Holes in My Soles

The Dragon at the Red Heart: Oh Africa, Beware!

2013-04-17T14:06:00.000-07:00

Picture by Jim McIntosh.

Oh, the Eastern Dragon seduced us, sucked us in and coiled around.
We accepted all the entreatments while the Dragon drew us down.
Where? Where do we go from here?
Oh Africa, beware!
The Dragon subtly beguiled us and treasures plenty spread around
but only for our leaders to ensure their eyes turned to the ground
while ivory and horn is hewn away
and all our earth stripped back to clay.
Where once the Red Heart beat the strongest now all the country shredded bare.
Where? Where do we go from here?
Oh Africa, beware!
Oh Africa, beware!
When this land has long since lost its glory in all of this tragic ballet
and all wild beasts are now mere childrens' story
will we realise, will we remember what we sold away?
Where? Where do we go from here?
Oh Africa, beware!
The Eastern Dragon's thirst cannot be slaked
its talons clutch our beating Red Heart
and now to tear this beast out from our breast
we'll only tear ourselves apart.
Where? Where do we go from here?
Oh Africa, beware!
Where? Where do we go from here?
Oh Africa, beware!
Oh Africa, beware!

There Lies a Mortally Wounded Tui.

2013-02-11T16:07:00.004-08:00

This post was written last year, but out of respect for abuse-survivors involved in a sad case in our community, it was not published then.

Tui sculpture picture www.stuff.co nz

This steel artwork once graced our Paraparaumu Beach gateway.

There lies a mortally wounded tui

and we consigned it to dark obscurity.

Society laid the blame on its shimmering frame

now lying in the dark we can't see.

In the sunlight our tui would sing.

Did you appreciate the song it would bring?

A tui needs to fly, just like you and I

we all need sunshine on our wings.

There lies a mortally wounded tui

and its fallen from grace from that tree.

It doesn't deserve to be an abuse casualty

it just wanted to sing and be free.

Broken glass can cut deep and hard

and it can leave us so badly scarred.

A wound cannot heal if fragments we still feel,

we need to dig out all the shards.

There lies a mortally wounded tui

now it lies there where no-one can see.

Pierced by arrows of blame, burnt by our shame,

will it rise like a Phoenix from the flame?

Tui picture ex Wikipedia.

The above steel sculpture, commissioned by Kapiti Coast District Council at a $20,000 cost to ratepayers, now lies rusting away in our KCDC storage sheds, if not already despatched to the scrap metal dealers.
A renowned steel-art sculptor created the stylised Tui in flight, and it was installed on public display in our community. Subsequently, the shocking and tragic case, reported here- Second-sex-offender-sculpture-to-be-removed, resulted in the Council removing this magnificent public work of art.

Naturally we should be mindful of the victims' feelings in this situation, such a crime being of the worst, with consequences far-reaching and devastating for victim and family.

Council's decision to tear it down was based on it being seen as a constant reminder to the victims. Much argument was made for it to be temporarily removed out of respect, but apparently it has gone permanently.
Maybe it has been mortally wounded?

Should we tear down, destroy, or burn art when we find that the artist is guilty of great crime?

The artistic quality of the artwork stands on its own merit.
The Tui bird it represents is beautiful, probably our favourite native bird, and certainly should not be tainted by this crime.

I was hoping for an outcome where the tui could be adopted as a symbol for all programs against child abuse, meaning all physical abuse, not just sexual. There's a need for all these crimes to be brought out into the open, and fly in the face of society, and not be concealed for whatever reason.
The victims should not carry the shame. They should be encouraged to speak out, and shame the perpetrators. Victim and family should feel safe in our community to speak out. The cloak of anonymity should be denied the offenders.

Our iconic Tui bird is itself a survivor of all the abuse thrown at it over the past 200 years of colonisation, with the degradation of its home environment and being preyed upon by introduced predators. And yet, it is making a comeback as a songbird in our forests. It is resurgent and triumphing over adversity, adapting to our suburbs as we realise the importance of planting nectar-producing trees and flaxes. Without those, there are no Tuis. The Tui represents our enlightenment these days about healthy eco-systems.

Maybe, in an enlightened society, it could have been a more positive outcome for the tui sculpture to have been re-dedicated to all survivors, and placed on public display again, as a way of having a permanent reminder that survivors will sing, and predators will be exposed?

Tui on flax, or harakeke, by Matt Binns

Sadly, the tui statue disappears into the darkness, and predators still stalk our children.

Dark Shadow.

There's a dark shadow walking

in the brightest light of day.

The blackest figure stalking
it's stealing innocence away.
How do we expose this unseen beast

from its secret camouflage?

Perhaps on the day those silent screams
become brave cries of loud outrage.

There's a dark shadow preying

on the innocence of our young kin.

You can't block its entrance

it's already there within.
For those it attempts to envelop

with its snuffing cloak of guilt and shame,

stand up and throw it off.
Reach out: re-ignite that brilliant flame.

As a footnote to this story of child abuse in our community-
Reports and many letters to the editors of our local newspapers discussed the case. I had this very short verse to one editor published.

Perhaps the tui should have stayed in our midst

A constant reminder of all our children at risk

And as the sun strikes this tui and its plumage glows

Its beauty can forever remind and reveal

The loss of innocence an adult may steal.

I subsequently received an email from a person involved with one of the families concerned, and was very touched by this person's comments.
"...., that the small time you took (if it was you) to write such a heartfelt letter, really touched us, all of us."
and "...but your few words spoke to me more than any other. Thank you so much, I didn't know where or how to start my new life, but now I do. From the ashes of the old comes a new flame. Thank you."

The last line of "Dark Shadow" poem above was written for that person.

Sometimes poetry speaks volumes more than is written.

Beyond the sum of all his fears: The Rhino War.

2013-02-07T10:34:00.000-08:00

Poached rhino picture courtesy Facebook Rhino groups.

An ageing soldier crying softly, beside a body on the ground
Sheds a tear for his young slain friend
He never thought this would come down.
He'd thrown away all his bush gear, camo paint and forage cap
Spent his life forgetting firefights in dark shadows
Without a thought that he'd go back.

Life has dreams from hard foundations, memories with no shed tears
Struck with the heart ache of our creations
In the invulnerability of our young years
From the vat of our maturation brews a spirit of adventure
That spills towards our next generation
Whom we protect beyond our fears.

The young soldier survived the bush war, threw his life into his dreams
Played a part in the creation
Of an Eden ... or so it seems.
Raised a calf from its lost mum, fed it every day by hand
Grew to love his lost young orphan
Sanctuary for all became the plan.

It is such a sweet temptation for us to simply turn away
To ignore the wildlife decimation
That supplies the Asian trade.
The ineptitude of our nations, the impotence of governments
Sends a message to all caring people
To care a damn is a piece of shit.

Aching heart beside his slain friend, new resolve and a pledge is made
To seek the killers of his now lost brother
The one he'd raised in his sanctuary
But old soldiers know the danger, the blood and all the fears
Never rush to don the camo
Never want to wear the gear.

Now there's a deeper call of duty, calling way beyond his fears.
He heads along the faint new pathway
Tracking two legged predators
Seeks his quarry in long shadows, where deadly ambushes are laid
Amongst flashing memories of firefights
A last patrol for his young compadre.

Life has dreams from hard foundations, memories of old despairs
Struck with the heart ache of our creations
Amidst the anger and the tears
A deadly shot strikes its target: he never wanted to kill again
But he'll protect his new generation
Beyond the sum of all his fears.

"Slaap sag, rustig ou grote. Slaap sag."
"Rest in peace, old friend. Rest in peace."

