I’ve just finished writing from a man’s POV in Nano; here’s the last few paragraphs:

I filled her in on some of the mundane details of the evening, deliberately avoiding any mention of the woman who stood silently in the room with us, visible only to me. Desperately hoping she would leave I ate quickly, and finished my second glass of wine. Beth was wearing black jeans and a very woolly black polo neck jersey. Her dark hair tumbled over her shoulders. She’d kicked her boots off when we came to the lounge, and now her feet were tucked under her.

“Wow, you were hungry,” Beth commented as I put down my plate.

“I still am,” I said, and reached for her.

Later, in my bed she slept curled up against me. My arm was around her shoulder. I couldn’t sleep. Beth breathed softly against me. I stared into the darkness, and all I could see was the face the woman who ran away from me earlier that evening.

My word count is not too bad - at least I’m ahead of where I should be. Reading these paragraphs back it seems like this could be a ghost story - but it’s not. My hero is in love with a girl, and he’s unintentionally hurt her. And he feels lousy about it, because now he’s been with his sometime girlfriend, but understands there’s no future with her. He likes her, but it’s more a physical than a mental connection... but then this probably doesn’t make sense! Not even to a guy. I’m quite happy with this love scene, though... or lack thereof! It leaves a lot to the imagination, especially after writing about how he feels after the “rejection”, and in the shower before his girlfriend arrives!

This afternoon I read back through some of my very first entries in my first blog on the site. It’s quite depressing to realise how much I found to write about then, and how my blogging has changed since those early days. On one entry all the people commenting are no longer active members of the site. I wonder what has happened? Perhaps I became too focussed on blogging... I love blogging, but I need to get my blogging groove back.

I wrote an essay on Zimbabwe’s incredible Minister of Finance Tendai Biti for the last round of Project Write World. To my amazement - because the other entries were excellent - it was placed first. I had some help from my friend Belinda, an MDC activist in Mutare in Zimbabwe. She read the piece through for me, and gave me a few details about Mr Biti’s character. Sadly, things in Zimbabwe are deteriorating, but a few very brave people are trying to put the country back on its feet; and none more than Mr Biti. If you interested and want to read about a seriously brave man here’s the link:

ID: 1608592   (Rated: E) Title: The Most Difficult Job in the World  Description: How Does One Man Revitalise the Economy of One of the World's Most Brutalised Nations? By: Sarah

There are some excellent figures for people doing Nano - it’s really encouraging reading and seeing how my writing buddies are doing on the official Nano site AND here. I’ve been posting my writing in my portfolio here, but it’s a shocking mess, so it’s private. When I looked at it this evening I wondered how on earth it’s ever going to make sense...

Well, I need some sleep. I wish you all a great weekend, and whether you’re Nanoodling, writing blog entries, prose or poetry... may your Muse be inspired and the words flow from your pen/keyboard.

Have a great weekend!!!

 

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I am in awe of cross-cultural relationships. I have great admiration for those who make a commitment to build a life together; it takes courage and determination to overcome racial, religious and linguistic differences... not forgetting the possible diversity of each person’s cultural and traditional background. And then there’s the relatives, who view any liaison with someone outside the cultural/racial/religious group as The Ultimate Transgression.

A couple of weekends ago we got the chance to witness first hand the ugly side of a cross cultural relationship. Arthur, one of our friends from our years in Zimbabwe, was over here on business, and on Sunday we arranged to meet him at his hotel. We decided to go to Eko Bar, the most popular pub for Izmir’s ex-pat community. Arthur now lives in England, and had flown over for a week of business.

After parking the car, we strolled down to Eko, which is one block away from the waterfront. We were able to see the sea from our table - it was still warm enough to sit outside. As we arrived Arthur greeted a young girl who’d flown over on the ‘plane with him. We’ll call her Sally - she actually shares her name with a famous British singer. She was with her fiancé, a young Turkish man I’ll call Umut.

Sally was probably the most beautiful girl I have ever seen. She was petite, with long straight ash blonde hair falling over her shoulders. Her blue eyes were so clear they sparkled, and her gaze was confident and direct. Her lovely figure was emphasised in a long, yellow t-shirt dress which reached mid-thigh. Black leggings encased her legs to her calves, and on her feet were a gorgeous pair of diamante sandals. I remember admiring them, because unlike most sandals I admire these did not have a thong between the toes, so I could have worn them. Sally had a lovely accent, and she laughed a lot.

We sat with Arthur all afternoon. As the designated driver I had a few glasses of red wine. Ivan and Arthur drank the local Efes draft beer, before moving onto to whiskey (Ivan) and vodka (Arthur). We ate a late lunch of calamari and prawns with a delicious cheese and potato salad. Sally and Umut sat near us, talking and laughing with each other, sharing the occasional kiss and holding hands. They were a great looking couple, and everyone in the bar was watching them. They were drinking white wine.

Early in the evening they came over and sat with us. Umut was sitting next to me at the head of our table. Sally sat opposite me next to Arthur, and Ivan was on my other side. Umut was impressed with my very limited command of the Turkish language, and when I told him that after three years in his country I should have some knowledge he frowned.

“Sally doesn’t know any Turkish, and we’ve been together 18 months.”

