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* THE
* CYBERSENIOR
* REVIEW
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VOLUME 4 NUMBER 2 (#13) JULY 1997
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The CyberSenior Review is a project of the Internet
Elders List, an active world-wide Internet Mailing
List for seniors. The Review is written, edited and
published by members of the Elders for interested
seniors worldwide. Contributions from non-Elders
are welcome. Please query one of the editors first.
Contents copyrighted 1997 by the Internet Elders
List and by the authors. All rights reserved by the
authors. Brief quotes permitted with attribution.
The editorial board of The CyberSenior Review:
Elaine Dabbs esudweek@mail.usyd.edu.au
Pat Davidson patd@chatback.demon.co.uk
James Hursey jwhursey@cd.columbus.oh.us
======================================================
CONTENTS, Volume 4, Number 2, July 1997 (#13)
EDITORIAL by Elaine Dabbs
THE GOLDEN MILE by Hadassah Bat Haim
Hadassah finds kilometres much less poetic than the
humble mile.
WHY ECUADOR? by John Davidson
John eloquently answers this question, describing
his trip to the cities, jungle and rivers of this
most interesting equatorial land.
THE DOGS OF LANE COVE by Roger Sharland.
Lane Cove's fierce dogs feast on lamb chops from the
sky in Roger's whimsical tale. True, he assures us.
KILLING TIME a poem by James Hursey
==============================================================
EDITORIAL
by Elaine Dabbs
A warm welcome from your CyberSenior Review Editorial Board to
new members of our Elders List, most of whom came to us after
reading Pat Davidson's excellent article published in Saga. You
will find that belonging to the Elders List engenders a feeling
of a worldwide community. We acquire new and interesting
friends, further our education and find that global borders have
disappeared.
Our Review informs and educates, and in this CyberSenior Review,
firstly read Hadassah's "The Golden Mile", an account of the
confusion caused to those of us who were educated in our early
life with such indisputable and memorable facts, for example,
that 1,760 yards equals one mile. A world of chaos results when
we try, in our later life, to picture in our minds the distance
of a kilometre. A kilometre! What a vile word! We know how
long it takes to walk 'a mile', to drive -- in fact the very word
just rolls off our tongue. So, what should we do about it?
Start a world-wide rebellion, peaceful of course, but nevertheless
forceful. Let's start right now?
Our next article takes us to Ecuador, where John Davidson and his
wife Louise had many exciting adventures. Ecuador seems to be so
remote. If we cast our minds back to reports of life in our own
country, say just early last century, John's description of
"streets so filled with peddler's stands and pedestrians that
cars simply could not get through in the middle of the day" would
be no different from life that existed then. Yes, there would
have been a fascinating mix of people, from the elegantly clad to
the beggars. I'm mindful of reading about life in Melbourne in
the early days of the gold rush -- 1850 -- when the streets were
paved, not with gold but with mud. But, against all this, John
tells us that there in the background were wonderful/awesome/
stupendous mountains. As with other parts of the world, people
used to live in the valleys but, whether it be the Catholic
Church, the Spanish, or just development, we all get crowded out.
Thank you, John, for reminding us what luxury we enjoy with paved
roads, bridges and warm houses.
It appears that Roger Sharland, in his "Dogs of Lane Cove" has
been an avid television viewer of 'Animal Hospital', which is
being screened here in Sydney at present. The scene Roger
describes, that is dogs that are thin and cruelly confined, is
just what our RSPCA (Royal Society for the Prevention of Cruely
to Animals) investigates in this series. I live within sight of
Lane Cover National Park, which was devastated by bushfires just
a few years ago, and where feral dogs and cats abound. These
animals have been let loose by neglectful owners and roam within
the Park where they kill native animals. Maybe those very dogs
that Roger fed with juicy/mint jelly/crackling lamb chops were
freed there. Perhaps the bushfire destroyed the remains of
Roger's chops high in the trees when it raced through Lane Cove.
To finish this Review, JimH has written a fascinating poem,
"Killing Time", delightfully pointing out that we are free to use
time as we please. A very thought-provoking idea. How true, no
one can dictate what we do with it, and there's plenty of it for
us to use.
