tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8328156736064479182024-02-20T10:50:36.130+11:00Malcolm's Musings: Strange but TrueOccasionally I come across a quirky story which begs to be preserved. Unlike those in my cryptozoology and anomalies blogs, these do not defy the scientific paradigm. They are more Ripley's "Believe It or Not!" than Charles Fort. And, of course, everything is documented.Malcolm Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00672612354161787023noreply@blogger.comBlogger112125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-832815673606447918.post-67852562239714662182022-12-07T14:31:00.000+11:002022-12-07T14:31:06.555+11:00Gotta Sell Those Hats! There's always another day in Tahiti. Apropos of the natives' light regard for time, Mrs. Winkelstroetter tells us of the boat from the Austral Islands that was about to return to that group when an old lady objected:<br /><div> "But, Captain, just wait a little. I have ten hats to sell yet."</div><div> So he postponed sailing until the next day.</div><div> But she still had seven hats to sell. Sailing was put off from day to day. Each morning the captain and passengers would assemble ready to depart. The old lady would complain and the boat would lie over. So it went for a week.</div><div> "Now really," the captain said, "I must sail. Haven't you sold all your hats?"</div><div> "All but one - but it is a very ugly one and nobody will buy it."</div><div> The captain pulled out ten francs.</div><div> "I'll buy it myself,"</div><div> He did, and thanks to this prompt and decisive action on his part, the boat sailed only a week late.</div><div><br /></div><div><b>Reference: </b>Willard Price (1955), <i>Adventures in Paradise</i>, quoted in <i>The Wild World Magazine </i>Oct 1956 (Australia), Sept. 1956 (UK), p x</div>Malcolm Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00672612354161787023noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-832815673606447918.post-28802614477354871112022-03-01T10:24:00.002+11:002022-06-13T20:32:38.429+10:00The Danger of Dealing with a Witch Unrequited love! One of life's great frustrations! Haven't we all been a position whereby a little love magic would come in handy - preferably a type which could not be used by our rival, or against us? (That's the trouble, of course, with magic: it works both ways.) In the 1920s journalist, W. B. Seabrook went to Haiti to investigate Voodoo, and reported on how a young man called Paul, besotted with a woman who had rejected him, asked his grandmother, Maman Célie for help. In response, she ground into powder a dead hummingbird, all the time chanting prayers or spells, added a few dried drops of her grandson's blood and semen, plus the pollen of jungle flowers, and placed it in a pouch made from the scrotum of a billy goat. Now the fun part: how was he going to get the object of his affection to eat or drink the stuff? <span><a name='more'></a></span><div> No, I'm just kidding you. What he did was throw the dust in her face as she swayed past him at a dance. Of course, she was furious, but that evening they copulated in the forest, and two days later he fetched her home. However, as the journalist put it: "Doubtless a deeper magic than Maman Célie's was also at work."</div><div> But what happens if a white person gets involved in this sort of business? The Mexican Indians claim that magic does not work on foreigners. In other places, perhaps things are different. Nine years ago I told of the experience of Harry Wright, a Philadelphia dentist who used to travel the world investigating witchcraft in primitive societies. At that time it involved the <a href="https://malcolmsanomalies.blogspot.com/2013/05/phantom-leopards-and-collective.html" target="_blank">collective hallucination</a> of leopards in Africa. Now allow me to recount a couple of his experiences in the far east.</div><div> It would have been in 1952 or perhaps early 1953, when he found himself in the airport at Manila, preparing to fly to Java, and he came across an apparently distracted young man who definitely looked like he was in some sort of trouble. Eventually he pried the history out of him. "I think I'm under a spell," he said. "It is the guna-guna."</div><div> He was a Dutchman, recently employed for six years as clerk or assistant manager in a hotel in Yogyakarta. (This would have been during the Indonesian War of Independence, and shortly afterwards.) He had fallen in love with a high class Javanese girl called Sadja, something that would be considered outrageous in the racial environment of the time. Unable to bring her to the hotel, he would visit her at her own home, and it was there he met her uncle, a <i>dukun</i> or witchdoctor, who specialised in putting spells, or <i>guna-guna</i> on people.</div><div> Remember, this was seventy years ago, and we would expect a bit of sophistication to have intervened since then. But old habits die hard. According to the January 2008 issue of the <i>National Geographic</i>, they still worship the volcanoes. Although Islam is the official religion of Java, it really serves as a thing veneer. The great mass of the people follow the <i><a href="http://www.philtar.ac.uk/encyclopedia/indon/java.html" target="_blank">Agami Jawi</a></i>, or Javanese Religion: a potpourri of Islamic folk beliefs, pre-Islamic gods and demigods, elemental spirits, and magic.</div><div> One day, when the Dutchman had just had a haircut, he saw Sadja's uncle scamper in and retrieve some of his hair as useful guna-guna material. A day or so later, Sadja arrived at his hotel and told him she was expecting a baby, upon which he informed her that he had no intention of marrying her. When she returned with her uncle, he had them thrown out. Shaking his fist at him, the uncle threatened revenge.</div><div> Some days later, he saw the girl and her uncle again enter the hotel. At that point, he assaulted the old man, only to discover it was really a prominent Dutch official who was accompanied by his daughter. With no reasonable excuse for the assault, he was promptly fired. Wright was able to confirm this part of the story when he himself visited Yogyakarta.</div><div> The strange thing, the Dutchman explained to Wright, was that now every time he saw a man with a young woman, he was deluded into thinking it was Sadja and her uncle. At that point, the dentist asked him to look around the bar room and see if there was anybody who resembled them. There was indeed, and he pointed out an American army officer and a young lady sitting at a table.</div><div> The author had no explanation for this bizarre hallucination, except that the dukun may have slipped him some drug which lowered his resistance to suggestion. It seems long odds to me.</div><div> Now for Part 2. Wright was in the national capital, Jakarta, discussing the matter with a well-educated Indonesian sub-official, who was acting as his interpreter and guide, and mentioned that he would like to meet a dukun. A string of events resulted in his encountering an English teacher from Canada, who had fallen in love with Nusona, his attractive Eurasian pupil, but she had spurned him. The upshot was that his guide agreed to take both Mr. Wright and the Canadian to a special dukun in order to acquire some love magic.</div><div> The lovelorn swain insisted on walking on foot into the "native quarter" instead of hiring a native carrier, so that no gossip would get back to Nusona. Of course, it was an exercise in futility. Westerners are the only people who teach their children it is rude to stare at strangers. In the rest of the world they become the centre of attention. I myself have strolled through Indonesian towns with a companion, and found ourselves followed by troops of curious children, admittedly well behaved, who would even park themselves at the door of our restaurant to watch us eat. The same thing occurred, naturally enough, to the intrepid three.</div><div> The dukun turned out to be an old woman called Gemplakanapos, who listened attentively to his problem, and accepted a guilder for the proposed service. She then produced on a banana leaf, "some jasmine and frangipani blossoms - two large white flowers and two buds; and also two red flowers, known as melati, with two buds." (My Indonesian dictionary defines <i>melati</i> as jasmine, so I presume it was the red <a href="https://plants.ces.ncsu.edu/plants/jasminum-beesianum/" target="_blank">beesianum jasmine</a>.) After that, she went into another room, from whence they started to smell something like a mixture of embalming fluid and incense. She returned about half an hour later, expressionless, and began mumbling something until her voice rose almost to a scream. The fumes produced on Wright a feeling of light-headedness, half exultation and half nausea.</div><div> Gemplakanapos then wrapped the two white buds and one red flower into a compact shape, and told the Canadian he must keep them with himself at all times, except when he was in the company of a woman other than Nusona. The other flowers she wrapped in a newspaper and told him to drop them at the doorstep of Nusona's home, so that she would step on them as she came out. She then told him:</div><div><blockquote> "The girl will know that you have come to me. She will see the flowers and become alarmed. Out of fear she will come to me. I will tell her she must return your love or she may have an evil guna-guna."</blockquote></div><div> In other words, she was essentially confirming that it was all hokum, and it worked only because the victim believed in its efficacy.</div><div> Later, Wright's guide told him he now had second thoughts about what he had set in motion. As he explained, the residents would know that the lover had seen the dukun. They would stay away from Nusona. If he failed to marry the girl, she might well become an outcast. Or she may go to another dukun and retaliate against him.</div><div> So what happened? The author found out once he had returned from a visit to Bali. The Canadian had not taken the flowers to the girl's place, but she knew about his visit to Gemplakanapos, and she did in fact do as predicted, and consulted her. Then it turned out there was a good reason why she had spurned him: she was already married! Her husband returned at that stage, and also consulted the dukun. Suddenly, the young Canadian took ill, without any cause that his physician could identify. With his illness getting worse, the Government official put him on a boat to Singapore. As Mr. Wright summed it up:</div><div><blockquote> It seemed to me the guna-guna had a habit of reaching into the lives of white men who transgressed its mysterious laws; and where primitive belief did not exist, some kind of sickness took its place.</blockquote></div><div> I have <a href="https://malcolmsanomalies.blogspot.com/2022/02/the-unholy-alliance.html" target="_blank">written elsewhere</a> how meddling with the occult can have even worse consequences.</div><div><br /></div><div><b>References:</b> W. B. Seabrook (1929), <i>Magic Island</i>, chapter 4, edited and abridged as <i>Voodoo Island </i> in 1966 by the New English Library.</div><div>Harry B. Wright (1957), <i>Witness to Witchcraft</i> (pp 145-155 of the 1964 Corgi edition)</div>Malcolm Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00672612354161787023noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-832815673606447918.post-44318282881570323652022-01-02T12:14:00.000+11:002022-01-02T12:14:41.295+11:00A Noise Annoys a Caterpillar Caterpillars! They descended as a ravenous plague on the Catskill Mountains of New York State in the years 1897-9. Green worms, or tree caterpillars the farmers called them, as they watched in stupefied impotence while their fruit and maple trees were transformed into bare branch skeletons by the voracious pests. Nothing, it seemed, could save them from ruin. Nothing the scientists could suggest made any difference. Where was the Pied Piper when you needed him most?<span><a name='more'></a></span><div> Then, at midday 1st June 1899, Mrs Arthur Martin, a farmer's wife in Greene County, went forth to call in the hired hands for lunch. Eschewing the use of vocal chords, she blew on a conch shell horn. Suddenly, something unexpected happened. While the echoes of the blast were still ringing, the ground under her feet was covered with caterpillars, apparently dead. Astonished, she blew again, and the tree above her again began raining caterpillars. Experiments were tried with other trees (presumably, after lunch) with the same result. Bedsheets spread under the trees quickly filled with dead or stunned green caterpillars, and were consigned to the bonfire. Within three hours, the farm was declared free of pests. Also within hours, the news was flashed around the world. Other farms in the Catskills started to get into the act the very next day. </div><div><blockquote>By ten o'clock on the morning of June 2nd the town of Ashton was a veritable Bedlam let loose. Conch-shells and fish-horns sounded on the morning air; the boom of bass drums and the shrill shriek of fifes shattered the silence on all sides; and the roar of a bass horn and several trombones awoke the echoes far and near. Mr. Thomas A. Gerald, a wealthy farmer, hired boys to climb the trees and beat drums among the branches. This proved so effective that worms were literally gathered up by the bushel and cast into the fire.</blockquote></div><div> Experiments in other towns established that the caterpillars were not killed by the sound waves, but merely rendered unconscious. Most effective were the conch, bass drum, and trombone. Gun shots were of mediocre value, the human voice none at all. On the other hand, a British biologist tried the effects of playing a piano on spiders. It was reported that Beethoven pleased the spiders, but Wagner upset them!</div> Not long afterwards, the caterpillars - those that were left - went into their chrysalid stage, but the farmers declared that they were ready to do battle with them the following year. Unfortunately, I have no information as to how that played out.<div><br /><div><b>Reference:</b> N. Lawrence Perry (Jan. 1900), 'Mrs. Martin's cure for caterpillars', <i>The Wide World Magazine</i> <a href="https://archive.org/details/wideworldmagazin04londuoft/mode/2up" target="_blank">vol. 4</a>, pp 253-6<p></p></div></div>Malcolm Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00672612354161787023noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-832815673606447918.post-62099046530563720832021-12-05T16:53:00.001+11:002022-03-21T11:12:42.236+11:00Come Home; It's Time for Your Execution! Here's a scenario: you've committed murder, and have been sentenced to death. Alas! The facilities for your execution are not yet in place, so you are released on parole. We are talking about the original meaning of the term: you give your word (<i>parole</i> in French) that you will return on the required date - sort like bail without the money - and off you go. You leave the country and become a sporting celebrity. Then, after three years, you receive the summons: it is time for you to return home for your execution. What do you do?<div> Well, if you were a Choctaw, there is no issue to discuss. You gave your word. Your word is your bond. And death is preferable to dishonour.<span><a name='more'></a></span></div><div> The Choctaws, as my American readers ought to know, were one of the Five Civilised Tribes, the others being the Cherokees, Chickasaws, Creeks, and Seminoles. These were the Indians who decided that, if you can't beat 'em, you should join 'em. So they adopted civilised paleface ways, like reading and writing, going to church (sometimes), ploughing the fields, and owning <a href="https://www.smithsonianmag.com/smithsonian-institution/how-native-american-slaveholders-complicate-trail-tears-narrative-180968339/" target="_blank">black slaves</a>. The Choctaws fought as allies of the rebels against the Crown during the War of Independence. They supported the Americans in the War of 1812. They served under General Andrew Jackson in his war against the civilised Creeks. So when he became President, he rewarded them by deporting them, <i>en masse</i> to Oklahoma, in forced marches in which a quarter of them perished. There, on the treeless prairie, these children of the woodland set up a republican style government. The Choctaw nation lasted from 1834 to 1906, but at least for that brief interval there was a glorious experiment in Indian autonomy, with many of the citizens acting as landlords on vast ranches where the increasing number of white settlers essentially serving as peons. I intend to describe this in detail in another essay, but right now the issue is Choctaw jurisprudence.</div><div> According to tradition older than written records, if a Choctaw took another Choctaw's life, his own was forfeited, but he was given several months, usually three, to return to his family, plant his crops or harvest them, and otherwise settle his affairs. If he did not return for the execution, another family member would die in his place - an obvious form of moral persuasion. Thus, when the Choctaw law was codified, a stay of execution was written into the legislation. Such executions used to take place two or three times a year, and some of them became famous.</div><div> Consider, for example, Albert Red Bird, a quarter caste Choctaw graduate of the Indian College at Carlyle, Pennsylvania. About 1884 the Union Agency at Muskogee asked the Choctaw chief for an educated tribesman to help with the census rolls, and Albert Red Bird was sent. He turned out to be so good that the Indian agent offered him a permanent position, which he accepted, but on the proviso that he cold resign at very short notice. Very quickly the handsome young Indian had become the toast of the nearby Fort Gibson, and had won the heart of a white girl. Marriage was widely predicted. Early that August he arrived at the grand ball with his sweetheart, and made merry with the dancers among the high society. But just before dawn, as the the ball was breaking up, he called out in a loud voice to make an announcement.</div><div> He thanked them for their kindness, but apologized for deceiving them. The previous year, he told them, he had killed a man when crazed by drink, and now he must return home to face the consequences. The audience was dumbfounded. Some tried to discourage him. Some wanted to follow him. His girlfriend, it is said, never married.</div><div> The reference to being crazed by drink appeared in more than one account; it seems to be an Indian weakness. Otherwise, the murderers seem to have been ordinary people who, at one point, gave in to a terrible impulse. It reminds me of what a visitor to Devil's Island had been told: that in that notorious penal colony, the murderers looked down on the thieves. Yes, murder might have been a worse crime, but it was the only one they committed. It had mostly been a crime of passion; that was why they were sent to the island rather than the guillotine. On the other hand, the thieves were <i>habitual criminals</i>; that is why they were sent to the island rather than a French prison.</div><div> Which brings us to an unsavoury character with the appropriate name of Going Snake ie departing snake, who had not only killed a friend, but robbed him. The viciousness of the crime meant that a great crowd turned up for his projected execution by firing squad on 15 July 1891, even organizing a big feast. They waited in vain. He didn't arrive. True to his name, the dirty snake had absconded! An even greater crowd gathered the following day, upon which an elderly couple, the parents of the condemned, arrived. The old Indian's voice quavered as he expressed his dishonour at his son's behaviour, and how Choctaw tradition demanded that they pay the price in his stead. The crowd cheered. The old man then shot his wife in front of the multitude, before turning the gun on himself. That was the only record of a Choctaw murderer not showing up for the appointment.</div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjmgnou8puQ-5ldocbpZiSDoqgZ2-dMNMwympheQ4yvrpLRuKWm2ugGd8RQSl_26eFw02QPrRMRLoHi5qcbrrusL_OfQ5CLtjI-FDAIzkq6RS1m0J_zzmxOBE2JlW0Lj1W8tS9zfo2QZ4UZmrUtWBIfmB0wJhIb89TIr3Pv-Jey01lk_oNwGdfLAhN3Jw=s357" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="357" data-original-width="161" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjmgnou8puQ-5ldocbpZiSDoqgZ2-dMNMwympheQ4yvrpLRuKWm2ugGd8RQSl_26eFw02QPrRMRLoHi5qcbrrusL_OfQ5CLtjI-FDAIzkq6RS1m0J_zzmxOBE2JlW0Lj1W8tS9zfo2QZ4UZmrUtWBIfmB0wJhIb89TIr3Pv-Jey01lk_oNwGdfLAhN3Jw=s320" width="144" /></a></div> I regret that the details I have been able to obtain about the last, and most famous, execution are rather confused. It took place on 13 July 1899, and the culprit (left) was named Walla Tonka, which translates as something like "young man departing", and was anglicised as William Goings. He had already worked in the United States as a prominent baseball player, and there it was that he was introduced to strong drink. It was a familiar story, and a fatal one.</div><div> The story is that, while on holiday back home in 1896, he and his cousin got roaring drunk and in a fighting mood. Somehow or other, his uncle, Sampson Goings, also drunk, got involved. Either he remonstrated with him, or they argued over a woman, but in any case, they killed him, and then went on to beat to death an old woman they thought was practising witchcraft against them. </div><div> I have a strong feeling that many of the written accounts mix up several different cases. Thus, a <a href="https://www.findagrave.com/memorial/28454261/william-goings" target="_blank">recent document</a> states that, the day before the projected execution, he and his confederate escaped from prison, and that while his partner died of pneumonia shortly afterwards, Walla Tonka joined a gang of horse thieves until recaptured in 1899. However, journalists writing within a year of his death tell it differently. He left Choctaw territory for the States, where he was immediately engaged at a high salary to play baseball in Kansas. From there he travelled the country as a celebrity sportsman, the knowledge of his impending fate providing an additional attraction to the crowds. Receiving a number of stays of execution, he even joined the Wild West Show. One story is that he even went to England with them, but that might a confusion with another case. </div><div> Eventually, in April 1899, he reported to the sheriff's office and announced that it was about time they got on with the business. A date was set. However, by that time the Curtis Act had stripped Choctaw courts of the right to carry out capital punishment. The issue was brought before Judge W. H. Clayton, who immediately issued a write of <i>habeas corpus</i>. An Indian friend rode all night to the town where Walla Tonka was held, and brought him back to the judge. On close examination of the case, however, Judge Clayton decided that he had been rightly condemned for murder before the Curtis Act had come into effect, so back he went to face his death.</div><div> Needless to say, he faced it with the courage expected of his race. In front of a huge crowd, he knelt or sat on the ground while the sheriff either marked his bare chest with a piece of charcoal, or pinned a piece of paper on his shirt over his heart. The sheriff then knelt down, aimed at his chest with his Winchester, and pulled the trigger. Even then, the shot was not immediately fatal. He called for water, and was given some to drink from a bucket. Then the sheriff poured more water into his mouth until he drowned.</div><div> That was the last execution under Choctaw law. After that, capital punishment was left to paleface law, which did not trust murderers to report voluntarily to be executed. If any of my readers are Native Americans, they may wish to comment on how this reflects on paleface society.