I told him I was sure she’d pick it up once they were married and she was living full time in Izmir. He frowned. His next words sent chills through me.

“I can’t wait until we are married, because when Sally becomes a Muslim I can make her stop smoking and drinking.”

Fortunately Ivan and Arthur were laughing at Sally, and didn’t hear him. Umut is serving in the army on the Iraqi border, one of the most dangerous places in the country - it’s where the Turks are fighting the Kurdish PKK group. I looked at him, and suddenly this exotic, dark haired man didn’t seem terribly romantic. His eyes were almost black. I’m always mindful of the fact that I am a foreigner here, so I chose the path of least resistance.

“I’m sure she’s just celebrating with you, because she is flying back on the 9 pm flight and you’re going back to the border tomorrow.”

“She’s not going back tomorrow,” he said angrily. “She says she doesn’t want me to leave after her, so she is wasting 1,000 lira and buying another ticket. She’s so stupid. She doesn’t care that some people here take two months to earn that kind of money.”

By this time Ivan, Arthur and Sally heard our conversation. Sally told him how much she loved him, and how she wanted to leave Izmir after him. He laughed, but without love or mirth, and told us this proves how stupid and wasteful she was. Embarrassed, I told him she wasn’t stupid, but in love. And love makes us do things that sometimes seem irrational.

We managed to change the subject. As the evening wore on more alcohol was consumed. Umut became more assertive and aggressive, and Sally laughed more. When she leaned over to take his hand he suddenly seized her slim wrist, tightening his grip so he pinched the skin between his thumb and fingers. Her laughter died down, and she drew a breath, catching her lower lip between her teeth as she stared at him.

Arthur and I stared in horror. Ivan reacted immediately: “Hey, don’t treat her like that. Let her go.”

Umut relaxed his grip, and apologised to us. “You should be saying sorry to her,” Ivan said, angrily. “You don’t need to hurt her.”

I turned to Ivan and quietly told him to back off: “It’s not our fight.”

Only then did I see a couple of small, coined-sized bruises on Sally’s upper arm. But I said nothing. Later Ivan and Arthur said they’d noticed them too.

Sally continued drinking. About an hour after the wrist-grabbing incident she got up to go to the toilet, and was so unsteady on her feet I helped her negotiate her way through the tables and patrons inside the Eko pub. I had to help her sit on the toilet, and waited until she’d finished before leading her back to the table. Everyone was looking at us. Thank goodness I was sober... or maybe not. I felt ashamed.

Sally continued drinking, and when she next got up she tried to come around the table to hug me, and promptly fell over me and Ivan. Umut’s lips tightened, and I told him she’d tripped over the umbrella stand, which was right next to my chair. Sally got up, weaving her way through the tables, staring ahead and smiling at nothing. I stood up to follow her. Then the most embarrassing part of the whole evening happened.

A group of middle-aged Turkish men were sitting at the table next to us, enjoying a few glasses of raki. They’d obviously been watching us, because one on them spoke to me in broken English.

“Excuse me, madam, but don’t you think you should take her home? She is very drunk.”

I wanted to tell him she wasn’t our responsibility, but then what were we doing with her at our table? I suddenly felt ashamed... we were in a foreign country, sitting with a girl who clearly has no idea of how most of the citizens of this country view foreign tourists. Sure, Sally was letting her hair down and having fun with her fiancé and a few friends. But that man underlined and emphasised the differences in our cultures and classes.

I told him her fiancé would take her home as soon as she returned, and hurried after her. Sally was slumped on the floor outside the ladies room, a waiter kneeling beside her trying to help her. I got her into the toilet, helped her wipe her face, and the waiter and I virtually carried her out to a furious Umut. He threw some money on the table to pay for their share of the drinks, and put his arm around Sally to support her. Telling us he loved her, he promised Arthur to invite him and his wife to their wedding. He told Ivan that Ivan should understand he loved Sally, and would always take care of her. They left, Sally staggering along the street to the taxi which would take her and her fiancé home.

We left shortly afterwards. I keep thinking about Sally, whose beauty is so obviously one of the reason Umut loves her. But what about the girl under that beauty? Did he not fall in love with her personality? Her quick mind? Her sense of fun? Her intelligence? Or is she just a trophy? What will happen to her if Umut turns her into his idea of a wife, so she looses the spark and individuality that first attracted him to her?

My youngest nephew married a Muslim girl last year. There are serious issues and problems with her brothers and her mother - my 21 year old nephew converted to Islam in order to marry his 25 year old wife. My nephew currently lives in Sidney while his wife studies for her third university degree in Brisbane. My own family is divided on the marriage, particularly his brothers, who watched the entire relationship unfold, and were on hand when she told my nephew she was due to be married off in an arranged marriage. When Ivan told his Muslim boss of the marriage he was appalled, and asked Ivan: “What virus did your nephew catch?”

I want to believe that love can indeed conquer all... but when I think of Sally and Umut and her blind love for him and his determination to make her his I have to wonder. It may be possible to overcome racial, ethnic, linguistic and some cultural differences. But I don’t know that it can ever flourish when two such different people with such different religions and traditions want to be together, especially when one is as staunchly relgious as Umut.

