The Reverse of the Medal by Patrick o’Brian
O’Brian is highly talented storyteller who uses sophisticated techniques to entertain but also inform on the themes, values, fashions, attitudes, humour, politics and sociology of the 19th Century Royal Navy.
The story is a continuation of the Aubrey and Maturin saga. It consists of 18 volumes, which should be started at the beginning.
This is my third or fourth reading – I look forward to many more.
Those of you with African origin will understand the title.
“Soutie” is a derisive Afrikaans name for an English speaking South African. It is an abbreviation of the crude term soutpiel or salty prick.
Many Afrikaners were of the opinion that English speaking South Africans retained one foot in Britain and the other in Africa. As this resulted in legs far apart, it caused the salination of the dangling nether regions.
I confess that there may be some truth in their assertions
I have just returned from a sojourn in the land of my birth. eSwatini is a landlocked little kingdom in Southern Africa. My brothers live there, on a farm in the bushveld. The eldest, Mpunzane, has late stage Parkinson’s, so the visit was bitter sweet. My wife is in Nelspruit with her sister who has cancer.
Not a fun visit.
Seedy, run-down, dirty, busy, rural houses like weeds in every space, no plan just build.
Too many care less officials and fat police officers. Road markings gone, potholes, beggars, some traffic lights.
Poor but friendly.
Lots of curled lips and curses about the fat, greedy king. Nobody seems to like him, but see his cultural role as still important.
Almost felt like home ….. but not quite.
We are OzAfricans now, settling well in the South Pacific.
This is an untitled poem in Afrikaans by Lidi de Waal, a poet and artist fom the Western Cape in South Africa.
I find Afrikaans to be a wonderfully expressive language – translation below
{*The poem was untitled – this is my title for it)
die lewe is te kort daarvoor
om geluk elders te bly soek
of om daarvoor te bly sit en wag
geluk is nie iewers anders nie
dis nie in ń ander dorp
of ń beter blyplek nie
dis nie in volgende week of volgende jaar nie
dis nie by ń ander partner
of beter vriende
of ń ander werk nie
geluk is hier waar jy is
geluk is in die vrede binne in jou
in die klein stukkies vreugde
wat soms in jou eie hart opwel
life is too short
to seek happiness elsewhere
or to sit still and wait for it
happiness is not somewhere else
it’s not another town or a better home
it’s not in the next week or the next year
it’s not with another partner or better friends
happiness is where you are
happiness is in the peace within you
in the little bits of joy
which occasionally well up in your own heart
These are the 40 glimpses of moments, experiences which resonate whenever I think of them.
My Lenten undertaking was to make something everyday, so I re-created and shared these memories.
Easter is my time for reflection and thanksgiving; it is a time of reverence and rejoicing for many.
Let us all pray for peace.
Day 1: Pavarotti’s astounding faith in love:…vincero, vincerooo!
Day 2: Torchlight showing rainwater running into a fresh lion print
Day 3: Electric green flashes as lorikeets shriek by
Day 4: Flowers bending under bees knees
Day 5: Michelangelo’s statue of David in Florence – artistic perfection!
Day 6: Tickalocks! All locked up!
Day 7: A wild elephant’s eye from 6 feet away ..!
Day 8: Peroop! peroop…! – bee eaters calling high in the sky
Day 9: A leaping tiger fish spitting my spoon back at me on Lake Kariba
Day 10: The view from Table Mountain
Day 11: The aerial ropeway at Havelock Mine
Day 12: La Pietà di Michelangelo in St Peter’s Basilica
Day 13: The scent of Mum’s roses
Day 14: Benny Wessels rubbing his bum in the frost after being caned!
Day 15: A Mocambique Cobra standing hood-spread 6 inches from my feet…
Day 16: Drifting down the Zambezi River watching crocs and avoiding hippos
Day 17: The lone piper sounding a lament at the edge of the Mtsoli valley, Havelock Mine
Day 18: Ozymandias
Day 19: Family and friends under the flowering jacaranda at our wedding.
Day 20: The blare of the trombone and poom-poom of the tuba blown by Swazi warriors on the march
Day 21: Grilled piri piri prawns a la Portugues
Day 22: Notre Dame cathedral
Day 23: A headless puffadder trying to strike the hand holding its tail.
Day 24: A whiter shade of pale
Day 25: Daddy laughing at something he read – tears streaming from his eyes.