Members of the Pilanesberg National Park Anti-Poaching Unit (APU) stand guard as conservationists and police investigate the scene of a rhino poaching incident April 19, 2012. — Reuters pic

The Rhino poaching war escalates. 668 rhino were slaughtered in 2012 in South Africa. This year is off to an equally depressing start: 82 as at 6th February! At this rate, 2013 may see over 930 killed, and that figure is just for South Africa.
This is extermination of a species.
rhinoconservation.orgsouth-africa-57-rhinos-killed-in-31-days/

Many reserve owners, who in their youth may have been involved in the wars for independence in Southern Africa, are now, in what should be today's peace, having to take up arms and fight a new battle, this time with the survival of rhino at stake.

Dreams to create wildlife sanctuaries on their land are being crushed. Lives are being lost. Rhino being driven to extinction to supply Asian demand for rhino horn.

This war is increasingly high tech with latest weaponry, light aircraft, thermal imaging and night vision equipment used, and now the deployment of drones for aerial surveillance. Inevitably it is the men of the APU, at the forefront of this battle, who ultimately place their lives on the line. They'll spend long hours in the bush, silently tracking poachers, and potentially risking a gun battle.

A comprehensive report about rhino poaching and the anti-poaching units now guarding rhino is here-
malaysianinsider.com african-big-game-poaching-surges

Poached rhino picture courtesy Facebook rhino groups.

Nature's Symphony.

2013-02-04T23:58:00.000-08:00

Practising my yodelling at Lake Grassmere, Lakes District, UK.

Nature's Symphony.

There's a song flows through the mountains
There's a rhythm in every stream
There's a tune that soars with the eagles
Over every prairie green.

In frozen wastes rhythms vibrate
When crystals ring in high frequency
And in desert sands wind's whispering hand
Creates soft notes of harmony.

While some ignore or will not listen
Or just hear cacophony
There are those who'll join in chorus
And sing Nature's Symphony.
There's a song flows through the mountains
There's a rhythm in every stream
Will you join in Nature's chorus
Or will you chant her requiem?

There's rhythm as seas crash and thunder
As waves break upon rocky shores
Falling leaves of Autumn rustle
There's a song in there and more.

When a robin sings with pleasure
His song as Spring bursts forth
Released from chill grasp of Winter
Daffodils will trumpet their worth.

For those who enjoy Earth's treasures
There's a song that you will hear
You'll do your part to share your heart
And spread her music everywhere.

Can you hear sweet Nature singing
Her symphony so clear and strong?
Some will never hear her singing
While others loudly sing along.
There's a song flows through the mountains
There's a rhythm in every stream
Will you join in Nature's chorus
Or will you chant her requiem?

There's a song flows through the mountains
There's a rhythm in every stream
I will join you in the chorus
I'll not sing her requiem.

Wellington Harbour looking from track between Eastbourne and Pencarrow. By Jim McIntosh.

The Cage: Carole's song.

2013-02-03T12:02:00.000-08:00

How far are you prepared to go to achieve rights for all animals?

When you read your local paper to see what's going down
entertainment notice, a circus come to town
frustration gets you checking out
eyes calling to your soul
animals in their confining cage
you see their despair
you feel the rage!

As you're sitting in the restaurant, feeling all done in
long day of animal rights demonstration
you read it on the menu
up top of the page
shark fin soup chef special
feel the despair
feel the rage!

It's coming round again,
all the rage
you're going down again
the rampage
of your soul again
lost in despair
that there's no justice
anywhere.

And you're sweating through 6 miles, feeling almost beat
looking for respite from all your heart breaking
you see a fur coat walking on
the wrong two pair of feet
you hit her with that red spray can
use your despair
use your rage!

Then you get to score a seat at the latest fashion release
watching them all clapping the skeletons up on stage
you see her come out strutting
wearing all that exotic skin
so you jump up on the catwalk
she feels your despair
she feels your rage.

It's coming round again,
all the rage
The judge is looking down again
your rampage
for animal rights again
lost in despair
that there's no justice
anywhere.

You see it on your Facebook wall, another rhino down
the photos get to be too much, so many going round
but you'll rampage again
for their pain
there's no justice anywhere
so don't despair
but keep the rage!

When the bars are shadow patterning across your pasty face
you're feeling low and frightened at this restricted space
you knew the choice would bring some pain
it ain't so easy, this Vegan way,
but you'll do it all again
use your despair
to fuel your rage.

The Smell of Affection: Wet dogs and my neighbourhood.

2013-01-31T00:01:00.002-08:00

Kapiti Island lies off our beach. Picture by Jim McIntosh.

That smell is in the air again, sweet and greenstalkish, the residue of the usual neighbours' Saturday afternoon subjugation of Nature, with scything line trimmers and charging raucous mowers.

Selonie is cooking curry. That cloying, pungent sweetness spelling the worst of gas attacks in trench warfare. I look forward to her morning cup of aromatic Gujarati chai though.

Ray's beheaded his captive golden-tressed damsels of racked roses, their glorious crowns no longer complimenting his terracotta-tiled keep. The best sight and perfumes are last month's siege.

Rudayna, at Unit 10, has already prepared her week's Weightwatchers salad in bulk. That sugary-acid smell of pickled cucumbers hits me. 10 jars covered her table last time I collected the rent.

No 7 is well camouflaged behind rampant 'camo' gear of purple Ake-ake and variegated green and yellow Lemon-wood. I crush a tender leaf and draw in deeply.

5 has trimmed his ranks of eucalypt soldiers to attention. Those volatile oils offer a ketonic nasal assault, clearing any remnant unseen lurkers in my olfactory bunkers.

Lorna, at 3, has tied back her sweet smelling carnations, and put her hollyhocks to the stake. Rampant in colours of white, reds and purples and heady in perfume. Just a whiff gets to me.

Joe is having fresh-picked tomatoes for evening salad. Chives and mint scents waft out his door. I'd add basil and half a chopped chili.

We reach the beach, no exhaust fumes, it's clear of day-invaders with just locals on R and R. Who wouldn't be, on such a glorious Summer's early evening? Ambushed by pungent smokey-lamb mixed with garlic and rosemary nostril openers, the barbecue is so entrapping. Kids charge from their beach landing-craft in waves, as mum yells like a Beachmaster "It's ready!"

Sand, gritty and chafing in sandalled water-softened feet. Tua Tua and Pipi shells crunching, fragments flicked up and catching between straps, daggering tender skin.

Wave-scalloped, rippled sand patches, and we are walking like giants flattening Namibia's desert dunes. It's a gentle violence though.

Seagulls wheeling, and squealing their alarm above terriers, boxers and mutts chasing nothing in frenzied, unleashed excitement managing to avoid the dive-bombing Stukas' aim. Wet dogs sure smell. How come they always want to jump up on you when they're wet? Or shake the water off and give you a car-wash? Our Lilly is particularly pongy now.

Salt, seaweed, and decomposing wave-ground detritus aromas mixing like the best Islay single malt nose. The 10 year old Laphroaig, Geoff and I broached last night, will be a consummate pleasure of truce talks after our evening reconnaissance.

We return through reserve land smothered in blackberry and fennel: nothing nicer for apple pie. Blood-red stained hand releases a clutch of juicy Rubus blasted with the overpowering concentrated-coriander smell of squashed vegetable-stinkbug. I wonder if they could flavour Chinese dishes?

In our street, that lingering tangy, sweet cut-grass smell still permeates the evening air, surrounding our patrol's end. It signals the end of conflict now.

It's the smell of love, or the sweet scented signal of caring, the aroma of pride that neighbours have for our beach side community. You hear it first, you see it and then you can smell it.