I hope I am wrong.

 

Robert Byrne’s words have been on my mind a lot this weekend. I’ve been unpacking our winter clothes this weekend; a singularly depressing task. When I packed them away earlier this year I honestly didn’t think I’d be taking them out again while we were here. We had a dream and a plan... sadly Allen Stanford destroyed those hopes a few months before they could become reality.

I don’t mind winter. What I do mind is the layers of clothing one has to wear in order to go anywhere. In our house I can get by in a tracksuit or long sleeved t-shirt. But planning a simple trip to the shops is not that easy. In order to turn on the car so it has a chance to warm up before trying to drive anywhere one has to go outside. And in this house that’s going to take some careful consideration on my part.

I’m a very clumsy person - I’m always knocking things over, tripping over things like carpets and dogs’ tails or knocking into doorways with my arms. I’d love to blame my missing limb, but I’ve been this way since I was born. Unfortunately that missing limb makes me worse. I should take out shares in any company marketing arnica cream, because it really does help minimise bruised body parts.

But back to this house...

To get to my car I have to walk down twelve ceramic-tiled stairs, only two of which are covered. We’ve been getting a bit of rain at night, so in the morning those steps are wet. While the tiles have a matte finish they do get slippery, and are treacherous for me. With my propensity for crashing into things I’m already wondering what they’ll be like next month, when the temperature here really starts to dive. Don’t get me started on snow - I love the stuff, but thinking about it melting and refreezing on those tiles makes me break out in a very cold sweat.

I’m also getting nervous thinking about going into Yakkakoy. Because we live in the mountains north of Izmir we’re already much colder than Bornova and the city centre. I remember driving with Denis and Denise last year around this area after the first snow fall (December 21) and the roads didn’t take long to ice up. In fact, the highway to Manisa was closed for two or three mornings in a row last year because the roads iced up so quickly. There’s a steep hill we have to drive up to get to Yakkakoy, so I guess the minute it snows I’ll be driving along the winding but flat road to Ulucak - if I have to go out. More planning required on my part to minimise my road presence.

Needless to say I can find beauty in winter, especially in this part of the world. Coming from Africa we don’t get snow, so for me the first snow is always spectacular... as will be the sight of snow resting in the branches of the pine trees all around our complex. I love putting my foot into freshly fallen snow, watching my shoeprint form and hearing that crunching noise as the icicles compact. I love to see the trail of footprints left by my dogs as they wander over the carpet of snow, and watching them catch snowballs I throw at them. The snow sticks to Jabba’s black fur, and he carefully and methodically takes it off when he moves off the lawn. The snow also compacts between his toes and turns into lumps of ice. I’ve watched him carefully remove and eat those “ice cubes”, often putting his entire foot into his mouth.

Then there’s those lovely fires... messy to clean up but well worth the effort for the roasted chestnuts... and the lovely dancing flames.... not forgetting the crackling sound as it burns. I bought my first chestnuts on Friday, but I doubt I’m be chucking them onto the fire for a few weeks. Those will be cooked in the oven - I love chestnuts too!

I guess this means I winter!!!

Today I girded my loins , and took a drive to Bornova. It’s the first time I’ve been out of the house since returning from Zimbabwe on Sunday evening. Not that I have cabin fever or anything... the first reason was to do some shopping, and the second was to get Kit washed.

I’ve been munching my way through the tins in my pantry, something that’s easy to do when the house is home to me and the two dogs. My poor husband is right now on his way back home from Amsterdam - his carbon footprint for this year is massive, particularly for the last six weeks. Before we flew to Zim he was in India for a few days helping design a processing line. The day after he returned we flew to Zim via London and Johannesburg. On Monday afternoon he flew to Amsterdam for a meeting with tobacco people from all over the world. He arrives home at 1 am tonight - one hour after midnight! I reckon he’s going to be sleeping all weekend.

So today I thought I’d better go shopping - I love cooking, and will spend tomorrow making a few soups to freeze, spaghetti bolognaise (also to freeze) and chicken casserole (to freeze). I also found a nice brinjel pate recipe in my “Slim-u-Slim” recipe book... because we both need to diet.

Kit (my car is named after the “Knightrider” car because it drives on its own) was so dirty I had to rinse the windows just so I could see where I was going. This was perhaps not such a good idea, because everyone could see who had left their car to get into such a bad state. I managed to drive on the WRONG side of the road all the way to Bornova Kipa - in Zimbabwe we drive on the right hand side of the road, just like England and Australia; Turkey, like mainland Europe and the USA drives on the left. After leaving Kit in the trusty hands of the manual carwash (four men to wash one tiny Citroen Saxo) I headed into Kipa.

Ninety minutes later I emerged shaking. Having secured all the items on my shopping list I was now 390 Lira (US$270) poorer. Although the supermarket trolley was full there was NO alcohol (which is very expensive here) and no dog food (also expensive). The real shocker was the price of meat. When I left here lamb chops cost around 24 Lira/kilogram. Today I paid 29 Lira/kilogram - in just three weeks? Minced beef has also gone up by around 15 percent, and I couldn’t find any decent fresh fish. Milk has also increased in price - one litre of milk is 1.85 Lira - up from 1.50 three weeks ago. Flour has also gone up in price. At least chicken is still cheap.