Day 26: Pie jesu
Day 27: A cold glass of beer on a hot afternoon
Day 28: The Duomo in Florence. Cattedrale di Santa Maria del Fiore
Day 29: The Concorde
Day 30: Candy floss
Day 31: Roadside Cosmos
Day 32: The scent of bread from bakery ovens
Day 33: “Do not go gentle into that good night” by Dylan Thomas
Day 34: Gustav Klimt’s painting: Judith and the head of Holofernes
Day 35: Blue swallows flitting past on a high mountain vlei
Day 36: The glint in the eye of an impish bull terrier
Day 37: Samba pa ti – Carlos Santana
Day 38: The amabutfo singing Siya ncaba ka nkofula on Swaziland Independence day, echoing from the Mdzimba Mountains
Day 39: Ox Tail stew
Day 40: Last Post sounding from the Police camp in the evening – Mbabane in the 1950’s
The word itself has an unpleasantness about it – it is about the not so bright side of life.
I must warn you that this blog discloses some conservative aspects of my personality. If you would prefer to maintain your image of me as untarnished, turn a page; if you are curious and brave, read on …
Since I left school, I have had to pay for my own haircuts – so I didn’t. I let my hair grow. Now if I still had the silky blonde curls of my toddler years, longer hair would likely have been a chick magnet.
Alas, my hair turned frizzy and wiry – Mahlutsi in siSwati; my sister’s name, so called for her thick wiry hair. No worries, Afros were almost fashionable even in the old SA! On liberal white campuses anyway.
After 4 years of untamed, occasional self trimming, I had to get a job, so went to a barber for a short back and sides. All my mates were in the Police or Army doing national service, so I was in fashion.
I honestly don’t recall haircuts in the 10 years I was in Rhodesia, but kept it quite short. I think I may have prevailed on friends’ girlfriends. (I was not a chick magnet).
After I moved to South Africa and got married I noticed that barbers seemed to disappear, to be replaced by hairdressers. Also, I started balding…
I was put off by going to a hairdresser, so bought my own clippers and did my own hair. Occasionally my wife would correct any major oversight.
About 10 years ago, I had a beard and a monk’s fringe which was getting a bit waywardly curly. Deciding to treat myself I sought out a barber. They seemed to be coming back into business again.
To my surprise, the barber was a hairdresser. Lisping slightly, he asked if I had an apointhment. I had never made an appointment at a barber shop in my life. You just sat on a bench and read fishing and car magazines until a chair was free!
He said he could fit me in in the late afternoon… I hardly heard him. I’d seen the price: Pensioner special $25!! I had never paid more than one dollar before!!
I shot out off there and have never looked back. It is clear hairdressers have taken over the striped pole and old dentist chairs from barbers…
So, I cut my own hair, I must say no-one has ever commented except my wife who likes me in curls. No major disasters … until today.
On the spur of the moment, probably to avoid writing a blog (yes, it is Friday) , I decided on a quick trim, as it is getting quite hot these days.
Act in haste, repent at leisure… All went well, but as I was clipping the middle of the back of my head, I felt a cool stripe. Then I felt something fall off the clipper. It was the attachment which sets the length of hair.
As my grandson says: Uh ohh!!
I couldn’t see in the little hand mirror, so reluctantly went to find my wife. She snorted and tears came to her eyes…
She turned me with my back to the big mirror and I looked in the hand mirror. There is a vertical bald track up the back of my head..
Ah well, my hair has not been my best feature, since I outgrew my toddler curls…
At least it gave me something to blog about!
What I believe is greatly influenced about what I feel. Thoughts and words express our perceptions which are greatly influenced by our emotions.
I suffer from bouts of insomnia for as long as 10 minutes and occasionally wake up too soon to get up in winter.
These are some of the thoughts that exuded from my foggy brain this morning:
It gets quite difficult and foggy, very quickly
Coincidentally, someone posted this on Facebook recently:
I am God … I think therefore I am.. I am a biological thinking intelligent machine… I can create my own reality.
I believe we are mostly good, but that experiences mould us:
I started life in Africa, as everything did apparently. That history was a great place to learn values and witness injustices.
Hmm! That should be enough for you to chew on.
I do not doubt that there will be little response to these humdrum words – that usually only comes after blogs about birds and flowers and such like.