</div><div> I shall leave you with one final observation. I note that Americans, as is their wont, are again getting their knickers in a knot over a trivial matter ie the use of names such as Indians, Braves, and Redskins for sports teams. Well, sportsmen never call their teams the Creampuffs or the Pansies. They choose names suggestive of vigour, toughness, and courage. And whatever negative stereotypes may have been inflicted on the red men - some of them, not doubt, deserved - nobody ever called them weaklings or cowards. </div><div><b>References:</b> William R. Draper (Feb. 1900), 'How the Choctaws keep their word', <i>The Wide World Magazine</i> <a href="https://archive.org/details/wideworldmagazin04londuoft" target="_blank">vol. 4</a>:501-506 (This author falsely believed that Walla Tonka and William Going were different persons.)</div><div>'The Modern Day. Choctaw Lighthorsemen' <a href="https://www.choctawnation.com/sites/default/files/import/The_Modern_Day%C2%A0.pdf" target="_blank">Choctaw Nation</a> (PDF)</div><div>'William "Walla Tonaka" Goings' <a href="https://www.findagrave.com/memorial/28454261/william-goings" target="_blank">Find a Grave</a></div><div>'The tragic death of Walla Tonka' <i>The Hartford Herald</i>, <a href="https://chroniclingamerica.loc.gov/lccn/sn84037890/1899-08-09/ed-1/seq-1/" target="_blank">9 August 1899</a>, page 1</div><div><br /></div>Malcolm Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00672612354161787023noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-832815673606447918.post-43797102630099121322021-11-06T21:54:00.000+11:002021-11-06T21:54:02.474+11:00"Is This Not the Carpenter?" No matter how important you become, the people you will find hardest to impress are those you grew up with, who knew you when you were both snotty-nosed kids, and who watched you grow into an average Joe. Thus, when Jesus returned to His hometown of Nazareth, the reactions of the locals were: "Is this not the carpenter?" (Mk 6:3) or "... the carpenter's son?" (Matt. 13.55). So that is how we know how Jesus and St. Joseph earned their living. It also cast light on other passages. Thus, although "My yoke is easy" (Matt. 11:30) has a predominantly spiritual meaning, we should not forget that it came from a professional carpenter who once took pride in crafting yokes which did not chafe the ox.<div> But does anyone have an idea what Jesus' or Joseph's workshop looked like? That famous, and mawkish, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Christ_in_the_House_of_His_Parents" target="_blank">painting</a> by John Millais really depicts a modern carpenter's workshop. Not to worry! Until about a century ago, the Middle East was culturally static. In March 1914, the <i>National Geographic Magazine</i> published an article by John D. Whiting on "Village Life in the Holy Land". And here is a colourised photo of a village carpenter which, apart from the clothing, might not have been out of place in First Century Nazareth. And yes, Jesus probably wore a turban.<span><a name='more'></a></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaRqf65-LHGwX78tC-iIsD9p2P6CLl2i57nSr6dxhtx-wucjACvrbRFm3SqVYTxMIXM-FdydqvOm5Qba8_986Smo0I_020gzAL_oTsoy2q6bS5OSTQ9cIyP_UBcncy5ki_FZML6r9djxL4/s671/Village+Carpenter+%2528March+1914%2529.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="671" data-original-width="450" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaRqf65-LHGwX78tC-iIsD9p2P6CLl2i57nSr6dxhtx-wucjACvrbRFm3SqVYTxMIXM-FdydqvOm5Qba8_986Smo0I_020gzAL_oTsoy2q6bS5OSTQ9cIyP_UBcncy5ki_FZML6r9djxL4/s16000/Village+Carpenter+%2528March+1914%2529.png" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div><br /></div>Malcolm Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00672612354161787023noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-832815673606447918.post-24987661808861445242021-10-28T07:52:00.000+11:002021-10-28T07:52:06.805+11:00How Gordon Died Of all late Victorian heroes, probably none has captured the imagination more than General Charles Gordon. It is little wonder: a lone Englishman, hundreds of miles from civilisation, valiantly attempting to hold the line against a horde of barbaric religious fanatics, only to be slain at the fall of Khartoum, just two days before the arrival of the force sent to relieve him. I first heard about him in the 1966 film, <i>Khartoum.</i> Who could forget the climax, where Gordon strode out to confront the dervish army in the governor's palace, only to be killed with a spear? But did it happen that way?<span><a name='more'></a></span>
<div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwMOssCZOK-mUy9tw1Fwzw3wqPI3UTGIC7WBRVUSHcyx3IwJSUemDTz0O-f0LgP5jarYZPD77ICB4DY7fvjhxV1jTL48rtW-z4cGAnDKbmizYmHDPdNE7Koo9If1NdPORCxMqGkGeb4uZP/s410/300px-General_Gordon%2527s_Last_Stand.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="410" data-original-width="300" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwMOssCZOK-mUy9tw1Fwzw3wqPI3UTGIC7WBRVUSHcyx3IwJSUemDTz0O-f0LgP5jarYZPD77ICB4DY7fvjhxV1jTL48rtW-z4cGAnDKbmizYmHDPdNE7Koo9If1NdPORCxMqGkGeb4uZP/w293-h400/300px-General_Gordon%2527s_Last_Stand.jpg" width="293" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">'General Gordon's Last Stand' by George W. Jay (1893)</span></td></tr></tbody></table> I have in my possession a <i>Life of General Gordon</i> which, curiously, bears no authors' names, nor any date of publication, but only a hand written inscription dated 1892. It was clearly published before the liberation of the Sudan. In any case, it explained that the accounts of his death varied. One said that he surrendered to the Emir, but was killed by him. Another report stated that he walked, with about twenty of his men, down the stairs towards the church of the Austrian Mission, when he was slain by a volley of musketry. Another account, which sounded highly dubious, was that, as he went to inspect his troops, he was speared by them. </div><div> These, of course, are hearsay accounts, which drifted back to Egypt during the thirteen years when the Sudan was given over to slavery, rapine, and tyranny. But in 1898, when Kitchener's army annihilated the Mahdist forces and entered Omdurman, they found in prison, laden with chains, a German merchant, Charles Neufeld, who had been captured back in 1887, and had had plenty of time to interview fellow prisoners who has served under the previous government. His version was somewhat different. So let us look at his 1899 memoir, <i><a href="https://archive.org/details/dli.ministry.05392/page/n3/mode/2up" target="_blank">A Prisoner of the Khaleefa</a></i>, beginning at page 302.</div><div></div><blockquote><div> Those who knew Charles George Gordon, will
believe me when I aver that he died, as they must all
have believed that he died—in spite of the official and
semi-official accounts to the contrary—as the soldier
and lion-hearted man he was. Gordon did not rest his
hand on the hilt of his sword and turn his back to his
enemies to receive his mortal wound. Gordon drew
his sword, and used it. When Gordon fell, his sword
was dripping with the blood of his assailants, for no
less than sixteen or seventeen did he cut down with it.
When Gordon fell, his left hand was blackened with
the unburned powder from his at least thrice-emptied
revolver. When Gordon fell, his life’s blood was
pouring from a spear and pistol-shot wound in his
right breast. When Gordon fell, his boots were
slippery with the blood of the crowd of dervishes he
shot and hacked his way through, in his heroic attempt to cut his way out and place himself at the head
of his troops. Gordon died as only Gordon could
die. Let the world be misinformed and deceived
about Soudan affairs with the tales of so-called guides
and spies, but let it be told the truth of Gordon’s death.</div><div style="text-align: center;"> . . . . . </div><div> Each day at dawn, when he retired to rest, he bolted
his door from the inside, and placed his faithful body-servant—Khaleel Agha Orphali—on guard outside it.
On the fatal night, Gordon had as usual kept his vigil
on the roof of the palace, sending and receiving telegraphic messages from the lines every few minutes,
and as dawn crept into the skies, thinking that the
long-threatened attack was not yet to be delivered, he
lay down wearied out. The little firing heard a few
minutes later attracted no more attention than the
usual firing which had been going on continuously
night and day for months, but when the palace guards
were heard firing it was known that something serious
was happening. By the time Gordon had slipped
into his old serge or dark tweed suit, and taken his
sword and revolver, the advanced dervishes were
already surrounding the palace. Overcoming the
guards, a rush was made up the stairs, and Gordon
was met leaving his room. A small spear was thrown
which wounded him, but very slightly, on the left
shoulder. Almost before the dervishes knew what was
happening, three of them lay dead, and one wounded,
at Gordon's feet—the remainder fled. Quickly re-
loading his revolver, Gordon made for the head of
the stairs, and again drove the reassembling dervishes
off. Darting back to reload, he received a stab in his
left shoulder-blade from a dervish concealed behind the
corridor door, and on reaching the steps the third time,
he received a pistol-shot and spear-wound in his right
breast, and then, great soldier as he was, he rose almost
above himself. With his life’s blood pouring from his
breast—not his back, remember—he <i>fought </i>his way
step by step, kicking from his path the wounded and
dead dervishes—for Orphali too had not been idle—
and as he was passing through the doorway leading
into the courtyard, another concealed dervish almost
severed his right leg with a single blow. Then Gordon
fell. The steps he had fought his way—not been
dragged—down, were encumbered with the bodies of
dead and dying dervishes. No dervish spear pierced
the live and quivering flesh of a prostrate but still
conscious Gordon, for he breathed his last as he turned
to face his last assailant, half raised his sword to strike,
and fell dead with his face to heaven.
</div></blockquote><div></div>Malcolm Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00672612354161787023noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-832815673606447918.post-36461548976193618182021-10-04T10:42:00.000+11:002021-10-04T10:42:56.566+11:00"Seadromes": an Idea Whose Time Never Came In 1844 Edgar Allan Poe produced a hoax about a balloon crossing the Atlantic in three days. Fast forward a century, and we discover that balloons are out of fashion, but commercial transAtlantic flights by aircraft are still in their infancy. The <a href="https://www.forbes.com/sites/tedreed/2013/08/10/first-trans-atlantic-commercial-flight-landed-75-years-ago-sunday/?sh=32f939261b4a" target="_blank">first such flight</a>, by Lufthansa, took place in 1938, and lasted 25 hours. You can immediately see a problem: compared to today, flights were much slower and, unlike balloons, required copious amounts of fuel. Also, there existed other, longer stretches of ocean. The first commercial transPacific flight may have been in <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Transpacific_flight#Commercial_flights" target="_blank">1935</a>, but it involved a series of island hops. Nevertheless, a solution had been suggested for the problem: just as aerodromes were scattered all over the land, it might be possible to scatter the sea with marine aerodromes, or "seadromes" as they were called. Much later, the concept was used to produce floating oil rigs but, basically, it was an idea whose time never came. For your information, nevertheless, I shall introduce you to this forgotten topic by reprinting an essay from the same 1939 British boys' magazine as in my previous article.<span><a name='more'></a></span><div><div style="text-align: center;">....................................................................................................</div><div style="text-align: center;">The Romance of Modern Invention. Seadromes</div><div style="text-align: center;">by W. B. Home-Call</div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><a href="http://www.collectingbooksandmagazines.com/chums.html" target="_blank">Chums</a></i> (1939), pp 306-7</div></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"> Will the great seas of the future be dotted with seadromes, just as aerodromes blaze trails across the land from North to South Africa, across Asia, and through to Australia? Jungles have been cleared to form aerodromes, and like artificial oases they have sprung up in the middle or on the edges of deserts. Thus is a flyer across land guarded, as far as possible, from the danger of being stranded miles from refuelling stations.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> The seadrome is claimed by its sponsors to be the obvious and necessary equivalent on flying routs over vast seas. To many a seadrome is a thing to be laughed at. Unfortunately, our own Government sides with the scoffers. In March, 1937, Commander Locker-Lampson asked if money could be set aside for research work in connection with seadromes. He was told by Sir Victor Warrender, Financial Secretary to the War Office, that seadromes were not considered to be of sufficient use to warrant money spent on them in research.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> As a representative of the War Office, Sir Victor's answer can be understood. A seadrome in mid-Atlantic might not help us very much in the event of a European War. But a member of a more peaceful department should have replied, and it is unlikely he could have dubbed them as being of doubtful utility, especially if he considered the action that has been taken towards seadromes by the United States Government.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> In 1934 the Seadromes Ocean Dock Corporation applied to the U.S. Department of Public Works for a loan of £7,200,000 <i>[<a href="https://www.measuringworth.com/ppoweruk/" target="_blank">worth</a> £522.6 million, or a billion dollars, in 2020]</i> to enable them to build five seadromes to be placed at 500-mile intervals across the Atlantic, to connect America with the British Isles. The U.S. Department of Public Works referred the matter to the U.S. Navy Department, who thoroughly tested models of the proposed seadromes, and were so satisfied with the result of those tests that they advised the immediate loan of £1,600,000 to enable the first seadrome to be built, and placed on the existing New York to Bermuda air route.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> The seadromes tested were made by the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Edward_Robert_Armstrong" target="_blank">Armstrong Seadrome Company</a>, and as already stated, it is considered that five will be a sufficient number to link England with America. Each seadrome would be 1,500 feet long and 300 feet in breadth at its widest point, which would be in the centre of the sea-aerodrome. The seadrome would be roughly bottle-shaped at both ends, the breadth at its ends being about 150 to 200 feet. There would be hotel accommodation beneath a flat, unobstructed flight deck so in the future people wishing for a healthy and quiet holiday will probably spend a few days at a seadrome hotel, surrounded by hundreds of miles of sea in every direction. On the lower decks there would also be radio and meteorological stations, hangars and workshops. A crew of 43 would man a seadrome, and probably work in shifts of one month.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> The marvellous feature about a seadrome is that they can be constructed so as <i>not </i>to rise and fall with the waves. The flight deck is the only part above the normal sea level, the remainder of the huge floating island is not only below sea level, but below the level of both the waves and the trough between the highest waves, i.e. below the agitated surface of the sea.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> The flight deck is supported on thirty-two streamline pillars, which lift it 103 feet above sea level. Their buoyancy and ballast chambers are so designed that the centre of buoyancy and gravity of the whole seadrome structure are below the agitated surface of the ocean. Thus no matter how rough the sea, the seadrome remains floating in suspension beneath the surface motion of the waves and has no tendency to roll or pitch. These pillars, or buoyancy units, are of such shape and spacing in the structure that they offer practically no resistance to the waves, and so do not interfere with their passage.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> No energy is released from the waves, and therefore the fact that the huge Atlantic liners have come to port with their bows or sides battered in by gigantic rollers of mid-Atlantic storms, does not jeopardise the chance of the seadrome to live, unaffected, through one of those storms. The liner floats on the surface of the waves. A seadrome floats beneath the largest of waves, which pass through its pillars like waves pass unbroken through the supports of a pier.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> In testing laboratories films have been taken of model of a seadrome and model of the <i>Majestic</i>, both made correctly to scale. The <i>Majestic</i> is seen wallowing in waves, water splashing over its bridge decks. The seadrome rides steadily, unaffected by the surface disturbances. A seadrome model one-tenth scale and 30 feet in height underwent most strenuous tests in a U.S. Naval Dockyard basin and scarcely moved, whilst a man in a rowing boat near by was almost capsized by the manner in which the water was disturbed.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> A novel type of anchor has been designed to keep the seadromes in position. It is round on the top and flat underneath, and weighs 1,500 tons. Buoyancy chambers permit it to be floated to the correct position; seacocks will then be opened electrically and the buoyancy chamber will be flooded. The rate of descent of the anchor will be checked by means of water-brakes, and the landing shock will amount to only 15 percent. of the anchor's weight. The U.S. Navy Department have tested this anchor and are completely satisfied that it can be lowered and can be relied upon to keep a seadrome in position. When once at the bottom of the ocean, the flat face of the anchor, sinking into the ooze, will substantially make the anchor a part of the ocean bed, and subject to the pressure of the overlying water, thereby in effect increasing its friction and resistance to movement.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> The weight on these anchors may be as great as 750,000 tons at the deepest parts where they have to be dropped, and there will be, therefore, quite immovable by cables. The calculated tension on the cable is expected to be 100,000 lbs., but cables are to be used which will stand a strain of 200,000 lbs. The strain is occasioned, of course, by storms, wind and currents. 200,000 lbs. will allow of storms of 140 miles an hour - twice that of the maximum known speed of a storm in that latitude. In addition, each seadrome is fitted with four screws capable of a thrust of 100,000 lbs. Normally these motors are for manoeuvring the seadromes, but they can be used to relieve the strain on the cable by being put into motion so that they thrust the seadrome "into the storm."</div><div style="text-align: left;"> The seadromes may have to be moored at depths as great as three or four miles. The strongest chains even made would break from their own weight before they were lowered to 1,300 feet. The special cables to be used in the case of seadromes are suspension-bridge type. They can be lowered to a depth of 60,000 feet, which is considerable beyond the depth of the deepest ocean.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> Corrosion has been accounted for, too. The cable used will not corrode. Lloyd's have tested the cable and are so satisfied that they are willing to insure the seadromes at a charge of only 2 per cent. Two 85-year-old ships with underneath plates of iron were examined when material for a suitable cable was being sought, and even after eighty-five years the iron showed no sign of corrosion. Barnacles are not expected to form on the cables of the seadrome. Barnacles, it has been discovered, only form on ships in warm weather. The cold Atlantic water will produce no barnacles.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> The seadrome is moored to a buoy, rather similar in construction to itself, so as to defeat the surface agitation of the sea. The buoy is moored to the artificial rock or anchor. The buoy, therefore, can bob up and down, and yet the pull of the cable from the buoy to the seadrome will remain practically horizontal, and therefore not tug the seadrome.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> The seadrome will have many uses other than being a landing 'drome for aerodromes. Crippled ships, for example, can be docked in floating docks on the seadrome. A remarkable invention enables the sea round the seadrome to be calmed to permit this operation. Compressed air, pressed through perforated pipes sunk horizontally to a small depth below the surface of the waves, is employed. The air rises swiftly through the water and causes excessive turbulence. Oncoming waves meet this wall of turbulence and miraculously subside. Oil merely smooths the surface without dispersing the waves, but the wall caused by compressed air makes waves absolutely vanish. It sounds incredible, but it is a fact. Without the used of this method, a boat, bobbing up and down on waves, can be moored to a seadrome by means of a connecting apparatus known as a "bosun's chair". This allows of expansion and contraction by connecting cable and, of course, does not keep the boat still.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> Seadromes are built in docks like sea vessels. The pillars, or caissons, as bridge builders would call them, are built separately, presumably horizontally. They are set upright in docks, and the seadrome is assembled in sections, and fitments are added just as the engines and interior fittings of liners are added to a ship while it is in dry dock. Each section is floated separately, and as many sections as desired are joined together by cross-girders. Thus a seadrome can be made any size. A seadrome costs no more to build than the iron skeleton of any of London's large buildings, and not nearly as much as New York skyscraper's skeleton.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> The life of a seadrome is estimated at, at least, 20 to 40 years, and probably considerably longer. Statistics by the U.S. Hydrographic Department and Weather Bureau suggest that the 38 parallel of latitude will be the best in which to anchor the seadromes. It is too far south for icebergw; fog averages about two days a year in that latitude, and gales have never been known to exceed seventy miles an hour there, or sea currents to exceed 1½ knots.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> The seadromes are expected quickly to become a paying proposition. Toll is proposed for aeroplanes using the seadromes at the rate of £14 per passenger for the complete set of seadromes, 7d. per lb. for parcels, and 2½d. on each letter. <i>[In 2020 equivalents, these amount to £887, £1.84 and 51p respectively. Double them for approximate dollar values.]</i> The heavy cost per lb.-mile of steamship operation will enable aeroplanes using seadromes, to be much cheaper. Not only does a liner like the <i>Queen Mary</i> or the <i>Normandie</i> cost as much as the whole Transatlantic system of seadromes, together with a fleet of airlines, but the <i>Queen Mary</i> and the <i>Normandie</i> are expected to run at a considerable annual loss. </div><div style="text-align: left;"> A seadrome, built in America, costs £1,600,000. Built in England, it could be constructed for a very much less figure, probably only a little over £1,000,000.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKN6Y4dvROhT3Yx3tnHcQKvOX43G0-FFpFqdls-oueM55K9DBRuBHKfuTq5iBRnmZZMEyQdrrmgHJHIrnoN7KxjbsQWlxLg4wnougd28mrzytbDasMS-SDceP9BP7hhNa9agwJAK13zGsD/s718/IMG_0067.