I’ve no idea what’s going on here, but right now Zimbabwe is cheaper than Turkey, and that’s the price of imported products! In fact Zimbabwe’s beef is a third of the price of this place, and that despite Mugabe’s followers virtually wiping out the entire beef industry over the past nine years! By the time I reached shiny clean Kit I felt better, and was able to drive home with the knowledge that I’ve bought a week’s worth of meat and vegetables, and two to three weeks worth of other groceries.

Autumn has come to Izmir, but it’s not obvious driving along the roads to my house. I live in a tiny village called Yakkakoy, on the highway between Izmir and a city called Manisa. The area is densely forested, with silvery olive trees and dark green pine trees lining the roads, farms and restaurants en route to my home in Professolori Sitesi. It’s a pretty drive, although one has to be careful of the humans, tractors, humans, horses, humans, sheep and humans who wander around the area without much thought or concern for the cars belting down the road at speeds that would make Michael Schumacher or Jenson Button envious.

I don’t speed, not because I don’t want to but because as a foreigner the last thing I want or need is to be involved in any incident concerning the police. I found myself looking out for the little foal grazing with his mother on the farm just before the “welcome to Yakkakoy” sign, and the donkeys outside the derelict barns on the other side of the road. I waved at the people stationed outside each restaurant whose sole purpose is to wave at drivers to encourage them to come and dine at their “restoran”. I drove around the tiny cemetery, admiring the restoration work that began just before we went to Africa. The little marble turbans atop each tombstone are now shiny white, the dull grey dirt scrubbed off each one. They’re still tipping over; to be expected after a century in the ground I guess.

Like all villages in Turkey, Yakkakoy centres around a massive mosque. During Ramazan the mosque was given a facelift, so now the massive round building is even more visible, its towering minaret pointing straight up into the sky. In times gone by the Imam was supposed to climb up the minaret and call people to prayer. Then the minarets were not very tall, but thanks to technology they’ve grown taller than the actual mosque. The Iman delivers his summons to the faithful from ground level, singing into a microphone that transmits his voice through loudspeakers at the top of the minaret. Part of the facelift was to cover the building in tiny white mosaic tiles, with the occasional green tile giving a speckled effect. Green is the colour of Islam. At the top of the mosque the name “Allah” is pasted in green tiles. Yakkakoy is apparently and old Greek village, so most of the houses and building are somewhat shabby. The contrast with the opulence of the brilliant, gleaming mosque is sobering, as is the sight of the men sitting outside the coffee shop, sipping strong aromatic coffee, smoking and chatting. The only woman I usually see is the wife of the owner of the small shop where I buy bread and bottled water. She never wears a headscarf.

My thoughts were interrupted when a sheep leapt out onto the road in front of my car. I stopped, amazed as it trotted off down the side road, to be followed by six or seven more animals. What was surprising was that they’d climbed down some steep stairs to reach the road, and were hurrying across it to reach a water trough at the end of the side street. Sheep? In the middle of the village? On the main road? Only in Turkey!

After allowing the sheep to cross the road I encountered a beautiful, jewel-coloured rooster, surrounded by four rather drab little hens. They clucked furiously as I cruised past them. I noticed a pretty grey and white cat on the wall opposite, cleaning his paws carefully and paying scant attention to the handsome rooster and his harem.

That’s as close as we get to natural wildlife in Turkey - horses, donkeys, cows, sheep, chickens, dogs and cats. I can always go to the zoo downtown, but after experiencing elephants, hippo, zebra, giraffe, lions etc in the wild (where they should be) I’ll stick with the selection available at Yakkakoy!

 

During the three weeks I’ve just spent in Zimbabwe I saw more friends and family during those three weeks than I have during the three years I’ve been in Turkey. The thrill of catching up with everyone was enhanced by the positive changes I saw in my homeland.

I’ve been fortunate enough to have returned home three times this year, previous visits being undertaken in February and July. Zimbabwe’s unity government was formed shortly before the first visit, after restrictions on trading in foreign currency were lifted. Sugar, cooking oil and maize meal were some of the products displayed openly on supermarket shelves. Previously these items were only available on the black market, or sold directly to customers out of sight of public eyes. By July both imported and locally produced ranges of many products were available, and the prices had stabilised.

During this visit I tried to find ingredients for recipes I’ve only begun using during my six years away from Zimbabwe. I’m not sure if I ever came across them before 2003, so perhaps they were present, but not noticed by me because I didn’t use them. There was not one single item on my list I didn’t find - from capers to salmon fillets, every single item was available. And not too badly priced, when compared to Turkish till slips.

I ate out frequently; four visits to both Deli-icious and Cafe Med at Borrowdale, a further four visits to Coimbra for the best garlic sauce in the entire world (the chicken is pretty outstanding too) and three meals at the lovely restaurant at Golden Stairs nursery with my mum and mother in law. I cannot remember the name at the moment - blame jet lag!

While shopping and wining and dining in Zimbabwe are perhaps the best they’ve been in the last 15 to 20 years they are not a way to measure the country’s climb out of the abyss caused by Mugabe’s disastrous policies. One needs to look to other signs, and while they’re not as obvious as the two kilograms I managed to gain through socialising with friends and family they are there.

