A Middle East Micro-Conflict: The Personal and the Political in One Department

Creative Writing, Politics, Tertiary Ed

Indulge my self-indulgence if you would and spare me a few minutes to recount the following little tale about an academic department in a leafy, red brick outer-suburban university in the Antipodes. This story has a ring to it so palpably real that were it not for the certain knowledge that it is a fictional account, an imaginative invention of my mind, I could almost feel I was there, observing its dramas unfold first-hand! Indeed, I shall put myself into the story (as a mute, peripheral onlooker) as it unfolds. The setting for this narrative is a second generation middle-ranking tertiary institution in the early 1980s. For purposes of imprecise identification lets call it Governor Bligh University … that’s got a nice colonial ring to it!

image Leafy western redbrick of GBU

At the beginning of the 1980s I commenced what I refer to in a jocular fashion as my undergraduate career at Gov Bligh University (or GBU as tertiary ed insiders like continually refer to it). I did have earlier brief tertiary false starts at Kenso Tech Uni and Warrumbungles CAE and an fleeting brief unregistered tilt at the University of Central Australia, but the less said about these feeble attempts to imprint on academia the better … . I came to GBU as a cod ordinary arts student very keen to study politics. In particular what was starting to catch my attention was the evolving political situation in the Middle East.

This newfound fascination with Middle East politics was, admittedly, partly motivated by an extrinsic factor: I had a Coptic Egyptian girlfriend at the time, but that aside I definitely had an intrinsic interest in the political dynamics of this crucial and volatile region of the world (and yes, my interest in Middle East politics did outlast my interest in my Middle Eastern girlfriend!). So, wanting to get a handle on the complex, endlessly convoluted politics of the region, I signed up for MEP269. In doing so, I unwittingly became an observer of an engrossing little political (and personal) duel between a brace of antagonistic academics.

The study of Middle East politics in the Department of Political Science at GBU at that time worked like this: two lecturers took turns to run the introductory UG course on a year-to-year basis. In the year that I took the course it was the turn of Dr Noam Menachem-Ryka. Had I taken it the year before or the year after, the Middle East course would have been run by Assoc Professor Dwayne Boemsteenboer. Boemsteenboer and Menachem-Ryka were poles apart in so many aspects of their views and personalities. Each of them were driven by a passionate, some would say partisan, commitment to one particular side of the Middle East debate. From this clash of personalities came a mutually personal and increasingly bitter enmity. Boemsteenboer was a very self-confident, somewhat intimidating mid-west American Arabist with Iraqi Ba’ath Party sympathies, whereas Menachem-Ryka was a liberal Australian Jewish scholar of East European ancestry with an entrenched commitment to the cause of Zionism (albeit from the standpoint of a small ‘z’ Zionist).

The consequence of this pedagogic bifurcation was that if you were taking MEP269 one year you would get Boemsteenboer’s pro-Palestinian slant on the Middle East situation, one heavily critical of his own countrymen’s (America’s) complicity in the imbroglio and sheeting home the blame for a lack of progress toward peace to the intransigent Israeli bullies, buttressed by US superpower, and unwilling to negotiate a just solution. Boemsteenboer’s homeland, the US, would be lambasted for using a non-Arab, alien, Western implant (the state of Israel) for Cold War gains, as a proxy military force to gain a hegemonic advantage over the Soviet Union in the region.

image GBU

But if you took MEP269 on the alternate year you would get the avowedly Israeli perspective of Menachem-Ryka and his young female Jewish tutorial assistants, and an emphasis on Israel’s isolated position in a hostile sea of surrounding, undemocratic, authoritarian Arab States intent on the destruction of the Jewish homeland. Israel’s continued hard line on West Bank Palestinians would be justified on the grounds that the small ‘underdog’ Jewish state was fighting for its very survival. Indeed, I well remember during this period Menachem-Ryka being interviewed on ABC TV just after Israel bombed Iraq’s nuclear reactor. Noam’s response to a question from chirpy ABC interviewer Murf Paulfry was to justify Israel’s use of this dangerous pre-emptive strike option on the grounds that Israel would never be the second state in the ME region to launch an attack against its enemies.

