Sour note
Australia’s reputation for being insular and ignorant of world affairs was confirmed at the Davis Cup tennis this week.
It’s beyond belief that we managed to play the wrong Spanish anthem.
It’s hard to imagine such a debacle happening anywhere else in the world.
Okay, at the Winter Olympics once the Austrian anthem was played instead of ours, but there’s no comparison between the Olympics and tennis when it comes to anthem playing.
The Davis Cup is a competition between two countries and organisers know for a long time in advance the teams that will be involved.
This disaster of diplomacy came less than a week after the Prime Minister disgraced us in presenting the rugby World Cup to England. He had a face like a sour lemon, as one newspaper correctly described it.
The wrong anthem played by trumpeter James Morrison was apparently one from Spain’s brief flirtation with a republic in the 1930s. It was about the most insulting tune that could have been played. If he’d accidentally trumpeted the national anthem of Swaziland everyone would have known it was a mistake. Instead the Spanish are thinking conspiracy and calculated snub.
In some respects it is funny. I love the headline in today’s Herald-Sun, quoting Morrison:
“I blew it, says trumpet star”
Imaginings of Sand
Imaginings of Sand by Andre Brink is a powerful, sad and thoughtful book.
It’s set in South Africa’s Little Karoo, a harsh and forbidding landscape, at the time of the country’s first democratic elections.
A liberal young Afrikaner woman, Kristien Muller, returns home from Britain to see her dying grandmother (Ouma), whose house was burnt down in a politically motivated attack.
The old woman, aged over 100, hangs by a thread waiting for her favorite granddaughter to arrive so she can pass on the family legends. These stories are told against the backdrop of national transition and the strain between Kristien’s sister Anna and her boorish husband Casper.
Brink is an Afrikaner who writes in English and lectures in English at the University of Cape Town.
I’ve read one of his other novels, The Devil’s Valley, and expected this to be similar in tone.
The Devil’s Valley is also set in the Little Karoo, where a group of Boers lose themselves from society in a hidden mountain range during the Great Trek. They avoid civilisation for decades, building their own introspective world influenced by 18th century values and their unspoken colored ancestors.
The main similarity in Imaginings of Sand is that Ouma’s story begins with a colored woman, taken by one of the frontier settlers. It follows her maternal line to Kristien herself. Fact intermingles with fiction to perpetuate a family myth.
Brink may be deliberately provocative in linking black African oral tradition with the Afrikaners. Or he may be challenging his own people to acknowledge the tar in their brush, so to speak. Or he may be saying that the Afrikaners are an African people with mutual traditions that they previously haven’t acknowledged.
Perhaps he is saying all of these things and more, depending on the reader’s perspective.
Brink writes with a convert’s zeal. English isn’t his first language, but he has complete mastery of it. His vocabulary stimulated me and made for a slower pace of reading than the other books I’ve experienced recently. In fact I finished two others while working progressively through this one.
Brink seems to concede that his use of language could be more economical.
Kristien, who probably reflects the author’s personality, says by way of introduction that she has a flair for English, but it can never be her native tongue.
She says: “I have delusions of grandiloquence. I tend to say ‘impetuous’ when ‘wilful’ would do, or ‘proceed’ rather than a simple ‘go’.”
That’s also true of the author; however I appreciated his storytelling ability.
The background political comments never distracted, but it was sometimes confusing to switch between legend and current reality, especially as Ouma’s stories weren’t chronological.
When dealing with the modern political situation Brink shows his own bias and prejudice. The whites who fear change are negatively portrayed. The character of Casper is an absolute ogre and could unreasonably represent a stereotype of the white farmer for outside readers.
I’ve travelled to Southern Africa and my wife is an Afrikaner (Juliet was living in Oudtshoorn when I met her, where this book is set). I found most of the white men I met there, especially on the land, sympathetic to their workers and black culture generally. It was more the women, sheltered in privilege, who struck me as racist (Juliet excluded).
Brink also dwells on incest among the trekkers and, even if this happened, it surely doesn’t deserve the emphasis given in this book and The Devil’s Valley.
Some of Ouma’s tales were genuinely amusing and I found one extremely funny. A forefather, Samuel Grobler, made a covenant with God after believing he was saved. The covenant was that a Samuel Grobler would honor the Lord’s name every generation until Judgement Day.