I asked my gynaecologist if she thought the health sector was improving. She confirmed it was, explaining that the last few years have been very difficult, but from her point of view there are real signs of improvement. Perhaps the increased number of affordable private medical aid schemes now available confirms the country’s health sector is moving out of intensive care. I had blood tests, and the equipment used for my pelvic scan and mammogram was very modern - not at all what I was expecting. My own doctor said the same thing, and I left both their rooms feeling a lot more confident than when I entered.

We had about five power cuts during our holiday, far less than what we’ve experienced in the past. And none was longer than three hours - previously we’ve run our generator for up to eight hours per day to keep fridges running during 24 and 36 hour power cuts.

The country’s largest cellphone operator - Econet - released a new range of numbers while we were there. Connectivity is excellent - far better than it’s been during the last few years. Much as I loathe advertising billboards I now see them as an indication of confidence in Zimbabwe’s economy and her future. Econet’s billboards are large, bold and full of promise. I have to love them.

Refuse removal seems to have started in my home suburb Mount Pleasant, and is certainly a bit more regular than it has been for the last few years. Hearing the refuse workmen’s shouts as they hang out of the filthy yellow refuse truck on Monday morning made me so happy I momentarily forgot my hangover/s.

Cabling is being laid along the roads in the eastern suburbs of Harare. I don’t know if these are for electricity or telephones, but the sight of workmen digging trenches to lay the cabling is encouraging. So too was the development of Econet’s new “Dongle”, which allows users 24/7 email/internet access for US$25/month after an initial payment of US$200 for the “Dongle”. Sadly I was unable to secure one because the scheme is apparently so popular it was oversubscribed. Latest news is that Econet is considering launching a branded notebook... again, signs of progress! Add to this the removal recently of customs tariffs on cellular telephones and computer equipment and the telecommunications industry in Zimbabwe is looking up!

But there are still problems. The last ten years have left Ziimbabwe so wounded these significant first steps are tentative and very small. Education at government schools is a mess, with serious shortage of school materials and teachers. Unemployment is still over 90%. Land invasions continue, with one of our friends from Chegutu desperately trying to find a place for his family and the exotic parrots he breeds as Mugabe’s followers evict him from the remaining two acres surrounding his farmhouse. The seizure of many of the remaining farms was and is ongoing.

Mugabe still clings to power, his determination fuelled perhaps by the recent revelation that less that less than ten percent of the electorate would vote for him if elections were held at this time. He is undoubtedly a major obstacle to democracy in Zimbabwe; his refusal to lift restrictions on the media and to swear in Roy Bennett as the Deputy Minister of Agriculture are just two examples of the octogenarian’s stubborn nature.

Despite the negatives hope is slowly emerging in Zimbabwe. Change will be slow - for almost 30 years Mugabe and his government have treated Zimbabwe and her people with a callous disregard for all but their own personal gain. I take great comfort from the changes I saw and the way most people are trying to look forward to a better future.

I just wish it didn’t have to take so long.

At 04.50 am on Thursday 17 September Ivan and I will be flying home to Zimbabwe for three weeks. We land at Gatwick at 07.10 UK time, and are taking the bus across to Terminal 5 to dump our luggage before meeting our friend Terry from Guildford to spend the day with him in that lovely quintessential English town.

This trip we’re using up our British Airways air miles, so although the flight has cost us only our taxes we’ve got a long wait in England before our flight leaves at 21.30. The flight to Johannesburg is about 12 hours, and after a four hour wait we take a two hour flight up to Harare. So by 15.00 hours on Friday 18 September we’ll be back home with my mother-in-law, my brother Bryan, sister in law Cindy and nieces Megan and Caitlin.

Packing is almost done - dogs get delivered to the kennels tomorrow, with some trepidation. My German Shepherd Matti is fourteen years old today - that’s 98 in dog years! He’s still pretty frisky and wants to play, but although the spirit is willing the flesh is weak. I do worry that he might not be here when we get back, especially as the kennel staff were a bit concerned at his age and general attitude when I left them there in July. Matti is almost totally deaf now, and has got into the habit of wandering around the house at night. This keeps me awake, because I always worry when we go away that something is going to go wrong, so I sleep lightly anyway. I told Ivan I reckon Death could well be stalking Matti, who gets up and hurries away from that spectre... naturally my rather sick sense of humour wasn’t very well received! Anyway, happy birthday my Matabele Ant Bear Dog!!!

Yesterday I left the hairdresser with dark brown hair, which is quite a shock for me. It’s the first time in ten years or more I’ve not had highlights, but the dark roots peppered with silver and the corn-coloured highlight looked dreadful. Plus I have hair that reacts badly to wet weather, so my usual straight/slightly wavy locks turned into a frizz usually associated with fingers in light sockets. It’s going to take a bit of getting used to, but it is a vast improvement.

For reading matter I am taking with me two books written by my friends alfred booth and Voxxylady: Go Go Nanos! . I have started them, but this last fortnight has been hectic. I want to give both my full attention, so I have downloaded the drafts to my external hard drive and am taking my laptop back with me. I will also be working on my forthcoming Nano effort and writing a few more articles for Suite 101 - I have had some great feedback and response to the eleven pieces I’ve posted there. There’s also the question of Project Write World... so whatever happens I shall be reading and writing.