Less I give a distorted view of these two academics’ teaching styles, let me hasten to add that for either of the combatants we are not talking here about the crass arguments and wholly transparent bias of, say, a David Irvine trying to rewrite the history of the Nazis’ Jewish holocaust. Both Menachem-Ryka and Boemsteenboer were well respected scholars with a string of insightful and critically well-received papers on the Middle East to their names, but the reality is that both had a political axe to grind, and so any expectation one might have of an objective, neutral, down the centre account of the Middle East conflict was out the window.

The task of the inexperienced undergraduate politics neophyte taking the course would be to try to read widely on the topic at hand and reach a well-reasoned conclusion which balances the robustly-argued critique on the conflict presented to them by the convenor (be it a pro-Palestinian or a pro-Israeli one) and the countervailing arguments from the other side of the debate. Great if it happens and a terrific learning skill to acquire, but the question that poses itself is how many first year students fresh from Year 12 would have the experience and sophistication to pull it off? Inevitably, the endorsement of a partisan position on the Middle East also had a polarising effect on students taking the course.

When I came to Gov Bligh University and enrolled in the Politics Department in the first semester, it was not long before I discovered a state of fraught and increasingly icy relations between A/Professor Boemsteenboer and Dr Menachem-Ryka. The personal tensions seemed to have built up over the previous two years, ever since Menachem-Ryka arrived as a fresh-faced lecturer at GBU with his recently minted National University PhD and some ‘intelligence’ work background.

What started off conceivably as a simple difference of opinion or value-systems, a rigorous intellectual debate between two overachieving scholars within the same department, eventually developed into an antagonism that became very personal. Everyone in the Department (and many outside) knew that the atmosphere between the two was quite toxic, both were inclined to avoid each other where possible. The ill-will between the two was clearly discernible to colleagues (Menachem-Ryka himself when I pressed him on his differences with Boemsteenboer described the American in highly disparaging terms).

There was nothing dramatic, no observable verbal exchanges or confrontations between them, but a falling-out at some point followed by an on-going, lingering war of words which extended beyond Menachem-Ryka’s departure from GBU. The feud between them eventually spilled out beyond the department and the University and into the wider academic community. Even the Sydney Morning Herald ran articles about the heated, personal conflict, depicting it somewhat over-statedly in boxing terms as a sort of head-to-head public slanging match.

Someone in the Department of Political Science obviously had a wickedly mischievous sense of humour about the Menachem-Ryka/Boemsteenboer animus. When Menachem-Ryka returned from OSP the last time before leaving GBU for good, he was re-housed into a room right next door to Boemsteenboer! I could almost see the sparks of vitriol ricocheting wildly off both sides of the adjoining wall!

I can’t speak with any certainty about Boemsteenboer’s motives or the emotional and intellectual drivers that propelled him to hitch his colours to the Palestinian mast. He remained an elusive figure around the campus, not very visible except for classes. My personal contact with the American don was restricted to observing his slick and authoritative lecturing style in the International Relations course, and to a singular encounter at enrolment where he dismissively and unreasonably (to my mind) refused to sign my program to take extra semester units. Whereas with Menachem-Ryka, who was convenor for both poli-sci courses I took that year, Middle East Politics and Australian Foreign Policy, I was able to get some insights into what was firing his engine.

What came across clearly enough to the interested observer was the outward appearance of the personality differences between the two exceptional Middle East scholars. Boemsteenboer was fairly stiff and colourless, blunt-talking, seemingly without humour, and unnervingly robot-like in his rapid delivery of facts and cogent arguments in lectures. He was not given to any visible warmth or friendly disposition, and you would certainly never call him exuberant (the term “charisma by-pass” comes to mind). You had to readily concede that he really knew his stuff, but you were not likely to be charmed, or inspired even, by him in conversation.

image Corridors of discord

Menachem-Ryka on the other hand always came across as far more approachable, personable and engaging (very PR conscious), got on with the other Governor Bligh academics apart from those with a political axe to grind. Noam made himself generously available to his students – he freely gave out his home number to students! I recall talking to him at home on the phone on a number of occasions. Menachem-Ryka certainly connected with students in a way that the remote and aloof Boemsteenboer could or would never do. It was apparent that Menachem-Ryka was keen to progress up the academic ladder, conscientious in his work and committed in putting his hand up for the little administrative tasks (committee participation, academic advising, etc) that many, less motivated academics, would try to avoid like the plague! This made Menachem-Ryka popular, getting on well with the head of department and it was no surprise that he was rewarded by being promoted to senior lecturer in minimum time.

