The Ship – A Sci-fi short story – (For Gordon and Hazel)

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The Ship – A Sci-fi short story – (For Gordon and Hazel)

‘Well Liz, fancy a quick drink?’ Captain Cole enquired as I completed my watch.

‘Don’t mind if I do, Captain’ I replied happily. I was aware that the Captain always had the best tipple you could anywhere on ship. It was exceptionally good and a pleasure after a long difficult shift controlling the lurching and groaning of a ship this age.

We left the bridge to the Captain’s private quarters.

‘What’s your poison?’ Captain Cole enquired.

‘Whatever you are having, Captain,’ I said.

‘There’s no rank in my rooms when we’re off duty,’ Captain Cole said cheerfully as she poured out two generous portions of amber nectar, ‘just Hazel and Liz in here.’

‘Right you are, Hazel,’ I said, settling back and taking the drink I was being offered. This wasn’t the first time we’d shared a drink or two after our watch but I liked to follow the protocol and wait until asked. It was a matter of respect.

‘How was the ship today?’ Hazel enquired as she sat herself down.

‘Oh, you know how it is with these older models,’ I replied, sipping my drink and relishing the flavours, ‘they become more awkward to control as they age. And this one has never been one of the easy ones. In fact, I don’t think I’ve heard of one with a worse reputation.’

‘I know,’ Hazel grinned, ‘I was never sure if it was a good move taking over responsibility for this one. It’s an awkward sod. Perhaps I’d have been better off joining the pioneer squad.’

‘I don’t know about that,’ I replied, quite shocked. I’d never heard Hazel grumble about this old ship. She’d always seemed really fond of the old blighter and quite happy to be in control. ‘The pioneer corps is pretty much like a suicide mission, if you ask me. You’re better off in a ship, even if it’s an old rascal like this. Only one in every hundred thousand ever land anywhere habitable. The rest drift around hopelessly until they die a lonely death. You wouldn’t want that.’

‘Yes, you’re right,’ Hazel said, with a chuckle, ‘but when I was young I was quite keen on being a pioneer.’

I looked at her aghast.

‘Yes I did,’ she grinned, seeing the look on my face. ‘I liked the glamour of it. You had your training, and your period of fame and adulation. People looked up to a pioneer.’ She grinned wickedly.

I pulled myself together. It was hard to think of Hazel in her younger days, dreaming of being a pioneer, heading off on missions to find other habitable lands and ensure the survival of the species. Pioneering was heady and exciting. I’d been tempted myself. But we all go through our young, mad days, then reality kicks in. Fortunately for me, reality kicked in before I signed up or I could have found myself living a short, lonely life in the wilderness. Very few pioneers ever achieved the fame and prestige of setting up a new colony. But the Captain – she seemed far too capable and responsible. I couldn’t imagine her ever having a wild youth.

‘Well I’m glad I did not opt for that kind of short career in the pioneer corps,’ I said, ‘and I’m glad you didn’t as well.’ I had a lot of respect for the way Hazel controlled the ship. She seemed to have her finger on the pulse. She knew what was going on in every department and somehow kept tabs on it all. I couldn’t imagine working for anybody else.

‘Thank you,’ Hazel said, accepting it as a compliment.

We sipped our drinks.

‘It is true though, Hazel said. ‘This one has always been a difficult one to control. I knew that when I took it on. The records are full of it.’

‘Yep,’ I nodded. ‘Right from the earliest accounts; this is one cantankerous animal.’

‘Ah, yes,’ Hazel agreed. ‘But that makes it all the more rewarding. To deploy all your resources is more fulfilling than merely performing a monotonous task.’

I hadn’t considered that before. The ship was challenging and there were times when I had to pit my wits and apply all my skills in order to stay in charge. Yet I enjoyed that. At the end of my shift I was often exhausted but the time had passed quickly and I had the satisfaction of having achieved something.

‘Hazel,’ I said, ‘you are right. I enjoy my work and wouldn’t be happy doing anything else.’

We were quiet for a minute, savouring our drinks and thinking.

‘I find it quite daunting at times,’ Hazel mused. ‘Being the Captain of this magnificent beast is sometimes quite a frightening experience. Both you and I, as first mate and Captain, follow a long line of masters going back hundreds of thousands of generations. We are part of that unbroken history. This ship has always known masters who have skilfully guided it to success. Now it is our turn. And in a short while we will hand over to the next generation. If none of us makes a terrible mistake this old rogue will be good for many hundreds of thousands of generations to come.’