I surrender to the smell of affection.

For Lilly.

Our street. Raumati South, New Zealand. Picture by Jim McIntosh.

.................................................................................................................................................................

This little story has sat in unfinished files for too long. I had always wanted to write about our walks, with our dog Lilly, around our neighbourhood. The evening walks along our beach have always been a simple but immensely enjoyable pleasure for us, more so with a big, smelly mutt for a great enthusiastic companion.
Last Monday on a writing forum, another author posted a topic which spurred me to reply, and I then felt compelled to complete this. I finished it last Tuesday, and uploaded it to my writing course blogsite.
That night Lilly died suddenly. After our glorious evening walk she suffered a twisted stomach, and a late night rush to a vet failed to stop her demise.
The loss makes you realise how much your life can revolve
around a dog. That smell of wet dog is very sadly missed.

Rivers and bridges: knowledge and understanding.

2013-01-18T14:56:00.000-08:00

Chobe waterfront, Botswana. Picture by Jim McIntosh.

There are these rivers that flow wide between us
There are these oceans of knowledge unknown
If we could converse would you join with us
replanting the damaging seeds you have sown?

An orangutan mother comforts her baby, dazed at the loss of her jungle homeland, destroyed for palm oil plantations.

It could start as a trickle, like a mountain stream flowing

until understanding is falling like Spring's gentle rain

There may be chasms and canyons between us

but knowledge spills over like waterfalls of champagne.

The whaling industry nearly wiped out many whale specie. Picture courtesy Norfolk Museum.

It could start when these rivers have bridges across them

and torrents of knowledge flow to the sea
When you bridge this water we'll show you the ocean
of blood from the slaughter of the disappeared specie.

Research advances into unlocking the secrets of animal communication. Some researches say within 5 years we will talk with elephants. When we finally do, will we be able to accept what they will tell us?

If we could build bridges and walk this land together
we'd show you where beauty and rhythm abounds
And across these wide rivers, across these wild seas
there''ll be no more conflict between man and we beasts.

They killed them all-

2013-01-14T01:14:00.003-08:00

How many elephants died so a rich jerk could swank around in this ivory covered car?

They shot them all- the elephant.
How could we be so ignorant?
Just for trinkets of ivory
we destroyed a whole specie.

Elephants in Chad are being wiped out so their ivory can fund weapons. Picture courtesy SOS Elephants of Chad.

They killed them all- the mighty lion
so their bones could rot in wine.
What a weird Asian belief
putrefying bones can bring relief?

They shot them all- the tall giraffe
bows and arrows while they laugh
macho pics decorate Facebook walls
while trophy heads adorn their walls.

They killed them all- the proud leopard
It wasn't all so really hard
Just a poacher's wire snare
and a gin-trap hidden there.

They shot them all - the rhinoceros
now there is no more for us
to admire- now we mourn
all because of their bloody horn!

Photo courtesy Facebook rhino groups.

So they killed them all- the Big Five ( and a few more...)
now no more are alive
They followed the examples set
of leaders plundering our natural assets!

So we now ask the President
why would anyone frequent
Africa so empty and bare
with no more Big Five living there?

We wrote them all- the letters sent
to the esteemed President
We begged his intervention for
how could he completely ignore?

Special report: Elephant poaching for ivory.

2012-12-11T00:28:00.002-08:00

Photo by Jim McIntosh.

The poaching of Africa's elephants and rhino is escalating at an alarming rate. 624 rhino have been killed in South Africa to date this year, up from 488 last year. These figures show a massive increase since 2007 when 13 were killed.
The demand for ivory in Asia is insatiable. Charlie Warren has authorised my sharing of his report backgrounding elephant poaching. Sad to see these magnificent animals being killed for chopsticks, personal seals and ivory carving, especially when modern materials can be substituted.

AFRICA’S ELEPHANT & THEIR ALARMING RATE OF DECLINE DUE TO POACHING
(Thank you to those who helped with the info/articles on the Pachyderms and what they are currently facing due to Chinese fueled poaching)

Elephants are intelligent, social & affectionate animals that live in FAMILY herds and Mourn their dead… it is sad to see them staring silently at the remains of those family members who had died or been killed… poachers are known to lie in ambush waiting for those who they had not killed; to return to the poached elephant to pay their last respects and then open fire on them with automatic weapons and Rocket Propelled Grenades (RPG 7’s) of Russian and Chinese origin, this way they wipe the whole heard from day old babies to the most senior Matriarch….

DEMAND FOR THE ELEPHANT TUSK

The demand for Elephant Tusks has been created by China… and the Elephant population is being decimated at an alarming rate, tens of thousands of them being killed at an enormously alarming rate, China does not worry about Africa, it’s inhabitants and even less so their animal heritage… all they want to do is rape Africa of everything that they can make money on… Forests are being depleted all over Zimbabwe and Mozambique will wake up too late when the chinese leave … and they will because there will be nothing left there…

In Kinshasa (DRC), poached IVORY (and usually poached by that countries troops) is openly on sale in unregulated markets, these markets are patronized and encouraged heavily by chinese consumers of poached ivory, and another point of glaring alarm of this fueled poaching by China is the fact that 90% of ALL those arrested for elephant poaching at the Kenyan International Airport … ARE CHINESE!!!

In November 2012 5 tons of illegal elephant tusks were recovered when they were discovered at the port of entry in Hong Kong … to give you an idea of how many Elephant that were massacred for these tusks… use the following equation… 3.81 tons of elephant tusks is equivalent to 500 POACHED ELEPHANTS! These were shipped to Hong Kong under the guise of Sunflower seeds… a few days later another 3.8 tons of Elephant tusks were uncovered imported under the guise of PLASTIC SCRAP AND BEANS….
A week prior to the discovery of the 5 tons of tusks … 1000 Elephant tusks were intercepted en route to CHINA… this is another 500 Elephants that had been poached…

An estimated 50,000 Elephants were poached for their Tusks in 2011 alone… and in another incident in Manhattan, New York a ton of CARVED IVORY was seized by the law enforcement agencies there … and yes it had been sent from CHINA…

Just imagine the fear and total panic there was AMONG THE ELEPHANT HERDS, when Cameroonian poachers opened fire and killed 650 elephants in their OWN NATIONAL PARK…!!!! An absolute disgrace to humanity these people are and even more so by China that encourages this sadistic slaughter for their GREED…

And above all … the gestation period for an Elephant is 22 MONTHS (640 days) that is nearly TWO YEARS for them to produce a baby… they can NEVER recover from this slaughter and unscrupulous poaching for the EAST…

The Chinese sell these TUSKS/IVORY in China at the going rate of US$900.00 per Kilogam (2,2lb).

HOW THE ELEPHANTS ARE POACHED

This is done in an extremely macabre and sadistic way, it varies from country to country but the methods are extremely cruel and inhumane… in Mozambique (when they still had elephant herds) the poachers use to dig huge pits (holes) and then drive the elephant into them… then they would place large old trees and firewood on top of them and set fire to the wood and burn them to death, there was no way an elephant could get out of these holes, the fear, pain and agony for them is excruciating and indescribable… and now what they do … they chase OUR South African Elephant herds into Mozambique where our govt in their absolute “wisdom” tore down the fence along the Mozambique border and called it the Trans Frontier Park… Our Rhino are also being poached this way … there is much to say about this … you ask why don’t we send our troops to stop the poachers (of both Elephant and Rhino)… that I am afraid can only be answered by the Dept Of Environmental Affairs … but all you will get is the deafening silence from them and the rest of the SA govt…

In Southern Chad & North Cameroon they use Automatic rifles and Machine guns; such as the AK 47 and the RPD, AND OF COURSE SATTELLITE PHONES …supplied one way or the other by China… in one instance they went on a killing frenzy there and killed over 650 Elephants, every animal in every herd… by the way …they also used RPG7’s (Rocket Propelled Grenades… and hacked the Tusks out of their heads while they were dying an agonizing death…) where did this happen… IT HAPPENED IN THEIR NATIONAL PARK!!!

