King Solomon’s Mines. A 50-year reread

This book was on the English Literature course when I studied it way back in the 1960s. I suppose its adventure theme, with deadly battles and buried treasure, was judged suitable to capture the interest of 16-year-old boys. Boys and their reading - still a matter of recurring educational concern. 

I came back to the book after having watched a TV programme in which it was referenced. The programme charted the course of the English novel and, as one of its themes, explored literature associated with Empire and colonisation. Hooked, I decided that it might be interesting to reread KSM after more than 50 years. An early front runner of this type of story there are many books of this genre today and this one is still easily available.  

Stuck in my memory

Some of the characters and situations had certainly stuck in my memory and as I met up with them again, I wondered why that was. Since they stuck, there must have been something that appealed, and I consider now that it was that adventurer aspect. However, the most obvious thing that struck me from the reread was just how much society norms and values have changed since that time. Some of the references and dialogue struck me as somewhat racist and sexist, not to mention scenes of hunting and ivory gathering, and on occasions caused some moments of discomfort.  These attitudes were prevalent in the late 19th century. I'm glad that we have left lots of that behind but I'm just as sure that a toxic residue remains. Why keep reading then? Perhaps a good way to learn what one’s values are is to be aware when they are being offended. But was the sixteen-year-old offended? Or did I simply take it for granted? With 50 years hindsight I stuck with the book.

Audio narration

What might have been helpful to me as a sixteen-year-old student was the audio narration that is available, read by Timothy Jones.  Read - the word doesn't do the rendition justice. It was a consummate voiced performance in which he took on the range of voices from the narrator, Allan Quatermain to the screeching Witch doctor, Gagool. The accompanying narration made for a quick reread. On occasions I read, listened and did both concurrently. That's a technique I'll be using more in the future to engage with even more books. 

Biltong

One last thing…A sixteen-year-old once learned what biltong was. That was a word that also stayed in the memory thanks to its use in this story. The product is available in a local supermarket, so I got some. 

Something else to chew on. 

Toeing the line

An indoor queue this time.
The simple strips adhered profusely over the mall floor kept everyone well apart. No jostling, no creeping forward. The shoppers waited patiently for each to be called forward in turn. Respectful distancing.
Seems like we've all got the message.
Complying. Toeing the line.

Palm Sunday 1925

Palm leaf crosses presented to churchgoers on Palm Sunday 

Today is Palm Sunday. 5 April 2020.

The occasion recalls the Entry into Jerusalem at the beginning of the first Holy Week in the Christian tradition. This year services commemorating the Entry have been curtailed as a result of the Covid-19 Coronavirus.
The virus has taken its toll with many succumbing to its deadly onslaught.
Their personal Passion...

My dad was born on a Palm Sunday.
It was 5 April 1925.
As first born in his family it was no doubt a celebration.  A Hallelujah!

It always amused him that his own father would on the occasion of Palm Sunday each year wish him a Happy Birthday. My grandad, we called him Granda Christy, never seemed to realise that Palm Sunday just like Easter is an ecclesiastical and therefore a variable date.  Some still don't get this as calls continue to be made for Easter to have a fixed calendar date.  Commercially driven no doubt.

But maybe in that bygone age it was perhaps more appropriate, congruent with belief, to remember the religious occasion rather than the actual date of a birthday, however special.

Today though, on this date 95 years later, the wishes would have been appropriate.
And my father would have appreciated the sentiment.

Happy birthday dad.
Hallelujah!

Marrakech closed openings

Books are like old friends

Books are like old friends. That's certainly the case with this one that an old (and still) friend presented to me as a gift 60 or so years ago.
It says something about the nature of gifts back in those days - the pleasure of the printed word.

It's on my reread list and I'm wondering whether it will feel dated by today's standards.
That's because I reread King Solomon's Mines a while ago and felt that some of its themes and attitudes were of their time and could be considered inappropriate by today's standards.

So in preparation for my reread I did some background research into the Coral Island.
That's a story in itself.

I'm still going ahead with the book and will try to recover the experience of that first read. Six decades ago.
I love the gift of the printed word.  A gift that keeps on giving.

Yes, books are like old friends...the older the nicer.


More:
Interested in the book, its author and creation? Check out the Wikipedia article here.

A taste of Marrakech

For a place such a short flight time from home and only one hour's time difference, Marrakech is a world apart. We were staying in a riad in the Medina and had not the receptionist arranged to come and meet us somewhere central we would never have found our way through the warren of narrow, packed streets. Saying that, at the end of our stay we could easily find our residence and return to places in the Medina we had marked for a return visit.