‘That is what gives me nightmares,’ I said, shaking my head and looking concerned. ‘If I were to lose control, then that’s the end. It would be the finish of countless billions of us.’

Hazel laughed. ‘I have those same sleepless nights,’ she said. ‘But that is why we are good at our jobs – we care. We work hard, prepare well, and keep on top of the task. We’re excellent at it. This is a demanding old rascal but we know how it operates and keep it on the straight and narrow. This ship has sent out more than its share of pioneers. It has successfully established countless colonies and propagated our kind. There are probably trillions of our progeny out there right now, because of the work you, me and our forebears have done. Just think of it, Liz! That should make you feel proud.’

‘Oh, it does,’ I responded pensively. ‘I love my work and I do take pride in it. But sometimes I wonder if there shouldn’t be something more? What is this life all about? Surely it has to be more than merely living from day to day and spreading our offspring through the universe?’

Hazel regarded me with one of those amused smiles of hers. ‘Liz,’ she said, ‘you think too much. Life is much more than work – even doing a great job like ours; it is about moments like this, when we can sit pleasantly with friends, share food, a drink, talk and discuss, crack the odd joke and reminisce.’

‘Yes,’ I agreed, ‘but sometimes I think there has to be more than even that.’

‘But there is,’ Hazel exclaimed. ‘You and I are immensely privileged. Unlike most of our fellows, we are able to see a lot of the universe. Most of the poor devils never even glimpse what is going on. Theirs is a life of drudgery. We see the beauty. We sense the wonder. We have an idea of its scope and immensity. Surely that is sufficient to fill you with awe?’

‘I suppose so,’ I replied tentatively. ‘There are certainly wonders and marvels that you and I are privy to that make life worthwhile.’

‘Sure there are,’ Hazel laughed. ‘You’re just feeling a bit down. It’s been a long day. Drink up and mellow out.’

Hazel was right. We were privileged. We had so much. Life was good.

We drank up and ended on a cheery note.

The next day the Captain and I were involved with the next batch of pioneers. They had completed all their training and had their long furlough in which to live life to the full. Now was the moment of truth. They were to be blasted free of the ship, the nurturing beast that sustained us and provided all our needs. They were going to leave behind all their love ones and everything they had known, in the hopes of discovering new fertile homes where they could establish fresh colonies and win a future for our kind. One day our ship would lose the battle and fall into decay and disrepair. When that day came, hopefully many hundreds of thousands of generations hence, it was essential that our species had established itself elsewhere. The pioneers were our hope for immortality.

We surveyed the grave young people lined up on parade. This was their big day. They looked serious but determined. They knew the statistics. The vast majority were doomed to wander endlessly and find nowhere suitable to sustain life. They would live and die in a solitary bubble. But maybe one of these brave youngsters in front of us now would be blessed, maybe this time, on this occasion, we would hit lucky and a new ship would carry our DNA into the future.

‘You carry the hopes of all of us,’ the Captain finished her speech. ‘Now go forth and multiply! May you all strike lucky and prosper! May you pass on our genes, our culture and our history for eternity! May you sail the tides in your own ships and discover new continents! Go with all our blessings, all our love, all our respect and all our dreams. Onward to glory! May luck go with you!’

The pioneers cheered like crazy and jumped madly in the air. Then they streamed off to the launch site to prepare for their momentous blast off into the unknown.

There were tears in my eyes as I watched those brave young volunteers facing what for most of them was miserable death – such courage.

Now it was down to me. Part of my task, as first mate on the ship, was to inaugurate the launch of our gallant pioneers. That was no mean task. I had to coax the unwieldy ship to undergo an intricate manoeuvre. It was an exercise that was devilishly difficult to perfect and it was not without its dangers.

All the pioneers were at their stations, steeling themselves for the explosive force that would propel them forth from the life they had known to a dubious and frightening future. I bet, for all the resolve and strength of courageously spoken words, there were more than a few quaking nerves and regrets. This was the moment of truth. They knew their race depended on them and they were prepared, like so many generations before, to make the ultimate sacrifice.

I set the events into motion and began the delicate task of stimulating and irritating the body that was our ship.

 

Gordon was sitting in the lounge of the Marco Polo feeling rather sorry for himself. His head ached, his throat was sore and he had a cough that was making his lungs hurt. He’d had it for five days now and was debating whether to make that move and go and visit the doctor. He’d heard all the rumours of how it cost a small fortune but he was long past caring. This was well beyond a joke. He was experiencing difficulty breathing and his wheezing was keeping him awake.