Menachem-Ryka left GBU a couple of years later with his ambitions enlarged to go on to great (vain)glory in the US. No doubt, had Menachem-Ryka been satisfied to stay on the academic treadmill in Australia, he would easily have made professor. In any circumstance he was never one to understate his academic accomplishments, as a memorable interview he gave several years ago to Australian television reinforced. An enthralled female interviewer gushing over the Australian background of the now American power player, referred to him as having once been a lecturer in a modest regional city university, pointedly Menachem-Ryka was super quick to correct her marginally inaccurate remark with the firmly spoken and no doubt self-satisfied words,”Senior lecturer, Jana”.

Talking at length with Menachem-Ryka after classes made me acutely aware of the depths of his ambitions. I asked him once why the Middle East was his bag, the focal point of all his intellectual energies, his answer, sidestepping the obvious personal element of his Jewish heritage, was to declare that he was only interested “in the big picture”, the global dimension! His background gave a clue to his ambitions, with fierce sibling rivalry playing its part. Menachem-Ryka’s older brother, Moshe, had already made a name for himself in academic circles and literary publications, so the younger Noam always felt he had a lot to emulate, a lot of ground to catch up (significantly the older literati Menachem-Ryka brother did eventually become a full professor in Australia – unlike Noam).

Intra-university disapproval of the young Jewish politics lecturer was not confined to A/Professor Boemsteenboer. After a history class given by an abstrusely intellectual and somewhat flaky Marxist lecturer one day, I was walking along the Humanities Building corridor with the same academic, when Menachem-Ryka walked past us from the opposite direction. I acknowledged Noam who I was on good terms with. The left-wing dogmatist, let’s call him Dr Mervyn Picklewhiting, stone-facedly ignored Menachem-Ryka, then straight after NMR had passed, leaned over in conspiratorial fashion and murmured sotto voce to me “he’s a spy!” The academics in the Faculty of Humanities and Social Sciences at GBU, at that time described as ranging the full ideological gamut from “a Marxist orientation to those whose political critique of post-industrial society was informed by Marxism”. Picklewhiting and his lot, with paranoiac zeal, outed Menachem-Ryka as a ‘spook’ – apparently on the basis of his having previously been employed within the Australian intelligence network in an agency allied to ASIO.

After a couple of years Menachem-Ryka decided that Gov Bligh and the Australian pond were too small for a fish his size, or at least for the size of his burgeoning aspirations…NMR abruptly upped and left the University to reside permanently in Washington and work for American think tanks and Israeli lobby groups. Within a short period he had done a ‘Rupert Murdoch’, trading his Australian citizenship for a glossy American one. This was a necessary step in the Menachem-Ryka grand plan, opening the door for him to the US State Department and swift promotion to high diplomatic and consular US posts in Israel.

When I eventually heard about the ‘Americanisation’ of Menachem-Ryka it made me chuckle! I recalled that Noam had once mentioned in class his overseas’ experiences of meeting strangers who responded positively to him when they discovered that he was Australian. Menachem-Ryka waxed lyrical with pride about the high regard this identity was held in internationally. Vaulting ambition and expediency can bring about a complete turnaround in values and in allegiances!

In the end both Boemsteenboer and Menachem-Ryka seemed to overreach through injudiciousness or perhaps a touch of hubris, and got a bit burnt, Icarus-like, by their outspokenness and capacity to polarise. Boemsteenboer found himself in the hot seat during the 1st Gulf War copping flack from the Australian Government for voicing public opposition to its decision to invade Iraq. This incident prompted conservative political commentators and the Australian Jewish lobby to vilify him for what they saw as bias against Israel and inevitably, and expression of the American’s anti-Semitism. Eventually Boemsteenboer left Governor Bligh and Australia to return to his homeland.

For his part, Menachem-Ryka’s smooth pathway through the corridors of power in Washington received a jolt when he was recalled from his post in Tel Aviv and denied a security clearance relating to irregularities in the handling of administrative matters under his charge. His star did eventually rise again, such was the determined nature of the Jewish political dealmaker, but he was much more chastened and wide-eyed about the world of politics second time round.

With both Boemsteenboer and Menachem-Ryka back in the US, although based in widely disparate parts of the country (both of them still “rusted-on” to their opposing ideological standpoints), the corridors of Governor Bligh University must seem a much more mundane and comparatively ho-humdrum milieu these days – especially in the once explosive Department of Political Science.