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="718" data-original-width="668" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKN6Y4dvROhT3Yx3tnHcQKvOX43G0-FFpFqdls-oueM55K9DBRuBHKfuTq5iBRnmZZMEyQdrrmgHJHIrnoN7KxjbsQWlxLg4wnougd28mrzytbDasMS-SDceP9BP7hhNa9agwJAK13zGsD/s320/IMG_0067.jpg" width="298" /></a></div> Airships could not stand the competition of aeroplanes. Although an airship carries 50 passengers, it only travels at a speed of eighty miles an hour. Dr. Eckner himself has said he would require five airships to maintain a service of twice a week across the Atlantic. The cost of five airships would be £1,750.000, and even they, doing a bi-weekly trip each way, could only carry 200 passengers a week. A fleet of thirty aeroplanes would cost much less. They could maintain a two-hourly service, could carry over 1,000 passengers a week, and as they travel at 200 m.p.h., could allow those passengers to travel from London to New York in twenty-four hours, as against the airship's three days and the <i>Queen Mary's</i> five days.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> If there were real islands in the middle of the Atlantic, any nations would willingly pay £1,000,000 each for them. The island route via Shetlands, the Faroes and Iceland is not practicable owing to fog and ice. There is also the Azores and Bermuda route, marred by continuous ground swell off the Azores and the mountainous nature of both islands. Furthermore, terrific hurricanes sometimes occur between Bermuda an America.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixu5xf1yTrJpvsmFOQE8HnOiWNUEmWj3UEPNU6jxXCukPGNnDc9s2_GP0g-ZyJI80N_hmDtN0BO467fArSldN66BJFDmReTSIFp1Z8tr1Ne0QkcpXcjl0H0xOs5ll2EmBF1_lQQ5JPRO7C/s674/IMG_0068.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="674" data-original-width="659" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixu5xf1yTrJpvsmFOQE8HnOiWNUEmWj3UEPNU6jxXCukPGNnDc9s2_GP0g-ZyJI80N_hmDtN0BO467fArSldN66BJFDmReTSIFp1Z8tr1Ne0QkcpXcjl0H0xOs5ll2EmBF1_lQQ5JPRO7C/s320/IMG_0068.jpg" width="313" /></a></div> The alternative to seadromes are catapult ships <i>[aircraft carriers]</i>. Catapult ships experience difficulty in lifting a seaplane from the sea in rough weather. But there is another objection against catapult ships which an official of Imperial Airways explained to me. When an aeroplane is catapulted, the back of the pilot's neck has to be very heavily padded to protect him from the terrible jerk forward that is necessary to give the plane the necessary flying speed. How would a cabin-full of passengers be protected against that?</div><div style="text-align: left;"> The position of seadromes in existing international law is as follows:-</div><div style="text-align: left;"> "The construction of seadromes, or floating islands as they are commonly called, may be legitimately be undertaken by any state or any private individual, provided always that the latter is under the authority of a state. There is nothing against the construction of seadromes by a state which does not possess a maritime frontier. The construction of these seadromes, and the conditions of access and operation, should be such as not to interfere with navigation, either maritime or air. All conditions relating to the special legal position of these seadromes, both in time of peace and in time of war, shall be those applying to ships, with the exception of any special regulations fixed by international agreement."</div><div style="text-align: left;"> In conclusion, it should be remarked that these floating islands should not be called seadromes. A car park is a park for a car whether it is in an inland town or at the seaside or even on a boat for that matter. A landing ground for aeroplanes is an aerodrome - whether on land or floating on sea. Seadrome, translated literally, means a "drome" for the sea! A sort of playing-ground for waves! It is probably too late to change the name now - look at seaplanes! The name sounds like a motorboat. A seaplane is an aeroplane. It spends as much time in the air as an ordinary aeroplane. If anybody started talking of land-planes, we should imagine a machine that whizzed along a few feet above the ground. We'd never think of looking in the air for it!</div>Malcolm Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00672612354161787023noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-832815673606447918.post-90410971256097258552021-09-05T13:36:00.000+10:002021-09-05T13:36:28.096+10:00The Remarkable Birth of Television At one point in <i>The Living Shadow</i>, the first novel in The Shadow series, the mysterious crime fighter communicates with his agents via television. The year was 1931, and television was ultra-high-tech - so high, in fact, that the author does not appear to have introduced it again. By the end of the 1930s a few countries had a few television stations in a few cities for a few customers, but introducing the technology involved a vast network of channels, performers, and customers, that it is no wonder that it did not take off until after the war. Television has been part of our lives for so long, that hardly anyone knows the remarkable series of events which led to its development. Fear not, I happened to discover an article on the subject in - believe it or not! - a British boys' magazine of 1939, which I am pleased to share with you. You may also care to note the predictions made by the author, and see how they turned out.<span><a name='more'></a></span><div style="text-align: center;">....................................................................................................</div><div style="text-align: center;">The Romance of Modern Invention. Television</div><div style="text-align: center;">by W. B. Home-Call</div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><a href="http://www.collectingbooksandmagazines.com/chums.html" target="_blank">Chums</a></i> (1939), pp 254-5</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"> The days of the wireless set that can only receive sound are numbered. It may not be this year, it may not be next, but sooner or later <i>all</i> wireless receivers will receive television, and sightless broadcasting will be as dead as silent pictures.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> It is to the pertinacious experiments of John Logie Baird, the son of the Scottish manse at Helensburgh, that the present development of television is largely due. He discovered television. His first practical success was being when he actually televised the head of an office boy over a short distance towards the end of 1925.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> Mr. Baird has presented his first television apparatus to the Science Museum, South Kensington, London. You can see it there during any of the usual hours when the Museum is open. It is made from old bicycle parts, cocoa tins, bulls-eye lenses, sealing wax, and string, and it only cost Mr. Baird 7s. 6d. to make. <i>[This is <a href="https://www.measuringworth.com/calculators/ukcompare/relativevalue.php?use%5B%5D=CPI&use%5B%5D=WAGE&year_early=1925&pound71=&shilling71=7&pence71=6&amount=0.375&year_source=1925&year_result=2020" target="_blank">£21.87</a> in 2020 values, and three times as much in labour value.]</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"> Mr. Baird's system of television was first actually broadcast in 1926 through the old 2LO broadcasting station from Motograph House in London. Motograph House was at that time the headquarters of the Baird Television Company. The television broadcasts of 1926 were, of course, purely experimental and were very soon discontinued, but the Baird Television Company applied for, and obtained, a licence to transmit television independently, erecting their own wireless station and sending out from their own studio.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> These studio transmissions had to be stopped because it was impossible to find a wave-length for them on the medium wave-band which did not cause interference with other services. On September 30th, 1929, however, the Baird Television Company recommenced broadcasting through 2LO once more from their studios in Long Acre, and a little later the whole of the Baird apparatus was transferred to the B.B.C.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> A Television Committee was set up by the Government in 1934 to advise the Postmaster-General on the relative merits of the several systems of television that were at that time being improved, for Baird had other inventors close on his heels. The Committee was also asked to recommend the conditions under which any public service should be provided. It met for the first time on May 29th, 1934. It invited the co-operation of societies, firms and individuals interested in television, and each television company had an opportunity to demonstrate the capabilities and possibilities of its own system. Every member of the committee was sworn to secrecy about everything he was shown and told, and it seemed a long time before they were ready to report on their discoveries.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> In the meantime the first television theatres appeared in England.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> Northern holiday crowds at Blackpool and Morecambe in July, 1934, were the first to test the pleasures of real television theatres in which reproductions of events happening up to 20 miles away were projected on the screen. A slight last-minute hitch prevented Morecambe's Television Theatre opening on the day planned, so for a short while the Blackpool venture, located inconspicuously near the Central Pier, stood unchallenged as the only place in Britain where the public could enter a darkened room and see a televised moving picture on the screen.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> The inventor of the apparatus used at Morecambe was Mr. F. Cockcroft Taylor.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> Actors and actresses who were willing to permit themselves to be televised in 1934, had, in the studio, to make-up like cannibals in full war paint. First they had to paint their faces dead white, then thick blue lines were put down the sides of their noses to bring that part of the face out properly. Their eyelids had to be painted mauve, their lips blue, and their eyebrows were made enormously big and heavy, like George Robey's. The rest of their faces were left dead white. </div><div style="text-align: left;"> The actual recording was a further ordeal. The artiste had to stand in front of an instrument resembling a camera, which threw a dead-white flickering light on the artiste's face the whole time. One flinch could spoil the effectiveness of a broadcast. For close-ups the performer was surrounded by wooden shutters and had to be taught how he might or might not use his arms. The actor or actress had to wear clothes of a certain colour - black and white, grey or blue - and lastly they had to make facial expressions at a metal instrument as intimately as if it were a first-night audience.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> Television has always meant hard work for those responsible for its transmission. In the half-dark of a television studio during a transmission some of the most feverish scene-shifting in London took place in the early part of 1935. There was little room to move, and speed was the whole essence of a successful transmission. For instance whilst the caption machine was working, a staircase, furniture and back-scene had to be rushed within the narrow beam of the television eye. Afterwards, as quickly, they had to be hurried away.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> Nowadays television artistes have to make-up just as if they were acting for the films or the stage - no more and no less. Nor, of course, do they have to stand still in front of fixed camera. The camera can follow them. Lights flash up in the corner of a modern television studio - a small room still, compared to some of the concert studios still reserved for sound broadcasting only. High overhead, near the ceiling, indicators flicker into life: "Sound on, Vision on." All chatter drifts to another corner of the studio. The microphones, which are slung on booms, as in film productions, are directionally sensitive, so that people can talk six yards away from them without creating ground noise or interfering with the talk that will be broadcasted.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> At the time of writing the newest wonder of Television is the Emitron. It is not a camera in the true meaning of the world, but it picks up and transmits an image direct to the receiving screen. The Emitron can be moved about a studio with ease. It demonstrates that camera technique will come to be as important a branch of television as any other. Travelling "shots" of artistes and announcer, fade-outs from one scene to another and a panoramic "signature picture" - a view of London from the Alexandra Palace - are among the features in can perform.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> The discovery of the 200-way cable allowed television "off the leash". The first outdoor scenes were either all enacted for the television screen in or near the grounds of Alexandra Palace or cinematograph films of an outdoor incident were taken, and then the films were re-photographed by the television camera in the studio. This was because the television camera had always to be connected with the control room at Alexandra Palace. A heavy cable, a thousand feet in length, and containing 22 conductors through its length, was the "leash". The television camera could go as far away as that cable would stretch, but no farther; and instead of the television camera going to interesting events, as the cinema-newsreel camera does, the interesting events had to be brought to the camera. Sheep-dog trials, riding lessons, new cars and old crocks, demonstrations of ever sport from golf to archery; all these provided excellent subjects for television, but always within the confines of Alexandra Palace.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> With the advent of King George VI's Coronation, an innovation in television outside broadcasts came into being. Emitron cameras, and a van containing control apparatus similar to that at Alexandra Palace, were installed at Hyde Park Corner, and the pictures were conveyed to the television headquarters by the new cable which had been laid to link Hyde Park Corner, Broadcasting House and Alexandra Palace. This cable connects with an underground cable system which has been laid under many miles of London streets, linking most of the important points in Central London with wireless and television headquarters.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> One of the problems of television outside broadcasts is that of concealing the microphones from the view of the camera. No longer do objects to be televised have to be brought directly in front of the television camera, just the opposite. The emitron has an entire circular panorama as its field of vision, so that it is frequently a problem where to put the microphone, which should hang a few feet above the heads of the speaker and yet should not appear in the picture. If there is any wind, the difficulty is increased, as the microphone has to be protected by a hood, which tends to make it more prominent.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> Television has been "viewed" in an aeroplane 4,000 ft. up, flying at 170 miles an hour. The first television fitted to an aeroplane was a Baird "Televisor," which weighted 420 lbs. and was fitted to a Royal Dutch air liner. As the machine circled over Croydon and headed for the Olympia building, where a radio exhibition was being held, the passengers in the air liner watched a news film showing the sea liner, <i>Queen Mary</i>, starting off on her maiden voyage. The news-film was being televised from the Alexandra Palace transmitter. The pictures were clear and the sound became louder and more distinct as the plane climbed. At two thousand feet reception was perfect.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> Many Croydon pilots believe that the day is not far off when television will assist them in bad weather. "It will soon be possible," a pilot has declared, "to televise from the ground a film of the aerodrome hidden from view by fog."</div><div style="text-align: left;"> Television pictures have been converted into mechanical vibrations which have been recorded on a gramophone record. When these are played back to a television set, by means of a pick-up, the set reconverts the mechanical vibrations into electrical vibrations - and then into television pictures. The inventor, Mr. F. Plew, has thus enabled viewers to be as independent of broadcasting station as any listener has been who has an ordinary gramophone record on his radiogram. Television by gramophone record is known as "gramovision" or "recorded television."</div><div style="text-align: left;"> As long ago as the day when the B.B.C. televised silent pictures over a medium wave-length, an attempt was made to obtain a permanent record of a televised picture, so that it could be broadcast again and again without having to be re-photographed. The television signals were recorded on a film by the variable density method familiar in "talkie" films technique. In the demonstration given, however, the reproduced images of those days were of poor definition, having lost in the re-take.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> Although in 1934 Germany claimed to have opened the first public television service in the world, experts from every land have always admitted that our television organisation is further advanced than any other country's in the world.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> The opening of combined television and telephone services between the greater German cities, it was announced by the German Ministry of Post as long ago as August, 1934, was being seriously considered by them. The first service was proposed to be between Berlin and Munich. The call-boxes were to contain an ordinary telephone instrument and a television transmission and reception apparatus. These call-boxes were installed in the central telegraph offices in both cities, and while a conversation was proceeding each speaker was able to see on the television screen before him the image of the other. It was admitted when the scheme was first mooted that it would be so expensive that the service would be mostly of experimental value. In December of the same year it was announced that the scheme had been temporarily suspended, as far too costly for general use.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> Such call-boxes have not been installed in England yet, but as long ago as February, 1935, an audience in one part of London watched a screen on which they saw Miss Alma Taylor - a pioneer in silent films and now a pioneer in television - trying on hats, in the studio in the south tower of the ill-fated Crystal Palace. Mr. Baird then suggested that the audience in Westminster might like to speak to Miss Taylor at the Crystal Palace. She was called up on the telephone and complimented on the charming appearance of the hats; and she was seen to take up the telephone receiver, and her response was plainly heard in the hall in Westminster. She was seen just as clearly as she was heard.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> It will not be long before television subscribers will be able to do their shopping in their own homes, the salesman at one end showing in close-ups on the television screen the article the customer miles away wishes to examine before purchasing.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> The cinema industry, being world-wide, can spend from £30,000 to £80,000 on each feature picture. It is obvious that that British Broadcasting Corporation cannot provide a daily feature for home consumption costing that amount, and experience shows that, with an occasional exception, the cheaper pictures are usually much less attractive. The B.B.C.s portion of the present ten shillings a year <i>[equivalent to £29 today]</i> licence fee is too small to allow for programme expenditure running into tens of thousands of pounds. Television theatres might be opened, owned by the B.B.C., admission profits thus going to the B.B.C., but even then the televised pictures would have to reach audiences all over the world to be able to compete with the films.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> Television is more likely to be called in by film firms to aid them. In June, 1935, films which had been taken at the Crystal Palace by the intermediate progress of television, were projected on to the screen of a cinema in Cardiff. Instead of making several copies of a film, film firms may arrange for a copy of the film to be televised to certain cinemas equipped to give screen television. Provincial cinemas ma have their own distributing stations where films will be televised to local areas only.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> Newsreel theatres are likely to be harder hit by television than story-theatres. The finish of the Derby was transmitted on the Metropole Cinema in London in 1933. Three telephone lines then had to be used. But the transmission of the Coronation has shown that events can be televised so that owners of television sets can watch events in their homes simultaneously with people on the spot of the occurrence.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> News-reel theatres, at the earliest, can only show films a few hours after the occurrence of an event, so television definitely has a chance to be first with the news, and television theatres, serving news instantaneously - quicker than films or newspapers can ever hope to serve it - may be the news-bearers of the future.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div>Malcolm Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00672612354161787023noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-832815673606447918.post-71845680559045192332021-04-24T11:37:00.003+10:002021-09-11T15:16:05.351+10:00The Fabulous Londonderry Gold Bubble It is a little known fact that Scrooge McDuck arrived at the Kalgoorlie gold fields in the <a href="https://web.archive.org/web/20070929092533/http://personal.sdf.bellsouth.net/d/a/danshane/scroopage/los291_1.htm" target="_blank">pouch of a kangaroo.</a> It just goes to show that, although separated by half and century and half the world, the story of the great Western Australian gold rush of the 1890s had come to the attention of a well read cartoonist. Kalgoorie is still a major town, with a gigantic open cut mine, because it is no longer feasible for gold to be extracted except on a massive industrial scale. The site of the first discovery, Coolgardie is now a village living on tourism and its history. But 14 km from Coolgardie stands the ghost town of Londonderry. This was the site which, in 1894, brought wealth beyond the dreams of avarice to the original discoverers, and a huge financial "bubble" which brought disappointment and ruin to innumerable others in its wake.<span><a name='more'></a></span><div> The story can be told briefly. When the mining in Coolgardie was in the doldrums in early 1894, a group of six decided to try their luck a bit further out from town. One of them, John Mills happened to sit down for a rest and a smoke a short distance from the others, and casually took a look at one of the stones nearby. To his amazement, it was a lump of quartz literally held together by gold. A quick examination revealed that the whole blessed area was like that; gold was just lying around, waiting to be picked up. Then began a rush to dig up as much as possible and to extract the precious metal in an open furnace before everybody found out about it. So hard and boring did the work become that Mills later admitted that the sight of gold had become positively hateful to him. But in just a few weeks they had produced 8,000 oz of gold.