Samuel named his first son Samuel, but he unfortunately passed away, aged three. The next boy was named Samuel, but he also died. Then came three girls until, thankfully, another Samuel was born. He lived until the age of 16 before going to meet his maker. Mrs Grobler was too old for any more children, so the covenant passed to the next boy Bart to uphold.
Bart wasn’t taking any risks and named all of his 18 children Samuel, male and female. Bart’s wife delivered a set of quads and they were all named Samuel. Bart was at the birth holding a lantern for the midwife, who snarled at him: “Take away that bloody lantern. I think they’re drawn by the light.”
Imaginings of Sand is depressing in the sense that its ending exaggerates the dark emotion of despair. Casper fears for his future under a new government. Anna fears Casper. The mass murder scene provided an exit that I was unprepared for and consider unnecessary. The book was thought provoking and enjoyable without needing, in my opinion, to end on such a note.
Brink contrasts Anna’s despair with hope for the country in general. The elections went more smoothly than most people expected and whites readily embraced the new order. Kristien came to think of herself again as South African.
As the holder of her family’s maternal legends she decides to live once more in the country of her birth.
This juxtaposition of past, present and future is the positive message that Brink could have told without needing a violent conclusion to his otherwise excellent novel.
Precipice Plain
It was a cool and fine day here, so with hindsight I could have made my long weekend walk locally, rather than in the High Country. With the weather generally getting warmer I prefer to walk in cooler alpine conditions.
Today I visited Carmichaels Falls and continued along the Dinner Plain track to Precipice Plain.
For the third time on a Sunday this month I encountered snow. There was a light dusting of fresh snow at Mount Hotham as I drove through, but it had melted by the afternoon.
The Falls are nothing spectacular, but worth a look. The Dinner Plain track is closed to vehicles now, so hikers should be safe from 4WDs and trail bikes.
There was a thick fog and light drizzle today, which is interesting to a point. Unfortunately though I had no views over the cliff at Precipice Plain, just more cloud.
It took two and a half hours altogether. There’s a hill down to the falls viewing platform, otherwise the gradient is pretty level.
I wanted a little more exercise, so I drove a few kilometres towards Hotham and set off along the Mount Tabletop track.
It starts in a snowplain, which after snow melt and rain is basically a swamp. The track is indistinct here and I had to rely on markers in the distance. Emus inhabit this plain and I saw a flock (is that what you call a group of emu?).
The Tabletop track is closed following bushfire damage, so that ends my narrative. There’s a hut near the picnic ground and a group had stayed there overnight as the fire was still glowing.
It was a pleasant walk considering the weather.
Blue Rag Range
My comments yesterday about commonsense and alpine weather proved prophetic today as I walked along the Blue Rag Range near Mount Hotham.
The forecast was for a fine day with southerly winds freshening later. We were expecting 29 degrees here and 13 at Mount Hotham.
The prospect of a southerly change warned me to expect strong winds on the exposed ridge, but I wasn’t fully prepared for the freezing conditions, rain and snow.
No complaints though. I wore shorts and a long-sleeve shirt. My legs didn’t get cold, but the icy wind froze my hands.
The track starts 11.5km south of the Great Alpine Road along the Dargo High Plains Road. It descends sharply before a steeper climb to the intersection of two tracks.
The remainder of the walk follows a ridge that would ordinarily offer majestic views. “Alone and aloof” is how one book accurately describes this range, which is above the tree line at nearly 1700 metres.
I walked through fog and light drizzle. Cloud passed over the ridge in a haunting mysterious shroud. Conditions were comfortable out of the wind, but freezing where its full power was felt.
I reached the summit and skirted down out of the gale for lunch. I then retraced my steps to the car, completing a total walk of 13.6km in three hours and 40 minutes.
The views opened up temporarily on the return journey and were indeed stunning. The snowcapped peaks around Mount Hotham loomed on one side, while hills creased into endless valleys toward the Wongungarra on the other.
The wind eased as I arrived back near the car, only to be superseded by a heavy fall of snow. I preferred the snow to the rain, as it was less wet (if that makes sense) and the still conditions weren’t as cold as the wind I’d encountered near the summit.
I enjoyed the walk and will try it again in better weather. The fog saved me from seeing a preview of the challenging ascent near the beginning, but it wasn’t too bad.
I’ll try to avoid weekends and holidays in future, as the track is suitable for 4WD vehicles. I came across five of them and two trail bikes.
I found walking conditions better than the Razorback. The track is wide and mostly even, not too rocky. The views are probably just as good.