Life is suffering
Love is the desire to see unnecessary suffering ameliorated
Truth is the handmaiden of love
Dialogue is the pathway to truth
Humility is recognition of personal insufficiency and the willingness to learn
To learn is to die voluntarily and be born again, in great ways and small
So speech must be untrammeled
So that dialogue can take place
So that we can all humbly learn
So that truth can serve love
So that suffering can be ameliorated
So that we can all stumble forward to the Kingdom of God
“Don’t underestimate the power of vision and direction. These are irresistible forces, able to transform what might appear to be unconquerable obstacles into traversable pathways and expanding opportunities.”
Jordan Peterson: 12 Rules for Life: An Antidote to Chaos (I think)
I often struggle with direction and the meaning of life; what Peterson says resonates.
…. and now for something completely different..
The Midnight Cowboy
What happened below is one of those stories that you couldn’t make up.
It was case that came before me when I was a Senior Magistrate, presiding in Salisbury Magistrates Court
The accused was charged with failing to obey a Police officer’s instructions and assault. He pleaded not guilty.
At about midnight on the night in question, a Detective Superintendent was driving home after a Police Officers’ Regimental Dinner. Formal dress was required so he was attired in his No 1 mess uniform – navy blue in colour with sword, spurs, medals, brass buttons and lots of braid. A glorious sight!
He observed a vehicle drive through a red traffic light without stopping. As a Police officer, he felt obliged to give chase.
He caught up to the offender and forced him to pull over, got out of his car and approached the other car.
He remonstrated with the driver who responded tersely with a coarse suggestion that he should go away and then roared off again.
Under cross examination, the Superintendent denied the suggestion that the accused could have mistaken him for the Midnight Cowboy returning from a Fancy Dress Ball.
(At this stage, I had to pretend that I had dropped my pen, to hide my laughter!)
The zealous policeman, now incensed, called in the registration number and got an address. He arrived there about half an hour later.
The fugitive came out, there was an altercation, and he biffed the policeman, whose spurs caught in the grass and he fell over. It was produced as an exhibit!
The Superintendent retired in high dudgeon and then called out the riot squad, who deployed in full force with rifles and spotlights to arrest the offender.
There was not a helicopter as later depicted in a Sunday paper cartoon.…
I had a great deal of difficulty remaining impassive and dropped my pen 3 times, I had to … I couldn’t stop laughing!
During an adjournment, I suggested to the Prosecutor that he withdraw the case and he said he wanted to, but the complainant insisted.
Eventually, I found the man not guilty of disobeying a policeman, as he may not have appreciated the glorious uniform contained a policeman.
But I had to find him guilty of assault, but gave him a paltry fine, which enraged the pompous policeman.
It really wasn’t so funny. The man’s hubris had besmirched the reputation of the Police force; he had deployed great force to deal with a petty infraction; such abuse of authority was astounding.
I wish I had kept a copy of the cartoon in the Sunday Tribune!
You can buy a dream or two to last you all through the years
And the only price you pay is a heart full of tears
Francoise Hardy sang it so sadly to a young teenager, along with many other songs that echo in my memory. I won her LP Francoise Hardy sings in English at a school ‘tickey’ evening in 1964. Instantaneously, I was a life long fan.
My friend Phillip Birch heard of her arrival in South Africa and scored her autograph for me.
His photo was in The Star running alongside her and David Gresham her impresario. Gresh was also a Swazi boy so organized the signed autograph. Oh, swell my heart!
Her version of Leonard Cohen’s Suzanne was a wonder song:
And you know that she’s half crazy but that’s why you wanna be there,
And she feeds you tea and oranges that come all the way from China,
My favourite was probably All over the world – it was particularly meaningful to me when my son was soldiering in Afghanistan.
If maybe some night
You come back from afar
Who cares if tonight
I don’t know where you are
I have never denied being sentimental.
MHDSRIP
In other ways of surviving Lonesome Town, 3.5 million people use chatbot platforms daily as companions, romantic partners and even digital ghosts.
Woebot is a metal health chatbot which responds with cognitive behaviour therapy. It is not a generative chatbot like Chatgpt – conversations are written by writers with training in evidence-based approaches.
This indicates a significant shift in how people interact with technology for emotional support and socialization.
However, while these interactions can be beneficial, they also raise concerns about addiction and the potential negative impact on real-life social skills.
Digital ghosts, or AI-generated avatars of deceased loved ones, offer another perspective on how AI can influence human emotions and relationships
This practice taps into cultural traditions of communicating with the dead but also introduces new ethical and psychological challenges. While some find comfort in these interactions, others worry about the potential for prolonged grief and the blurring of reality and memory.