The Accidental Survivor: Part II

Bushwalking

Day 2

During what felt like a never-ending night I had heard ripples in the water, sounds made by small marine life I assumed. When first light arrived (around 6am), I was surprised to discover how close to the water I had decamped for the night. The spot on the sand where, overcome by fatigue, I had crashed in pitch darkness was about a metre away from one of the “natural pools”. Looking around at my surrounds in daylight I soon realised that this was not the old swimming holes as I had imagined the night before, rather it was just a wider part of the creek. Disappointed, I slowly gathered myself together and splashed water on my face to clear my head, and tried to figure out the best route from here. As I had come this far (how far was that exactly?), I felt that my best bet was to continue the search for the swimming holes, which according to the (now seriously compromised) guidebook map connected via an access path with the elevated walking track from which I had unwisely strayed. Once here I felt escape from this bush maze would be within easy access.

The Creek - sedate from without but deceptively unstable from within.
The Creek – sedate from without but deceptively unstable from within.

By now the seriousness of my situation was starting to kick in. I was undeniably stuck in this deep, unknown ravine and needed to find a way out. The bush on both sides of the creek looked very daunting with no favourable prospects for progress evident wherever I glanced. I pushed on nonetheless down the creekside in my original direction, but the path through the bush was so difficult that I eventually abandoned the “make a path” route and decided to try my chances in the creek bed itself.

The creek presented a different but equally arduous challenge. The rate of headway I was making was even slower than on land. My movements were ever so tentative as the creek was precarious and deceptive … my feet and shins made this discovery with painful clarity. Each forward step I made was taken with a degree of trepidation. The large stones and boulders, covered by thick coatings of moss at the end of each section of water, proved an incredibly slippery obstacle.

I lost count of the number of times I slipped and landed heavily in the water. Sometimes the only way forward was to climb over the large boulders which acted as natural dams curtailing the flow of water into a trickle at different points in the creek. From there I would continued on the creek floor, treading ever so warily because of the unseen submerged logs and large rocks, which despite my ultra-cautious approach, I would still regularly manage to hit with my shins. I soon discovered that wading through the entire length of the creek was not a possibility, as regularly I would walk, crab-like, across a long, flat rock platform and suddenly without warning the platform would end and plunge me into a two metre watery hole. I would find myself submerged, backpack and all, under the water, and forced to swim strenuously for a good 30 or 40 metres until I could again stand up. As I am not a strong swimmer, the more I had to do this, the more it was taking out of me physically, and also pushing my anxiety levels up.

Struggling to negotiate this hazardous water course, I started to entertain a new thought: what are the chances of drowning in this perilous creek? They seemed to be increasing the further I went. My misadventure had already prompted me to contemplate the prospect of meeting my quietus in this bush entanglement, but I had thought the most likely danger was expiring from thirst or perhaps from hypothermia. The thought of death by accident or misadventure in this stark environment, maybe something sneaking up on you unexpectedly, was a new anxiety, one that would revisit me again later this very day.

Soon after venturing into the creek I noticed a helicopter circling round in the approximate vicinity of the valley. As I had seen absolutely no one else anywhere along Glenbrook Creek since descending into this off-track jungle, I reasonably concluded that the helicopter must be searching for me. This reassured me somewhat and seemed to confirm that some of my emergency calls the previous day had been received or at least traced. My flagging spirits were uplifted a little, someone was aware that I had gotten myself lost, someone it appeared was looking for me. This optimism was to prove, in the end, without foundation. Nonetheless, for the time being, it did give me hope. Later on in my escapade things things looked much grimmer, although I can honestly say that I never really gave up hope, not then or at any point.

After an hour-and-a-half to two hours in the creek, struggling alternately to walk, tread water and swim, and finding nothing, I came to the conclusion that the swimming holes were either non-existent or the guide map had got their location very wrong. I decided to backtrack in the direction of the old ladder (where I had unhappily first entered this unforgiving stretch of ‘wildness’). As the day wore on, I became increasingly dehydrated, the sludgy, copper-metallic looking water in the creek was unprepossessing to the palate as well as the eye, so I decided drinking from it was not something I wanted to risk … not just yet (although I acknowledged to myself that this was a decision I might be forced to re-evaluate as I became more desperate for water).