</div><div> No, that is not a typographical error; it really was 8,000 ounces/500 pounds/227 kilograms. You've heard of somebody being "worth his weight in gold", but this would have approximated half their combined weights. And at the going price of gold, it was worth £32,000. Alas! For the whole of the twentieth century we have got used to rampant inflation, so we have lost the significance of any sum cited from decades or centuries ago. To rectify the situation, we need the <a href="https://www.measuringworth.com/calculators/australiacompare/ " target="_blank">Measuring Worth Calculator</a>. At the same time, you must understand that Australia decimalised its currency in 1966, when every pound became equal to two Australian dollars. With this in mind, the purchasing power of a pound in 1894 was the same as $135.86 in 2019. Thus, in 125 years, inflation has run at 6,793 per cent! But there's more! The standard of living was much lower then. We've also got used to our standard of living simply increasing all the time, without our doing anything to affect it. The labour value of the 1894 pound in 2019 was more than seven times the inflation value: a whole $975. What that means is that, if you had to work a whole week to earn £1 in 1894, which was probably the case, the same week's labour in 2019 would have earned you $975. In a century and a quarter, real wages have outpaced inflation by a factor of seven, and all of us, prince and pensioner, are seven times as rich as we would otherwise have been. Isn't <a href="https://malcolmsmiscellany.blogspot.com/2020/08/the-case-for-capitalism.html" target="_blank">modern capitalism</a> marvelous!</div><div> At this point, they decided they ought to apply for a lease on what they now called the Londonderry Mine. But the last thing they wanted was for anyone to discover how rich it was, so the two who went to lodge the claim told a tale of hard luck, and how they wanted to lease 24 acres [9.7 hectares] which they hoped would yield half an ounce of gold to the ton. However, prospectors, no matter how hard up, seldom parade their poverty, so the mining agent smelt a rat, and decided to check for himself. Before they knew it, the news was out, and the zone was swarming with prospectors like ants to sugar. Then the speculative syndicates took an interest. Up till then, few would raise more than £50,000, but Lord Fingall bought out the original six for £100,000. Added to the gold already mined, that wasn't a bad sum to take home to their families! I shall let you do your sums to what this represents in the current economic climate. The Golden Hole was sealed off with a strong plate, until Lord Fingall had floated a company which eventually raised £750,000.</div><div> And what did the company, and all the assorted little prospectors get for their money and effort? Next to nothing! I have no reason to believe that the original six had acted in anything but good faith, but it turned out that, by a quirk of geology, the golden lode had been extremely narrow in extent, and had already been largely cleaned out by the time the property was sold.</div><div> You hear similar stories all over the gold fields, and the gem fields. If your name isn't on the treasure, you're not going to get it.</div><div><br /></div><div><b>Reference:</b> John Marshall (Dec. 1899), 'John Mills and his "Golden Hole", <i>The Wide World Magazine</i> <a href="https://archive.org/details/wideworldmagazin04londuoft/mode/2up" target="_blank">vol. 4</a>, pp 213-217. The author had been the Honorary Secretary of the West Australian Gold-Diggers' Association.</div>Malcolm Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00672612354161787023noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-832815673606447918.post-37543024360098411522020-11-25T09:41:00.000+11:002020-11-25T09:41:03.950+11:00A Leopard by the Tail Yes, it is possible to kill a leopard in single combat, but it is not something recommended. Five years ago I reported <a href="https://malcolmsquirks.blogspot.com/2015/04/single-combat-man-vs-leopard.html" target="_blank">two cases</a>: taxidermist and animal collector, Carl Akeley, who straggled one, and the one-handed giant, Jean-Pierre Hallet, who slew one Tarzan-style, but leaping on its back and stabbing it. So this time, I shall tell the story of Captain Edward Wood, formerly a forestry official in British India, who gave a whole new meaning to the expression "swing a cat".<span><a name='more'></a></span><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLd4eJCD-9DBEbrqyMA6cT3mjhDvE16yF1Hyt3F5EeF4C-5GREGD4ifBDz_RH7j8IXhcbmLYfZ7XMVKhnAn7sDR9xYZT5z8Bap5Vfk_tSTYUxEZo2EHRzB1r_Cc8aOaTVN8GyRQnsDdKhU/s2048/IMG_0066.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1450" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLd4eJCD-9DBEbrqyMA6cT3mjhDvE16yF1Hyt3F5EeF4C-5GREGD4ifBDz_RH7j8IXhcbmLYfZ7XMVKhnAn7sDR9xYZT5z8Bap5Vfk_tSTYUxEZo2EHRzB1r_Cc8aOaTVN8GyRQnsDdKhU/s320/IMG_0066.jpg" /></a></div> Here is a later photo of him, which, regrettably does not copy well. The event took place at Etawah, in what is now Uttar Pradesh, but was then known as Oudh (Awadh). Since the first train ran from Etawah Station in 1865-6, I presume the events took place just before that, because Wood stated that he had been posted to Etawah just before the railway was completed.</div><div> The very day he arrived, before he had even arrived at his quarters, he met a surveyor called Patrick Cogan, who immediately gave him a note to take to Mrs Cogan. The result was that he was busy dining at the Cogan residence when his host rode up with a proposition. A group of villagers had requested assistance in getting rid of a wild animal which had taken possession of their field. Was he (Wood) in the mood for a bit of sport? The upshot was that he accompanied Cogan, armed with "a tolerable blunderbuss" which the latter had provided, the right barrel loaded with shot and the left with a ball.</div><div> Before long, he was in the midst of fields of wheat four feet high, with a line of locals forming a "beat". Cogan ended up 100 yards away chasing a herd of wild pigs. Suddenly, a fully grown leopard broke cover in front of Wood, who fired the shot and hit it. At that, the leopard turned and attacked him. He fired the ball and missed, only to be bowled over by the leopard, whose charge took it several feet away. Scrabbling to his feet, Wood faced the second charge of the cat.</div><div> Needless to say, he could no more remember the full details of the struggle than a participant in a barroom brawl can remember every punch. At one point he was grasping the animal's throat with one hand while raining blows on its head and neck. The next instant, they were wrestling on the ground, where his hand came into contact with the barrels of the gun he had dropped, and he commenced bashing his opponent with it.</div><div> Just then, Cogan's gun-bearer managed to place the muzzle of his rifle against the leopard's body, but the weapon refused to fire, because it had been left half-cocked. At that point, the leopard turned on the gun-bearer.</div><div> That few seconds' respite was all Wood needed. He saw the leopard standing over its conquered foe, its hindquarters towards him. Its "splendid yellow tail", swaying before his eyes, fascinated and drew him. Before he knew it, he seized it by the root, heaved the animal off the ground, and swung it around. Fortuitously, its head smashed into the jagged stump of a sal tree. He heard the crack as its neck broke. Then he fainted.</div><div> If all this sounds far-fetched, you must understand that a leopard is approximately the same weight as a human being. Also, we all come equipped with an emergency resource: a hormone known as adrenaline. When it is pumping through your system, you are capable of feats of strength beyond anything imaginable under normal circumstances. There is a tale of a woman who lifted an automobile off her child under such circumstances. An American veteran told me of seeing a man under fire holding his unconscious buddy by the belt with one hand while running at top speed. Afterwards, he said, he would have been "a limp rag". I have <a href="https://malcolmsquirks.blogspot.com/2015/05/out-of-jaws-of-lion.html" target="_blank">previously reported</a> how a fourteen year old boy threw a lion - admittedly, a very small one - against a tree after he had pried open its jaws.</div><div> The gun-bearer recovered fairly quickly from his wounds, but it was another six months before Wood was back in action. The claws of a bit cat are toxic. For several weeks he was ill with "fever, delirium [and] blood-poisoning." The surgeons considered amputating his arm, but were afraid he might die under the knife. As it was, he came out of it with just heavy scarring on his chest and arm, and partial loss of use of two fingers.</div><div><b>Reference:</b> Captain Cecil Dyce, 'A splendid feat;, <i>The Wide World Magazine</i> 3:392-4 (August 1899), accessible <a href="https://archive.org/details/wideworldmagazin03londuoft" target="_blank">here</a>. Dyce was a friend of his, who took down his own words, and viewed his scars.</div><div>A garbled, second hand account of this, apparently taken from Cogan, was published on pp 126-7 of James Inglis' 1878 book, <i>Sport and Work on the Nepaul Frontier</i>, accessible <a href="https://archive.org/details/sportworkonnepau00jasi/mode/2up" target="_blank">here</a>.</div><div><br /></div><div> And while we are on the subject of big cats, here is a second hand story which is too good to pass up. In 1898, a Colonel G. H. Trevor wrote about being in an officers' mess when the topic got around to tigers. He writes as if he were recording the conversation as it developed, which I find unlikely, so judge for yourself. Of the following account, "its truth has been confirmed from many sources." A certain S. B. was the manager of a tea plantation in Assam, India, which was plagued by a man-eating tiger. The upshot was that he and a number of other planters decided to wait up all night on the unlit verandah, disguised in native blankets. One of them went indoors for some reason, when he heard S. B. calling out: "Help! For God's sake! The tiger's got me!"</div><div> Fixing the bayonet to his rifle, his friend rushed out, and in the gloom saw the tiger dragging S. B., who was walking beside it with his hand in its mouth. At once, he rammed the bayonet into the tiger's body, then pulled the trigger.</div><div></div><blockquote><div> It then transpired that the tiger had stolen in upon the watchers like a shadow, without the slightest warning, and had seized the nearest one, who happened to be B., by the hand, which he had raised to defend himself, and had commenced to drag him off. In his agony, he rose to his feet, and after descending the steps of the bungalow, was actually <i>walking </i>off with his hand in the tiger's mouth, to be devoured, when his friend, by his courage and presence of mind, rescued him from an awful death. The other watchers, utterly panic-stricken, had made for the nearest door ...</div></blockquote><b>Reference:</b> Col. G. H. Trevor, 'Some curiosities of tiger hunting', <i>The Wide World Magazine</i>, 1:563 - 571, at 571 (Oct 1898), accessible <a href="https://archive.org/details/wideworldmagazin01lond" target="_blank">here</a>. <div> Interestingly, my <a href="https://riverinagirl.blogspot.com.au" target="_blank">mother</a> (born 1909) several times mentioned reading about a person who had been led away by the hand by a man-eater. I suspect it came from a much later edition of the magazine. Some of these stories were recycled.</div>Malcolm Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00672612354161787023noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-832815673606447918.post-38848238680771786422020-10-01T07:26:00.001+10:002020-10-01T07:26:59.100+10:00Of Cricket Balls and Sparrows Considering the Brits' penchant for tradition and eccentricities, I'm not surprised that the stuffed cricket is still in the M.C.C. Museum at Lord's. For those who are unaware, Lord's Cricket Ground in St John's Wood, London is considered the home of cricket, although it is owned by the Marylebone Cricket Club or M.C.C. Which brings us to the events of 3 July 1936.<div><span></span> It was a game between the M.C.C. and Cambridge University, with Jahangir Khan, a pre-independence Indian bowling for the University, and Tom Pearce batting for the M.C.C. Pearce hit the ball hard. It sailed through the air - and killed a sparrow in full flight. Apparently both the sparrow and the ball are now in the M.C.C. Museum.<div> Something similar happened at Kennington Oval, the home of the Surrey Cricket Club. I presume this was before 1934, when Jack Hobbs retired as batsman. He was considered one of the greatest batsmen of all time but, unfortunately, on this occasion none of the other members of the team were up to scratch. Surrey needed three runs to win when Hobbs sent the ball on a long flight towards the boundary. Just then, a sparrow got in the way. It was killed, of course, but the ball was slowed down, and Hobbs was able to make only two runs. A game lost because of a luckless sparrow!</div><div><br /></div><div><b>Reference:</b> 'The funny side of cricket' by Jack Graydon, <i>Chums Annual 1939</i>, pp 138-9</div></div>Malcolm Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00672612354161787023noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-832815673606447918.post-37325288974739036922020-09-10T08:07:00.001+10:002020-11-29T17:04:39.010+11:00Women of Tunisia, 1913 Far be it from me to claim an intricate knowledge of the fine points of Islamic law. However, I understand that men are required to cover themselves from at least the navel to the knee, and women all except their hands and face. For women, I gather that the head scarf is obligatory, but the face veil optional, its use dependent on custom. In rural areas, where women need to work extensively outside the home, it is rarer than in the cities. You will find many websites contrasting the bare heads of educated Muslim women in the 1960s and '70s with their scarf-covered sisters of today. But what was it like a hundred or so years ago? Well, the whole of the January 1914 issue of the <i>National Geographic</i> was given over to an account of North Africa, especially Tunisia, by a Frank Edward Johnson, and although women were only part of the story, they did appear in many of the photographs. As far as I can tell, the photographers were male. In other words, it is not as if some female photographer gained access to naïve inhabitants of the harem.<span> <span><a name='more'></a></span></span><div><span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiF32mdsQS23ZlDkd0fW7UPD2PksT-FrIJHtwKn-2IqLuacLuf3UOSF-rFtjomiPeL29liuPhNZ8juDehgwuMJKoajsFgEJmJwVugTcx8T8IWN4Uev13UA7Xqx9fPE5zdsNUx_L_QxYiL6J/s941/Page+68.png" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="941" data-original-width="673" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiF32mdsQS23ZlDkd0fW7UPD2PksT-FrIJHtwKn-2IqLuacLuf3UOSF-rFtjomiPeL29liuPhNZ8juDehgwuMJKoajsFgEJmJwVugTcx8T8IWN4Uev13UA7Xqx9fPE5zdsNUx_L_QxYiL6J/s320/Page+68.png" /></a></div> Here we have a Jewish woman from Tunis. According to the author, in this community fat is considered beautiful, but that the traditional costume was, in 1913, gradually being replaced by Paris fashions. What a pity! It was described as consisting of a satin breeches, accompanied by a pink silk jacket embroidered with silk and gold thread and, of course, the strange peaked cap. It is too bad this costume disappeared before colour photography arrived. In contrast, the Jewish men dressed much like their Muslim compatriots.</span></div><div><span><br /></span></div><div><span><br /></span></div><div><span><br /></span></div><div><span><br /></span></div><div><span><br /></span></div><div><span><br /></span></div><div><span><br /></span></div><div><span><br /></span></div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDWucWLAGf0i8p8Mo7mHWtlNKoTldHT-yZliK7oHTU-OcCIS8C5Bd2ugBebUi6XYWWDQC-cV6XwyQmPXTbkoa9gDBsOuxXUXl4mROLa8zZD_XCq83jdBEcR6Wpk1Qb4A949IULoS9Ws8kC/s477/Page+20.png" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="477" data-original-width="334" height="500" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDWucWLAGf0i8p8Mo7mHWtlNKoTldHT-yZliK7oHTU-OcCIS8C5Bd2ugBebUi6XYWWDQC-cV6XwyQmPXTbkoa9gDBsOuxXUXl4mROLa8zZD_XCq83jdBEcR6Wpk1Qb4A949IULoS9Ws8kC/w350-h500/Page+20.png" width="350" /></a></div><br /> This woman belongs to the <a href=" https://maggiemcneill.wordpress.com/2011/09/11/the-ouled-nail/" target="_blank">Ouled Nail</a>, a tribe of professional dancers, who move into the towns to ply their trade and gain enough wealth to marry and settle down in their village. The author states that they were looked down upon because they went unveiled, and because they danced for a living. He failed to mention that they were also prostitutes.</div><div> You might think this specimen is a bit over dressed for her occupation but, although she displays more jewels than some of her other tribeswomen, they are typical. Her necklaces are of gold coins, her amulets of gold and silver, along with a golden crown set with turquoises and coral.</div><div> The rest of the photographs in this article are of respectable women.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6f2axWr7D4DrqCK74ofjYD7dfexBTgNMUjXVs6k_VZGebUdGfVnIqMmjsfJ4LXAE1sV5zxr0Y5IEblTIyExO9NP_8nzrMrtlImxdQoiqpA0uFaLXI07QFHvPe1aPJpiN64YdJ773-cJI5/s908/Page+54.png" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="908" data-original-width="667" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6f2axWr7D4DrqCK74ofjYD7dfexBTgNMUjXVs6k_VZGebUdGfVnIqMmjsfJ4LXAE1sV5zxr0Y5IEblTIyExO9NP_8nzrMrtlImxdQoiqpA0uFaLXI07QFHvPe1aPJpiN64YdJ773-cJI5/s320/Page+54.png" /></a></div> We now turn to Algiers. Here are women strolling to the cemetery on Friday, the Islamic day of prayer. On such occasions, men were excluded, and the women removed their veils and gathered for picnics.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnsRjSu8vDB_QGYCyhyJyrhj17mx40Co14_F2GlJxrw9kmL8H4v71x9N5Ds8vlawjilMnl3zhSFuRhD58GnfD6XwxiEh7lzQRdu-qLaQf6GiT0LjxlgL3R8qaT8RZm4hnyVe5qXGoK6rSK/s1001/Page+14.png" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1001" data-original-width="719" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnsRjSu8vDB_QGYCyhyJyrhj17mx40Co14_F2GlJxrw9kmL8H4v71x9N5Ds8vlawjilMnl3zhSFuRhD58GnfD6XwxiEh7lzQRdu-qLaQf6GiT0LjxlgL3R8qaT8RZm4hnyVe5qXGoK6rSK/w288-h400/Page+14.png" width="288" /></a></div> Veils were clearly optional outside of the cities. The lady on the right, called Malbrucka, was the daughter of the author's host, a <i>cadhi</i>, or Muslim judge. The author commented that normally only women with no social standing to lose would be allow themselves to be photographed, but these two young ladies were prepared to pose because they were completely confident of their high rank.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCq5fPmBlMng7cTEKlphStXnK2SewvZDHs-hx8p5cJtkB-dI6UvlfFBLT8z01lSdV6D35XcSeNthqdB2yNNvJuUgLlnT83BoEG66bNvZMYXIOXi-TmITJIsmjtx40OFaBczDb9uZHGc5gd/s484/Page+11.png" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="484" data-original-width="164" height="500" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCq5fPmBlMng7cTEKlphStXnK2SewvZDHs-hx8p5cJtkB-dI6UvlfFBLT8z01lSdV6D35XcSeNthqdB2yNNvJuUgLlnT83BoEG66bNvZMYXIOXi-TmITJIsmjtx40OFaBczDb9uZHGc5gd/w169-h500/Page+11.png" width="169" /></a></div> This is the sort of photograph for which the <i>National Geographic </i>was famous.</div><div> </div><div> "Will he come?" says the caption, and then adds: "One of these great attractions of these daughters of the desert is the exquisite grace of their carriage and the unconsciously beautiful poses they adopt when at rest."</div><div><br /></div><div> You will note that it not just the veil which was optional in this part of the world, and the costume was not exactly what most of us would expect in the Muslim world.</div><div> And have a glance at the size of those feet!</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicb8VoEGRqucevaEd7wuHXD6OrHnn3yY-T4Nkcl1pnZoDgAPr0R5H9PH6VzpuJk4BeLBAQEeh2wHKO7stdwE2BezSSKWBfA7ke9id_UHlRbwP6ljI5HRu13-5LEfxbVcWUguruccXoqT2X/s520/Page+15.png" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="520" data-original-width="362" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicb8VoEGRqucevaEd7wuHXD6OrHnn3yY-T4Nkcl1pnZoDgAPr0R5H9PH6VzpuJk4BeLBAQEeh2wHKO7stdwE2BezSSKWBfA7ke9id_UHlRbwP6ljI5HRu13-5LEfxbVcWUguruccXoqT2X/w279-h400/Page+15.png" width="279" /></a></div><br /> "An Arab matron of mixed blood"</div><div><br /></div><div> The way her eyebrows are made up to meet in the middle is an indication that she is married.</div><div> You may draw your own conclusions.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmyYQZs2kZNcE4Jb2nE6SjzPWWapz7r2pwZ_3R3MKljATmpN7tCEOZa-n2Oq-5jFn07obLS_x62KNOF_18dkdAf0C0-CePT9JU6QHiWPoUT-Ghye_8Y8kZCtXkFJIdnz1jcTYHS4n3pHzr/s908/NG+Jan+1914+%2528p+41%2529.png" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="908" data-original-width="647" height="500" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmyYQZs2kZNcE4Jb2nE6SjzPWWapz7r2pwZ_3R3MKljATmpN7tCEOZa-n2Oq-5jFn07obLS_x62KNOF_18dkdAf0C0-CePT9JU6QHiWPoUT-Ghye_8Y8kZCtXkFJIdnz1jcTYHS4n3pHzr/w356-h500/NG+Jan+1914+%2528p+41%2529.png" width="356" /></a></div><br /> This "daughter of the desert" is probably a Berber. The tattoos on her chin and cheeks are tribal markings. </div><div> The caption says: "The women of the Nomad tribes who wander in the south of Tunisia are singularly beautiful."</div><div> I am not disposed to dispute it.</div><div><br /></div><div><span><br /></span></div><div><span><br /></span></div><div><span><br /></span></div><div><span><br /></span></div><div><span><br /></span></div><div><span><br /></span></div><div><span><br /></span></div><div><span><br /></span></div><div><span><br /></span></div><div><span><br /></span></div><div><span><br /></span></div><div><span><br /></span></div><div><span><br /></span></div><div><span><br /></span></div><div><span><br /></span></div><div><span><br /></span></div><div><span><br /></span></div><div><span><br /></span></div><div><span><br /></span></div><div><span><br /></span></div><div><span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhX2e5B2oHgOchyt-M7SYjIfymNNBNcZiILBSg3CL1-dn1hXke0pl7gRi0vK6SfZc2_Vqt4nNHMZOl_WUWvlEXAEY1cToU__8sfX5XiQmrUwEfKQ-FPHTlVI-IoqmAnCNYr7lOwE2hxy0XS/s534/Morocco%252C+Feb+55%252C+p+160.png" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="534" data-original-width="284" height="500" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhX2e5B2oHgOchyt-M7SYjIfymNNBNcZiILBSg3CL1-dn1hXke0pl7gRi0vK6SfZc2_Vqt4nNHMZOl_WUWvlEXAEY1cToU__8sfX5XiQmrUwEfKQ-FPHTlVI-IoqmAnCNYr7lOwE2hxy0XS/w266-h500/Morocco%252C+Feb+55%252C+p+160.png" width="266" /></a></div> Finally, this has nothing to do with Tunisia in 1913, but I thought it worth recording. It comes from an article about French Morocco in the February 1955 issue. The young lady concerning is the daughter of a wealthy aristocrat in Fès and, although her sister attends a French school and wears Western clothing, she herself attends an Islamic school.</span></div><div><span> To quote the authors: "With eyes like this, a veil need not be a disadvantage."</span></div><div><span> Can't say I disagree.</span></div>Malcolm Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00672612354161787023noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-832815673606447918.post-52604641295964788032020-08-25T09:43:00.000+10:002020-08-25T09:43:28.354+10:00The Fireman Prince We know him as King Edward VII - Edward the Peacemaker - but for most of his life he was Bertie, Prince of Wales, the eldest son of Queen Victoria. And because she refused to ever provide him with royal duties, even to train him for his future role, he was left to follow the dissipated life of the idle rich. History tends to remember him for his mistresses, his parties, and his gambling, but there was another side of him hardly ever shown to the nation. To understand this, you must be aware that his London residence was Marlborough House in Pall Mall.<a name='more'></a><blockquote> More innocent, if more dangerous, were the fire outings, which became increasingly frequent in spite of Bertie's corpulence in middle age. His zest for action spiced with danger was seen most vividly on the fire engine. He loved fires, the bigger the better. His taste for helping to put them out was such that he had an arrangement with Captain Shaw, head of the Chandos Street Fire Brigade, to be informed of any interestingly large fire. Then no matter what social engagement was in progress, he would race to Chandos Street, don fireman's uniform and climb aboard the next fire engine. All this was kept from the public as far as possible, partly because he was often in danger. Indeed, when the Alhambra Music Hall caught fire in 1882 Bertie was on the roof with the hoses when part of it fell in, killing two firemen.</blockquote> He would have been 40 years old at the time. Two years later, he was appointed to the Royal Commission on the Housing of the Working Classes, the ministers having at last persuaded his mother to give him something to do. With his friend, Charles Carrington he disguised himself in working men's clothes and wandered around the slums to see conditions for himself. He was always proudest of the reforms he was able to introduce in this manner.<div><br /></div><div><b>Reference:</b> Richard Hough (1992), <i>Edward and Alexandra</i>, Hodder and Stoughton</div>Malcolm Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00672612354161787023noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-832815673606447918.post-56407299193951962292020-08-10T07:03:00.000+10:002020-08-10T07:03:33.558+10:00Hide! The Comet is Coming!<p> Halley's Comet, as everyone knows, appears every 76 years - more or less. Its return in 1986 was a damp squib. We were all disappointed. But in 1910 its appearance had some interesting effects. Here is the brief account given by Frank Edward Johnson about what happened in Tripoli, in what is now Libya, on that occasion.</p><blockquote> Rain water is the only drinking water used and is kept in huge cisterns build under the houses. During the passage of the Halley comet the Jews of Tripoli were afraid of dying and took refuge in their great cisterns, which they had pumped dry for the purpose. Twenty-four hours having elapsed, they came out of their hiding places to find the world the same as before.<div> The Arabs said that they were in the hands of Allah and refused to take refuge in their cisterns. So the few foreigners and the Arabs were the only ones who had any drinking water left, and the Arabs sold drinking water to the Jews until the next rains, about six months later.</div></blockquote><p> And if my experiences were anything to go on, the two groups would have lived in separate quarters of the city.</p><p><b>Reference:</b> Frank Edward Johnson, 'Here and There in Northern Africa', <i>The National Geographic Magazine</i>, Jan. 1914, at pages 95-6</p>Malcolm Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00672612354161787023noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-832815673606447918.post-69408094842201204572019-10-13T14:44:00.000+11:002019-10-13T14:44:38.965+11:00The Blind Girl Sees<blockquote class="tr_bq">
