbV3StaXYy9tkRtbedGjn5j_y26nfCHkRZoCHt6qQzf5l5dmnhwd-PotO3lRK35u0UAKYyWGdNJ91poP1xIuolsAOxpr5eCRgfElSi-Ly350s-/w400-h300/DSCN1523.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Mostar is a very beautiful town.
There are many things to see here besides the famous Old Bridge and its
smaller, and more secluded identical-twin which escaped the recent war
unscathed – there are mosques, churches, caves, old cobbled streets and little craft
shops, restaurants and cafes. To see Mostar now it is hard to believe such
terrible things could have happened here so recently. But crossing such a
bridge is a reminder that boundaries are all around us – not just the borders
which separate nation from nation, nor the ideas and beliefs which separate
cultures and religions, but the phases of peace and war, of one political form
of governance from its predecessor and its successor, for these are both the
seen and unseen boundaries by which we measure the stretches of time which mark
off in our collective social conscious. It’s such boundaries, both temporal and
geographical, which demarcate our lives and the lives of those who have gone
before us. But how we choose to cross those boundaries and connect the two
sides of these cognitive or imaginary divides is what shapes our worlds as well
as the futures which we bequeath to those who come after us. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXVwud5eXYrNCIErNxXqbOE3bRN6sOk77vYT730dPJ53yULpBx2JUe-WswhhaA6JMIDbUQgiRSQOjrauQsvxn1aFtFpE3JQ2zRdqcrFLgMuPlUYV5bUnNL-idCrGZUBRglYTlM0QdXX11s/s1024/DSCN1450.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXVwud5eXYrNCIErNxXqbOE3bRN6sOk77vYT730dPJ53yULpBx2JUe-WswhhaA6JMIDbUQgiRSQOjrauQsvxn1aFtFpE3JQ2zRdqcrFLgMuPlUYV5bUnNL-idCrGZUBRglYTlM0QdXX11s/w400-h300/DSCN1450.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">On some levels, maintaining borders
and boundaries may well be a necessary fact of life, but surely acknowledging such
borders and boundaries whilst also facilitating and enabling safe and easy
passage, mending broken bridges, and allowing everyone to cross them without bias
or favour, without fear or discrimination, is by far a better means of healing
such divides and rifts. Unity and diversity needn’t be mutually exclusive –
because, like the Old Bridge at Mostar, they are the twinned opposites which
join together the two ends of a perfect circle. Boundaries and borders are, in
fact, the places where we meet, cross over, merge, and return.<o:p></o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNYFGGqW0OOdzL6G_j8-_HoQbML8dU56TE0muUYwRV7Wk9ECaAHJZGryyfIFydzjzG8WPflHHSc7lFG34PMo23zYCwRn6b1LwQ0iXm5k2XuvRlI71Px0Qw2tHvhiEI8eg8oeTB7GVZkbAQ/s1024/DSCN1510.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="768" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNYFGGqW0OOdzL6G_j8-_HoQbML8dU56TE0muUYwRV7Wk9ECaAHJZGryyfIFydzjzG8WPflHHSc7lFG34PMo23zYCwRn6b1LwQ0iXm5k2XuvRlI71Px0Qw2tHvhiEI8eg8oeTB7GVZkbAQ/w300-h400/DSCN1510.JPG" width="300" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_3IOTDtlmtyJlthusvKgONZRPVyRSeS8uP7v7hf7ea5PsszyqaCx9o7pZiARVxOQC1G-iXS0UQY-hwris7owTDMY7DXFSpC8lXNV3PZ7qzabFVxLNwegZaNlp5ymNZNJfQTsAySQWtmUy/s1024/DSCN1499.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="768" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_3IOTDtlmtyJlthusvKgONZRPVyRSeS8uP7v7hf7ea5PsszyqaCx9o7pZiARVxOQC1G-iXS0UQY-hwris7owTDMY7DXFSpC8lXNV3PZ7qzabFVxLNwegZaNlp5ymNZNJfQTsAySQWtmUy/w300-h400/DSCN1499.JPG" width="300" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAtvcZG8WgRYOv7sJ15G1H6ris6fvcgKsHH60j69PTTJTUxSXYtISlg4fNu-S2RS6kyzE5-Fbyn2wiEUx-Jwtz-Re4pIzNZKzNAVhlv49ONIlGm6i44Uv8jOlGt2Ie8EmcMl5KfOGFSt8r/s1024/DSCN1504.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="768" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAtvcZG8WgRYOv7sJ15G1H6ris6fvcgKsHH60j69PTTJTUxSXYtISlg4fNu-S2RS6kyzE5-Fbyn2wiEUx-Jwtz-Re4pIzNZKzNAVhlv49ONIlGm6i44Uv8jOlGt2Ie8EmcMl5KfOGFSt8r/w300-h400/DSCN1504.JPG" width="300" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOqwdHxVE-fZozQKa8hskEoqssGxjGhJo6QIjArz84F-7I3GbR4fzH5PfUxiyG3XcmqinHIhmCXBatQS8bbg8u4n8SP5N0iGSOA3LPz0UTIOrxSRxW8nPMIV2un2_tqFKgxjaRDRv2N67d/s1024/DSCN1526.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="768" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOqwdHxVE-fZozQKa8hskEoqssGxjGhJo6QIjArz84F-7I3GbR4fzH5PfUxiyG3XcmqinHIhmCXBatQS8bbg8u4n8SP5N0iGSOA3LPz0UTIOrxSRxW8nPMIV2un2_tqFKgxjaRDRv2N67d/w300-h400/DSCN1526.JPG" width="300" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><i>Also on 'Waymarks'</i></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><i><br /></i></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><a href="http://eccentricparabola.blogspot.com/2021/01/winter-in-slovenia.html" target="_blank">Winter in Slovenia</a></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><a href="http://eccentricparabola.blogspot.com/2021/07/sailing-south-coastal-croatia.html" target="_blank">Sailing South - Coastal Croatia</a></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyuv1Odt46PCZARhGU48JBiUiNFecnuZcKF8UPU8LEBBt_Q9AqVmC07DORRBK9NhYkRIkTesr_BZYZ82J4_oWvUajdSelHGeRyyJG1wloJXaNjzRJWv3Kl1nl-O-35v98H49LeG3jl-Kov/s1024/DSCN1514.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="768" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyuv1Odt46PCZARhGU48JBiUiNFecnuZcKF8UPU8LEBBt_Q9AqVmC07DORRBK9NhYkRIkTesr_BZYZ82J4_oWvUajdSelHGeRyyJG1wloJXaNjzRJWv3Kl1nl-O-35v98H49LeG3jl-Kov/w300-h400/DSCN1514.JPG" width="300" /></a></div><br /><b><br /></b><p></p>Timhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11641833714036731203noreply@blogger.com0Mostar 88000, Bosnia and Herzegovina43.343774800000013 17.807757815.033540963821167 -17.3484922 71.654008636178858 52.964007800000005