When I got tired of trudging through the creek I switched to the far side bank and hacked my way through as best I could. All the while I was trying to see across the creek through the foliage to identify one of several distinctive markers or features that I had committed to memory on my initial trip down the creek. I was searching for some clue which would tell me I was close to the point at which I had made my entry on Wednesday. The problem here was that the only way I could get through the dense jungle of trees and bushes was by following the line of least resistance. This meant sometimes moving away from the creek, higher up the hillside where the thicket and shrubbery was not so all-invasive. From this position it was very difficult to get a sighter of the obscured creek, let alone the far side of the bank. As a consequence, I completely missed spotting any of the markers that I was relying on as my lodestars. Thinking that these distinctive features were much further downstream than I had originally imagined, I continued on along the creek, until I was far past the point where the old ladder was.

Discouraged by my failure to spot the target, I decided to turn back and head east once again. It was late afternoon by now. During the day I had had several sightings of the copter and also a light plane that seemed to be in search mode. Most of the time though, the aircraft were a long way from where I was. Something else about them was causing consternation, their search method: they was making wide, sweeping passes across the creek from one peak to the other and then taking a line down the contours of the mountain ridges which took them away from the creek. Now, I don’t profess any expertise in the area of ‘best practice’ search and rescue, but surely, common sense would say that (if they were looking for me), then the bush on the flanks of the valley was so dense and thick that there was zero chance of spotting anyone in the midst of such a boscage of foliage. When I first heard the copter overhead, I had decided to stay in or on the creek for as long as possible whilst walking. I reasoned that the best chance (the only chance realistically) of the copter spotting me was if I put myself in as open as possible position, ie, either in the water itself or on a clear area like a sandbar alongside the creek! But for some reason that I couldn’t fathom, the copter never once, in all the time it was hunting for me, attempted to search down the line of the creek itself!

Pausing on a sandbank for several minutes, I mused on some of the other implications of being isolated in the bush for an extended period. One consideration which I found mildly concerning was that I did not have my blood pressure tablets with me in the wilderness. At this time it wasn’t worrying me to miss a few days (I had done this before without concern) but I knew that I couldn’t go without my BP medication indefinitely, especially if my stress levels rose which was likely.

I decided to move off the sandbar and make for the upper slope to try to find a more manageable pathway through the bush. I got only 15 metres or so up the hill when I heard the copter again, this time however it was hovering high up but directly above the creek line. I scrambled back down to the sandbar and began waving my hat and bright blue backpack in the air to attract the copter’s attention, even trying to hoarsely shout out (I knew they wouldn’t be able to hear me but desperate straits drives you to try even the lowest of percentage chances!). It was to no avail, straight away the copter turned away from me and made a line for further west. I was left wondering if only I had stayed on the sandbar two minutes longer, would it have made the difference in the copter spotting me? Who knows, but this is just the sort of negative and futile idea that you naggingly cling to when one of the very few thin shreds of opportunity you had has just slipped through your fingers. The realisation had hit me by this time that I was trapped – and my options for escaping this trap seemed to be diminishing rapidly.

Disheartened at losing what I thought was a real chance of escaping the dilemma, I decided (wisely or unwisely) a different stratagem was required … I chose one which reflected my desperation. I was now convinced that the helicopter wasn’t going to find me, in my more delusional moments I may have even felt that they were not even trying to find me! I concluded that I had to find my own way out and couldn’t rely on external factors to do it. And I had to do it now! All I knew was that I did not want to spend another freezing night in the national park. The approach I decided on was a very direct one, I would charge up the nearest gradient on the northern side of the creek, which I knew was the direction of the walking track leading back to Blaxland, back to civilisation. With scant regard for myself, I set off. I didn’t care anymore about the likelihood of further damage the briar, bramble and other thorny bushes might do to my already tortured legs (my left leg with its ragged criss-cross pattern of scratches was already beginning to resemble the handiwork of a clumsy, blind tattooist!). Perhaps I was gripped by one of those atavistic urges that people find it trendy to reference these days, but, whatever, I was just intent at that moment on throwing myself wholeheartedly if recklessly into the tree-laden hillside. I was determined to reach the top and get free of the bush by nightfall!

Vertical rock-face followed by more vertical rock-faces.
Vertical rock-face followed by more vertical rock-faces.