The first task after some rest was to get oriented and what better to do that than getting lost? Really?

Friendly passers-by shouted out directions, even urging us to follow them and suggesting visits. The pungent odour of where we had been directed to was not what we had been expecting. It was an open air camel tannery with stone troughs where the hides were pummelled and stretched. We were offered a large sprig of mint to sniff away the smell but politely declined and made off. But to where?

The friendly passers-by were nowhere to be seen. After a short walk we found ourselves in an open air market and attracted the attention of the locals. It was pretty obvious there were no other tourists and although there were curious glances they were also friendly and welcoming. It was wonderful to see old men approaching each other for handshakes which they held while also touching each other forehead to forehead. A lovely custom. As of course was the mint teas in obvious abundance. Mint tea. We heard that referred to as Moroccan whiskey.

It was a market and there was an abundant array of fresh vegetables and fruit: Aubergines, Courgettes, Celery,  Strawberries, Oranges, Potatoes and Mint everywhere.  We spotted an interesting way of keeping vegetables cool in the warmth.  A shady spot of course where one was available but also a basket type colander suspended over a tub of water in which there was a tin can. Holes had been punched in the bottom of the can and from time to time the vendor would take a scoop of water and let it drip over the basket of vegetables. Simple. Effective.

We followed the wider and busier streets and found our way back early afternoon to the main square Jemaa el-Fnaa  The perfumed scents of oils and spices stimulated the appetite. Time for a sit-down taste of Marrakech.

Not far from our Riad we spotted a small but evidently popular restaurant with panels of its offerings outside. A friendly caller, the owner or staff member perhaps invited us in. He didn't need to ask twice and nor did it take us long to decide what we needed.

Starters arrived. A welcome drink of milk and spices in a sugar frosted glass and bowls of olives, dips and bread.

That was followed by a Moroccan salad topped with falafel while my partner had a Kofta omelette both accompanied by pasta while my own included a portion of chips. I love the mix of vegetables called fatoush and my Moroccan salad had that distinctive flavour.

We asked for some mint tea to finish and this duly arrived with a plate of sliced fruit and a lovely pastry. I think it contained pistachio but there was also the unmistakable flavour of rose water. 
The bill at 110 Moroccan Dirham (MDA) was by no means huge, about £8 sterling, but there was little could be done with our available change to get to the correct amount. So the bill was to my embarrassment settled at 100 mda with the agreement that we would come back and eat there again.
We sure did! Well wouldn't you?

While we shook hands on it we didn't bump each others' foreheads!
And that return visit? The same guy, we were now sure that it was his business, recognised us immediately and escorted us to a brilliant table and even more mouth-watering food. 

On saying goodbye he scribbled out some words in Arabic for us in my notebook which I have mislaid but I remember the sentiment. It was: May a thousand roses bloom in your heart. 

Marrakech certainly bloomed there. 

Would love to go back, our visit was only a taste.

Latest Read: June 04 2019

The Western Wind by Samantha Harvey

Glad I stayed with it. ****

I almost gave up on this book as initially it moved too slowly for me but I'm glad that I stayed with it and almost wish it hadn't finished. The story unfolds in 15th century Oakham, a village backwater in Somerset. Its central character is a priest, John Reve who narrates the story in reverse chronological order about a wealthy parishioner, Thomas Newman, who has been swept away to his death in a nearby river. I wondered about the unusual chronological device and the reason for it becomes clear in the final chapter. I found myself going back to the beginning to try to ascertain the ending!
Much of the story takes place in the village church and particularly in the new confessional booth that has been constructed there. Parishioners confess litanies of sins in the run up to Lent but will anyone confess to the killing of Newman? It becomes clear that the priest John Reve has a secret of his own, something he does not dare to admit or confess to his own superior, a local Dean who has been summoned to the village to investigate the mysterious death.
The Dean is an ominous presence and Reve's feelings toward him ebb and flow in a gentle exploration of the nature of authority. I didn't much care for the Dean but felt that Reve, despite his flaws, became more likeable.
I also liked very much the many descriptive passages and turns of phrase, stopping every now and then to go back over them and reflect on the point being made. And this then was for me the ultimate appeal of the work, its saving grace. It developed a meditative quality, a kind of examination of conscience and an exploration of guilt.
Glad I stayed with it.

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