Razorback
Today I completed the aptly named Razorback walk from Mount Hotham to Mount Feathertop. I started at 8.30am and avoided the weekend rush.
It was my first time on this track and I was a little apprehensive. All the guide books say to allow four hours each way for the 22km return journey and hikers are advised to carry suitable clothing for cold and wet weather.
I set off in long sleeves and shorts, but quickly switched to a singlet and splashed on the sunscreen. Regarding the weather, commonsense should prevail. Sure it could change quickly, but if the forecast is for a dry and clear day you should dress accordingly at this time of year.
I didn’t find any part of the walk hard in terms of gradient, except the final approach to Mount Feathertop. The track is rocky in most places, which makes it challenging and requires full concentration.
The views are spectacular. The ridge narrows to just a few metres in some places, plunging rapidly into distant valleys on both sides.
I enjoyed the relative cool morning conditions. The wind was brisk in exposed areas, but not cold. I wore a cap instead of the broad-rimmed hat to save it blowing away. There were patches of snow, including in a few places across the track.
Mount Feathertop is Victoria’s second-highest mountain at 1922 metres. I think it’s probably the highest altitude I’ve ever climbed. I’ve been to the Thredbo and Perisher villages, but I don’t think they’re that high. I visited a ski resort in Switzerland once, but can’t recall its elevation.
Feathertop is regarded as being more like a typical European or North American mountain. Its summit has no trees and little vegetation. The panorama extends 360 degrees.
The weather warmed up considerably in the afternoon and made progress slower. I reached Feathertop in two hours and 45 minutes, but took three hours to return.
There is no water along the route, so I rationed the two litres I carried with me.
I’ll do this walk again one day and possibly head down the Bungalow Spur to Harrietville. I don’t fancy walking up the spur. I suppose it would give a sense of achievement, but walks should be enjoyed, rather than endured.
The Book of Fame
Lloyd Jones has immortalised himself in New Zealand literature through his outstanding novel “The Book of Fame”.
It traces the story of the famous 1905 All Blacks, known as “The Originals”, on their pioneer tour of Britain, France and the United States.
The story is written as a collective diary in concise prose that’s almost poetic. The use of language is something I’ve never encountered before, but it works very well.
The narrator is never revealed as a single player. The personal pronoun never appears; instead it’s a team voice that speaks.
That’s appropriate given the stunning success of this team. The players became celebrities throughout Britain. They were farewelled from New Zealand by a few dozen friends and relatives, arriving home to a heroes welcome.
They lost only one game on tour, in controversial circumstances to a Welsh team at Cardiff Arms Park.
Along the way they met the King, mixed with Lords and common people, and saw sights that few colonials had ever seen.
They were wined and dined in England and Wales, snubbed in Scotland and entertained in Paris between scoring 830 points while conceding just 39.
The descriptions of exotic places and rare experiences are beautifully written.
The 1905 All Blacks mostly came from humble backgrounds. They were farmers, farriers, meatworkers, miners, bank clerks and bootmakers: ordinary men thrust into extraordinary places.
Their rugby was revolutionary. They kept the ball in hand, running at the opposition instead of kicking it away. The English never adapted to match the new style; only the canny Welsh played the All Blacks at their own game.
Jones narrates the humility of the all-conquering New Zealanders. They were men who knew their talent on the field and their limitations off it.
For someone raised on Australian football this novel captures the essence of rugby and what it means to New Zealanders and Welshmen in particular. It is their tribal religion and does so much to shape their national identities.
Imagine the team arriving in Cardiff, where it was met close to midnight by 20,000 people at the railway station with “delerious hearts and famished stares”.
I’ll finish with this extract of memories that the players carried with them:
The quiet applause of the dazed Leicester players walking back to their goal line after conceding another try.
A professional wizard, a predicter of fortunes, a seer and three witches were driven out of town following the Irish defeat at Lansdown Road.
The 35,000 telegrams sent out by the Cardiff Post Office following our only defeat at Cardiff Arms (normal Saturday load: 800 messages).
Every colliery in the Forest of Green closing on the day we played Gloucester.
And witness the poetry:
We who had come to discover
found ourselves discovered
and, in the process, discovered
ourselves -
Lunch with Mussolini
Lunch with Mussolini by Derek Hansen is a fascinating book that’s full of suspense and intrigue.
Hansen is an Australian author, who according to his blurb, left the advertising industry to “fulfil a lifelong ambition” to write novels.