After taking a circuitous route up the hill, I soon reached my first formidable barrier, a range of massive, stone-faced rocks. Everywhere I looked along the rocky range I could see only sharp vertical inclines, no easy, gradual ascent to the top revealed itself. After much deliberation, I decided on the route that seemed least hazardous. Somehow, going slowly, up and sideways, I managed to scramble to the top of these massifs, only to be confronted immediately with a next, higher level of stony cliff-faces! I scouted round the parameter of the base and eventually found an easier, lateral pathway up to a sort of ‘mezzanine’ level of rocks, which shortened the vertical portion of this climb.

I scrambled up the tree-lined hill with a determination now verging on desperation to reach my goal by nightfall. A third, sheer vertical incline of massive rock formations loomed into view. I contemplated my options for several minutes and again elected for the zig-zag approach to the top, up, sideways and up again. This time, the linear vertical incline portion of the cliff was longer than the previous ones, some 50 to 55 feet in length. I studied the rock-face, noting that the horizontal crevice lines in the rock were not at all pronounced, barely deep or wide enough to take the toe of a boot.

I psyched myself up to take on what I knew would be a Herculean task for a novice climber (let alone someone like me without any climbing experience whatsoever and without any equipment at all!). I slowly but determinedly started the ascent, miraculously I got about three-quarters of the way up, I won’t say I did it easily because that would give the wrong impression, but it seemed to be going OK. Steadying myself to take another step and grab, which would take me almost to the top, I noticed that the heel of my left foot was starting to come out of my boot. As I was precariously balanced on the vertical rock, I wasn’t game to reach down and try to nudge it back into the boot, I was fairly certain if I did, I would lose my balance, with predictable and dire consequences. I didn’t feel that I had any real choice about my next move, I knew I couldn’t hover there indefinitely and I wasn’t confident about reversing back down, so after a moment’s hesitation and deliberation, I took the next step up … one small step etc, but a disastrous one for this man! My left foot, half-in, half-out of the boot, couldn’t support itself in the narrow crevice, and with the boot working its way off, the leg gave way and I plummeted down. I was powerless to stop my descent, gravity and the rocky ground below controlled what would happen next.

If you are ever unlucky enough to find yourself in freefall like this, there isn’t time to think about anything much … its all happening so fast! If anything registers at all, it’s perhaps a kind of sense of unreality (like this can’t be actually happening to me!), and a feeling of anticipation, a dread of something bad. Then there’s a very sudden thud of body (your body!) connecting with solid ground. You are no longer moving rapidly, you’ve gone from 30km to 0 instantly, you have completely stopped dead, and you are left with a numbing sense of shock about what just happened. Well, that was my experience anyhow.

Although it all happened in a blink, when I had time later to reflect on it I could distinguish three separate stages in the trajectory of my fall: first, I immediately clipped the upper ridge of the cliff-face with my feet, then there was a second, much more solid contact (also with my feet) with a lower ridge on the rock-face, and finally, after involuntarily twisting my body around 180 degrees to be facing away from the cliff-face, I landed neatly on a flat stone step on my rump on the narrow path ledge below the rock-cliff. Because of the velocity that I was travelling at, I bounced off the step and was flung sideways on the path. Had I have bounced forwards rather than a lateral direction, I probably would have followed my detached boot which plunged down the hillside thirty metres or so to the floor of the ravine. The impact of my collision with the stone (cushioned a little by leaf litter ground cover) was taken squarely on my tailbone, but I instantly felt a very sharp shooting pain in my right side lower back – identified later by X-ray as around the L2 region.

I lay prone on the ground face-down for a couple of minutes in a state of shock, quite incredulous at what had happened. I checked myself, the pain at least was an indicator that I was not paralysed, and I was able to move. After gathering my wits and instinctively trying to come to terms with the enormity of what had occurred, I slowly got to my feet. I stared ruefully up at the vertical cliff-face, cogitating on the folly of what I had attempted. I did a bit of a mental calculation as to the likely distance I had fell. I wanted reassurance that the fall wasn’t as bad as I first thought. I considered the linear distance, I thought 30 feet, Ummm? I measured it again with my eyes. No, not 30 I muttered to myself, I had been too conservative in my estimate, no, it was probably more like 40, yes 40 feet! A chill went down my spine as I thought, God! 40 fucking feet!