"I see men; but they look like trees, walking." (Mk 8:24, RSV)</blockquote>
Such were the words of a blind man in the process of regaining his sight. Those who have lost their sight, I presume, remember to some extent what the world used to look like. But what about those born blind? Initially, in fact, they would not even know they were blind.<br />
<a name='more'></a> Thus, Sheila Hocken came from a whole family of visually impaired individuals. Her mother had lost most of her sight as a child due to a rubella infection, while her father suffered from congenital cataracts - a defect he bequeathed to Sheila and her brother. Surprisingly enough, despite his disability, Dad was able to make a living selling drapery, and when that became too much for him, he reinvented himself as a musician. But the adults operated a conspiracy of silence with respect to their children, never letting them know that they were different. The result was that Sheila grew up assuming everyone saw the world as through a heavy gauze. She wondered why other children didn't run into brick walls, or fall over objects as often as she, but perhaps she was just clumsy. It was not until she was about seven that she found out that she was blind and, of course, she did not know what sight really was.<br />
By the time she reached her late teens, her eyesight had further deteriorated to the extent that she could do no more than distinguish light from darkness. Nevertheless, she managed to obtain employment, and she was provided with a seeing eye dog, which became the centre of her life.<br />
One amusing incident occurred when her flatmate had gone away for the weekend, leaving her white mice in a cage on the table to be cared for. Sheila came out on Sunday morning to make herself a cup of tea when, suddenly, she heard the scratching of tiny claws on the table top. One of the mice had escaped! Carefully, Sheila took hold of an empty tin, brought it to the edge of the table, and waited with bated breath. Eventually, she heard a movement, and felt the mouse on the tin. Quickly, she got the animal inside, clapped a hand over the top, and put it back inside the cage. That evening, when her flatmate arrived home, she demanded to know what a grey mouse was doing in the cage with her two white ones. Sheila had caught a wild mouse! (Although she claimed this happened in the morning, I presume it was still dark. A wild mouse would be unlikely to venture forth in the daylight and, of course, a blind person wouldn't bother with light switches.)<br />
However, her life changed at the age of 29, when a surgeon removed her cataracts and replaced them with intraocular lenses. Even then, the possibility of failure was present. Without the stimulation of light for so long, her retinas - the light sensitive cells at the back of the eyes - might have shriveled up and died, leaving her doubly blind. But it wasn't so. Here is her description of the moment when the bandages were removed and, apprehensively, she opened her eyes:<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
What happened then - the only way I can describe the sensation - is that I was suddenly hit, physically struck by brilliance, like an immense electric shock into my brain, and through my entire body. It flooded my whole being with a shock-wave, this utterly unimaginable, incandescent brightness: there was white in front of me, a dazzling white that I could hardly bear to take in, and a vivid blue that I had never thought possible. It was fantastic, marvellous, incredible. It was like the beginning of the world.</blockquote>
She looked around, and there was lots of different shades of green. She looked at the blue again, and said, "Oh it's blue, it's so beautiful." The nurse explained that it was her uniform. And there's the interesting thing: we all cite, as an example of subjectivity, the impossibility of describing colour to someone born blind. But, in fact, although her memory of colours was blurred, she could still recognize them, at least in their strongest shades.<br />
Next thing, everything started to blur over, and she was afraid she was losing her eyesight again. However, all that had happened was that her eyes had filled with tears. Of course, the bandages had to be applied again; the eyes could not be subjected to too much stimulus all of a sudden, but she now knew there was a bright world outside.<br />
People would come around, standing silently, and she would not have a clue who they were until they spoke. She looked down at her own hands, and was horrified at how ugly they were - all the veins standing out, as well as the bones of the knuckles. Then her friends showed her their hands, and they were all the same. (Take a look at your own hands - especially if you are white like Sheila, because white skin shows up all the blemishes.) When she first looked in the mirror, she was shocked at the big lump protruding from the middle of her face. Touching it with her fingers, she realised it was her nose, but she hadn't known it was so prominent. Perhaps, she thought, people have been kind and hidden the truth from her. Only later did it become obvious that everyone had one. (Well, every white person. Blacks and Orientals think that our schnozzles are pretty awful.)<br />
Some things she recognized right away, such as trees; she just wasn't aware how many they were. Once she called her husband to tell him that a bird had just landed in a tree, only to have him explain that this sort of thing happened all the time. Life became a constant field of discovery. She would see something, say a teapot, and she wouldn't have the foggiest idea what it was until she was able to handle it. And what was that great expanse of green? Grass! She had to kneel down and feel it to be sure, and she found it marvellous that it existed in so many different shades of green. Even the separate blades seemed to be different in colour.<br />
There were other skills which the rest of us learn very early in life, and take for granted. To go to the shops, she harnessed up her seeing eye dog because, after all, she didn't know the route by sight. But suddenly it appeared that the pavement was rushing by under her, a fence was approaching at breakneck speed, and even the shadows of the lamp posts were like black bars blocking her way. She fell over when walking through the park because her brain couldn't recognize the gentle slope which her eyes were seeing. Then there were the pictures on the wall. She could understand the copy of Rembrandt's <em>Man in the Golden Helmet</em>, but she could not make head or tail of the seascape. Apart from the fact that she had never seen the sea, her brain had yet to gain the skill of interpreting a two dimensional picture as three dimensional. Also, it appeared that, while still possessing some residual sight at school, she had learned the numerals and alphabet. Once her sight had been restored, while still at hospital, she had phoned everybody she knew, without needing help. But when she saw the letters, "SALT" on a packet, she had to put the four letters together one by one to interpret the word. You see, once you have learned to read, you recognize every word the way you recognize faces. You have picked up the "gestalt" of the word. And that, incidentally, is why you often do not notice typographic errors; you see what you expect to see. But the blind girl had to learn this skill from scratch.<br />
So what can we learn from all this? Be thankful you have all your senses. And the world is a wonderful place, but we take it for granted. So turn off your computer, tablet, or phone, and get off your butt. Take time to smell the flowers. And look at the grass. Every blade is a different shade of green.<br />
<strong>Reference:</strong> Sheila Hocken (1977), <em>Emma and I</em> (Emma was her seeing eye dog.) Also, an interview she gave for TV a few years later.Malcolm Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00672612354161787023noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-832815673606447918.post-40769424093668216142019-08-14T21:05:00.000+10:002019-08-14T21:05:33.670+10:00Chased by Mickey Mouse Gas Masks<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"> What was it like on the home front in England during the Second World War? Well, for a start, they suffered very severe rationing. Also, everyone had to practice using a gas mask. This could lead to farcical results, as this story by a governess of a high society family illustrates:</span><br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
Food grew scarce. Now we all looked forward greedily to our Sunday morning egg, the only one we got. We had it fried until fat became scarce.<br />
Ration books and gas masks we all had for some time. It was difficult to fit the little girls<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"> [aged 14 and 10 respectively!] </span>properly. After several abortive efforts they were issued Mickey Mouse masks, horrible affairs with red-and-blue noses that never failed to put us in mind of the mandrill at the zoo.<br />
We had to put on these contraptions every day and wear them for ten minutes to get used to them. Thus was a grim and at first rather frightening business, for a gas mask, until you get used to it, gives gives a nice imitation of slow suffocation.<br />
We made a game of it, wore them out-of-doors, and played, in the woods, at being prehistoric monsters, which I am sure we closely resembled. When the children got over their first qualms it all became funny and we laughed a lot, which resulted in some very curious noises emerging. Gas masks are not intended for laughing in.<br />
One day as we were doing our daily ten minutes we saw a mysterious figure skulking from tree to tree in a most suspicious manner, obviously trying to get away without being seem<br />
<i>A spy!</i> we thought. Forgetting we still wore our gas masks, we followed him through the woods, but presently lost him. Our last view of him was running wildly through the thicket.<br />
We hurried back to the castle. The warning was sounded and the police turned out. Presently a terrified plumber boy was rounded up. He had liked the look of us all in our gas masks much less than we liked the look of him.<br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"> The mind boggles at the thought of the poor boy fleeing these strange looking creatures. And who were the "little girls"? Well, the older one has been our Queen now for almost 67 years, because they were the Princesses Elizabeth and Margaret, and the chase took place in the grounds of Windsor Castle.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><b>Reference:</b> Marion Crawford (1950), <i>The Little Princesses</i>, Harcourt, Brace & Co., pp 187-8 ("<a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Marion_Crawford" target="_blank">Crawfie</a>" as she was known, was the princesses' governess ie tutor, for 17 years.)</span>Malcolm Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00672612354161787023noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-832815673606447918.post-50018804546850173602019-06-23T11:16:00.001+10:002021-11-11T22:01:13.544+11:00The Virgin Matriarchs of Albania Here's a scenario: imagine you live in a backward society where the male population keeps getting whittled away by blood feuds. What do you do when your family runs out of males? In the boondocks of Albania, among the European equivalent of hillbillies, the problem is solved by the eldest unmarried daughter becoming socially a man.<br />
<a name='more'></a> There is nothing <a href="https://malcolmsmiscellany.blogspot.com.au/2016/04/the-lunatics-are-taking-over-asylum.html" target="_blank">transgender</a> or lesbian about it, just a straightforward adoption of the status of the opposite sex as a practical solution to a legitimate problem. A "virgin", as such a woman is called, is as committed to the celibate life as any nun. She cuts her hair, adopts male dress, and enters the male world, negotiating on behalf of the family, and being consulted in village affairs with all the privileges and respect accorded any other man.<br />
Tradition has it that the custom originated among the Kelmendi tribe in the province of Malcia, inspired by the legend of <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nora_of_Kelmendi" target="_blank">Nora of Kelmendi</a>, the beautiful warrior chieftainess of the 17th century.<br />
In the mid-1990s, a Reuters journalist interviewed one of these sworn virgins, 41-years-old Lula Ivanaj of Bajza. One of a family of 11 daughters and one son, she accepted her commission at the age of 15 at the request of her widowed mother, who considered the boy too weak to take on the job. This should give you some idea of the social system involved. On the death of her husband, the widow did not become the head of the household; that position devolved to the eldest son. It was one of those societies where a young boy would find himself receiving all the deference, and all the responsibilities, of the man of the house. Except this time a daughter was elected as the man of the house.<br />
Lula said that, when she was young, matchmakers used to seek her as a potential wife for their clients, but she always ran away and hid. The journalist found that Lula, having spent years solely in male company, sat and gestured like a man. Whereas her sisters wore the <em>xhubleta</em> (pronounced 'joob-<em>let</em>-a'), the centuries old costume of the Albanian women, Lula was dressed in sweatshirt and trousers, and smoked like a chimney. For most of her adult life she had driven a tractor, but now worked as a welder, an occupation no non-virgin would touch.<br />
She said she never discusses women's affairs with her sisters, nor did they expect her to. I find this rather sad - not just because she has never held a man or a baby in her arms, but because taking on Adam's curse does not remove Eve's. After all, she still has her monthly cycle. And she does not possess a man's physical strength. Tractor driving and welding may not be very arduous, but in the old days it must have been really tough. <br />
Also, she has to face the male jungle without the protection provided by femininity. We tend to forget that, even in the most male chauvinist societies - especially in the most male chauvinist societies! - a woman's weakness is also her strength. A simple example is Our Lord's parable about the unjust judge who respected neither God nor man, but eventually granted a widow's case just to stop her from pestering him. A man in the same situation would probably have been sent packing. Because women are outside the male power structure, they can get away with things a man can't. But that involves retaining their femininity.<br />
There's another matter. The world is changing rapidly, and this was a quarter of a century ago. On the other hand, Lula became a sworn virgin about 1970, in the middle of the Communist tyranny, which was supposed to have eradicated all those ancient traditions. But it appears some traditions die hard.<br />
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<strong>Reference:</strong> Steve Pagini, 'The virgins of Albania'. This article was presumably syndicated widely, but I accessed it from the <em>Harvey World Travel Magazine</em> 5 (1997), page 34.<br />
There is also a book written on the subject: <em><a href="https://www.bloomsbury.com/uk/women-who-become-men-9781859733400/" target="_blank">Women Who Become Men</a></em> by Antonia Young (2001)Malcolm Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00672612354161787023noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-832815673606447918.post-18795747497875141052019-05-09T07:14:00.000+10:002019-05-09T07:14:24.054+10:00The Balloon Locomotive Due to its weight, a train requires a low gradient, which normally means cuttings and switchbacks in mountainous terrain. However, reaching the top of mountain is another matter, since removing removing the summit is not an option, and one of the ways of scaling such steep inclines is a funicular. Almost most of you will have heard the term, but how many know what it really means? It is essentially two trains operated on the counterbalance system. The ascending and descending lines form a loop, and the two trains are linked by a continuous cable. As one train goes down, its weight pulls the other one up. Sometimes, at the top, water is added to the descending train to increase the weight. Of course, the locomotive must still be powered - there is no such thing as a perpetual motion machine - but gravity significantly reduces the power bill.<br />
However, in late 1897, in the Austrian Alps, a single rail line was introduced driven, not by steam or electricity, but by a <em>balloon</em>!<br />
<a name='more'></a> I have been unable to discover when this peculiar system ceased operation, but it appears to have begun in the final months of 1897, because <a href="https://en.wikisource.org/wiki/Popular_Science_Monthly/Volume_51/September_1897/Notes" target="_blank">an article</a> in September of that year describes it as a proposal, and one in <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/1897/12/06/archives/a-balloon-locomotive.html" target="_blank">December</a> indicates that it was running. For a full description, I shall quote from a magazine published in July 1898.<br />
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...this most marvellous railroad, which goes to and from the summit of Hochstauffen Mountain at Bad-Reichenhall, the well-known watering-place in the Austrian Alps. The Aerostatic Railway - to give it its correct designation - owes its inception to the well-known inventor, Herr Volderauer, who had long ago convinced the experts that his scheme was perfectly feasible and safe. A single rail guides the cars, and keeps the balloon with its load captive, the cars gripping the rail at the sides and underneath the flange. At about every 15ft.<span style="color: #783f04;"> [4½ metres]</span> the line is firmly anchored. In descending the mountain, of course, gravity is the propelling force, water-ballast being taken aboard at the upper end to counterbalance the buoyancy of the balloon. The cock on the water-tank of the car can be opened by the operator at any time. The tank carries about 800lb.<span style="color: #783f04;"> [364 kg]</span> of water, and tank and car together weigh about 600lb <span style="color: #783f04;">[273 kg]</span> . The balloon is 67ft. <span style="color: #783f04;">[20½ m]</span> in diameter, and exerts a lifting capacity of something over 11,000lb.<span style="color: #783f04;"> [The <em>Times</em> article says 10,560 lb or 4,800 kg.]</span> Weights, also, can be taken aboard and discharged at the various stations along the line. At the foot of the track are the gas-tank and generator. The summit of the Hochstauffen offers a sublime view, but before the advent of the Aerostatic Railway the climb was both long an tedious. It was only attempted by experienced mountaineers.<br />
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<strong>Reference:</strong> Salvattore Pannizzi, 'Mountain Railways', <em>The Wide World Magazine</em> vol. 1, no. 3 (July 1898), pp 294 -304 at 304. Accessible to be read or downloaded <a href="https://archive.org/details/wideworldmagazin01lond/page/n7" target="_blank">here</a>.<br />
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Malcolm Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00672612354161787023noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-832815673606447918.post-6205713713492628372019-04-10T11:00:00.000+10:002019-05-03T18:51:06.840+10:00The Witches Who Failed to Fly It is, of course, well established that the Great Witch Craze of the 16th and 17th centuries, stretching even into the 18th, represented a resurgence of pre-Christian superstitions. They had once been ignored and mocked, but were now being taken seriously. However, I didn't realise just how ancient these beliefs were until I reread Apuleius' second century novel, <i>The Golden Ass</i>. There, the author describes how he watched a Thessalian witch strip naked, rub herself with a magic ointment, and promptly turn into an owl. That was very similar to what witches were accused of doing 13 or 14 centuries later! Some were even trying it out themselves!<br />
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For that start, let us dispose of a few misconceptions, because the Great Witch Craze has left us with a false idea of normative witchcraft beliefs. During the Middle Ages people did not live in fear of witches; they were just one more type of criminal to worry about, and not necessarily the most common. As for the church, its most common response was to condemn the belief. The Council of Frankfurt in 794 decreed the death penalty for anybody who practiced the "heathen custom" of burning witches. In the same century, St Boniface, the great English missionary to the Germans, declared that when a person became a Christian he gave up the belief in witches and werewolves. In 829 St Agobard, Bishop of Lyons, wrote a book criticizing popular superstitions, such as the idea that witches could produce bad weather, while the eleventh century laws of King Colomon of Hungary simply stated that witches did not exist.</div>