==============================================================
THE GOLDEN MILE
by Hadassah Bat Haim
Having been brought up to reckon in pounds, shillings and pence,
it took me a long time to reprogramme myself to one hundred pence
to the pound instead of two hundred and forty. Twelve pence to
the shilling and thirty pence making half a crown seemed more
natural somehow than calculating everything in units of ten.
Americans had less of a cultural shock as they always used the
metric system and you even, with your intimate connections to
Europe, had some knowledge of grams and milligrams.
By European, I do not of course mean British. Though Britons
never deny that their land is part of the continent of Europe
there is still a distinct feeling of "them" and "us". When we
talk of the capitals of Europe, we are not referring to London
and however we are pressed to amalgamate, there is a gut feeling
that maybe Mrs. Thatcher was right to be cautious. Someone who
instinctively knows that two gills make a pint and that eight
pints equal a gallon, does not easily come to terms with litres.
Those of us who are old enough to have these indisputable facts
printed on our minds are often nostalgic for measurements of
distances which are hard to dislodge from our subconscious.
Twelve inches to the foot, three feet to the yard, five and a
half yards one rod, pole or perch, words romantically connected
with fishermen. Mention these terms to a computer whiz kid and
you will no doubt be referred to a sports shop. They are also
ignorant of the fact that two hundred and twenty yards make a
furlong. Very few people today, even college graduates of today,
know what a furlong is, nor do they care that with eight of them
you make a complete, exact mile,
The poetic mile. It has a special appeal to it beyond its common
usage. It conjures up vistas, far horizons. It brings pictures
to the mind. Robert Frost felt it when stopping by the woods at
night. "I have promises to keep and KILOMETRES to go before I
sleep." Would he not have scorned to put that down in his
notebook? It is cold, mathematical, no mists surround it. The
great Longfellow would certainly have been Poet Laureate if not
for that unfortunate misunderstanding in 1776. Proof of this
lies in the compulsory learning by heart the whole of "Hiawatha"
by all British schoolchildren. Would he have waxed so lyrical
about that red blooded Pilgrim hero, if his name had been as
unharmonious as Kilometre Standish?
Literature is redolent with references to the elegiac mile. "How
many kilometres to Babylon?" Perish the thought. The Walrus and
the Carpenter would never have walked on a kilometre or so.
Firstly it doesn't scan, secondly, there would not have been time
for all the little oysters to get out of their beds into the
feast. A kilometre is only five eighths of a mile, quickly
traversed. They would not have been able to wash their faces,
never mind clean their shoes.
That crooked man, known in most nurseries, would never have found
that crooked sixpence because nothing rhymes with kilometre so
that splendid example of his tolerance, living as he did with the
crooked cat and mouse in the crooked house would not have been
passed down to inspire us.
The Scots, sentimental to a man, though largely incomprehensible
to those born south of the Tweed, had the mile firmly fixed in
their vocabularies. Often it is the only word recognised by the
desperate Sassenach. Consider this by Robert Burns:
'A mile an' a bittock, a mile or twa,
Abune the burn, ayont the law
Davie an' Donal' an' Charlie an' a'
An' the mune was shinin' clearly'.
It would not have been seemly for him to write "four point five
of a mile or twa" and I respectfully submit that were he still
writing, the suggestion would have dismayed him. "Oor Rabbie"
(Nothing to do with Jewish theologians) the rebel, the
outrageous, the ultimate romantic, the passionate lover, could he
have promised his "luv", the one "like a red, red rose", to come
back to her if t'were one hundred and sixty thousand kilometres?
He would not have been buried in Westminster Abbey after that
abomination.
Probably there will soon be ten hours to the day, ten days to the
week and ten months to the year. The moon will wax and wane in
ten nights, and the sun will scamper round the earth in one
hundred days. I shan't wait for that and for the present I shall
cling to my beliefs that sixteen ounces make a pound, fourteen
pounds a stone and sixteen stones a ton. It is so logical, so
precise and so easy to remember.
==============================================================
WHY ECUADOR?
by John Davidson
"Why Ecuador? " seems to be the first question Louise and I get
asked about our recent trip. The factors that were involved were
my interest in the high Andes, the crafts, a Spanish colonial
civilization built upon Inca and Indian ruins, and the jungle.
Also, it was cheap because of its poverty, and we had a Spanish
speaking friend (Kay) who had been twice and wanted to go again.