He could feel the sneeze starting. It began as a tickle in the sinuses, progressed to an uncontrollable reflex that built up into a fully-fledged explosion. He just had time to pull a tissue out of his pocket before his eyes screwed up, his head went back, his mouth opened to suck in air and then his face jolted forward as his diaphragm and intercostals jerked and forced air out of his tubes at a rocketing hundred miles an hour.

‘AAAAAAAAAAATTTTTTTTTTCCCCCCCCCHHHHHHHHHOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!’ He blasted, droplets of moisture and mucous out of his nasal cavity with the force of a hurricane. Gordon caught most of it in the tissue but some of the virus ridden aerosol escaped and were airborne drifting on the currents, in hopes of a chance inspiration.

26.2.2016

(I wrote this story after reading that 99 out of every 100 cells in a human body were non-human. I imagined humans being farmed and controlled by bacteria.)

Important Things From History Everyone Pictures Incorrectly

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I found this a brilliant and interesting article. Enjoy.

Anecdote – The Lone Ranger – a tale in black and black.

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AppleMark

The Lone Ranger.

I used to go to all those Saturday morning flicks where the audience of young kids would be baying at the screen as the good guys, all dressed in white all rode out to trounce the bad guys all dressed in black. If only real life was half as easy. Whenever there was a spot of bother you could always count on a masked rider in a big white Stetson and face-mask to appear with his great white stallion and faithful Native American side-kick, to come along and sort it out. Either that or Rin Tin Tin. I’ve always wondered why anyone would call a dog Rin Tin Tin? What does that mean?

However, The Lone Ranger was not always the most welcome of people.

Back in Manor House in 1972 I was living up on the top floor with Liz. Down on the bottom floor there was a guy who was greatly into his vinyl. He was called John.

Going round to John’s was like a religious ceremony. There was a ritual to his playing of music. The selected album would be carefully removed from its sleeve and taken out of its dust-jacket gently and taking care not to get a finger-print on the surface. Both sides would be wiped with an anti-static cloth. The album would be placed on the turntable and the stylus gently lowered. All parties were then expected to reverentially listen without a sound until the side had completed.

John was one of those music buffs for whom the quality of the system mattered. He desired the full gamut of breadth and texture of the aural experience with the complete separation of each instrument.

Music was serious business to John. It was not to be taken lightly. Nobody was allowed near his vinyl. He never lent his albums out and his stereo was the absolute top of the range.

I appreciate music in any form – through crappy car speakers, or a clapped out radio – it matters little. I’ve heard it played through the top quality speakers in professional studios and have to admit that it sounds a lot better, but even so it is the music that ultimately counts, not the sound system. John’s system was as near to perfection as you could get. His albums did not have a single click. It added to the quality but I’m not sure I could be bothered. But to John it was crucial.

Our landlord was 84 years old and was a little confused from time to time. Thus it was that when John went on holiday for four weeks it was a recipe for disaster.

John paid up his rent and went off.

Mr Rose for some reason got it into his head that John had left for

good. He did not like rooms being vacant – which I don’t think it was anything to do with the money – in his opinion a vacant room encouraged vermin.

So Mr Rose went round and emptied the entire contents of John’s flat into the corridor. Most people going into a flat full of possessions would have thought that there was something wrong. Why would anyone leave all their belongings and disappear having paid up the rent? But that did not occur to Mr Rose. The flat was empty and needed someone in it before the mice and rats appeared.

John came back, after a relaxing two weeks, to find his huge collection of over a thousand pristine albums piled up in heaps in an alcove in the corridor, along with his treasured stereo and all the rest of his possessions. Fortunately none of it had gone missing or been tampered with. But that wasn’t the point. This was sacrilege of the first order. His beloved vinyl collection had been treated with utmost disdain. It was sacrilege and he went completely mental.

After stamping and screaming at the bemused Mr Rose he moved his stuff out and took a flat elsewhere.

John then held a farewell party in his old flat. He bought gallons of black gloss paint, rice and paint brushes (along with wine, beer and various other comestibles).

A few days later a totally befuddled Mr Rose asked me to come and help. He could not fathom out what was going on.

He took me down to John’s flat. It was broad daylight but the rooms were inky black. With the light coming in through the doorway we made our way inside over a strange sticky, crunchy floor. None of the lights seems to work and no light was coming in through the windows.