The Congolese Military are the worst culprits in the Elephant poaching, followed close behind by Uganda, South Sudan and Cameroon… they are basically all involved one way or another… very few of them stay out of the poaching because of their weak and corrupt govts… and incidentally… the pre independence SADF were also involved in the poaching of 1000’s of Elephant and Rhino in Angola for the horn and Tusks… read more of these mind blowing facts in the book “KILLING FOR PROFIT” by Julian Rademeyer.

GENERAL

In the rest of AFRICA we are losing between 80 -100 elephants daily due to poaching of these majestic animals, Mozambique cannot be included here as they have killed off ALL their Elephant Rhino and most other Wildlife… and whatever was poached was sold off to the Chinese… so it is my guess that when they have stripped the forests of Mozambique and all their ocean fish… it will be a kick in the arse for them (Mozambique) and the chinese will move onto the next country to rape and pillage… which one you ask… YEP… YOU GUESSED IT… SOUTH AFRICA!!!

Immigration have already admitted that they cannot cope in South Africa with the major influx of Chinese… I heard this with my own ears in court at one poaching trial…

Officials in the “know” have claimed that is no major problem with elephant poaching… hmmm … I think they forgot to add …YET…! Anyone with the tiniest iota of logic, will see that this is going to become a MAJOR problem in the not too distant future… especially when the rest of Africa’s elephant have been decimated to extinction… AND THE Chinese then look South… to our country… SOUTH AFRICA!

Kruger Park have already made illusions (on the quiet) to the threat of Elephant poaching on the horizon… my question is why is this NOT being made public… we know that elephant are already being poached there…

Tom Milliken (Leader of the Elephant &Rhino Program) TRAFFIC; has stated that the African Elephant are facing the most serious crises since international commercial trade in Ivory was prohibited under CITES IN 1989!

Other experts say that poaching is due to the presence of organized crime primarily led by Asian crime syndicates… many of us KNOW THIS IS THE PROBLEM… !
But what is this govt doing about it and what have they done about the severe Rhino poaching problem?

Countries to the North of us are using honest soldiers in support of their Game Rangers and Scouts… and this is making a small difference, but over there … they shoot poachers on site… not like here where poachers are treated with kid gloves, as well as their Asian masters…

If the South African govt does not wake up soon to what IS on the horizon for our Rhino, Elephant and the rest of our wildlife heritage…. South Africa’s tears for this destruction will be made of BLOOD....CW

A car covered with carved ivory. How many elephants died for this?

Picture courtesy SOS Elephants of Chad.

My home has become your deckchair.

2012-12-06T19:15:00.000-08:00

This mother clings on to her baby as she surveys the destruction of her forest home, cleared for palm oil plantations and timber for export.

What's it like to enjoy the sunshine while you sit in your Kwila chair?
Do you ever see our faces, reflected in your glass of chardonnay?
All the hungry and the homeless who no longer are here
in the freedom of our homeland.
Do you even care?

Have you ever seen my homeland of forest reaching clear?
Have you ever thought my home has now become your chair?
Your comforts steal my shelter, your ignorance takes my life.
If you steal our wilderness we will not survive.
My child is going hungry, I cannot provide.
Will you look into our faces? We are terrified
by the chainsaws and the bulldozers that destroy our life.
You enjoy reclining on your deck of Balau tree.
Just chew another mouthful of palm oil laden sweet
you're chewing up my homeland, we lie here in defeat.
Your hunger for your comforts creates such deep turmoil
the destruction of my homeland, all for your palm oil.

Have you ever seen my homeland of sunshine dappled vines?
How the trees soar way above and brush against blue skies?
If you could see my homeland you would wonder why
you chainsaw out its beating lungs, and you destroy our lives.

Do you really hate your life so much you cannot abide
the beauty of my homeland is better than the concrete where you live?
Must my homeland be erased so you can believe and live your lie?

Deforestation continues to cause the decimation of habitat for Orang utan throughout Indonesia. Now found only in remaining wilderness in Borneo and Sumatra, these primates are fast being pushed to extinction as world demand for palm oil soars. Huge areas of jungle are cleared for the expanding plantations. Timber of Kwila and Balau is logged, shipped to China where it is turned into cheap outdoor furniture for primarily Australian and New Zealand recreational use- outdoor tables and chairs, and decking. Timber products carrying a 'Sustainable sourced' certificate is of dubious origin. Much illegally logged timber is fraudulently re-certified as sustainably sourced and then channelled into legal markets.
Any purchase of Kwila or Balau timber products, or consuming foodstuffs containing palm oil fuels the destruction of rainforests and hastens the extinction of orang utans.

Check all product ingredients. Buy timber from sustainable plantation forests, not of tropical origin.
Consuming these products is consuming their homelands.
Petition to sign-
The petition site.com help-stop-the-use-of-palm-oil/
and
The petition site takeaction
Pictures from-
slaughtering-primates-for-pest-control-at-palm-oil-plantation

The Sparrow and the Rose: Edith Piaf.

2012-12-04T12:06:00.000-08:00

Edith Piaf - 15 Dec 1915 - 11 Oct 1963.

Through my valley of faded youthfull memories, a song, played over our family's big old valve radio that took up half the frontroom, (as you called the best room in those days) still sings clear. It backdrops memories of ragged pants and barefoot childhood: falling from tall pine trees, roaming farm fields with my many brothers and sisters (the ones I wasn't fighting with at the time), a fox terrier and rusty pitchfork in hand tracking possums, walking the milk-cow 3 miles home, sister screaming her head off with big toe mangled in bike chain sprocket, being bullied at school and other images...all hung on to so desperately these days .

But vivid after so many years is this song. I loved that delicate, plaintive, lost soul voice that came from so far away but yet penetrated so deeply a young kid. I still love it.

The Sparrow and the Rose.

La Vie en Rose

the sparrow sang.

La Vie en Rose

and through the valley

the three bells rang.

From a Parisian street

on a cold winter's night

in a country ravaged by war

wings desperately beating as it took flight

a little sparrow

would make our hearts soar.

La Vie en Rose

the sparrow sang

from the depths of an anguished soul.

La Vie en Rose

the little sparrow sang

in a voice so hauntingly sad.

La Vie en Rose

the bleeding sparrow sang

while impaled on the thorns of life.

Edith Piaf - 15 Dec 1915 - 11 Oct 1963.

The Little Sparrow still sings in my valley.

The above poem, written by myself, was first published on Nov 3 2011 at John Reese's blog.
The French Way Blog: The Sparrow and the Rose.

Tessa's Song. Dreams never die... lovers we miss.

2012-12-03T10:58:00.000-08:00

Dreams never die... lovers we miss
they may have gone... but they never depart.
Ace of Spades trumps...any Queen of Hearts finessed
in life's cruel game...when that lone hand is played.

Pain will abate...anger deflame.
Time will abide...when He calls their name.
Their memories we enfold...deep down in our heart
for those quiet moments alone...when we reminisce.

Some hearts will sing...through eternity's rain
Others will break...caught in life's cruel twists
the stronger the love...the deeper the pain
Then in quiet moments alone...we reminisce.