AI companions also extend into the realm of romantic relationships, with platforms offering AI-generated girlfriends gaining popularity
AI companions can provide temporary comfort and help improve social skills, they cannot replace the depth and physicality of human relationships. companionship and emotional support in elder care, hospitals, and mental health facilities.
For example, … a robotic pet that responds to voice commands and provides calming conversations for dementia patients, reducing the need for constant human supervision and enhancing patient comfort stress management, coping with loss, or relationship counselling.
In the workplace they can provide employees with confidential, 24/7 support for stress management, work-life balance, and mental health issues.
Most of the above paragraphs on AI chatbots were extracted from an article in Quantumrun – The Futures -No 59
There is a wonderful new world out there being made possible by AI, which can largely wipe places like Lonesome Town from the map.
But as in all things moderation is the key (something we are not very good at!)
Kaah -coo-coo-cooo
A hen had just laid and egg and proclaimed her pride and satisfaction for all to hear, as I passed on my early morning ride.
I again feel sad that I have no live chickens of my own. In urban areas, roosters are not permitted because of their intemperate calls. I was given some substitutes as a consolation, but sadly, they are silent, eat no caterpillars and don’t poo on the lawn.
Personally, I am an early riser, so am grateful for cock crows at dawn. When there is a full moon rising, I am delighted when vigilant roosters are fooled, thinking here comes the sun”!!
We fed weeds to our chickens when we were young; always keeping a look out for the head rooster, Mziki, who was a beautiful, vicious bastard! We fed him a dead boomslang and he choked on it and died. My Dad was very sad, so he was buried and not eaten. We tried to be sad…
Tsabetse, our convict gardener, was the chicken executioner. We youngsters were enthralled. He would catch the convicted fowl, place its head under its wing and turn a circle three times, disorienting the bird. He then stretched its neck on a wood block and chopped its head off.
Once, he let the body go too soon and it lurched to its feet, headless, tottered around gouting blood, scattering us like sparrows, squealing and twittering!
Swazis take great pride in the beauty of their chickens and some have acquired proud long legged Malay Game fowl. The Malay Game cock has a vicious hooked beak, and spurs like lances.
Back in the day, my elder brother and friends spent hours driving to remote kraals to buy prize specimens for secret, nefarious entertainment.
They had cockfights.
Blood and feathers and the guilty joy of indulging in a prohibited activity. We youngsters were enthralled, revulsed and fascinated, proud to be allowed to watch, but slightly appaled too.
That practice was ended on threat of prosecution after a complaint by some Mother Grundy. He/she probably doesn’t like boxing either!
My younger brother also loves chickens and he taught me the danger call: a Crrrrrrrk! uttered from the back of the throat, which sends all the hens scuttling under cover, with one eye skyward, looking for the chicken hawk.
His chicken run on his bushveld farm has to be pretty robust to resist attacks from pythons and egg eaters such as the imbolwane, a mongoose, which once provided much entertainment, when the chicken man had to catch it.
I was very happy to see feral gamefowl and bantams on roadsides in New Zealand.
Chickens are wonderful – they provide eggs and meat to many across the world. They are beautiful, make economical pets, eradicate garden pests while fertilising it in the process.
You gotta love them!
For purely practical reasons I am not a punter and if I do gamble I fully prepare to lose my money – I rarely win. If I do I get so exhilarated I blow the winnings on the next bet. I tend to bet on my gut feel; ’tis my Irish ancestors….
Just an aside before the main tale. For obvious reasons, I rarely go to the horse races: I usually can’t afford it and if I have some spare cash, I lose it quickly. Added to this is the fact that at the time I served on the bench as a magistrate in the city courts. As Dick Francis so well describes, racecourses attract shady characters with whom I should not socialise.
But the elements conspired against me. A friend had been given some complimentary tickets to the members’ enclosure. Now, this is quite swanky and has a fine view of the track, the parade ring and the spectators, as well as a well stocked bar. Rugby season was over, so what better way to spend a Saturday afternoon?
To cut a long story short, a man who I didn’t send to jail but fined heavily for repeated drunk driving gave me a tip, which I put a small bet on, not really trusting the source.
It cruised in at 10-1, so drinks were on me.
I should have sent him to jail. At a subsequent meeting he again gave me another tip and I bet half my salary – the bloody horse is still running….!