I checked out the bulb in the central light fitting. It was all bobbly. It had been painted with black gloss paint and rice.

We adjourned to get replacement lightbulbs. When we had new lights in the place we looked around in awe. All the walls, ceiling, floors, furniture, sinks, windows, curtains, bed and fittings had been coated with knobbly black gloss paint.

On one wall, in great big white brushstrokes, was painted the words – ‘DON’T FUCK WITH THE LONE RANGER!’

‘Why would anyone want to do a thing like that?’ Mr Rose asked incredulously.

But then he wasn’t a Rock music fanatic was he?

Poetry – Built in Obsolescence – A poem of renewal

Posted on by Opher

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Built in Obsolescence

Much as we like to believe that things will go on much as they are, will follow the same familiar pattern, we know that is not true. Change is the order of the universe.

Manufacturers build in weak links in their products so that they have a limited lifetime. When they fail they are replaced with the latest, trendy model.

It was said that Henry Ford ordered a review of his cars to see when different parts were failing. Rather than address the weaker parts he ordered that the specs of the others parts be reduced to fall into line with the weakest aspects. He did not see the point of wasting money.

Our bodies have a genetic predisposition to age and die. It is necessary. Evolution has devised this solution. We shall not compete for space, food or water with our offspring. When our reproductive roles are completed we are dead space; we are moved out the way. Aging and death are our built-in obsolescence.

Our planet, our solar system and our universe itself has a limited life. It might be measured in billions but measured it is. Our sun will age and expand into a red giant that incorporates the bulk of the planets. The earth will be eaten up. We will shine. And as we shine all evidence of life and human civilisation will be eradicated. No fossil will remain. Likewise the universe will wind down as expansion and entropy change the complex to simple. The stars will flicker out and darkness, heat and hydrogen will continue to expand into nothing.

But when something dies something else is born.

 

Built in Obsolescence

There’s an in-built obsolescent

At the heart of everything,

Waiting to expire by the time we count to three.

It is placed there by design

And is created to sound purpose

To induce us to replace

The model for another.

 

We too have a built in obsolescence

That is counting down the years

Wearing out our parts

With the sagging of our bits.

It leads to our expiry date

When we must move out the way

To allow a younger generation

To have the room to play.

 

Societies have a built in obsolescence

They begin and flourish, then decay.

The corruption and the inequality

Are acid at their heart

So that they become rotten

And collapse

To give a brand new start.

 

The planet has an in-built obsolescence

It will not always be this way.

The sun will eat it up into its own bright new day.

Its tenuous existence will last a billion years or two

And then it will cease

And perhaps another world

Will give birth to life anew.

 

Opher 16.1.2016

The Voyage Part 6 – Ilheus Brazil

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We headed out of Recife for a day at sea on the way south.

Ilheus was different. While Recife was a major port and city catering for transatlantic commerce Ilheus was a small town whose claim to fame was the production of chocolate (now largely in the past). One of the beauties of being in a small ship was that we could get into the small ports. We were welcomed into the port by a samba drumming outfit who seemed to be dressed up in African cotton shirts. They were great.

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Ilheus had that same decaying colonial architecture that we’d seen in Olinda. We wandered through the town and looked at the electricity wiring reminiscent of Thailand and India. It hung in swathes across every building and formed great knotted junctions on every corner rather masking the gaudily coloured buildings.

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The centre of town was a square a hundred metres from the beach. The Cathedral dominated to one side and the theatre at another. Many citizens sat in the shade of the magnificent old fig trees while other folk did their best to extract cash from tourists. There were stalls selling cashew nuts and raw chocolate, a group of young men doing the acrobatic kick boxing/dance – Capoeira. Well I say doing. What I really mean is that the musicians playing a short burst while two or three put on a performance and then they demanded money from anyone who dared to watch. We watched. It was fun and looked very interesting and the musical instruments were weird. It was worth a dollar.

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There was also a very strange big black woman in a headscarf and big flouncy white dress. It was our first introduction to Brazilian Voodoo – Candomblé. For a small payment she would give you a blessing. It seemed perfectly mainstream. Voodoo sat alongside Catholicism. People seemed perfectly happy to come out of the cathedral and receive a voodoo blessing. They were covering both bases.