They say it's better to have loved and lost
than never to have loved at all.
When a lover cannot remain
the void of sweet cruel pain
is filled time and time again
by the parting we've known...and the lover we miss.
And when we are alone...and we reminisce
then we'll come to see what is truly their gift...
the sweet cruel joy of parting...is for those truly blessed.

Dreams never die...lovers we miss
they may have gone... but they never depart.
Their memories we enfold...deep down in our heart
for those quiet moments alone...when we reminisce.

Dreams never die...
lovers we miss....

Photo "Thoughts" on Kapiti Island by Ian Trafford.

He wahi taoka. He wahi taima: A special place. A special time.

2012-11-28T15:44:00.002-08:00

Travel Poetry gets a bad rap. Do you ever see poetry published in main travel publications? Nope, I never see any.
I guess editors don't want it because verse needs space around it. Great poetry can't be swamped, unlike straight narrative which can have more info crammed into the allotted space. Do editors think precise info has to be presented to the reader, rather than encouraging the reader to interpret meaning for themselves?

Shame on editors for not grabbing the style, and encouraging writers to explore poetic interpretations of place and time as much as the narrative writer or the photographer. It quietly surrounds and journeys with the traveller expanding their dimension of experiences, and should be just as much a part of our travel publishing as the best picture or narrative of place. In fact the best poetry has a longer staying power in our written history and conscious memory than the best travel narrative. The earliest travel writers were after all poets - the Iliad and the Odyssey are still well read classics.

And having learnt the joys of Tennyson, Burns, Wordsworth (gee, I've even been to his house) and the host of other great poets, do we ever forget their words?

You can still recite your favourite poems...but can you recite any travel narrative?

I'm sure it can't just be me. I keep going back to "Worst Journeys: The Picador Book Of Travel" and re-reading Carolyn Forche's 'Return', and each time find something new in her poem. As for the narrative authors in that collection- once read, their story is laid aside or forgotten. I don't need facts - I need impressions.

So why is travel media obsessed with narrative or list articles?
How many ways can a place be written about after all?
More and more travellers writing about the same places....the future doesn't bear thinking about...that word 'boring' is hovering on the horizon....

Ho hum, let them scramble all over each other. I'll just explore my way of doing things.

Even so, it's quite an unjustified situation, as wherever one looks poetry abounds - if you open your eyes.

During our recent 3 week trip around the South Island I was really impressed to find poetry wherever we went. I didn't search for it, it was just there waiting to be seen. Prose records and displays history in museums, it is framed on heritage hotel walls, etched in granite on roadside memorials and walkway markers, or chiselled on headstones of long neglected cemeteries of remnant gold or coal towns.

Click on these pics and bring them up full size in slideshow format and enjoy.

Denniston open-air coal mine museum. West Coast.

After reading this, don't you feel as if you have imagined just a little of how a coal miner felt in those days of hard, dirty and claustrophobic work with danger lurking all around you? Would a narrative have conveyed the same feelings?
Denniston Read here.

Now try this article- Nugget Point Walkway - by a noted NZ traveller and writer, and not once does she mention the sterling effort our Department of Conservation has undertaken along the Catlins Coast walkway to provide walkway markers that entice you with information in a unique poetic manner!
Space constraints? Well if so, then print publishers are failing to adapt to the unfettered possibilities offered by online publishing where formats can be more expansive.

Nugget Point Walkway to the lighthouse.

Along the walkway there are many markers displaying poetic interpretations of the experience, but have you ever read a travel article that mentions these? That travel writer would be looking for a unique pitch for a story, and yet she ignored this angle!

I feel they add an extra dimension to the walkway experience, encouraging the reader to stop and imagine more about the environment and the forces of Nature that shaped this coast. You pay a lot of money to travel, so why ignore all the offered ways to enjoy a place?
Read the markers so you can always recall this place through the words in your memory. You can take away more than just pictures...your own impressions.

Here are pics of just two of the many markers.

Nugget Point walkway markers, Catlins Coast, Southland.

Positioned so you can look up from the words and see the pounding surf, the wheeling flocks of seabirds setting out or returning to rookeries on the cliff faces, the swirling of bull kelp in the wind-driven crashing waves, or the gentle, almost musical rippling of wind-shorn manuka and kamahi vegetation sheltering yellow-eyed penguin or seal pups.

He wahi taoka. He wahi taima. A special place. A special time.

Nugget Point Walkway markers, Catlins Coast, Southland,

The newly created Lake Dunstan, behind the Clyde Dam (completed 1993), flooded most of the old gold mining and sluicing operations throughout the Cromwell Gorge. At a roadside lay-by at the northern head of the lake, just before you reach Cromwell, is a memorial to the gold-rush era pioneers.

Here again, an important fragment of our history memorialised in poetry: a narrative just wouldn't convey the same immortal reverence or importance somehow.

Memorial to our early gold miners, Cromwell Gorge roadside.

St Bathans

St Bathans, in the Maniototo, Central Otago, is reached by a detour off the main highway north of Alexandra. The Loop Road takes you to this historic gold mining village where a few of the original buildings remain. Built of mud brick, the Vulcan Hotel (formerly The Ballarat) stands proud, offering overnight accommodation, ghost included, and great cooking by excellent hosts. Your tour guide around the man-made lake through sluice-tailing mounds of the gold workings, now eroded into a Cappadoccia-like troglodyte landscape, will be the hotel's dog!

While enjoying coffee and muffins, and a great conversation with Jude, we spied these framed newspaper cuttings.

Once again, poetry brings a deeper immersion in an historic place- yes, you'll hear the ring and clatter of picks and shovel if you just let that imagination have the rein...

Vulcan Hotel, St Bathans, Otago.

We explored NZ's early history, investigating old coal mining centres, wandering the remnants of goldfields, and browsing country museums.
And each museum memorialises, like a temple of reverence, the history of these small rural communities where families lost their sons, wives lost husbands, and young women faced a life of spinsterhood: a whole generation of men lost! From a population in 1914 of 1,150,000, just over 100,000 New Zealanders served overseas. A staggering 58,000 casualties ( including over 18,000 dead ) incurred!
Static displays of photos, equipment, and personal diaries and letters record the huge personal loss to these communities. In each museum, maps show the farms and villages that lost so many young men, and women, who are buried on the far side of the world in Belgium, France, Egypt, and at Gallipoli in Turkey. These displays brought home to us an appreciation of the deep effects on our young country's development subsequent to the First World War.

And of course one of the most remembered of war poems is proudly but poignantly displayed in every one of our country museums, drawing one's mind to imagine the bitter consequences of that great human folly.

In Flanders Fields.
By John Macrae, May 1915

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn,saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from flailing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

Yes, poetry surrounds the traveller. Seek it out, or better still, write it and let's get some published!
He wahi taoka. He wahi taima.

Yeah OK, glad you read to the end. Was supposed to be a few pics of poetry we found on our travel but it ended up a rant on the wider issue of the lack of travel poetry being published today!

Without hope we're both just wasting time.

2012-11-19T15:54:00.000-08:00

Van Gogh: The Olive Trees

Deny me hope - arm me with anger
Just another rocket coming down
Deny me safety - place me in danger
Just another war coming around.
Instead of rainbows colouring our blue skies
Rocket trails criss-cross our lines

You spell God YHWH - I spell God Allah
Your God is the same God as mine
You see through blue eyes - I see through brown eyes
You see the same world as I
But from our shelters, we see no sunshine
Without hope we're both just wasting time.

I have a rocket - you have an airplane
Is this land yours or is it mine?
You have a bulldozer - I have a landmine
there are some who'd love to see us die
You have Merkava - I have the Kornet
Without love your child will be as dead as mine.

