Maybe the end of the road…?

It was a joyous event! The communication, administration and facilities were excellent.

Last night, herself and myself pledged our troths to Australia. Happily and gratefully! We sang the anthem with gusto – it is a cut above the average God save dirges and visions of eagles and flags.

There were 166 new citizens originating from Afghanistan to Zimbabwe.

We both wore Swazi ligcebesha to signify our roots.

Good friends and the daughter of other friends also completed the political genuflection with us.

In order to reassure us in this hitherto foreign land, we were welcomed no less than five times. The MC doing so twice. Of course he was a pollie, as was the acting Mayor, acting on behalf of the Minister of Home Affairs, who also welcomed us.

Auntie Someone, an elder on one of the the three Aboriginal councils corresponding to the clans in the Quandamooka area, kindly explained th origin of the welcome practice. It originated with border control warriors thousands of years ago, welcoming strangers at their clans’ boundaries. I suppose quite a lot like our BorderControl Force.

It was a mild indoctrination session, underlining the importance of immigration which is probably the second hottest political potato in the world today. (The most important being energy).

We got over that and pledged our troths to this grand country quite happily, singing the anthem with joy! Afterwards we each received a little tree to plant in our new country, which is a grand gesture

Certainly, it was the best such ceremeony that I have undergone. I say this with a slight hint of cynicism, as I have some experience in this field.

As a child of the colonial empires born in the 1950’s, I have been wafted by the winds of change and obliged to acknowledge a number of polities.

I was born in Swaziland, a British Protectorate in Southern Africa, now the Kingdom of Eswatini.

My parents were Southern African born British citizens, both in states that no longer exist: Dad in the Cape Colony and a year later Mum in the Union of South Africa – both states now in the Republic of South Africa.

Notwithstanding my registration as a British citizen, I was also a Swazi citizen by birth and travelled on a Swaziland passport. Some years after the granting of independence, King Sobhuza discarded the Westminster constitution inherited from the British and commenced rule as a King in Council.

In an overtly political attempt to eradicate a political upstart, the King ruled that only second generation born Swazis were entitled to citizenship. Consequently, my attempt to renew my Swazi passport was rejected – I was only first generation born.

The Brits chased me away, despite my parentage and registration as a citizen as a child: The right to British citzenship was extinguished by the Swaziland instrument of Independence – a nasty sidestep clearly aimed at limiting claimants to British ‘protection’. The perfidy of Albion!

So in 1980 I was stateless, stuck in war torn Zimbabwe Rhodesia. When I asked, they gave me a passport without any need to apply for citizenship. It was either that or a UN Displaced Person’s Passport – soon to become quite common.

Luckily, my grandmother found my Irish grandfather’s baptism certificate and I applied for Irish citizenship and a passport, which I still have.

No ceremony, just fill in a form, send photos and certificates and a fee.

I am still an Irish citzen. “Go raibh maith agaibh”

Having left Zimbabwe, (which was Rhodesia, then Zimbabwe-Rhodesia), I lived in the Republic of South Africa for 14 years as a temporary, then permanent resident. I was not suffciently in favour of that government to choose to become a citizen, despite the right to do so through my parents.

In 1986 things were burning in South Africa so we got the forms to emigrate to Australia. 40 years ago!

This was postponed by the arrival of one then two more babies…

We tried again in 1996 finding that we had insufficient immigration points to enter Australia but enough for New Zealand. We intended to move to Australia from there.

We arrived in New Zealand in 1998 and became citizens in 2001. That was a good ceremony in a church hall, some te reo Maori waiata, serious and solemn – no tree to plant.

But Australia didn’t support university student loans and we had 4 children …. so we stayed in Aotearoa.

By 2013 most of our children were in Australia or elsewhere overseas, so we made the jump, happily. New Zealand was good to us, but just a bit too far out of town…

Now all our children are here, we have 7 grandchildren and a solid happy home.

I am also still a New Zealand citizen

My last 2 children should soon become Australian citizens and then I will rest.

The right of residence has become the most important thing in the world – to have that in a solid and safe economy and society is a gift that must be nurtured and protected.

From Brit to Swazi to Irish and Kiwi and Ozzie.

No more – Australia is the end of my road.

I am also fond of Guiness.

A museum piece

Idly looking on Google maps at my Granny’s old house in Lee on the Solent in Hampshire, I saw there was a hovercraft museum in the village.

In 1962, I saw the Duke of Edinburgh piloting a hovercraft down the slipway onto the sea at Lee. Now he’s dead and the craft has a museum.

Later, Oupa Nu and Granny took 2 granddaughters to the local Redlands Museum. Essentially a time display of how life was lived from the days of early colonist settlement in the early 19th Century.

There were a few Aboriginal artefacts but that was not the focus of the museum.

Life must have been very hard for early settlers. The land need to be cleared, mostly by hand, with oxen doing the heavy hauling for loggers.

There were a number of exhibits from the second half of the last century. Many were achingly familiar and evoked nostalgia for a gentler, easier time in a different place.

“We had those” and ‘ we had desks like that and inkwells for dipping our pens….” Not much interest from the youngsters who were searching for hidden Easter chicks.

It was a strange feeling – I felt almost like I could be an exhibit !

Now I have a telephone, diary, dictionary, encyclopedia, film theatre, camera, torch, juke box and bank card in one little machine in my pocket! (Just got to learn how to use all of the things…)

The book I am now reading…

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.

Soutie

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)

Where to find happiness *

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

 

Glimpses of my life

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

A Vicissitude

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!

How do I feel?

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:

  • How do we address the erosion of western values by the woke generation, some of whom are our own kith and kin?
  • How did I learn to feel and think the way I do?
  • What was the world like when I learned to think and articulate what I believe in?
  • What do I believe in?

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:

  • There are some bad and weak people who choose to follow their own ways, despite knowing better ways.
  • We are easily distracted and tempted; self-discipline is difficult, but rewarding.
  • We are also easily misled and pride rules our redemption.
  • We forget that emotion guides every choice and harnesses intellect, so that it becomes imperfect..

I started life in Africa, as everything did apparently.  That history was a great place to learn values and witness injustices.

  • Discrimination based on race, gender, ability and history is wrong.
  • We have a duty to stand by our family and friends.
  • We pay the State to serve us and we must also serve the State in times of need. But we cannot blindly follow the State.

Hmm! That should be enough for you to chew on.

Which way are you going, Billy?

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.

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!

Lonesome Town

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.

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!)

Chickens!

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!