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The Cathedral was heaving with people all joining in with their hands raised palms upward. It always amazes me that the poorer and more deprived the people the more they put their faith in religion and superstition. The evangelicals were making a huge impact in Brazil. There were churches popping up all over the place with massive congregations.

The Cathedral was opulent and a great example of Portuguese architecture though not quite as typical as many. It looked a bit fairy-tale. I enjoyed it. But there were the ubiquitous clutch of beggars.

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Out in the cathedral plaza there was some guy whirling around with a huge hat. IHe didn’t seem to be taking money so I don’t know what that was about. I decided it was either some new religion or something for the tourists to wonder at.

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I wandered on the beach but, due to El Nino, it was a drab day. The beach was empty and did not sparkle.

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We headed out into the hinterland to get a small taste of Brazilian Atlantic rainforest. We saw a waterfall, some pretty birds (including a humming bird) and gorgeous flowers but I was disappointed to find so little life. You could not describe it as teeming.

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Poetry – And never a question asked

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And never a question asked

I’m on board a ship heading for South America – a two hulled Russian ice-breaker, full of old, and mainly fat, British people with minds to think but most with a propensity for trivia. Life on board is a round of games, fun, grumbles, indulgence and pointlessness.

They read, for the most part, trite rubbish. Around them is a huge ocean where life and death are played out before our eyes. It is not reflected in the literature.

We crossed the equator to the performance of a juvenile enactment of penance to King Neptune. The gods of the past, feared and respected, were now fair fodder for farce just as the gods of today will become.

It is 2016 and everywhere the global corporation is sucking the life out of the planet as society is guided away from the natural into the synthetic. All products have inbuilt obsolescence and an endless stream of new models. We have to replace the old. It’s a game of catch-up.

We are consuming the planet for a mad game. We are creating and nurturing desires for profit – for nothing more than profit.

.

And never a question asked

Safety, comfort and ease,

Is the mantra of the modern world.

Superficial, artificial and pointless,

Is the new way of things.

If anything dares to live……

If anyone cares to be different……….

And never a question.

 

Shallow pleasures

With laughter and jollity,

But no spirit or substance.

Light to the mind –

Easy to the taste –

Lest it disturbs thoughts.

And never a question.

 

No depth or meaning

To ripple the mind.

Purchasing and consuming

Are the only purpose.

Numerals on a loyalty card –

And never a question.

 

Opher 16.1.2016

 

 

Mother’s Day – My Mummy’s Dead – John Lennon

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It is immense. The power and responsibility of a mother. Most are loving and caring and bring up their sons and daughters with love to care, respect and have the self-esteem to make life a wonder. They instill tolerance and compassion.

Others are abusive. They bring up their children with hatred, violence and abuse. They instill distrust and demand rigid obedience.

My mum was loving, kind and full of joy. I was lucky. She lived to the age of eighty three and I think of her often. There were many things about her that were utterly exceptional.

John Lennon lost his mother twice. She was a live-wire and farmed him out to his austere aunt Mimi at an early age so that she could get on with her life. Then, just after they had reestablished contact, she was run over and killed. Her death had a profound effect on him. It turned him into an angry young man which probably was responsible for his success. There is much evidence and hearsay to suggestion that Lennon was not a very pleasant character. He could be vicious.

But then he discovered scream therapy and let it all out.

This is what came out:

“My Mummy’s Dead”

 

My Mummy’s Dead
I can’t get it through my head
Though it’s been so many years
My Mummy’s Dead
It’s hard to explain
So much Pain
I could never show it
My Mummy’s Dead
What pain was expressed in that. I think that catharsis made him a better person. He certainly demonstrated a lot of love, wisdom and compassion in his later life.
Mothers have a big responsibility. They can change the world.
It’s a good day to think about them. Most of us have beautiful memories.
My wish is that all mothers should take it on themselves to bring up their children with love, to love others and to have compassion for others and all of nature. Put aside the sectarian hatred and appreciate the wonder of this world and the universe.
Mothers have the power to change everything.
(I’ll deal with fathers at a later date).

Buddhists and Quakers

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Buddhists and Quakers

It seems to me that human beings are psychologically hard-wired to relish ritual and pageant. We are enthralled and impressed by it. The ploys of fancy dress, high hats, big thrones and sceptres always work. We apply ourselves to ritual washing and ostentatious prayer, chanting, singing and reciting with gusto and find it reassuring. We take the ornate palaces, cathedrals and mosques as proof. We see the Castles, Palaces, and pageant as evidence of unassailable power.