There is a sandstorm raging with these desert winds

threatening to blanket all with sand

Where is the rain cloud to settle this sandstorm
bringing rain upon this thirsty land?

You bring the water, I'll plant the tall trees
Without hate we both could share their shade.

...............................................................................................................................................

The current conflict in the Middle East between Israel and Hamas in the Gaza territory is really concerning. Casualties mount on both sides while the threat of an Israeli ground invasion appears imminent. We can argue rights and wrongs of both sides but with a situation that has roots deep in history the future can only come from compromise and co-existence... if they can be found.

On my Facebook page two friends were firing verbal salvoes at each other on a post I had made about the conflict.
At the same time in my workshop Ray Wylie Hubbard was quietly crooning a song that has always fascinated me. He sings of conflicting elements bound together but ready to break if love cannot hold them together.
"You are a rainbow spread across the blue sky
the sunrise is your next of kin
I am am like a whirlwind roaring across the desert
the kind some hope to never see again
You are a rainbow, I am a whirlwind
without love, we're both just wasting time."

While listening I began to write down the words above about the conflict.

I have no wish to plagiarise Ray Wylie Hubbards awesome words. He inspired the style and I have borrowed a line from him.
The way he weaves disparate elements together then makes the statement -"..without love, we're both just wasting time " seems to sum up the situation and his words need to be out there.
Without goodwill, hope or compromise where will this end?

Bendigo, of Bygone Year.

2012-11-09T21:45:00.001-08:00

The remains of an old gold mining settlement are found at Bendigo Historic Reserve, 15 minutes drive north of Cromwell, Central Otago, a place we made time to visit on one of the very few sunny mornings of our 3 week trip around old stomping grounds in New Zealand's South Island. Take State Highway 8 along the east side of Lake Dunstan, turn right at the signpost and drive past vineyards lining the slopes. Central Otago Pinot Noir is becoming recognised as the best Pinot Noir ~~New Zealand~~ the World has to offer!

Here we found the sunshine for a few hours! The stone ruins were anchors to gloriously expansive views across the plains striped with yellow-flowering acacia, dotted with golden tussock and patched with green fields, all backgrounded with the deep grey-blue of Lake Dunstan, and mountain ranges on the horizon - a brilliant blue in the distance and capped with late snow. Layer upon layer of colours! Spring is an excellent time to see Central Otago!

Bendigo, once referred to as Welshtown, was settled by miners from Wales who escaped depressing lives working for a pittance in what were at the time very dangerous coal mines, and travelled 'Steerage' class to new lives seeking alluvial gold in Central Otago's scarcely roaded mountains and valleys. When the easy pickings panned out, the quartz hills were mined by pick and shovel, and later by machinery, creating deep mines still there today.
Hard times and tough work for the men, but often even harder for the womenfolk in those early pioneering days on our goldfields of the late 1860's onwards.

And when the gold was gone their livelihood finished, and they would have to walk away from the home they had built and start a new life wherever they could find work. That resourcefulness and adaptability to whatever harsh fortune they faced forged a tough part of the Kiwi character somewhat missing in today's world of 'Nanny State welfarism' expected today.

Muse a while on their lives when you sit inside the remnants of their tiny stone-walled, canvas-roofed cottages.
These hardy people helped build our country.

N. B. Click on the pictures below to bring them up in large slideshow format.

Bendigo, of Bygone Year.

So choose your rock and sit by where

the window frames yon view so clear

and muse a while, on lives by here

in Bendigo of bygone year.

Clear your mind, let this place surround

and envelop you with ancient sound

of doughty miners that dig this ground.

We welcome you to look around.

Where crystal waters long 'ere flowed

over yellow treasure Nature sowed,

came we men with eyes that glowed,

we covet Earth's bounty, long bestowed.

Allow your mind through ages span,

when pick and shovel, sluice and pan

chased dreams of gold where waters ran.

Do you not admire this resourceful man?

Slaves to mine-owning aristocracy,

we escaped harsh life of poverty

and risked our lives on distant sea

in hope for better life in far country.

Forever forsaking our home island,

this house I built with my own hands

from rock, and mortar of river sand

to stake my claim in this virgin land.

Fern and tussock line our floor,

the trees I felled frame sash and door,

behind this curtain our wee boudoir.

By here we could not wish for more.

Can you see that dark-haired girl so coy

with dancing steps and skipping toy?

Her flashing green eyes tease longing boy:

this life is hard, 'tis best enjoy.

Young women age before their time,

those flashing eyes soon lose their shine

hauling wood and water to bend young spine:

the child must fill that washing line.

Childhood is short, work needs be done,

a father desperately needs his son

to toil and dig where waters run:

survival by here needs gold be won!

We're glad you came to be with us

by here this hill so glorious

and experience this life laborious

so hard and short but ne'er tedious.

When speaking English at that time, Welsh would often preface the words 'here' or 'there' with 'by'.

N. B. The above poetry style is an exercise to rhyme each line in each verse similar, and remain credible without being forced, and at the same time attempt to convey good information about Bendigo and the hard lives of these early goldminers.

DIASPORA: MA AIN TRUE LOVE EILIDH.

2012-11-04T12:23:00.001-08:00

In 2014 Scotland will hold a referendum on independence from the UK. This historic occasion will be celebrated by many whatever way the decision goes.

As for those, like myself, living in many countries around the world who are descendants of the Scottish Diaspora which has its roots in the failure of the Jacobite Rebellion culminating in the massacre at Culloden Moor on 16th April, 1746, and the later Clearances and abject poverty of the 1800's, while we may all feel that deep inner need for independence as part of our psyche of our Scots heritage, we should remain neutral on the independence vote! It is the resident citizens of Scotland who will live with the consequences, good or bad, of the decision they make, which may include having to re-apply to re-enter the EU.
News -scottish-independence

"That which has been long denied is most mightily desired."

The following verse attempts to explore the roots many of us feel for our 'Homeland', and what calls us back, even if just to trace ancestry as a tourist.

Here I give you- love and commitment, war and defeat, history past and times present, but above all a hope for the future. This poem has its genesis with words spoken by my wife when we stood within the lines where Mackintosh Clan stood on Culloden battlefield prior to their valiant but futile charge on English bayonets and grapeshot.

"If we had lived in that time I would have seen you and our son go off to this battle and never return."

So what were the effects on the women and children left behind, the families that starved with no man to provide, or of the loss of leaders in the wee villages, the subsequent suppression of Scottish culture throughout the Highlands, and the deportation of Jacobite sympathisers to England's colonies in North America?

In 2014 the cycle of history turns again.

Click on the photo to bring them up in large slideshow format.
All photos and verse by Jim McIntosh.

DIASPORA: MA AIN TRUE LOVE EILIDH.

Where ancient rock lanely and lichened

marks yon barrow mounded high,

there ma shattered bones are cold aneath,

and amang Clan Chatain's best I lie.

Freedom proved so ephemeral

'twas no for glory that we vied

but for our country, Clan and family

that we fought, and for those we died.

Where the Highland Cat is stealthing
where the doe and stag do ply

there you'll find ma wraith a-flying

above the place we once did lie.

Amang purple heather and green bracken

deep within the Glen of Spean,

'twas on the brae of Beinn a' Chaorinn

when our bodies came together,

you grasped ma heart my bonnie lassie,

ma ain true love Eilidh.

When you feel a wind on red cheek
and warm breeze lifts your golden curl

'tis ae fond kiss, ma tentie touch upon you:

'tis all I can give you now ma bonnie girl.