We knew we couldn't see (or enjoy) everything, so we narrowed
our visit down to three cities: Quito the capitol, Cuenco a major
colonial city, and Banyos a resort community in the mountains and
noted for its thermal springs. The headwaters of the Amazon and a
canoe trip on the Napo river, and a visit to the famous craft
market of Otavalo were also included. In addition we just had to
get to the equator monument and shake hands with each other
between the Northern and Southern hemispheres. To me this was a
sort of nonevent since it is only an imaginary line. However the
museums and shops there were worth visiting.
We started at Quito, the capital (elevation of 9400 feet) because
that is where Continental Airlines lands. It is a long day from
Seattle via Houston and Panama. We left Seattle in the rain,
landed in Quito in the rain and had rain at some time almost
every day for the next two weeks in Ecuador.
The most scenic part of Quito was the old city founded in 1534
by the Spanish, but built upon Indian and Inca sites existing
long before that. The Spanish buildings are still there and in
use. The churches were magnificent but the stories of the
church's exploitation of the natives were very cruel. The streets
were so filled with peddler's stands and pedestrians that cars
simply could not get through in the middle of the day.
We stayed in a newer part of the city in a two story hostel, with
a pleasant courtyard. We had a modern bathroom except a sign next
to the toilet said to put the toilet paper into the waste paper
basket (the sewer system can not handle the paper). This was hard
to get used to. Our room was about 30 dollars for two of us but
hotel rooms were cheaper outside the capital.
The mix of people on the streets was fascinating: business men
with cellular phones, shapely secretaries in mini skirts, 4-foot
tall natives who were permanently stooped from the loads they
carry and barefoot in any weather, beggars and a variety of
native costumes. Court yards have ten foot tall poinsettias,
humming birds and orchids. By chance we drifted into a coffee
shop called "The Magic Bean" and met seven people from Seattle.
The pull of the volcanic mountains and white water rivers is
pretty strong to a Northwesterner.
Even though we were in the capital we were warned about the tap
water. It is unsafe to drink and the hotels provided bottled
water. One also sticks to cooked vegetables unless you are
certain that "Bac-Stop " has been used on them. Even ice cubes
are dangerous.
Our next stop was the old colonial city of Cuenca, at only 7755
feet. To get there we flew south from Quito, down the "avenue of
the volcanoes". It is the only view we had of the high peaks,
because they stick through the clouds. From the ground they are
almost always hidden. Cuenca was the site of an Inca capital of
the area, but they only had it 100 years before the Spanish
arrived in 1530 and destroyed everything within 15 years. We
visited a site where structures for the Indian era, the Inca
occupation, and then the Spanish are adjacent.
Cuenca is a service center for a large agricultural area and is
much less hectic then Quito (except on market day). We stayed in
a hotel that was a remodeled colonial townhouse. It had two
lovely court yards which all the rooms opened on to.
The day we got there was the day for the local farmers' market.
We walked to the square where it was held and were almost
overwhelmed by the noise, smells, and seeming confusion. It was
sobering to realize that many of the sellers had left their homes
at 3 am to carry their produce on their backs to the market. A
sight I will never forget was a man with a switch herding five
young ducks through the meat section of the market so that the
ducks could eat scraps from the side walk.
Cuenca has its share of old churches, which we explored. Our
second day we rented a taxi to go to the "Reed" Lakes we had
heard about where the farmers made islands of reeds and farmed on
them. There was a communication breakdown and we ended up in a
nature preserve at about 13000 feet of elevation. It was on the
route of the old Inca trail leading across the mountains.
The next day was the first of many bus trips. They all seemed to
take about six hours and cost 3 dollars per person. Some people
had to stand the whole time. We went over the backbone of the
Andes to get to the eastern slopes. Much of the time was in dense
fog which is probably perpetual. The highest areas, with little
agricultural potential were grazed by the peasants who used to
live in the valleys. They were crowded out by the Catholic Church
and the Spanish. When they couldn't pay their tithes their land
was forfeited to the church.