We are gullible and easily duped.

The same tactics rarely failed in the past. The planet is festooned with abandoned pyramids, stone-circles and mounds that are testament to past religions that have blossomed and perished. Ruined castles, sacked fortresses and toppled statues are testament to power overthrown.

Religion is about power. We have a need to feel that someone is in control – ultimately god, but in the meantime the imams, bishops, priests, cardinals, caliphs, popes and shaman will do.

Psychologically we need to feel our life has purpose, death is not the final curtain and the universe has meaning. That is understandable.

I too feel the power of the mystic around me even though I reject all religions as man-made power bases.

If I were to adopt a religion it would likely be one of two – either I would become a Quaker or a Buddhist.

Recently I have been having conversations with Quakers. I am impressed with their gentleness, kindness, tolerance and love of nature. Those are characteristics that I greatly value. I find it hard to tolerate fundamentalist extremists of any complexion. Their intolerance and viciousness appals me.

Likewise my experiences with Buddhist monks are the same. They were happy, pleasant, friendly people who were tolerant of other views. They projected ‘loving kindness’ to all sentient creatures. Their aim was personal peace, harmony and understanding. Their beliefs were flexible enough to accommodate differing opinions.

What a contrast that is to the dogmatic beliefs of evangelical Christians, fundamentalist Jews and ISIS, Boko Haram, the Taliban and all the other fascist mobs and breeders of hatred. When I listen to those insane Southern fundamentalists quoting scripture at me on their god-induced mission to save the world from the devil I am filled with a mixture of amusement and horror. They really believe that horseshit.

Religion can be a source of great cruelty and evil.

If I was going to follow any religion, which I’m not (I can’t fully believe in the things in front of my eyes, let alone medieval scriptures I’m supposed to take on hearsay), I would settle for being a Quaker or a Buddhist. Those I am attracted to pantheism to. The pagans had some great ceremonies. Perhaps I’ll settle for being a non-practicing pagan. Those witches, warlocks and druids all look a bit silly, don’t they – dressed up in their fancy costume. But then that’s not much different to all these bishops in their big hats, the women in burkas, men with big beards, priests in robes Jews with funny hats and locks of hair, Sikhs in turbans, and the rest – all clinging to their medieval garb as if their god gives a damn.

No. I’ll stick with the antitheism. If it turns out there is a benevolent god and paradise it will be a bonus. Any god worth his/her salt wouldn’t hold my views against me. Any god who behaves in such a mean-spirited way is simply not worthy of the position

The Voyage Part 5 – Hitting Brazil – Recife and Olinda

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P1020025After four magic days trundling through the doldrums we were getting close to Brazil. I was expecting lots more wild-life but nothing much was showing up. The result of centuries of plundering of wild-life by our sailors. They took the females, young and eggs as if they were endless.

I fear the end is in sight. Our numbers will kill off the remainder.

Our first port of call was Recife. I was looking forward to Brazil’s Samba and vitality. I wanted to see the result of Pedro Alvez Cabral’s discovery. He’d claimed it for Portugal. It had been part of the slave trade. With Indian and freed African slave blood mixed with European stock there was a rich hybrid vigour to provide that energy.

I didn’t have to wait long. We were welcomed off the ship by a band knocking out Samba rhythm.

We set out to look round. The city seemed a good place. We alighted on a square in front of the Palace. It had a Baalbab tree and fig trees with their aerial roots. The air was rich and humid. It felt and looked tropical. The palace and theatre were both colonial buildings looking tatty and in the process of decay.

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We set off for jail. The jail has been transformed into a tourist trap with local arts and crafts. It’s an amazing building. Nothing has been changed except that now all the cells are little shops designed to trap tourists. They do a mean fruit juice though – very sticky and thirst quenching – though we’re both wondering, with the flies and hygiene – whether it’ll be coming back up the other way soon. (It didn’t).

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Out back of the prison there was the railway station designed and built by the British. Looked it too.

We’d heard Olinda was the place. A Portuguese colonial town on the hill overlooking Recife. That’s where we headed.

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Through streets of colourful painted house up to the top and the inevitable church. The Portuguese had a mission to save souls. They were a latter-day Christian ISIS and every bit as ruthless. The Churches were their ICBMs for subjugation and control. Their aim was to Christianise the Indians, get them to work and plunder the wealth. Their piety was only exceeded by they greed and violence.