When purple flowers surfeit with honey

as the heather blooms once again

'tis there we'll seek again sweet nectar

of that elusive flower of Freedom in vain

Freedom cannae be found in these fair glens
it has long e're fle'en across the sea.

Now your lane a task of love I set you

to raise our bonnie wee boy bairnie

and bear him safely to the new country.

Raise in Freedom's embrace our boy bairnie

in your new hame across the sea

there my wraith will breeze you from above

and salve your aching spirit's need.

Will you do that for me, ma ain true love Eilidh?

Phar out in Seadown: New Zealand's wonder horse!

2012-10-15T14:14:00.000-07:00

Amazing, these Aussies will take all the glory given half a chance.

This huge poster in Seaworld at Gold Coast, Queensland a few months ago makes no mention of Phar Lap being a New Zealand born horse!

The greatest race horse of the Depression years of the early 1930's, "Wonder Horse" was foaled in Seadown just north of Timaru in South Canterbury, a place I know well, having holidayed with family for many years at the Opihi River Mouth.
Our shopping drives from there to Timaru took us past the memorial statue outside the farm where Phar Lap was born. That farm and the neighbouring farms have all been renamed to keep the legend alive.

Phar out hey?!

Irrefutable proof that Phar Lap was born not phar from Timaru, South Canterbury.

Okay Elissa, you can stand down now!

No need to photobomb my pics anymore- we got the message!

Phar Lap at Te Papa Museum

SONG FOR MALALA.

2012-10-14T13:16:00.000-07:00

Throughout history the role of the "contrarian"- the usurper of accepted thoughts and customs- has often been instrumental in progressing cultures, pushing forward our understanding of our world and establishing science, or rebelling against unjust tyrannical control of the population.
Someone is first to stand up and question, or voice new ideas that are felt in the hearts of many but are too dangerous to say openly.
The "contrarian" is too often seen as a threat to the establishment, and sadly, harsh punishment even death is the price paid for challenging beliefs.

This poem was originally a few lines written and titled as "Contrarian".
When Malala Yousafzai was shot in Pakistan for agitating for women's education, I finished the verse and retitled this as "Song For Malala." in recognition of her courage daring to speak out for change.

We must speak out! We must challenge entrenched beliefs! We must voice new, or opposing ideas!
And we must support those who show courage and do so.

SONG FOR MALALA.

I fell into disfavour long before I was conceived,

my birthing challenged all those who told you to believe.
To tyrants I was threatening, to High Priests I might thieve
all of their adherents and lead them from their knees.

From the dawning of consciousness I would threaten beliefs
I had to be silenced, I questioned our great chiefs.
They would hang me, and draw me and tie me to a stake
but this freedom of expression they could never break!

Like a child with a birthmark I was left out on the ground,
taken to the river and left there to drown.
There were some who sought freedom who stood beside me
they would see through the darkness and bring me relief.

I was once a bright blossom sprung from Winter's discord,

admired by lovers of Freedom's written word.

But there are those who'd burn libraries to destroy truth within:

all means were justified to keep me locked in.

I am written in Constitutions, enshrined in law

but there are those disbelieving in all they are for.

So they will burn me through the ages, rape me with their guns

they cannot abide me- I'm obscene to their mores.

As a child through the ages I struggled to breathe

held down by the elders who could not let me speak.

I was tortured in North Berwick, I was hanged at Salem's trials,

and in this enlightened age I am here again as a child.

I am the voice of reason,

a beacon in this world
shining through the darkness:
I am known as Free Will.

Reference to North Berwick and Salem is to remind Westerners, that we have also held beliefs that resulted in persecution, torture and death of 1,000's of innocent people in our own societies.
Our own family legend has an ancestor burnt as a witch in Scotland.

malala-yousafzai shooting

Latest on Malala is she is being transferred to UK for specialist medical care.
Malala going to UK

Innocence.

2012-10-07T23:00:00.000-07:00

Innocence

When did we lose that sense of innocence?

When we were children playing free

falling from tall trees
crying with skinned knees
we played our games in innocence.

Innocence
When we played our silly childhood games
there was no one who was blamed
it was just a learning game
playing birds and bees
we lived in our childish world of innocence.

Innocence
When we lose our sense of innocence
life becomes a game that must be won
always a losing someone
there's a need to blame
in this world of forgotten innocence.

Written while listening to a favourite flamenco version of "Concierto De Aranguez" by Rodrigo, off a CD bought at Museo Del Bandelero, Rhonda, Spain in January 2001.
This museum is dedicated to the bandits once common in Malaga and Cadiz.
And the bandits were once somewhat of a tourist attraction in themselves!

"The Bandoleros, who operated in anything from groups of two or three men to large bands organised like small armies, terrorised the lonely mountain passes of Andalucía. No nobleman, no matter how well protected, would venture out to such parts without absolute necessity, yet for the tourist trade of the time it proved to be the greatest attraction of all. Today, tourists would run a mile at the prospect of being held up at gunpoint, but to the young dandies from northern Europe on their European Tour it all added to a romantic image of Andalucía that included the proud Spaniards with their exotic culture, fiery Gypsies and lonely mountain ranges terrorised by packs of wolves and bandits. What swashbuckling youngster would not jump at the chance of all that excitement, so when the likes of Lord Byron, Washington Irving and Prosper Merimée crossed the murderous tracks of the Serranía de Ronda by coach it was in the hope of meeting these famous scoundrels."

www.museobandolero.com/museum

TELL ME JACOB....

2012-10-01T12:43:00.002-07:00

Tell me, Jacob, with that gleam in your eyes,

are you deceiving me?

When all the rhino are gone why safari in your land?

Are you listening please?

If elephants are slaughtered, and the lions are canned,

why travel in your empty land?

Tourists aren't impressed with empty wilderness:

wildlife needs protection urgently!

So, tell me Jacob, with your hand on your heart,

there's no skulduggery?

Lack of prosecutions is because they're way too smart

and thwart the judiciary?

We can't believe in this judicial mockery

as yet another poacher walks free!

The world's not impressed with lack of cohesiveness:

anti-poaching needs action urgently!

Oh, tell me Jacob, with your beguiling smile,

why aren't you convincing me?
Who will be skimming earnings off rhino horn stockpile?
What are we to believe?

The World's not impressed with your wish to represent

for legal trade to CITES.

So, tell us Jacob,

how does that stop the killing spree?!

~~420~~ 430 rhinos have been slaughtered in South Africa to date! The killing goes on!

Moving Mountains To The Sea: Fiordland Impressions.

2012-09-27T01:01:00.001-07:00

Time is a patient, tireless sculptor.

Wind, rain and temperature extremes

slowly crafting Nature's landscape:

moving mountains to the sea.

Where an icicle is crying

kissed by Springtime's warming breeze,

there, a string of tears is falling

on their journey to the seas.

Swaying fern fronds reach to gather

every droplet falling free.

Running to their hearts they trickle

washing the moss covered feet of trees.

Where they meet and flood together,

there, the birthing of mountain stream.

Cascading torrents, remorseless forces

moving mountains to the sea.

Every glacier bears their burden.

Every deluge washes free

rocks and boulders, sand and gravel:

every mountain meets the sea.

Through the infinity of ages

all the mountains that we see,

where a string of tears is falling

mountains are moving to the sea.

Last Elephant Standing. Updated with pictures.

2012-08-31T15:56:00.002-07:00

Poaching of elephants, for their tusks to supply Asian demand for ivory, is threatening the existence of elephants on this Earth. In 1979 anywhere between 1.3 million to 3 million elephants inhabited large areas of Africa. Now less than 600,000 remain, and poaching is increasing.

How long before the last wild elephant walks the savannah?

Last Elephant Standing.