Putting aside my suspicion of advertising people, and resisting the temptation to say they are all experts in fiction, I’m happy to praise Hansen for this outstanding work.
Lunch with Mussolini is the second in a series following Lunch with the Generals.
The premise is that five friends meet weekly in a Sydney restaurant to swap yarns. A story may last for several weeks, as this one by the narrator Lucio does.
Set in wartime Italy the story’s main characters are a young Italian girl, Cecilia, and a German officer Friedrich.
Hansen has thoroughly researched the history and politics of the era, giving what appears to be an accurate account of Italy’s flirtation with fascism. If Mussolini had held back from supporting Germany in the Second World War he might well have stayed in power as Franco did in Spain.
Most Italians weren’t very enthusiastic about the war, and it’s well documented that Italians weren’t very good soldiers, struggling even to defeat Ethiopia.
So when thousands of Italians were captured or killed it followed that the anti-fascist Partisans grew in strength and numbers. This is the backdrop to Hansen’s story.
Cecilia works for a fascist Count and befriends the local German commandant, a decent man who suffers personal anguish when his family is killed in the Allied bombing of Dresden.
Cecilia falls in love with Friedrich, but continues to feed information to the Partisans about German tactics. The local community, unaware of her double life, considers her a traitor and stones her nearly to death when she’s falsely accused of betraying the Partisans and aiding a German military success.
Friedrich, already gutted by the loss of his wife and son, sinks deeper into a mire of despair when he incorrectly believes that Cecilia has been killed. He rounds up some local women and orders their shooting in reprisal. Among those killed is Cecilia’s mother.
Fast forward 50 years to Sydney and an unexpected reunion between Cecilia and Friedrich, both now living under assumed names, trying to escape their past.
Cecilia ponders taking revenge on Friedrich for the death of her mother, not knowing his motive for the crime of passion. Their paths separated after the incident and war’s end.
Lucio brings his listeners into the narrative as active players in the final outcome. It’s revealed that Cecilia is his mother-in-law and she hasn’t yet decided Friedrich’s fate.
Should she kill him or forgive him? The listeners are asked to cast their verdict.
The writing moves along at a rapid pace and the attention to historical detail is appropriate without distracting.
I enjoyed this book and now plan to read others in the series.
Runaway Jury
Juliet and I saw Runaway Jury at the Wangaratta Cinema on Friday. I’m not a film buff; in fact I only go to the movies once or twice a year and rarely watch them on TV.
My main interest in seeing this film was to compare it with John Grisham’s excellent book of the same name, which I read a few months ago.
The movie stars Dustin Hoffman, Gene Hackman, John Cusack and Rachel Weisz in the main roles.
Given my confessed ignorance of cinema I won’t comment on the technical aspects or their acting performances.
I will say that I enjoyed it, but I remain puzzled at the variations from Grisham’s original storyline.
The novel features a courtroom battle where a jury is manipulated to win a verdict against big tobacco companies for causing pain, suffering and death. The manipulation is done to revenge a family tragedy involving lung cancer.
Nicholas Easter gets himself onto the jury and progressively “bumps” other jurors who don’t see things his way, or he persuades the others to his predetermined way of thinking.
While he’s working on the inside the big tobacco companies have a jury consultant working on the outside to sway the verdict by whatever means.
Their paths cross in a fascinating plot that marries conflict with perceived mutual interest.
By contrast, the movie begins with a startling scene in which a rogue gunman murders several people. The court case then features a battle against big gun companies, trying to hold them liable for the shooting.
Nicholas Easter only causes one other juror to be removed in the film, saving blind foreman Herman Grimes from a poisoning attack he suffered in the novel.
I can understand why much of the detail was condensed. Movie makers simply don’t have time to tell the full story.
That’s why I’m surprised the film includes a long dialogue between lawyer Wendall Rohr (Hoffman) and jury stacker Rankin Fitch (Hackman). It bordered on boring and didn’t add to the film’s drama.
I also can’t understand why the tobacco industry was switched for guns, except that gun control is a topical issue in the United States.
I’ve read some online reviews and that aspect has offended some people who consider the film is trying to moralise and threaten people’s constitutional rights, so the change might have backfired. I’ll keep looking for an explanation from the director or producer.
I’m not going to be pompous and say “read the book instead of seeing the film”. The movie was good entertainment. So is the book. Experience both, but don’t expect the experiences to meld.
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