Anyway, what I meant to tell you about was an amazing stroke of luck in the middle of the Botswana desert. A group of us were on a fishing trip, travelling in two utes (Australian for bakkies) when I noticed a single wheel overtake us – it was ours!
We had sheared a half shaft. Fortunately we had an engineer with us. Engineers never travel without their tools, but no-one carries spare half shafts.
Unfortunately we were 170 kilometres from Gaborone and 120 from Palapye in the semi-desert of Botswana. There was little traffic.
Our engineer went off to Palapye in our other vehicle; we expected him back in 6 to 7 hours. We were not unduly worried about being stranded in the Botswana semi-desert.
Our supplies were ample: a case of tinned peaches, a case of bully beef and eight crates of beer. We lay down in the shade to snooze (to avoid the temptation of starting on the beer…)
To our surprise, after less than an hour, we were roused by a beep beep beeep!
This is the part that is hard to believe.
About 20 minutes down the road, Peter, our engineer saw a cluster of houses just off the road and a tree with an engine suspended on a chain from a branch.
He stopped and inquired. When showed the broken half shaft, the man said “No problem” and led the way to an Isuzu bakkie, smashed up front. In 20 minutes they had stripped an identical half shaft, paid the man R200 and driven back to us.
It fitted perfectly! We went on to have a wonderful fishing trip.
Once back home the vehicle owner decided to order a spare half shaft, in case of another problem (he was an engineer..) There were none to be had in the Western Transvaal, nor Johannesburg ! Eventually, after a few weeks, a spare was sent from Cape Town!
Now what are the odds one could be found in the bush on the edge of the Kalahari desert?
Story proposed by Louis Boshoff Thursday 25 March
We awoke early in the morning to a twittering, swirling flock of carmine bee eaters flying above the house we had slept in.
Can you believe the exhilaration of the birders in our party. We stood open-mouthed at our first sighting of this quite rare bird, certainly none were to be found in the Transvaal or Eastern seaboard that we knew.
Our safari had arrived at our destination after two in the morning and fallen exhausted into our beds, having been on the road since about 8 am the previous day and travelling over 1300km’s.
We were a group of work mates who had formed a travelling fishing club. Not for us the muddy dams and turgid rivers of the Western Transvaal – we wanted to get away from there. Not all of us were avid fishermen. Of the dozen or so of us, maybe two were real fishermen. Most of us were more interested in bird watching and beer.
Our first trip had been an 1800 km trip to Henties Bay in Namibia. We hadn’t caught many fish at this legendary locale, but we had drunk Namibian beer, eaten Eisbein and had a great time.
This trip was to Shakawe at the top of the panhandle of the Okavango Delta. Two of our members were managers in TEBA the mine recruiting agency,which had recruiting stations in some of the most exotic places in Southern Africa. Each station had a well appointed, serviced guest house which often went unused for years at a time.
This station had two boats with which to navigate the river. The Okavango river was well known for tiger fish and delectable three-spot bream.
The fishermen pointed out that it was possible to fish, look for birds and drink beer while cruising the river. They were wise men! There was no dissent so we embarked after a sumptuous breakfast of scrambled eggs, boerewors and bacon, with toast and marmalade to accompany strong coffee.
The river tiger fish is a worthy opponent and we lost many more than we landed. Once hooked they will leap into the air and shake their head violently. This is usually enough to shake free the lure which comes whizzing back at dangerous speed.
The river is wide and there were virtually no other boats other than a mokoro. On the papyrus islands in the river, large Nile crocodiles sunned themselves, slipping into the water if we got too close.
A first for us all was seeing African skimmers, fishing by skimming their lower beaks in the water. We saw their nests on sandbanks and had to slow the boat to avoid swamping them.
Fish eagles and kingfishers of all sizes abounded. As did the carmine bee eaters, which nested in the river banks. There were also European, Little and White fronted bee eaters. Birdlife abounds, so the birders were happy.
The fishermen were defeated by the tigers, so we adjourned to a local lodge for G&T’s. In the evening some fished for the legendary three spot bream and caught enough for supper.
Over our three days there were nudges from crocs and charges by hippos and lots of laughter. The only bird we missed seeing was the Pel’s fishing owl, but our faculties became quickly distorted after nightfall; we would likely have missed a passing ostrich by then!
That was a trip to Paradise and worth the thousands of kilometers. I would like to go again.
sillysocksonfriday 