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Of course, Hungary was a newly Christianised country. Like an eastward moving tide, Christianity had swept over the Germans in the eighth century, the Czechs and Slovaks in the Ninth, the Poles in the tenth, and the Hungarians, Scandinavians, Finns and Russians in the eleventh, with the Lithuanians holding out until the fourteenth. And that is the point: while there was still a border with paganism, the church recognized witchcraft beliefs for what they were: heathen superstitions. But they never completely went away.</div>
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Not only that, but on the fringe of every community you would find the wise woman, the cunning man, the witchdoctor (a native English term before it got applied to savages): people to whom one would go to find lost property, acquire love potions, good luck, or bountiful crops, as well as simple herbal remedies which might really work. They were not terribly popular with the church, but unless they were suspected of harming someone - of using black, as opposed to white magic - the law would not touch them. Indeed, even during the Great Witch Craze, three quarters of those accused of witchcraft in England were acquitted!</div>
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These days, of course, Dr Margaret Murray's theory that witchcraft represented a special cult, an "old religion" predating the classic civilisation, and somehow existing underground for a couple of thousand years throughout the whole of Europe, has rightly been discredited by serious scholars. Nevertheless, common sense should tell us that, wherever people believe in witchcraft, there will be some who will attempt to practice it.</div>
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The <i>Canon Episcopi</i>, which probably dates from an earlier tenth century document, refers to:</div>
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... certain wicked women, turned back toward Satan, seduced by demonic illusions and phantasms, believe of themselves and profess to ride upon certain beasts in the nighttime hours, with Diana, the Goddess of the Pagans, (or with Herodias) and an innumerable multitude of women, and to traverse great spaces of earth in the silence of the dead of night, and to be subject to her laws as of a Lady, and on fixed nights be called to her service...</blockquote>
The canon did not say they had made a pact with Satan, only that they were deluded by him, and their nocturnal rides were interpreted as dreams or visions, rather than any physical reality. The church was to banish them, not otherwise punish them, for they were involved in heathen practices. But doesn't this idea of a nocturnal flight bear some similarity with Apuleius' tale of a witch turning herself into an owl? Especially when it involved a magic ointment.<br />
Of course, we all know that witches were supposed to ride broomsticks. But what is not so well known is something that runs through the witchcraft trials like a red ribbon: the broomstick or staff was rubbed with a special ointment, as was the witch's naked body. All right, so this was a common popular belief, but did anyone actually try it?<br />
In 1545 a married couple in Lorraine were accused of witchcraft, and confessed to burning grain, killing livestock, and sucking the blood of children when put to torture. Well, they would, wouldn't they? More to the point, among their possessions was found a jar half full of a stinking green unguent with which they were alleged to have used to anoint themselves, and which turned out to be a concoction of hemlock, nightshade, henbane, and mandrake. Andrés Laguna, the personal physician of Pope Julius III, managed to acquire a canister of it. Probably, however, the good doctor did not know that these herbs contain hallucinogens such as atropine, hyoscyamine, and scopolamine, and that they can be absorbed through the intact skin.<br />
Later, in the city of Metz, he had to treat a hangman's wife who was suffering from chronic insomnia because of an obsession with her husband's suspected infidelity. Everything else having failed, Dr Laguna decided he might as well try the ointment. Having been anointed from head to toe, she suddenly passed out, her eyes still wide open. Much to his alarm, nothing he could do would wake her up for another thirty-six hours, and her first words were: "Why do you wake me up at such an inopportune time? I was surrounded by all the pleasures and delights of the world", and she boasted of cuckolding her husband with a younger man. Whether this put an end to her insomnia was not recorded.<br />
A colleague of Galileo, a certain Giovanni Porta, suspected that the witches' claimed flight to the sabbat was merely an hallucination induced by their ointment. While he was investigating this theory, an old woman offered to provide an answer. Although she ordered all of the witnesses out of the room, they were able to watch through cracks in the door as she stripped off her rags, rubbed herself over with an ointment, and fell into a deep sleep. So deep was her slumber, in fact, that even "quite a flogging" could not wake up. When she finally regained consciousness, they were able to point to her bruises as proof that she had been in the room all along, but she still insisted tenaciously that she had crossed seas and mountains to obtain her answers.<br />
These are thus first hand accounts. Let's now proceed to some second hand ones. Bartolommeo Spina, in a book published in 1523, referred to an event "within the lifetime of those who are now alive". A certain witch used to boast of flying on journeys to visit the devil, so "the illustrious Prince N.", got her to perform a demonstration in the presence of a multitude of nobles. She anointed herself several times with the ointment, but - surprise! surprise! - nothing happened.<br />
Spina was also told by Dominus Augustinus de Turre of Bergamo, "the most cultivated physician of his time", that during his studies at Padua in his youth, he once came home about midnight. No-one answered when he knocked on the door, so he was forced to enter via an upstairs window. At last, he discovered his maid in her room, supine on the floor, stark naked, and wrapped in a slumber too deep for arousal. In the morning, she confessed that she had been carried off on the witches' journey. He would have sworn she had been sound asleep all night!<br />
Finally, we come to a 1692 publication by Johannes Nider. His teacher told him about a priest who came across an old woman who claimed to make nocturnal flights to revels with Diana and other women. So the story is third hand, but isn't it interesting that she talked of visiting Diana, rather than the devil? Nothing he could say to her would convince her she was deluded, so he asked to be present, with other witnesses, when she made her next flight. She agreed.<br />
Taking a large bowl used for kneading dough, she placed it on the top of a stool, then stepped into it and sat down. Then, to the accompaniment of incantations, she rubbed an ointment on herself, lay her head back, and promptly fell asleep. So vivid were her dreams, that she cried out, flailed around with her hands, and fell out, injuring her head. "For Heaven's sake, where are you?" cried the priest. "You were not with Diana and as will be attested by these present, you never left this bowl." It appears she was convinced.<br />
Far be it from me to suggest that these incidents were typical. The vast majority of victims of the witch craze were guilty of only being old, demanding, and eccentric, with the occasional witchdoctor thrown in, and a few people who were genuinely deranged. Just the same, the witch craze seems to have destroyed a subculture which had flourished since at least Roman times: one which used hallucinogenic ointments in the pursuit of bogus nighttime flights and revels.<br />
I might add that, in the twentieth and late nineteenth century, a couple of scholars had experimented with the alleged witch's ointment, and produced similar hallucinations. <i>Don't try this at home!</i><br />
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<b>Reference:</b> The original citations are in Michael J. Harner , 'The role of hallucinogenic plants in European witchcraft", pp 125-150 <b>in</b> the 1976 reprint of <i>Hallucinogens and Shamanism</i>, Michael J. Harner, editor (1973), Oxford University Press<br />
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Malcolm Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00672612354161787023noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-832815673606447918.post-77401995167299303092019-01-17T07:39:00.000+11:002020-03-21T16:17:19.415+11:00The Dubious Delights of the Upper Salween Often a reader of earlier publications realises he has stepped into a world which no longer exists. The south western province of Yunnan is home to a greater variety of ethnic groups than any other Chinese province. As the eastern foothills of Tibet, its mountainous terrain is bisected by deep north-south ravines, being the headwaters of some of the great rivers of east and southeast Asia. Into this forbidding terrain, in late 1909 came botanist <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/George_Forrest_(botanist)" target="_blank">George Forrest</a>, to explore the region of the Upper Salween, home of the Lisu. Chinese authority was weak in the area, often fading out completely, for this was almost two years before the first Chinese Revolution, and decades before the <a href="https://www.chinasource.org/resource-library/articles/chinas-christian-county" target="_blank">great transformation</a> of Lisu society. Essentially, the botanist had stepped into a forgotten corner of the world, where poverty, filth, violence, vice, and superstition had held sway for hundreds of years.<br />
<a name='more'></a> None of his photos could disguise the shabbiness of the inhabitants' clothing. Their weapons of war and hunt were the crossbow and poisoned arrow. Firearms were almost completely unknown. Perhaps that was just as well.<br />
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The men of Ji-Ji were at war with the people of a neighboring village higher up the hill, and we had the pleasure of watching the progress of the fight during our tiffin. The cause of the trouble was the theft of some maize, and a whole army corps, consisting of some fifty warriors, had been mobilized. These fellows, with their grotescue ornaments of silver, deer's horns, pebbles and cowries, their blackened faces, their flowing hempen robes, their war-bows 5 feet broad, and their broad ox-hide shields 5 feet high, moving in a line beyond their village, presented an image of the "pomp and pride and circumstance" of war. The enemy occupied a position higher up the hill, a fierce bombardment of opprobrious epithets was maintained, but neither side got farther than swearing and stringing of bows until the time arrived for the afternoon meal, when the combatants dispersed to their respective homes. [pp 146, 148]</blockquote>
What I find fascinating about this is that almost exactly the same thing was witnessed by my father-in-law in New Guinea 60 years later, as did some of his companions 20 years before that. I could cite even further references to the same thing in the same island. It is a reminder that, despite their possession of iron and cloth, these Asiatics were essentially savages. Come to think of it, isn't this pretty much the antics of teenage gangs in our own slums, or chimpanzees in the jungle? The human race hasn't advanced all that much.<br />
But it was when it came to describing the delights of their journey that the botanist was most inspired as a wordsmith.<br />
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Animal and bird life along the Upper Salwin <span style="color: #783f04;">[Salween] </span>is conspicuous by its absence - an important matter for the traveler, who cannot count on replenishing his larder with game. On the other hand, the river banks at a low altitude, and where wholly sheltered from the northwest winds, have an almost tropical climate, and as a result vegetable and insect life is both vigorous and troublesome. Creatures with inconveniently long legs plunge suddenly into one's soup, great caterpillars in splendid but poisonous uniforms of long and gaily-colored hairs arrive in one's blankets with the business-like air of a guest who intends to stay. Ladybirds and other specimens of coleoptera <span style="color: #783f04;">[beetles]</span> drop off the jungle down one's neck, while other undesirables insert themselves under one's nether garments.<br />
The light in the tent attracts a perfect army of creatures, which creep, fly, crawl, buzz, and sting. Scissor insects make the day hideous with their strident call, and the proximity of Lissoo<span style="color: #783f04;"> [Lisu] </span>introduces other strangers, of which <em>Pulex irritans </em><span style="color: #783f04;">[the flea]</span> is by far the least noxious <span style="color: #783f04;">[least?]</span>. The mere act of walking in this country is a work of much physical exertion. The villages under the Chinese chiefs have a laudable custom of cutting out their roads every year after securing their harvest, but in the country north of Cheng-ka constant feuds between neighboring villages prevent this useful work; the paths are narrow tracks choked with the luxuriant growth of the previous rains, slippery and lop-sided, and as often as not leading along the very brink of a precipice. In some places we had to haul ourselves over boulders by pendant branches or scramble along the face of cliffs by notches in the rock, work suitable for monkeys, Lissoo, or other creatures gifted with more prehensile feet than a European. <span style="color: #783f04;">[They don't write papers like this any more.]</span>
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Poisonous-looking scarlet fruits hang from the over-arching jungle, lianes and tree-roots trip up the unwary traveler; if he clutches the nearest plant to save himself the chances are it is a stinging nettle the size of a laurel and poisonous in proportion. In some places, especially around their maize fields, the natives provide a further diversion in the shape of "pan-ji". These are sharp-pointed, fire-hardened pieces of bamboo, which are driven into the ground among the grass, and will, if trodden upon, pierce even through a leather boot and deep into the foot. It is only when the traveler, scratched, bruised, and with torn clothing, emerges on a quiet sand bank by the river, or on to some open terrace high above it, and finds the campfire lighted, the tents pitched, and a pailful of hot water ready for a bath, that he begins to think exploring the Salwin a game worth the candle.<br />
The vegetation of that part of the country is almost as great a nuisance as the insects. Every sort of seed attaches itself to one's person; some are provided with hooks, others with natural gum, others pierce the skin or work down under one's socks. An hour's march leaves the traveler caked with the seeds of enough plants to form the material of a work on the methods of the natural dispersal of flora. [pp 137, 139]</blockquote>
I wonder if the botanist author carefully extracted every hooked, gummed, or piercing seed and placed it in an appropriate container for future reference back home.<br />
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<b>Reference:</b> George Forrest, 'The Land of the Crossbow', <i>The National Geographic Magazine</i>, Feb. 1910, pp 132 - 156Malcolm Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00672612354161787023noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-832815673606447918.post-90994786460574533082018-12-20T08:09:00.000+11:002018-12-20T08:09:29.582+11:00Would You Like to Live in a Palace?<blockquote class="tr_bq">
People think that a royal palace is the last word in up-to-date luxury, replete with everything the heart can desire, and that people who live there do so in absolute comfort. Nothing could be farther from the truth. Life in a palace rather resembles camping in a museum. These historic places are so old, so tied up with tradition, that they are dropping to bits, all the equipment there decades behind the times.</blockquote>
That was the summation made by Marion Crawford ("Crawfie") of her experience of moving into Buckingham Palace when her employer, the Duke of York had unexpectedly and unwillingly become King George VI.<br />
<a name='more'></a> Prior to that, the family had lived at 145 Piccadilly: not a palace, or even a mansion, but a house which any well-to-do family might occupy, with four floors and a handful of servants. Now they were compelled to move into an edifice which had to do duty as an office, centre of government, guest house, servants' quarters, and staterooms for official occasions. In any palace, the family's living quarters occupy only a small wing. After all, it doesn't matter whether you are a king or a cobbler, you can wear only one set of clothes and sleep in one bed at a time. A king might have a larger range of better clothes, and a more elegant bed, but with respect to utility and comfort, luxury is subject to the law of diminishing returns. Indeed, some of it is chiefly for show. At Windsor Castle is a display of the most exquisite table sets provided as coronation and birthday gifts to the royal family on various occasions. I asked when the royal family uses them, and was informed that they were far too valuable for even royalty to use. Perhaps you have something similar in your own home.<br />
There are 775 rooms, and interminable corridors. "People here need bicycles," declared a young Princess Elizabeth. It took five minutes to get to the gardens. To reach the dining rooms, food had to be brought the better part of half a mile through corridors and up and down stairs. (In all mansions and palaces the distance between kitchen and dining area is considerable. In the Middle Ages it was only the common people who were able to consume piping hot food. Their betters had to do with luke warm fare.)<br />
The heating was inadequate, but by the time the new king had arrived, electric lighting had been installed, although it was relatively recent, and the arrangements not always logical. Crawfie found that the switch for her bedroom light was located in the corridor two yards from the door. On the first night, "[t]he wind moaned in the chimneys like a thousand ghosts." On the first morning, she crossed the corridor on the way to her bathroom, and ran into the postman. Buckingham Palace has its own post office, with letters delivered to individual rooms. It also had - and probably still has - a full time resident rodent exterminator. You don't think of such things, of course, but when you do, it seems obvious.<br />
In the same category was the clock winder, who came in once a week to Windsor Castle, and no doubt Buckingham Palace as well. Likewise the table decker who, every day, would go around filling the flower vases and renew the flowers. Both of these worthies would just walk into a room, no matter what was going on at the time, do their job, and walk out, without taking the slightest notice of anyone, or anyone taking notice of them. "He was impersonal as a bluebottle on a windowpane," to quote Crawfie.<br />
We tend to forget that palaces were not designed for mod cons. The latter had to be inserted on an <em>ad hoc</em> basis. At Windsor Castle, for example, bathrooms had been carved into the tremendously thick walls, and the bedrooms were supplied with electric stoves, but during the war years there was no central heating. Crawfie remembered wearing fur boots under her evening dress as she traversed the icy passages. During air raids, the family huddled in the dungeons.<br />
<br />
How would the lower orders react to all this? Well, during the Blitz, children and their mothers were evacuated from the working class tenements of Glasgow and billeted on the inhabitants of the countryside. The King also did his bit, and opened up Craigowan Lodge, a magnificent seven bedroom mansion on the Balmoral estate. Alas! Its grandeur was not always appreciated, least of all by the children. They were terrified by the silence, afraid to go into the woods, and frightened if they saw a deer. They wanted to go back to the slums!<br />
<br />
<b>Reference: </b><i>The Little Princesses</i>, by Marion Crawford (1950), the former governess of Princesses Elizabeth and Margaret.<br />
<br />Malcolm Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00672612354161787023noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-832815673606447918.post-9996912091038453642018-11-20T21:31:00.000+11:002018-11-20T21:31:18.637+11:00Traitors to the Human Race "The love of money", said Phocylides, "is the mother of all evils" - a maxim which was to become proverbial in the ancient world, being changed to the "metropolis of all evils" by Democritus, and the "root of all evils" by St. Paul.<br />
Greed for money and, as we shall see, for power can be a strong solvent of a person's morality. Thirty pieces of silver was enough to buy Judas Iscariot's treachery, and a long list could be made of those who turned traitor for the sake for pay. Greed can also dissolve the critical faculty. No-one would possibly fall for the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Advance-fee_scam#Implementation" target="_blank">Nigerian scam</a>, for instance, if the prospect of enormous riches hadn't blinded him to the extreme improbability of the proposal. However, it takes a massive combination of baseness and stupidity to fall for a project which is both evil and utterly ridiculous, and one can must grant a certain grudging respect to a con artist who realised it would actually work.<br />
<a name='more'></a> Austrian Karl Mekis, born 1911, was the prime mover. Having served as an SS or Gestapo officer during the war, he had occupied the post-war years with such escapades as counterfeiting, smuggling, and illegal firearm possession, resulting in several sentences beginning in 1947. When his long suffering wife finally left him, he decided that was the last straw, and booked a one way passage to South America. When, in 1955, he encountered Franz Weber-Richter in Santiago, Chile he recognized a fellow spirit, and outlined to him his plans for the biggest con yet: Project Venus.<br />
According to their account, they had been approached by inhabitants of the planet Venus (Venusians? <a href="https://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/venerean" target="_blank">Venereans</a>?) who had been worried about the inhabitants of Earth since 1640, especially since it was now likely we would be disturbing them with our rockets. Their solution was radical: they were going to invade earth and conquer it. However, it was clear that the invasion would be rendered easier in the presence of local assistance. In other words, what they needed were quislings, collaborators: people who would be prepared to rule the planet on their behalf. Weber-Richter was taken up and given a special eighteen month training course before being designated as President of the Supreme World Republic. The lesser position of Security Commissioner of the Supreme Government was left to Mekis: all he got was a three-month emergency course in spacecraft.<br />
Remember: at that time the interior of Venus was still a mystery. I still have a children's book published in 1959 outlining three theories: that the surface of Venus was one vast desert (correct, as it turned out), that it was one vast sea, and that it was more like a primeval earth, with both land and seas, and a tropical climate. The number of science fiction stories based on the last two themes were legend. Remember, too, that the flying saucer era had just started, including a "flap" of UFOs over Washington, DC in 1952. George Adamski had just made his running with his tales of meeting with Venusians in flying saucers. Thus, the background story didn't sound then quite so ridiculous as it does now. Nevertheless, one would think that prospective quislings would have requested some sort of evidence - some Venusian artifact, for example - because they were going to be asked to pay for the privilege of being traitors.<br />