My poor husband got back from India on Friday, and the day after we get back to Izmir he’s off to Amsterdam for a meeting! Poor man - and he hates flying at the best of times.

I’ll be back on 11 October. Bye now!

 

This morning NATO forces in Afghanistan launched a raid to rescue a British journalist kidnapped on Saturday by the Taliban. Stephen Farrell, who works for the New York Times, was seized on Saturday with his Afghan translator, journalist Sultan Munadi during a visit to investigate the NATO air strike on two hijacked fuel tanks that killed Afghan civilians.

Farrell was freed unhurt. Regrettably Sultan Munadi was killed during the raid, together with a British soldier and two Afghan civilians. It is thought Farrell was kidnapped by a group believed to have beheaded their hostages in the past. One of the civilians killed was the sister in law of the owner of the house where Farrell and Munadi were held. The other was a child. The house owner says the Taliban forced him to give them and the hostages the use of his house.

This is the second time Farrell has been kidnapped - in 2004 he was taken hostage during the siege of Fallujah in Iraq. He’s the second journalist working for the New York Times to be kidnapped in Afghanistan in the last year.

True to his professional integrity, Farrell has given details of the rescue mission to his editor back in New York. During his first conversation he told her: “I’m out! I’m free!” He claims that when the raid began he dived into a ditch. Munadi rushed out, shouting: “Journalist!” and was shot. Farrell doesn’t know if Munadi was killed by a Taliban or NATO bullet.

While Farrell celebrates his release, he must surely take some responsibility for his actions. After all, he put himself at risk. Stephen Farrell was in a volatile and very dangerous country, looking for news stories about the civilian deaths in the NATO air raid. He does not appear to be concerned with what the Taliban is doing to the Afghan population, nor is he interested in NATO’s successes against the Taliban. It seems his main priority is to tell his newspaper he’s not sure who shot Munadi. I suppose that’s because he’ll now secure a book deal, telling the world the story of how he bravely survived two kidnappings in two separate wars.

What a hero. Farrell’s journalistic “integrity” caused the death of a British soldier and three innocent Afghan civilians. There’s no word on Taliban losses. War is a total waste of money, resources, time and lives.

I have no respect for Stephen Farrell and his newspaper. If they put half the energy into investigating people like Alan Stanford or Bernie Madoff that they do into attacking those responsible for their nation’s security then I could perhaps believe journalists have a respectable and responsible duty. This incident has saddened and angered me, and reinforced my belief in the futility of war.

 

Last night my dreams were filled with handsome, virile men striding all over my farm. They were planting and harvesting crops, milking cows and goats, collecting down from ducks and eggs from chickens, shearing sheep (black AND white ones) and erecting... fences.

Making the dream even more visually interesting was the assortment of beautiful, scantily clad women, carefully collecting plums, apricots, pomegranates, cherries and bananas amongst other fruit. All very interesting, especially since I dropped my husband at the airport six hours earlier to catch a flight for a three day business trip to India.

Unfortunately, the dream wasn’t the result of unresolved passion - it was a form of brainwashing. For not only have I started ANOTHER farm , but I was seduced into playing an interactive game called “Vampire Wars”. If proof was ever needed that I have NO LIFE it was visited upon me in the form of that dream last night. For it wasn't humans helping out on the farm - it was Vampires.

I can say the Vampies in the dream didn’t indulge in any hanky panky; they were working far too hard and were way busy showing off and comparing their nice pecs. And because of their hard work the farm was looking fantastic. We still haven’t discovered what happens when the horse, pigs and rabbits are “ready” to harvest, but the Vampies didn’t grab any of the animals for sustenance. I awoke feeling... embarrassed . Computer games have cooked my skull, and it’s a sad state of affairs when I’m dreaming about all those cute boy Vampies I rated “tasty” in the computer game happily working away on my virtual farm.

So this morning I removed “Vampire Wars” from my account, and didn’t suffer any major withdrawal symptoms. In fact, I managed to churn out EIGHT reviews for the site contest and write a 1,000 word short story for Voxxylady: Go Go Nanos! ’s birthday challenge. Soon my old farm will be on Level 34, and it will be retired - I shall buy a mansion, and the animals will be free to wander around the fruit trees at leisure - no more being crammed into a tiny enclosure while I desperately use up as much space as possible to finish the game as quickly as possible.

But I’m sure going to miss those fit farming Vamps tonight...

... 1978. I was 13 years old, and living with my family in North End in Bulawayo. I was in my first year of high school, and the war of independence in the then Rhodesia was escalating.

I’ve written of the events of this day in "A Story of Terrorism From My Past" . Earlier this year, I received an email from someone who’d read that entry. He was with the Rhodesian Air Force, and has written an account of the events that unfolded at 17.05 that afternoon. His name is Walter Downes, and his words are below:

3rd September 1978 and I am sitting alone in the operations room at the FAF (Forward Air Force) base of Mtoko, where it was a Sunday afternoon and I am playing Solitaire with a grubby pack of playing cards. Me, I am a Corporal in the Rhodesian Air Force and about 15 months into my conscripted 18 months of National Service attached to 3 Squadron as an engineer. This posting was a result of my being employed by Air Rhodesia as an apprentice Engines and Airframe Engineer.