Our destination was Banos which is only 5900 feet high. It is on
a narrow bench above the gorge of the Rio Pastaza. It is a resort
town noted for its hot springs and a mild climate. We rented a
taxi to take us to nearby attractions including a new conference
center on a high ridge above Banos. We did a lot of walking in
the town and found another watering hole for displaced Seattle
visitors. Our accommodations were excellent for only a few
dollars a night. Our dinner on one evening was at a remodeled
town house which featured a guitarist and a maestro of pan pipes
and various types of wooden flutes. They were going on a United
States tour shortly and I bought a CD from them. The music is
unbelievably mellow and haunting.
Leaving Banyos was complicated by having the road down to the
Amazon Basin under reconstruction and it was only open one day a
week. Our friend Kay called it the "road through hell". The road
is on a narrow shelf cut into nearly vertical cliffs with the Rio
Pastaza maybe a 1000 feet below. The guard rails were gone and
the road bed was a sea of mud. Some people on the bus insisted on
getting out and wading through the mud a half mile to get past
the worst place. The bus went slowly, dodging earth movers, and
when we saw another bus we had to back down around a curve to
where we could pass. Louise just hid her head and wouldn't look
out. We were only inches from the edge and I was worried that the
bank would give way.
Like all things, the bad part ended and we finally arrived in a
jungle town that had been a staging area for oil development. The
land developers were now there and they were building a four lane
lighted boulevard through the town with streets laid out for new
homes. The jungle here had been largely logged and little farms
had taken over. Our destination was the town of Misahualli on the
Napo river. The taxi to there was a pickup truck on a single lane
track through the jungle. Louise and I sat in the back, leaning
against our packs. She had been so provident that she had packed
a Sprite bottle with vodka in it in the outside of her pack. We
broke it out in the first kilometer of our 28-kilometer trip. The
scenery was exotic and the vodka helped cushion the truck bed.
When we arrived the little hotel had rooms for us that were
adequate, cheap and clean.
The next morning we were outfitted with life jackets and rubber
boots and set off down the Napo River in a dugout canoe powered
by an outboard motor. Because of upstream rains the water had
risen a meter overnight and the rapids looked fearsome. At one
point the bottom grated on the rocky river bed. Water sprayed
over us frequently and I decided that I wouldn't need to go
rafting after this. We landed in three hours at a jungle
clearing. I caught my rubber boot when stepping ashore. The boat
lurched sideways and I was in the river with my shoulder bag
swinging forward to get dunked. I scrambled out, wet and
embarrassed.
The guide had arranged demonstrations of animal trapping, blow
gun use, and a two-hour trek through the jungle. Mud was knee
deep and tried to suck your boats off. There were many
demonstrations of jungle lore. I leaned against a tree and got
stung by a fire ant. I said something to our guide about it and
he looked around and selected a tree. After tapping on the bark
he cut a slit and gathered some of the juice on his machete. He
spread it on the ant bite and the pain was gone and never came
back. He then picked up a little ball of mud and carefully
pressed it into the slit in the tree bark. He said that now the
tree would not suffer from the cut.
After a big jungle cooked lunch of chicken and fruit (and Pilsner
beer) we climbed back in the dugouts for another three hours
going back upstream. The river had continued to rise and it was
fast approaching 6 p.m. when it suddenly gets dark. The boat had
no lights and none on the shore. I was beginning to worry, but
then I recognized a small river just below our landing. By the
time we unloaded it was dark. To me that was cutting it too
close.
The next day it was pouring rain and we had to double up in the
pickup "taxi." My wife rode on my lap for 28 kilometers to the
town of Tema where we got a bus to Quito.
Our last adventure was to take the bus north of Quito to the
craft center of Otovalo. They have a Saturday market that is
famous for the variety and quality of the crafts, particularly
woven and knitted fabrics, leather goods, and wood carvings. We
spent the day looking and haggling. We bought most of our gifts
to take back. We saw a notice about a cock fight and we decided
to take that in too. It was a very slow process with everybody
looking at each new contestant before they were put in a cage
near the ring. Most of the roosters were crowing while waiting.
The referee carefully wiped with alcohol the claws and the metal
spurs attached to their legs. His last step was to squeeze some
alcohol on their beaks and into their mouths. The first two ended
their fight when one rooster went down in a submissive posture
and could not be provoked out of it. The second fight was furious
with feathers and blood scattered in the ring. The loser was
killed very suddenly and carried out. That was enough for us.