In any case, within a short time, our heroes began printing a vast quantity of "official" Venusian documents: passports, identity cards, certificates of appointment, and a huge 630-page tome entitled,<i> The Constitution of the World Republic of Venus</i>. In a way, this might be considered a Venusian counterpart to Karl's Marx's <i>Capital</i>: a public blueprint of how they were going to take over. You may remember that this was at the height of the Cold War, and it has been proved, beyond the slightest question of doubt, that the Soviet Union had infiltrated its agents into every nook and cranny of government, the media, the arts, and the counter-espionage services. But at least the Soviet Union never had the gall to advertise openly for traitors, and the fact that the Venusians were doing just that, and the governments of the world were taking no notice, might have given a few people food for thought.<br />
"Seeking: financial adviser to the civilian government of the Venusian world". "Venusian World Republic. The applicant is called for work for a senior official from Venus after the invasion of earth". These were the sorts of ads which soon appeared throughout the German-speaking world, not only in the sci-fi and ufology magazines, but in the mainstream press. They received hundreds of replies.<br />
Thus, for example, Helmuth Mille, a factory worker in Austria, paid the equivalent of $24 as a display of his <em>bona fides</em> for a future clerical position in the Republic of Venus Civil Service. For $100 Bavarian innkeeper, Herr Freschner, an ardent fan of science fiction and flying saucers, was appointed Adviser for Economic Affairs (Food and Consumer Goods) under the future Venusian overlords. Such sums were not to be sneezed at. At today's prices, they must be multiplied by a factor of 15 to equal their purchasing power at the time, and since the standard of living was lower then, by a factor of 30 to equal the working time required to earn them.<br />
That was not all. Inspired, no doubt, by the Nazi <em>Lebensborn</em> project, the con men announced the formation of "love camps", where human women would interbreed with Venusian men to produce a hybrid master race. Lots of single females signed up, and paid up. They must have been really dissatisfied with the available males of their own species!<br />
By 1960 the Chilean police were starting to snoop around Project Venus, so Mekis and Weber-Richter decided to move to Rome. But first they sent off telegrams to their clients: "The planned invasion of the world deferred. Inadequate financial support. Send all you can save." Without questioning why the Venusians would need earthly money, Herr Frechner telegraphed off approximately $650.<br />
Mekis and Weber-Richter were now ensconced in the palazzo of Duchess Elena Caffarelli on the Via Condotti. A 22-year-old Salzburg girl, Annemarie Baumann was happy to work as their secretary for nothing but food, lodging, and a bit of pocket money, because they had related their encounters with the Venusians in such engaging detail, and she was promised a great Venusian leader as her future lover. All told, according to my information, then managed to milk their potential collaborators of $120,000. Again, feel free to multiply it by 15 or 30 in order to establish its modern value.<br />
How, you may ask, could so many people - there must have been a couple of thousand - be so stupid? One is tempted to draw comparisons with crackpot religious movements - like the Order of the Solar Temple, which was responsible for a number of mass suicides in the 1990s. However, on closer examination, the similarities are not so strong. Most new religions are small, and soon die. Those which reach anything like a significant size are usually deviations from an older, more venerable religion, and piggy back on its prestige. They also tend to be promulgated by charismatic preachers on a one-to-one basis, rather than from a distance by means of ads, brochures, and telegrams. The Solar Temple appears to have been an exception, but it presented as a secret society, and thus appealed to those with a desire to belong to an inner circle blessed with esoteric knowledge and power. Also, all cults, even the Solar Temple, offer a meaning of life and supernatural benefits beyond just money and status. No, victims of the Project Venus scam appear to have been simply blinded by greed for power.<br />
Nevertheless, one has to admire the dastardly duo for pulling off a stunt which nobody but they would have thought could succeed. One wonders how they would have turned out if they'd used their talents for honest work. However, the trouble with cons is that inevitably they fail to deliver. When was this wretched invasion fleet going to turn up? The designated date was set for 1st July 1960, the landing site the Tempelhof Airport at Berlin. Alas! At the last minute, President Urun, the leader of the fleet, was struck down by a Venusian illness, and his successor, Ase was forced to postpone the invasion - just as D-Day would have been postponed, I suppose, if Eisenhower had taken sick. Two of his earthly collaborators went to the police.<br />
Think about it! Yiddish has a term, <i>chutzpah</i> for outrageous, bare-faced effrontery: the type that causes a man who kills his mother and father to beg for leniency on the grounds that he is an orphan. Likewise, these despicable quislings were preparing to sell out their planet and species to invaders from outer space, and now they were coming, cap in hand, pleading for human justice. "Please, your honour," you hear them say, "we paid good money so that we could lord it over the likes of you, but you're still in charge, and we're still nobodies, so will you kindly do something about it?"<br />
Just then, for some unknown reason, Karl Mekis, travelling on a Chilean passport with a made-up name, decided to visit his native Austria. Bad mistake! The law was waiting. The wheels of justice also, regrettably, sometimes grind slowly, but in December 1962 the press and public gathered around for a grand comedy: the trial of the Security Commissioner of the Supreme World Republic of Venus. The judge (Europe does not have juries) could not suppress his laughter. Several of the subpoenaed witnesses gave evidence grudgingly, more embarrassed, I suspect, at being revealed as complete fools than as being traitors. Playing the role to the last, Mekis warned the judge that the Venusians would avenge him when they finally arrived. But the judge decided to take the chance, and sentenced him to five years' hard labour. On appeal, it was reduced to four years, and with time already spent, he was out on 3 September 1964, and passed into obscurity.<br />
As far as I am aware, Weber-Richter never faced justice. But then again, neither did his victims who, by all objective standards, were more culpable. He, after all, was a mere con man, while they were traitors to the human race. By all rights, they should have been put up against a wall and shot.<br />
<br />
<strong>References:</strong> Summaries were found in the <em>Australian UFO Review</em>, No. 10 (Dec 1969), pp 42-43, as well as <a href="https://sites.google.com/site/ufologist52/Home/artiklar/artiklar-1991-1995/-chauffoer-soekes-till-tjaensteman-fraan-venus-" target="_blank">this Swedish article</a>, and this contemporary <a href="http://www.spiegel.de/spiegel/print/d-43159684.html" target="_blank">German article</a>. (Use the translation facility for each.)Malcolm Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00672612354161787023noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-832815673606447918.post-70841723643760343712018-09-19T07:12:00.001+10:002020-01-10T09:51:07.875+11:00The Riddle of the Amazonian Amazons Imagine, if you will, that beyond your towns and farms - the only world you know - dwell large settlements of aliens from outer space, of which you know very little, except that they are completely different, and incomprehensible. You see their flying saucers passing overhead, and more and more frequently they themselves are intruding into your domain. But you keep your distance, because oral tradition tells how they once committed terrible atrocities against your kind, or that once there were friendly relations, but then they brought the plague upon you.<br />
This, essentially, is the experience of thousands of Indians who are literally hiding from the outside world in the fastness of the Amazon jungle. Every time it is announced that the last uncontacted tribe has been discovered, another turns up. But once there were millions of them - only to be wiped out by massacre and enslavement, but mostly, as in North America, by infectious diseases which could devastate whole communities before any white man arrived. And somewhere in this maelstrom of destruction there was lost a community which most people now relegate to mythology: the women warriors after which the Amazon River was named.<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
As every schoolboy is supposed to know, but doesn't, the first European leader to visit the great river was Francisco de Orellana in 1542. Charged with exploring the Coca River in what is now Ecuador by Gonzalo Pizarro, the brother of the conqueror of Peru, Orellana and his men found great difficulty returning against the current, and decided to press on eastwards. The result was an epic eight month journey down the mightiest of all rivers, in constant danger of starvation and attack. Eventually finding his way back to Spain, Orellana struggled on two fronts: in persuading the king that his discovery was worthwhile, and in defending himself from Pizarro's quite reasonable accusations of desertion. The upshot was that he finally managed to return to the great river, bringing with him a young bride, who promptly became his widow after a final altercation with the Indians.<br />
Now, there are two aspects of this expedition worthy of note. The first is that, while in Ecuador, Orellana learned the Indian language. David St. Clair, to whom I am indebted for this account, calls it the <i>linga geral</i>, or "general language". This is a Portuguese term, which would not have been used by a Spaniard like Orellana. The Wikipedia, that fount of all knowledge, asserts that the modern descendant of the <i>língua geral amazônica</i> is a Tupian language known as Nheengatu. Since this originated on the coast, I am far from certain we are dealing with the same thing. Nevertheless, the fact remains that Orellana could communicate with the Indians.<br />
The second point is that the journey was recorded by two men. One was the expedition's official scribe, and the other was the highly respected Dominican priest, Gaspar de Carvajal, who maintained a diary of the adventure, and who returned to Peru when Orellana returned to Spain. Thus, what you are about to hear is not simply one man's yarn spun years after the event.<br />
Even before the expedition commenced, when he was in a village just six leagues from Quito in Ecuador, Orellana was told of a nation of warrior women who never married, but raided the neighbouring villages once a year in search of mates, and they dwelt on the banks of a gigantic river. When asked how far distant these women were, the Indians replied: "You go there young and you return old."<br />
Later, when the expedition had commenced, and they were building a ship in order to descend the Curary River, also in Ecaudor, an Indian leader called Aparian took Orellana aside and told him about "the women without men" in terms identical to what he had heard earlier. Aparian knew the story to be true, for he had met them himself when he visited their country as a youth. They were fierce fighters, but affectionate to their male captives, whom they would release after eight months. He warned the white men they would try to mate with them.<br />
Then, once they had reached the Marañon, the headwaters of the Amazon, they heard for a third time the tale of the warrior women. They were now in a heavily populated zone. Formerly, his stories of great wooden towns were treated as gross exaggerations, but we now know them to be true. The whole of the Amazon jungle is dotted with areas of <i>terra preta</i>, or "black earth", artificially produced by the addition of charcoal and other nutrients from the more stable agriculture of pre-Columbian times. Recent archaeological discoveries have <a href="https://www.nature.com/articles/s41467-018-03510-7" target="_blank">confirmed</a> the presence of massive population centres throughout the whole Amazon basin prior to the introduction of European diseases. Even so, when it was reported that for six days they held off attacks from 50,000 Indians, one wonders just how they were counted.<br />
After a long ordeal of fighting off Indians and near starvation, they arrived at the junction with the Rio Negro. It came as a real relief when another day's journey took them to a beautiful village without walls, where the inhabitants welcomed them with food and drink, and a guided tour of their city. Much to their surprise, the centre of the city was taken up with an open square in which stood a wooden structure ten feet high, representing another city with walls, towers, and doors. The towers themselves were marked with windows and connecting parapets, while at the main gates stood two roaring "lions" (? jaguars). This, they were told, was a model of the city of the rulers of the land: "the women who live alone", and he was shown the headdresses made as gifts for them.<br />
In the next village stood an identical monument. But in the next one, a different adventure awaited them. The men were all away, but the women welcomed them with open arms - and spread legs! Unfortunately, their cockulded husbands returned at midnight and put up a terrible fight. How unreasonable of them! The Spaniards drove them off, killing some, and capturing some others. Then they went back to what they had been doing before. In the morning they hanged the captives, then departed, leaving their mistresses to deal with their surviving husbands.<br />
The feast of St John the Baptist found them somewhere between 57 and 56 degrees latitude, perhaps near the site of the modern city of Parintins, and Fr. Gaspar suggested they go ashore to celebrate mass. However, as they approached the bank, the entire town came out to meet them. In itself, this was nothing unusual, but what amazed the Spaniards was that in the forefront stood a regiment of women: tall, muscular, and light-skinned, their long braided hair wrapped around their heads, and animal skins around the loins of their otherwise naked bodies. And they wielded bows and arrows.<br />
The women shot arrows into the air, and had them fall harmlessly into the water. Then they aimed into the boat, and five Spaniards were wounded. Orellana ordered them to respond with muskets and crossbows. Suddenly, the male warriors surged forward, but always in front, encouraging them, were the women. Some of the men who refused to fight were even killed by the women. For two hours the battle raged, while Orellana could only stand and watch in fascination of these female warriors. When seven or eight of them fell dead, the Indians retreated, but when a fresh wave of warriors was seen approaching, they white men themselves decided to return to the ship.<br />
But before they left, they managed to seize one of the male warriors, and that night Orellana spent several hours interrogating him, while the official scribe and Fr. Gaspar recorded the whole session.<br />
His name was Couynco, and he was one of the subjects of the warrior women, who lived seven days journey into the interior. The women had expected the strangers to offer gifts and he, who had been to their village many times, had been sent as a messenger to collect the tribute. He himself knew the names of at least seventy villages, and he knew there were many more. Whereas the typical Indian riverine town was constructed of wood, the villages of the Amazons were of stone, an uncommon commodity in the rainforest. Between the villages were walled-in roads, while guards prevented entry to anyone without permission and without tribute. The streets were clean and the houses in perfect order, and every male worker had to be outside the gates by sundown on pain of death. Tribute of gold, silver, skins, and feather work were brought in annually from the subject villages, for the women were feared by everyone, even those who lived many days away. And above them all was a queen known as "Coñori".<br />
Every year the Amazons would invade their subject villages and choose the best males for procreation. Later the men would be returned unharmed. Any girls born of such unions were raised to become a new generation of warriors, while sons were either killed or sent back to their fathers. Readers may note that a similar custom was told of the Amazons of classical mythology.<br />
Couynco added another interesting tidbit of information: at a lake near the warrior women's village occurred a magic green stone called Muirakitán, which only the women were allowed to wear. The significance of this is that, over the centuries, items of green jade, carved in the shape of frogs, deer, or other animals, have turned up. Yet the actual quarry has never been located.<br />
That was the first and last time any white man saw the fabled warrior women of the Amazon, and most commentators now treat them as purely mythical. But were they?<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Suppose that Orellana was lying about it all, in an attempt to merely please his regent and to embellish his discovery of the great river. But Orellana was in bad grace when he got back home and to have been caught in such a bold faced lie as this, would have caught his neck in a noose. Pizarro's angry letters to Philip II arrived in Spain before Orellana did. He expected trouble, and he certainly was not going to throw wood on his own fire by telling lies. Pizarro's friends in Madrid had money and influence, and they could have made it very profitable for any of Orellana's crew to come forward and denounce the explorer as a charlatan. Many of the crew were against Orellana when they finally got back home, for their voyage had been long and arduous and he had not let them help themselves to the gold and silver they had found in some of the villages. Yet, none of them called him a liar. They even signed a paper saying that what Orellana had said was the truth. They <i>too </i>had seen the Amazons.<br />
The priest had no reason to lie about the women either. What had he to gain? He didn't even return to Spain with Orellana, but parted at the Island of Santo Domingues and returned to Peru. Yet, when the King asked him for the story, he got the Amazon women as gospel truth.<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
[David St.Clair, 1968, <i>The Mighty, Mighty Amazon</i>, Funk & Wagnalls, p 37]</div>
</blockquote>
That argument sounds pretty reasonable to me. There is also another point: Orellana might have had a motive to exaggerate the economic value of the river he had discovered, but what possible reason could he have for making up something like this?<br />
There's more. Intrigued by this account, Sir Walter Raleigh decided to make enquiries about the warrior women when visiting what is now Guyana in 1595, and he managed to find a chief who had once been to the Amazon River, hundreds of miles away. He told him that the warrior women collected their men in the month of April, and when children are born, the daughters are kept, and the sons sent back to their fathers. They were said to live south of the Amazon, in the the region of the Tapajós River - which is consistent with Orellana's experience.<br />
Then in 1640, a priest called Cristobal d'Acuña kept a diary of what he heard on his way down the Amazon. At approximately the site where Orellana had met the warrior women nearly a century before, he heard exactly the same story: how the women would come every year to the territory, collect men, and raise the daughters born to them. Significantly, he mentioned the custom by which the women used to approach, bows in hand, and the sides exchanged arrows in a mock battle until it was determined that they came in peace. This is reminiscent of the custom of many societies of treating a wedding as a mock abduction of the bride, with the bride's family putting up a mock defense. Also, during visits between villages of the fierce Yanamami Indians, the guests put on a mock war dance, with a child dancing behind them to signify their peaceful intent.<br />
Now we can see how Orellana's battle was the result of a mistake. When the women initially fired their arrows so that they fell harmlessly, they were not attacking; they were greeting them - commencing a mating ritual. As Couynco explained, they wanted to mate with the formidable strangers.<br />
Finally, as late as 1755, another priest, Samuel Fritz, recorded the same story on the banks of the Amazon.<br />
<br />
What are we to make of all this? Two very strange aspects will immediately be apparent: that the women were warriors, and that they lived in an all female community, except for those males who were temporarily guests.<br />
The only significant all female military regiment in history was the "Amazons" of <a href="https://www.smithsonianmag.com/history/dahomeys-women-warriors-88286072/" target="_blank">Dahomey</a>. Generally, war is a man's domain, and women are kept out of it for obvious reasons: they do not have the strength and stamina of men, and their presence not only slows down the male war party, but disrupts it. Also, it is bad policy for a society to put the mothers and carers of its children in danger. (Don't let me get started on the <a href="https://www.unz.com/freed/women-in-the-military-fiat-equality/" target="_blank">current push</a> to put women into combat roles!) There are <a href="http://norseandviking.blogspot.com/2017/09/lets-debate-female-viking-warriors-yet.html?m=1" target="_blank">serious doubts</a> about women warriors in Viking society, but literary sources suggest that they might have occasionally appeared. In any case, it is fairly certain that the <a href="https://news.nationalgeographic.com/news/2014/10/141029-amazons-scythians-hunger-games-herodotus-ice-princess-tattoo-cannabis/" target="_blank">Scythian women</a> used bows and knives, and were the inspiration for the Amazons of Greek mythology, even if they did not live separate from men.<br />
And it is the bow which is the crucial aspect. Swinging a battleaxe while holding a shield is heavy work, but knives and bows - especially the short-range bows used in the jungle - are much less discriminatory as to sex. Also, although a woman's place is in the home, when push comes to shove, she may have to join in the defense of that home. The male war party may take the battle into the enemy's territory, but everyone has to take a stand when the home itself is threatened. Even today, intruders into the jungles of the Xingú have been confronted with both male and female archers. Modern commentators will tell you that this was simply what Orellana encountered, but the evidence suggests something more.<br />
Specifically, the women were living without men - except for a minority of guests or servants, depending on your interpretation. However, with primitive subsistence agriculture, based on hoes rather than ploughs, women typically do the majority of the work. Thus, a community of women would likely be economically self-sufficient, provided they had men to do the really heavy work, such as the initial clearing of the forest. As for animal protein, these were riverine societies, and the most common method of catching fish was with bow and arrow.<br />
However, I have serious doubts about their reported status as overlords, simply because I don't believe <i>any </i>community could dominate such as large area. To do so would require garrisons in the subject towns, and rapid response teams to put down any rebellion, something which would be impossible given the economic level of the society. The Amazonian Indians were at a cultural level with those of the northeast United States: forest communities based on primitive agriculture and hunting. In the latter area, we know that intertribal violence was endemic, but was there any case of a particular tribe holding the others in subjection?<br />