It is a lazy afternoon with not much happening. I am part of a crew of a C47 (Dakota), on a two week posting to Mtoko. My responsibilities are for looking after this aircraft from the engineering side.

In a room next to me is an Air Traffic Controller also on conscripted National Service and normally employed at the airport of Kariba. Mtoko not being too far from Kariba he is able to monitor the radio broadcasts from Kariba, which he is doing.

My card game is interrupted when he appears at the door, looking pale and announces that communications have been lost with an Air Rhodesia Viscount which had departed Kariba for Salisbury. This news hits me hard as my father is a Viscount Captain and I am unaware of his whereabouts. Fortunately for me my Captain here in Mtoko is Nick Mehmel, a VR (Volunteer Reserve) pilot from Air Rhodesia and an old friend of the family. He is asleep in his quarter’s par taking an afternoon siesta when I virtually tip him out of bed to awaken him with the news. It does not take Nick long to telephone Air Rhodesia operations and come back to me with the news that my father is not part of the crew of the Viscount.

The news of the missing Viscount quickly spreads through the FAF but there is no further news on the fate of the Viscount. A couple of hours later we get instructions to position back to Salisbury.

Early evening and back at New Sarum at Salisbury Airport, I am released to go home for the night but must report at 4 am the following morning. Our C47 is to be part of the planned search and rescue operation. At home I am greeted by my parents. My father, being the pilot safety representative for Air Rhodesia is preparing to go out with the DCA to help with the investigation when the Viscount is found.

I duly reported at 4 am on the Monday morning. I set about preparing the C47 for departure checking full fuel, oils etc. and signing the Technical Log. My Captain Nick Memhel arrives with his co-pilot (whose name I afraid I do not remember). We have been tasked to position to Kariba for a briefing. Our aircraft is full to capacity with paratroopers sitting along each side with wicker baskets filled with medical supplies and rescue equipment down the centre of the aisle. The take off is interesting. The aircraft is extremely heavy and for once I believe the curvature of the earth on the near 3 mile long runway helped us get airborne.

We land at Kariba, and taxi to the apron. There are numerous aircraft present and I get my first glimpse of the world press gathered eager for any news. My pilots go to the briefing and I refuel and once again prepare the C47 for departure. The paratroopers take time to stretch their legs. Nick and his colleague arrive back with their assigned task for the search. Everyone re-boards the aircraft and once again we get airborne.

Once safely on our way I leave my seat and spend the next couple of hours standing between the two cockpit seats looking out at hundreds of acres of African bush.
The co-pilot suddenly shouts ‘there’ and points out his side of the aircraft and I look across to see something that once resembled a Viscount spread out in a clearing. It is a complete mess. I am also already aware of a line of bodies near the accident site.

Nick completes an orbit and does a low fly past. (This is done to set the sub-scale on the altimeter so we do not try and drop our paratroopers from too low so they will not be injured if their parachutes are not fully open or too high when they could become targets from ground fire.) On this fly past I recognise the distinct colour of the air hostess uniforms of two of the bodies. Nick climbs the C47 up to the height required and we do a number of further passes and our entire load of paratroopers and supplies are dropped. We then climb up to a safe height where we will remain over the accident site until we run short of fuel. These next couple of hours finds our roll has changed and we now have become the communications centre for the rescue.

The first paratrooper on scene reports back to us using his radio and it was not good news. In fact it is appalling news. The bodies are of woman and children. They appear to have survived the crash, but have been lined up and shot, which explained their position away from the wreckage. There are no survivors and no sign of any men about.

Not long after the paratroopers had landed the male survivors arrive back at the accident site. The story emerges that they left the woman and children and went to seek assistance from a nearby village. The villagers had obviously been frightened by the terrorist groups operating in the area and were not willing to offer any help. Whist at the village they heard the sound of gun fire from the direction of the accident sight. The men had little choice but to hide themselves to prevent becoming further victims. Sometime after, the group responsible for shooting the woman and children returned and further mutilated the bodies with their bayonets.

Once we ran short of fuel our roll of communications is taken by another aircraft and we return to Kariba. On landing we are met by the Press, still eager for news. Although I knew exactly what had happened, I had been warned by my superiors not to communicate any of the information or I would find myself on a ‘Charge’. It was my first experience of being grilled by the press and answering them with an innocent smile saying I knew nothing about whether the aircraft had in fact been found let alone the details of what had taken place.

From Kariba we flew back to Salisbury and then were detailed to return to Mtoko. A couple of day later a number of captured suspects where brought into the camp. They had been captured by a group of the Rhodesian African Rifles (Regular black soldiers fighting for the Rhodesian Army). Some believed they might have been involved with the Viscount incident. I walked across to see the captives who were sitting in the back of a truck. One of the African soldiers asked one of the captives a question. When he did not give a suitable reply the soldier raised his rifle and using the butt of the weapon struck the captive in the face, I abruptly left as regardless to what had been going on, I do not like this type of treatment of anyone.