The following day we rented a taxi for the day and went to the
small villages in the area each one with a special craft. There
was a whole village of leather makers and you could buy a leather
jacket for 20 dollars. I only bought a belt. We had the taxi take
us back to Quito. We paid 11 dollars each for the taxi for about
eight hours of driving and waiting.
The trip back to Seattle was as long as we had remembered, and it
was still raining.
=================================================================
THE DOGS OF LANE COVE.
by Roger Sharland.
If you ever go to Australia you will soon see dogs.
Everywhere you will see dogs, you will see cattle dogs, sheep
dogs, pet dogs, and society dogs all poofed up no end. You
will see working dogs, trained to follow the horse, trained to
herd, to drove. Dogs born and bred in the tough hot brown
country. You will certainly see stray dogs, everywhere you
will see stray dogs. You will see watch dogs tied up in
backyards as sentinels. Dogs trained to guard. Wild savage dogs
that would undoubtedly kill a trespasser -- a cat, a possom, a
human.
There were five such ferocious dogs in a backyard across the
service road at the side of my flat in Lane Cove. They roamed
in their stark compound bounded by wire and a high wooden paling
fence. They were as thin as thin could be. So hungry that they
surely would have torn an intruder limb from limb. They barked
all day and most of the night. The only way I found to stop the
barking was to throw them food. To throw them chop bones.
Now I am sure that every dog in the world likes chop bones --
lamb chop bones, cooked and served with a slight trace of mint
jelly and a little crispy crackling. Given a chance a dog will
devour a lamb chop bone morsel by morsel, crunch by crunch, until
there is nothing left but licking and a few spots of grease on
the grass.
No dog that I have ever known will refuse. The dogs of Lane Cove
were no exception. They did not know from whence the bones came.
Never did I attempt to feed them through or over the fence for
fear of losing my hand, my arm. I was also in fear of the owner
who would no doubt suspect some foul deed by me, foul poison,
deadly bait, and surely call the police.
My flat was high on the second floor and the verandah overlooked
the road and then the yard. If my aim was good I could throw,
miss the branches of the gum trees and have a juicy chop land
out of the sky in the centre of their barren enclosure. At first
they were suspicious, but soon the biggest dog tore into the best
helping.
With careful aiming I was able to feed them all. Unfortunately
some bones lodged amongst the branches and leaves of the gum
trees. They are probably still there. Some bones fell on the
stony road below underneath my window. You see I was careful to
stay concealed inside my flat again for fear of the savage owner.
I also feared that my exploits would come to the notice of the
other tenants who would no doubt accuse me of fouling their
living space with stinking lamb chop bones.
It was lucky that no bones fell on the verandah below. It was no
mean task aiming those bones out the narrow gap in the patio
window, clear of the curtains. A good swing was essential. Such
was the distance and the required velocity, to miss meant an
enormous splodge of fat and mint sauce on my pristine living room
wall. I did not feed the brutes every day. I did not attempt to
do so if their master was in sight and the beautiful scrap bones,
marrow and all, were dumped unceremoniously into the gigantic
sink disposal unit in the kitchen to be destroyed as waste.
I don't suppose that anyone is feeding the poor animals now.
Perhaps after complaints to the local council about the noise or
representations to the Public Health the creatures have been
muzzled, cruelly bundled into trucks and taken away and shot.
Maybe around the great campfire in the sky when they are lying
calm in the glow and warmth they will converse, they will talk,
as I am sure dogs do, and they will talk of many things. Perhaps
they will tell their cobbers of crispy lamb chops from out of the
sky, from heaven.
'Tis a true story.
================================================================
KILLING TIME
by Jim Hursey
Sometimes, I'll admit, I'm not up to it,
Just don't feel like doin' a thing,
Just sit and stare in my rocking chair
And hear the mockingbirds sing.
You'll say that I'm just wasting time,
Frittering these hours away.
Where all of it goes, Lord only knows,
But it's my time, is all I can say.
Don't have a lot, time's all I've got,
I'll do with it whatever I will.
Not quite sure how, but it's my time now,
And I've got plenty of it to kill.
And killing time's not really a crime,
Don't shed for it your tears,
I guarantee it -- the way I see it --
Time's been killing me for years.
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end cybersenior.4.2