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Sao Berto was lavish. It was a gilded statement of power. Incredible painting, blue Portuguese tilework and grandeur. Outside there were beggars using young kids and babies to plead coins from tourists.

We walked from the church along the street to another church and square overlooking Recife. We sat and drank coconut juice from a fresh coconut and looked out over the bay and beach with its high-rise blocks. It was quite a view. Pretty blue and yellow birds nested and played in the trees. There were gaily coloured parrots squawking. Down the hill was verdant forest with more churches and the red tiled roofs of houses. It was picturesque but all showing signs of dilapidation. It was as if the Brazilians were rejecting the whole of their colonial heritage. Its only use was to attract in tourists but they’d rather see it rot.

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We headed for the beach. It was dull with a spot of rain so it did not look at its best but the heat was very humid and we strolled along. The Brazilians were not impressed with the weather. It was almost empty. We looked at the waves lapping on the yellow sand and the tall apartment blocks of glass and balconies along the very edge of the sand and it seemed to sum up the image of the new Brazil.

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On the way back to the boat we had a look at the other side, the shanty towns – shacks on stilts along the river bank – where the poor and disposed lived.

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We’d gone from million dollar apartments to destitution within a mile. That seemed to be the story of Brazil. There was immense wealth and huge poverty and no will or inclination to solve its problems and maintain the infrastructure.

We’d only been here a day but we’d picked up the scent. Corruption was in the air from the tropical forests, the crumbling colonial buildings and the politicians. Brazil was interesting and dangerous.

We’d got a sniff – more was to come.

 

Anecdote – Buddha and god

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Buddha and god

As an antitheist I do not believe there is a god, certainly not one who has created man in his own image or who is concerned with the lives of men. I see no evidence of the universe having been created by some super being; neither do I see evidence of intelligent design around me. If man is made by divine hands then they are clumsy hands indeed. I myself can think of many great improvements to the human form – perfection it isn’t. No. The more I learn the less I am convinced. What I see is religion of all types constructed by man.

Yet I do perceive the possibility of some mystical force at work, some force present in sunsets, rocks, trees and majestic views that I would call ‘wonder and awe’. I do also sense a force at work within the psychology of people creating synchronicity. I, much to Andrew’s disgust, refer to this as the prevailing zeitgeist. I tend to think that this mental emanation will at some point be recognised by science. But maybe I am wrong. Science is in its infancy. It has much to discover. The field of consciousness and psychology is too new to have yielded all its secrets. The future will likely reveal a lot more.

Even as a young man, when I was a spiritual zealot, eager to follow in Kerouac and Ginsberg’s wake, to gain satori and see the universe through the eyes of Zen, I was sceptical of god and derisory of the god of Christianity, Judaism and Islam. His many faces seemed absurd.

I was greatly moved by a tale told to me by a Thai monk called Vorosak Candimitto. As a young man, besotted with Kerouac and Ginsberg, I was on a personal exploration into spirituality, the mind, mysticism and the void. I tried meditation and tried to still my mind to discover that truth within. I enjoyed it but soon moved on. Eastern meditation seemed inappropriate to the life I was leading. I wanted instant nirvana or nothing. That’s Western mentality for you. As for religion and god – this is what Vorosak told me: –

‘One day the Buddha was sitting with a number of learned men. One asked of him:

‘Is there a god?’

The Buddha thought hard before replying.

‘If you were shot with an arrow which had pierced your side, before having the arrow removed by a physician and the wound treated, would you first enquire who had fired the arrow? To what family did he belong? To what caste? Where did they come from? How many members did the family have? From what trees were the bow and arrow fashioned? From what animal were the guts for the bowstring created? Where the metal for the tip had been mined? Who had shaped the tip? From what bird had the feathers for the flights been plucked and who had manufactured them? Likewise the glue to hold them secure?’

The Buddha looked at the wise man intently.

‘Before you have the answers to your questions you would be dead.’

I liked that parable.

At the end of the days it is not about what you believe, how you’ve prayed, whether there is a god or not – it is about how you’ve lived your life, whether you’ve lived it to the maximum and whether you’ve been a force for good or evil.

No sane person would believe that any god would build a wondrous universe and then expect his creations to bore themselves to death in prayer and ritual, hate others and kill in his name. That is straight out of men’s warped minds (men – generic). If there is a god (which I do not believe for one minute) he would want you to live, love, build and enjoy.

So ISIS and all religious nutcases, indoctrinated fools and evangelical idiots can go hang – I’m for life.