I was later to learn that the Viscount had been brought down by a Sam-7 rocket. I knew both of the pilots who had lost their lives in the accident. One of the surviving men was my dentist. Sadly one of the girls who survived the accident and was subsequently gunned down and further mutilated was 18 year old Cheryl Tilly, a girl I knew well as she was the girlfriend of one of my old school friends.

Cheryl lived with her parents and her younger brother on a farm to the east of Salisbury. I had visited the farm a number of times. Shortly after the Tillys had laid their daughter to rest, they arrived back at the farm to be ambushed by a group of terrorists and their son was killed. I am amazed at the number of families who suffered multiple tragedies in unrelated incidences during the war whilst other families escaped unaffected.

I was released from my National Service in December 1978 and returned to Air Rhodesia. Tragically we were to loose a second Viscount in January 1979 again departing Kariba. This too was shot down with a Sam-7 rocket and crashed near the airfield. This time there were no survivors. I was at high school with this Captain’s younger son. Prior to this accident the family had lost their elder son in an operational flying accident where he was flying a Cessna 377 of 5 Squadron in the Rhodesian Air Force.

I left Rhodesia in April 1979 to seek a new start to life as a pilot in England.

My original entry on the Viscount Hunyani contains all the relevant information. By choosing to remember this event today I am remembering those innocent people who died on Viscount Hunyani. Nobody who has lost his her life as a result of any terrorist act should ever be forgotten. The words below are from the words spoken at a memorial for the victims of Viscount Hunyani by Harare’s Anglican Dean, the Very Reverend John da Costa. His speech was so powerful it has become known as “The Deafening Silence”, and 31 years after these words were spoken they are still relevant to our world today. I have chosen two paragraphs:

I do not believe in white supremacy. I do not believe in black supremacy either. I do not believe that anyone is better than another, until he has proved himself to be so. I believe that those who govern or who seek to govern must prove themselves worthy of the trust that will be placed in them. One looks for real leadership: one finds little in the Western world; how much less in Africa!

Is anyone else to be blamed for this ghastly episode near Kariba? I think so. Politicians throughout the world have made opportunistic speeches from time to time. These add to the heap of blameworthiness for a speech can cause wounds which may take years to heal. The ghastliness of this ill fated flight from Kariba will be burned upon our memories for years to come. For others, far from our borders it is an intellectual matter, not one which affects them deeply. Here is the tragedy! The especial danger of Marxism is its teaching that human life is cheap, expendable, of less importance than the well being of the State

 

“... it’s never bad. Even when it’s bad it’s never bad.”

This rather... interesting quote comes from an interview Neil Diamond did with Britain’s Metro magazine last month, and although it may be a little too much information from the 69 year old singer (I cannot believe he’s almost 70! ) I think he means to say he’s happy and honoured that musicians like Elvis, Frank Sinatra and UB40 have produced their own versions of his music - but when your new album has just been released any reference to sex is bound to get you AND it (the album, that is ) attention.

Last week his latest album, “Hot August Nights NYC” was released, debuting at number 2 on the Billboard Hot 100 charts behind country singer George Strait’s latest album “Twang” - now that title’s bound to attract attention/publicity. “Hot August Night” is taken from the opening line of “Brother Love’s Travelling Salvation Show”, one of Diamond’s hits from the early ‘70s.

It’s also the title of his 1972 album, recorded at Los Angeles Greek Theatre. It’s one of the most successful live albums ever released, and one of the earliest records I remember listening to - my parents had a copy. Such was the influence of that record that I prefer his rendition of songs like “Shilo”, “Cherry Cherry” and “Done Too Soon” on that album to the original recordings.

As a committed and lifelong Diamondhead I am putting in an order for this CD and the accompanying DVD, but for sentimental reasons more than a love of Neil. Last year my sister in law Cindy and I watched Neil Diamond live at London’s O2 arena; it was my second live Neil Diamond concert, Cindy’s first. Cindy loved it, and for me it was even better than the first time. I doubt very much if I’ll ever see him perform live again, and this album and DVD was recorded as part of the same tour. Most of the tracks contained were performed at the O2 concert, and the reviews have been very favourable. One reviewer says it’s like being at the concert, such is the quality of the recording.

Part of me feels a twinge of disappointment, because I have THREE of Diamond’s concerts on CD, and three DVDs of a his concerts. I’m not too happy about buying ANOTHER live album, which is essentially a greatest hits collection, and I have one or two of those in my CD library. But I will do it, because I saw him perform those songs, and because I’m a dedicated Diamondhead.

The CD has been sold out on Diamond’s official website, and they’re waiting for new stocks at Amazon.co.uk. So after posting this entry I’m ambling over there to place my order - reluctantly. I am pleased to read he’s working on a third album with producer Rick Rubin, who’s been responsible for making Diamond’s last two albums so successful, which kind of makes up for the disappointment and realisation I shall soon own FOUR Neil Diamond live CDs and FOUR Neil Diamond live DVDs. Isn't that ?

Here’s a link to the interview I quoted at the beginning of this entry:

http://www.metro.co.uk/fame/interviews/article.html?Neil_Diamond:_People_co...