And what about the "general language" with which Orellana communicated with them? Amazonian languages may have had smaller vocabularies than European ones, but their grammar was often complex. I doubt if the white man understood it at more than a basic level. Hundreds of languages cluster in the Amazon basin, and today it would sound incredible that a single <i>lingua franca</i> could be spoken from Ecuador half way down the river, but in the days of dense population and easy movement by canoe, it may have been a reality. I can't help thinking, however, that it would have gradually changed as you moved downstream. Probably the reason Orellana's interrogation of Couynco lasted several hours was sheer difficulty in mutual comprehension. Did the local language contain exact equivalents of "rule" and "tribute", and would Orellana have known them? Most likely he interpreted the deference accorded the women warriors in terms appropriate to his own culture.<br />
But what was the reason for the deference? Were they priestesses of some sort? Or did their unusual lifestyle lend them a mystical air? Many primitive societies regard the insane, the retarded, and the perverted as somehow uncanny, and therefore infected with some supernatural power. Perhaps the aura attached to their lifestyle, as well as the fact that they would have made dangerous enemies, meant that their neighbours found it better to "make love, not war". After all, being led off for several months to be a stud, and to work no harder than you would at home, sound more like a holiday than an oppressive exaction, and the "tribute" paid to them sounds suspiciously like wedding gifts.<br />
How did this extraordinary society develop? More often than not, primitive villages contain a men's hut, where the fellows sit around and talk about male things - a custom far from extinct in our own society. Primitive man may not have had a club over his shoulder, but he certainly had the other sort of club. Some tribes go even further, and the men sleep there. The sexes are effectively segregated. Many communities in New Guinea follow this custom, and so do many South American Indians.<br />
St. Clair mentioned the extreme example of the Mundurukus, who were first contacted by Franciscan missionaries at the beginning of last century. To their surprise, they found the sexes completely segregated. The men worked in the fields, and sometimes were away for weeks on hunting expeditions, while the women guarded the village, or rather, themselves. The boys all grew up together in the men's hut, and often did not know their own fathers. When they marry, the man cannot take his bride into the men's hut, so they go off into the jungle. When they return, and she is pregnant, she goes to live with the women. These days a man seeks out the girl's mother for permission to marry, but originally the marriage rite was a game of war in which the woman took bow and arrows and "conquered" the man.<br />
Significantly, their centre is the upper Tapajós region, the same as the legendary headquarters of the warrior women. Obviously, it would have been easy under such circumstances for a group of woman to completely separate themselves into their own villages, possibly forming a secret society of a quasi-religious nature.<br />
Of course, a society which had to import its breeders could not survive the great depopulation resulting the introduction of European diseases. The jungle quickly reclaims any abandoned human habitation, so probably, somewhere in the dense rainforest, lies the overgrown remains of the fabulous stone city of the women warriors.<br />
The Lost City of Z, perhaps?Malcolm Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00672612354161787023noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-832815673606447918.post-82699214736246975772018-08-14T07:05:00.000+10:002018-08-14T07:05:07.189+10:00The Tale of a Silly Shakedown <i>1995</i>. It's said that bad luck comes in threes. I had just injured my leg in a skiing accident, my tenants had done a flit and let the house filthy and unrentable, and now my car had been stolen. I got off the train and limped down to the station car park, but where was the car? I looked back and forth, but it wasn't there: just a pile of broken glass to suggest that entry had been made through a rear window. What the ...? Didn't this sort of thing only happen to other people? All right, I will admit that repairing it was still cheaper than its purchase price, but the paint was fainted from 17 years in the sun, and unkind people were known to use the term, "rust bucket" when talking about it. Who'd want to steal something like that? At the Sandgate Police Station an officer entered the details into a computer and told me that, if it had been taken for a joy ride rather than parts, they would likely find it in a few days, for they usually cruised around car parks at night looking for stolen cars.<br />
That was late on <i>Thursday</i>. None of us could have predicted the sort of craziness which the weekend would bring.<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
<i>Friday</i> was simple. I contacted my insurer, who arranged for me to be supplied with a rental car for 14 days, or until the stolen vehicle had been recovered, whatever came first. It was a brand new Falcon with just 6 kilometres on the clock. "What about the insurance?" I asked.<br />
"It's covered by the insurance on your old car," was the reply.<br />
Not terribly reassuring! A dint on that thing would have cost more than the replacement price of the stolen vehicle.<br />
<br />
<i>Saturday</i>, for reasons I needn't go into, was exhausting, so I went to bed at half past 8, only to be jerked out of sleep by the loud ringing of the telephone about quarter to 9. My first thought was that it was a bit early for the police to have found my car. Instead, a male voice started: "I hear you're offering a reward, no questions asked, for the return of a car - a U.C. Torana."<br />
"Where'd you hear that?" I asked.<br />
"In the pubs and such," he replied. (Rubbish!)<br />
"Well, I hadn't, actually," I answered, "but I'm interested. What's your story?"<br />
"Listen, I didn't steal the car, but I know who did, because the fellow who took it tried to sell it to me. I know where it is. It occurred to me that you might be prepared to pay something - say $200 - to get it back. But I don't want the police involved, because I've got some outstanding fines."<br />
I started to think fast. It was probably best that he didn't know I had a rental car at hand. "Well," I said, "I'm more concerned about getting it back than getting the police involved. But I don't have any wheels right now, or the money. I'll have to see the bloke next door - perhaps wake him up - and borrow his car so that I can go to the ATM and get the money out. You'll have to phone back later. And how are you going to get the car?"<br />
"I'll borrow it from the guy who's trying to sell it to me. He has a skeleton key."<br />
He hung up, and a half an hour or so later I was at the police station being interviewed by a Detective Hopkins of the C.I.B., who instructed me to call back when he phoned again.<br />
Now, I asked myself as I went home, how did he discover my name and telephone number? Then it hit me. In the glove box I had left a small, very old notebook which I used as a log book, and it bore my name and address. It would then be a simple matter to look up both in the telephone directory, and although the telephone was in my mother's name, our initials were the same.<br />
<br />
<i>Sunday</i>. Needless to say, it took a long time to get back to sleep, and that disturbed sleep was shattered at a quarter past one by the raucous ringing of the telephone. It was him again. Did I have the money? Yes. How did he find my name and phone number? He confirmed my original conclusions.<br />
It would be difficult and pointless to repeat our exact conversation, because he was so scared he said everything twice. He would tell me something, go to another item, and then return to the earlier statement a couple of minutes later.<br />
"Look," he said, "I wasn't able to get the car, but I know where it. The bloke who stole it tried to sell it to me. He's a real violent bastard, and I don't want him to know I'm talking to you, or he'll bash my head in. But I'll show you where it is. I'll be frank with you: my motives are a combination of greed and doing you a favour. I reckon if I can help you get back your car, you can help me out by paying for the information."<br />
I agreed that sounded reasonable. "Right now," he said, "I'm ringing from a public phone booth at ..." and he gave me an address some miles away which would be very easy to find. "My name's Derek ***, and I come from Adelaide, where I've got a couple of fines outstanding, so I don't want the police involved."<br />
So, he's doing something of questionable legality, and he's afraid of the police, but he provides his name. Not only that, but he provided it again a minute or two later. I was starting to think I wasn't dealing with the sharpest blade in the cutlery drawer.<br />
"Don't worry, I won't call the police. I'm more interesting in getting my car back. So, how do I go about it?"<br />
"Well, if you can drive down here with the money, I can take you to the place. But if I show you the spot, you can't knock on the door. I told you, he's a real violent bastard, and I don't want him to know I'm involved."<br />
What the ...! He wanted me to go out in the dead of the night with a wad of money and rendezvous with a complete stranger at an isolated spot. Did he think I was a complete idiot, or was he one?<br />
"Well," I said, still pretending I had no replacement car, "I can get see if I can wake up the man next door and get him to drive me down."<br />
"I've got another idea," he said. "Perhaps I can phone for a taxi from here. I can then have him drive to your place, if you're prepared to pay the fare."<br />
That was the last thing I wanted! Instead, I told him I would stick to my original plan, and be down to meet him within the hour.<br />
"But don't send the cops around," he insisted. "If you do, I'll tell them another story." He was terrified of both the police and the violent thug who had stolen the car.<br />
"I won't send around the police," I told him.<br />
Like hell I wouldn't! I looked at my watch as I hung up. It was just after 1.21. Right away, I dialed the number of the local police station - feeling a heel, because I had repeatedly promised I wouldn't. No answer. It was apparently closed. I therefore dialed triple-zero and told my story to an officer on duty. He agreed to send someone around, and promised to ring back.<br />
Sunday morning: nothing happened! I had woken spontaneously at 6, feeling a wreck. Well, I thought, that's it; I've lost the car. After church, I caught up on my sleep. Then, at 4 pm I returned to the Sandgate police station because I knew Senior Constable Hopkins was due to be back on duty. He was surprised to hear that the station phone number had been registered as disconnected the previous night, because it was always manned. He contacted head office, and discovered that my call had gone through at 1.36. They had sent over a police car right away, but had found no-one. I gave him the complete story, and pointed out that a person with Derek's initial and surname was listed in the phone book close to the pick-up point.<br />
On returning home, I was just starting a cup of coffee, when the phone rang again. "Hello, it's me again," said a familiar voice. I couldn't believe he'd be so stupid as to call back. "What happened last night?"<br />
I wish I could always think as quickly as I did at that moment. "That's what I'd like to know," I demanded with mock indignation. "Where the hell were you?"<br />
"At the place I said," he replied. "The coppers came past, and at first I thought you had sent them, but then I thought it'd be against your best interests."<br />
"You're telling me!" I replied. "I wouldn't be stupid enough to send around the police." It seems he had ducked behind some building when the police car approached, then had waited till about half past two. Now he was at Sandgate, and wanted to meet me at <a href="http://www.dougsseafoodcafe.com.au/" target="_blank">Doug's Seafood Café</a>. Now, isn't it interesting: you live in a locality for decades, and never bother to use the eating facilities. This was the first time I'd heard of the café, but we now use it quite regularly. It's very good. Anyhow, I told him to give me half an hour while I borrowed the neighbour's car. I had to describe myself and the car, and received his description in turn.<br />
Immediately, I called Constable Hopkins, and hurried down to the station. It was agreed that detective Wells would drive the car, pretending to be my neighbour, because he was casually dressed. When we arrived at the café, we found it thronged with customers, none of which looked like Derek. Then Detective Wells pointed out a man who was tall and slim, wearing black jeans, as originally described. He also sported a small beard, a shirt opened on a tattooed chest, and a face that looked like it had been in a fight.<br />
"I believe I have to see you," was his greeting. "Derek *** is the name." I introduced myself and my "neighbour". He was affable, and suggested we get into the car and talk. Once inside, he explained that the car was, in fact, just around the corner.<br />
Suddenly, Hopkins appeared at the window. "Police!" he said, flashing his ID. "We'd like to have a talk with you."<br />
"Oh no!" said Derek quietly. "That's what I was worried about. So now I'll be going to jail, just for trying to do the right thing."<br />
Hopkins and another policeman piled into the back seat. Derek explained that he did not steal the car, but he knew it was hidden in a shed at a house nearby - a boarding house, I think. He didn't want to drive past it in case the thief saw that he was with the police, so we all went to the station, where I sat in a waiting room while the interrogation took place.<br />
I even felt like handing Derek a $20 bill as he went past, because I felt rotten about how I had betrayed him. True, he had tried to shake me down, but he was definitely trying to help me get my car back, and I had solemnly promised I wouldn't bring the police into it.<br />
About a quarter to six Constable Hopkins came and told me there was no point in my staying around. They had got the address where the car was stored, and were satisfied that Derek was telling the truth. There was not much they could charge him with, and I wasn't prepared to press charges. At 10.25 that night a call came to say that they had retrieved my car and arrested the thief.<br />
I never had to attend the thief's trial. They let Derek go, and I hope he got a good scare. He was not good enough to be an honest citizen, and not bad enough, or smart enough, to be a proper crook. That's a recipe for one day being caught between a rock and a hard place.<br />
As for the car: a few years later the rust on the doors became so appallingly visible that I had them replaced. Unfortunately, it was not possible to match the faded blue of the chassis, so it ended up with one door dark blue, one green, and one yellow. No-one would think of stealing that! Shortly afterwards, I sold it for scrap and replaced it with one better suited for taking a certain lady on outings and on a honeymoon. She now informs me that if I had started courting her with the old multi-coloured rust bucket, I'd still be single.Malcolm Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00672612354161787023noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-832815673606447918.post-59667774174655932572018-06-13T08:46:00.000+10:002018-06-13T08:46:40.746+10:00Weird Happenings at the Battle of Acoma God, gold, and glory should have been the motto of the Spanish conquistadors. Possessed of an inordinate greed for wealth and power, combined with a hypocritical, but nevertheless sincere, religious zeal, they cut a swathe of cruelty and plunder through Central and South America. In the pursuit of these goals they were prepared to endure any hardship, and face any odds. Though their crimes were execrable, their deeds were nevertheless some of the most heroic ever recorded. This story is about the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Acoma_Massacre" target="_blank">Massacre at Acoma</a> in January 1599, but more particularly some very strange incidents at its climax.<br />
<a name='more'></a> The main events can be briefly summarised. Inspired by a pipe dream of gold, silver, and pearls which could be had for the taking (not, of course, for the working), Juan de Oñate led an expedition into what is now New Mexico in 1598. It is important to note that the expedition included special notaries whose task it was to keep a precise record of the expedition. I mention this to point out that what is about to be described is not some legend created many years after the event. It must also be understood that they were not the first Spaniards to have communication with the Indians, and interpreters were also available.<br />
Having established a settlement at San Juan de los Caballeros (St. John of the Knights), he invited the heads of all local pueblos for a festival, essentially to notify them that they were now his subjects. For their benefit, the colonists put on a play, a bullfight, a mounted tournament, and a sham battle enacting the old wars between the Spanish and the Moors. Interestingly enough, the chief of Acoma did not attend, but he did send spies, and they noted, in watching the sham battle, that no-one was killed by the firearms. Were they, perhaps, harmless after all?<br />
The following month, Governor Oñate led a party westward to check out the rumoured pearls of the Pacific coast. A month after that, his nephew, Juan de Zaldívar headed off to join him, and when they reached Acoma, they requested food, which they were promised if they ascended to the top of the mesa the following morning.<br />
Acoma stood atop a sandstone mesa 400 feet high, accessible only partway by a narrow trail, with the final accent only by means of toeholds cut into the rock. At the summit, they discovered that it was not one rock, but two, split by a deep chasm. Zaldívar ordered his men to separate and collect food. Suddenly, a scream rang out from the chief, and the Indians fell upon them with every weapon available. The battle raged for three hours, at the end of which 13 Spaniards were dead, and only four survived to regain their comrades left at the bottom.<br />
Probably Oñate would have been incensed at the pueblo rejecting his authority in any case, but this was treachery! They swore bloody revenge. The Governor himself, on the urging of his followers, remained in San Juan, but a punitive expedition of 70 soldiers was organized under the command of Vicente de Zaldívar, the brother of the murdered Juan. By command, all the men confessed their sins and received absolution, except for one "abandoned wretch", who refused any dealings with the sacrament. They marched out on 12 January 1599. Acoma being ten days' march away, there was no way for those at home to know how the expedition was faring. Then, on the 24th a strange visitor arrived. I shall quote the words of historian, Paul Horgan.<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Late in the afternoon of that day, a small, ancient Indian woman, all bone and folded skin, asked to see the Governor. She came with an air of circumstance proper to one so old and so used to the respect given to old age by her people. The Governor received her.<br />
Yes? he said.<br />
There, she replied, westward, far, that flat country, and that great high rock that rose straight up from it, with a pueblo on top.<br />
Yes, Acoma, what then?<br />
War and battle, around and around and around, men striving against each other, beating, so, and stabbing, so, and killing.<br />
Yes, yes?<br />
Some with swords.<br />
Yes, soldiers?<br />
Some with arrows.<br />
Indians. And then?<br />
The air full of power and fury. One, two, three days of this. The rock was wide and the struggle flowed back and forward upon it. There was death everywhere. In the sky there came something - a vision in light. Then up, waving upwards, smoke entered the whole air. And then it all ended.<br />
When? When did it all end?<br />
Today. Just today. The war was over.<br />
Over? But who was victorious?<br />
Swords. The soldiers were victorious.</blockquote>
The Governor thanked her and let her go. But who was she? And where did she come from? Certainly not Acoma, for that was ten days' march away by fit men. But he was to learn the truth of it nine days later when the quartermaster rode in with two prisoners, and a remarkable story.<br />
The morning after their arrival at the foot of the mesa, Vicente sent the larger part of his men against one end of the mesa while himself leading eleven men under cover to scale the other end - where he managed to secure a foothold, after fighting off 400 wild Indians.<br />
On the second morning, the soldiers from the plain swarmed up onto the mesa. Now began a ferocious battle, which involved such actions as a beam being thrown across the chasm, soldiers using it as a bridge and then drawing it after them. When it was seen that their forces were cut in two, a Captain de Villagrá took a running jump across the chasm and threw the piece of timber back. The "abandoned wretch" who had refused to confess his sins before setting out was accidentally hit by a musket ball. Recognizing his eternal danger, he staggered down the cliffside to the plain, just in time to blurt out his sins, which were no doubt numerous, to the chaplain before dying.<br />
On the third day, the Indians elders suddenly approached with tears in their eyes offering to surrender. They had known they were beaten, they explained, when they saw a great warrior with a long white beard (Indians are beardless) and a fiery sword, riding a white charger in the sky above the invading army, attended by a beautiful woman in a blue robe and crowned with stars. The soldiers were dumbfounded. It must have been their patron saint, St James of Compostela, and the Virgin Mary herself!<br />
500 prisoners were led back to San Juan to be tried for rebellion. Enslaving the Indians was against the law, but not penal servitude for a set time. Every prisoner over the age of twelve was sentenced to twenty years servitude, with the men over twenty-five receiving the additional penalty of having the right foot amputated. However, as it turned out, this punishment was inflicted on only twenty-four.<br />
But what really puzzles me is the mysterious old woman who announced the outcome of the battle long before the news could possibly have arrived, and the vision of saints at the battle. Now, people of that period had a tendency to place supernatural interpretations on natural events. A chaplain of Cortes claimed to have seen St James on a grey horse before one of the engagements with the enemy, although the chronicler of the invasion, Bernal Diaz thought it looked more like a certain fellow soldier, Francesco de Morla. The trouble is, at Acoma it was the Indians who claimed to have seen the vision, not the Spanish, and it was in the sky, not on the ground. Perhaps their descriptions of the vision gained something in translation, and morphed into the traditional aspect of the saints in Spanish iconography. Still, it is all very mysterious.<br />
Just the same, I find it hard to believe the the Saviour's apostle and mother would looked with anything but horror at the atrocities being committed in their names. I am pleased to say that a similar horror was felt by some of their contemporaries, for the cruelty to the inhabitants of Acoma was included in the indictment of Oñate when he was eventually brought to trial in Mexico.<br />
<br />
<b>Reference:</b> Paul Horgan (1963), <i>Conquistadors in North America</i>, Macmillan. His source appears to have been George Hammond and Agapito Rey (editors), <i>Don Juan Oñate, coloniser of New Mexico, 1595 - 1628</i>, University of New Mexico Press, 1953, a collection of original documents.<br />
<br />Malcolm Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00672612354161787023noreply@blogger.com0