Words and Photos by Jim McIntosh.

I'm going where my sisters wandered

where spreading Amarula tree

shaded all my mother's mothers

there, ancient memory calls me.

I'm going where cattle now wander

where shady trees have long disappeared

where cool clear waters of my memory

now no longer will be shared.

I wish I could find all my sisters.

I wish for one of my kind to share

this loneliness that I carry.

Maybe I'll find my family there?

Where I'm going danger seeks me

where I tread I must beware

every step is placed so gently

not to spring the poacher's wire snare.

Even our old migration pathways,

beaten hard by a million treads,

ploughed and planted with sweet maize treats,

should I enter I'll be speared.

Where I'm going cool clear waters

are no longer to be shared.

Shady trees are no longer standing,

only danger awaits me there.

I wish I could go see my mother

I wish I were no more alone

but now the world has turned against us;

my family just dust and bone.

I'm going where cool clear waters

of my memory once flowed where

all my family are now gathered,

and I will sleep forever there.

Fools And Wolves.

2012-08-24T16:28:00.001-07:00

There is violence within the silence of the ponderosa timberline,
hiding beyond the border of white briar and blue columbine
the steel spring-jawed engine awaits concealed in the trapping line
to snap and lay its teeth upon the beautiful wild canine.

There's a concealed intruder awaiting beyond the timberline,
hidden in amongst tall birch and ponderosa pine.
Silence is now broken; howling from the timberline;
blood flows amidst the beauty of white briar and blue columbine.

A timber wolf climbs the slopes beyond the timberline
seeking out the highest rock above the ponderosa pine.
A lonesome howl, so primeval, heard down throughout all time,
called for his lost mate who cannot make more than the softest whine.

The melancholy wild-call echoes throughout the timberline,
one lover calls another now beyond briar and blue columbine;
but the cold steel-jawed engine has a far stronger embracing bind
than the call any love may hold on another's missing kind.

Is humanity merely callous now or are we merely fools
that we can't save ourselves if we cannot save our wolves?
When the call of the wild is silenced above the timberline,
will that violence then be turned upon the loved of yours and mine?

This is not a photo but an exceptional painting by a friend Jan Martin McGuire, wildlife painter.

The "steel spring-jawed engine" is a gin-trap, the word ''gin'' thought to have evolved from long ago when all mechanical devices were called ''engines''. Banned now in many countries as unnecessarily cruel. Trapping season of course does not coincide with flowering briar and columbine but there's many a trapper been unable to get back to his trapping line for one reason or another, and these armed steel traps lie in wait until finally sprung by any unsuspecting animal which dies a slow agonising death.

Bear leg-hold trap. Pic ex Wikipedia.

Editor's note: I have edited to read "blue" rather than originally written as "red" Columbine as the red is generally native to Eastern North America, and wolves are more associated with Central or Western States where the native columbine is the blue variety.

Rough Diamonds.

2012-08-17T20:25:00.001-07:00

My dad he never had any time for my growing

I lost my mother early in my youth.

Found my way through lots of mistakes for the knowing.

Seemed I could never make enough.

You never do make enough ....

Sometimes I felt like a child in a waste dump

or a dog picking over Monday's trash.

But now and then there's a diamond in there glowing,

if you ever get to look hard enough,

for that diamond in the rough ....

Uncut diamond. Pic source Wikipedia

Every kid needs to feel when he's a-growing

he's still a part of our society.

You gotta think all the rocks he is throwing

are to grab some notice from you and me.

Maybe he's wanting you to see ....

Maybe he's crying out for someone to be showing

he's an uncut diamond in the rough?

He's a diamond in the rough for the knowing

if we can stop and look hard enough,

polish up this diamond in the rough ....

Nowadays I think our kids need their mentors

tough enough to clip them around the ears.

Maybe kids wish to learn the respect that engenders

to last those kids for all their years?

Make those boundaries loud and clear ....

Perhaps we should remember to look for our diamonds,

how to recognise when they appear?

You want a diamond, takes time, heat and pressure

to turn that coal dust into gems.

Is it time we toughen up on them?

Cut and polished diamond. Pic source Wikipedia

Death Of An Idealist.

2012-07-15T17:41:00.002-07:00

“A seagull wings across the sea

Broken silence is what I dream

Who has the words to close the distance

Between you and me.

Asimbonanga.”

These words still echo in my consciousness- unforgettable -inscribed for all time in my memory they jumped to the fore when I was advised I am included on a list of recipients to receive an author-signed copy of the biography of Neil Aggett. Brian Sandberg, a classmate and friend of the young Neil Aggett, has honoured me so.

Music of South Africa fascinates me, and no song more than “Asimbonanga”.

Johnny Clegg’s 1986 “Third World Child ” LP's tribute to South Africa’s father- Tata Nelson Mandela – has a spine-chilling roll call of anti-apartheid activists who died in security police cells. I always wondered who Neil Aggett was- his name stood out amongst the black martyrs of Steven Biko and Gloria Mxenge.

Let no one sing "Asimbonanga" without including Neil Aggett's name.

Publisher's pre-launch pre-view -

Death of an Idealist: In search of Neil Aggett is the story behind the only white detainee to die in custody of apartheid’s security police. A medical doctor who worked most of the week as an unpaid trade union organiser, Neil Aggett’s stark non-materialism, shared by his partner Dr Elizabeth Floyd, aroused police suspicions. When their names appeared on a list of ‘Close Comrades’ prepared for ANC leaders in exile they were among a swathe of union activists detained in 1981.

Beverley Naidoo traces the transformation of the youngest child born to settler parents in Kenya at the height of Mau Mau resistance to colonial rule. The book explores the metamorphosis of a high-achieving, sports-loving white schoolboy into the 28-year-old whose coffin was followed by thousands of workers through Johannesburg to his grave. The extraordinary funeral and the preceding national work stoppage were a watershed for trade union unity.

First-hand interviews reveal the fraught, intense world of activists inside the country in the late ‘70s and early ‘80s as the ANC-in-exile pushed to link with emerging black unions. Neil’s non-materialism and his concern about to whom union organisers should be democratically accountable still demand engagement today.

Poignant, personal stories run through this fully-referenced biography of a stoic, stubborn, principled thinker who became a militant yet gentle activist. They include the huge rift with a dominant father who later ploughed his savings into his son’s inquest, funding a top legal team led by George Bizos SC who offers the Foreword to Death of an Idealist.

BEVERLEY NAIDOO was born in Johannesburg where she went to Parktown Convent and the University of Witwatersrand. She was detained under ‘90-days’ in 1964 before continuing her education at the University of York, England. She holds a Ph.D for research into British teenagers’ responses to literature and racism, published as Through Whose Eyes?

Beverley began writing in exile. Her first two books were banned in South Africa until 1991. She has written novels, short stories, poetry and plays. Her many awards include the Carnegie Medal for The Other Side of Truth and honorary degrees for a body of work. Beverley and illustrator Piet Grobler (co-creators of a South African Aesop’s Fables) were the 2008 South African nominees for the Hans Christian Andersen Award.

In Burn My Heart, Beverley explored in fiction the colonial world into which her younger cousin Neil Aggett was born in Kenya during the Mau Mau resistance. Death of an Idealist: In search of Neil Aggett is a fully-referenced biography exploring his transformation into the militant yet gentle doctor-cum-union activist who became the 51st, and only white, detainee to die in security police custody.

R230.00 ¨ ISBN: 978-1-86842-519-8 ¨ September 2012 ¨ Trade Paperback ¨

South African rights ¨ Category: Biography ¨ Ebook ISBN: 978-1-86842-520-4