As sobering a thought as this was, I didn’t really want to dwell on the disturbing implications of this realisation at that moment, and so I pushed any thoughts I had of dread to the back of my mind. I knew that later on there would be time to replay the traumatic and painful incident in my head over and over. All I knew right now was that I had been lucky (lucky to be still alive) … but maybe also not lucky (if it turned out I had sustained possibly a serious spinal injury).

Despite what had just occurred I was immediately gripped by a manic urge, possibly a subconsciously self-destructive one, to get straight back up there, to reach that cliff-top somehow, to not let myself be beaten by it. My haste to immediately try again wasn’t entirely an irrational response, there was a sense of urgency to my action … I knew I didn’t have any time to waste, I needed to reach the summit before dark and the night curtain was already starting to engulf the sky.

I started back up the vertical face from the same point I had just fallen from. This time though, when halfway through my ascent, I spotted a side route up to the top which looked less daunting than my original straight-up route which I already had just demonstrated was fraught with peril. Despite still feeling somewhat shaken from the fall I contemplated the merits of this alternate route. It involved jumping from the top of the rock I was perched on to another, slightly higher rock just over one metre away. Though easier than the sheer cliff-face I had still set myself a risky task that was very ‘hairy’ indeed. One small miscalculation could have been calamitous, missing the rock or bouncing off it would certainly result in another, this time more dangerous fall and quite conceivably a fatal one.

Fortunately I managed to make the jump unscathed and from there clamber up to the rock-face. I now found myself at an intermediate point in the rock-face, to get to the level ground of the top I still had to traverse another huge boulder, which I ungracefully did by dragging myself backwards with great effort, up the boulder using a thin tree (close by, precariously perched on the edge of a high drop) as leverage. With my back wedged against the massive, round rock, I used my feet (one shoe on, one shoe off) to slowly winch myself up the tree bit by bit. With enormous relief, I found myself at the top, or at least I thought I was at the summit.

I struggled through the thick underbrush on the upper slope of the rock-face but by now the light had deteriorated making visibility on the mountain an extremely ‘iffy’ proposition. I scouted round for somewhere to ‘crash’ for the night. There were no good prospects but hastily decided on a dicey patch of unstable ground on a rocky ledge. This was a place to rest rather than actually sleep for a couple of reasons. The precariousness of my perch wasn’t conducive to sleep. It was too uncomfortably rocky and the ground sloped away at the edges. I was exhausted enough to sleep but for most of the night I was repeatedly harassed by a particular pair of persistent mosquitoes working, it seemed, in tag-team unison on a mission to irritate and annoy! Also, being high up on a mountain, lightly clad and still wet from the creek, I was just too cold to sleep … and to compound my predicament it started to rain lightly which persisted through the night. Notwithstanding all of this, I was feeling strangely optimistic, buoyed by the sense that, finally, apparently, I was tangibly within reach of escaping this overgrown bush prison.

First engagement of hostilities? Very odd angry shots indeed!

Social History

While spending a long weekend on the glorious Mornington Peninsula last year at a boozy wine festival (is there any other kind?!?), I stumbled upon a most unexpected discovery, a tiny curio slice of history that has never travelled far beyond the annals of the Mornington Historical Society. Thumbing through the pages of a peninsula tourist publication, I came across an article reproduced from a local newspaper which focused on the little-known role of Fort Nepean on the southern part of the peninsula near Portsea during both world wars.

The article detailed the claim for the fort to be viewed as the site where the first shots in anger in both World War I and World War II were fired! This most improbable, double occurrence took place in the same stretch of water in Port Phillip Bay, a location as far removed from the major theatres of global war as could be imagined.

SS Pfalz 1914

The fortifications at Port Phillip Bay were strategically located to guard the narrow heads at the entrance to the harbour of Melbourne. Almost 100 years ago, on 5th August 1914, the outbreak of the Great War was imminent, Germany had declared war on Russia, and a reaction from Britain (as Russia’s ally) was anticipated. The command at Fort Nepean was receiving intelligence on the movements in Melbourne of a German ship, SS Pfalz, which was loading coal on board in Victoria Dock. The captain of the Pfalz was anxious to get his ship out of the harbour before hostilities were declared, and got underway before loading was completed.

Melbourne Herald headline

As the German coal steamer approached the heads, Britain declared war on Germany, automatically dragging Australia into the war. The commander at Fort Nepean was ordered to “stop or sink” what was now identified as an enemy vessel. Signal warnings to stop were flown from the fort but were ignored by the Pfalz, resulting in a single shot from a 6-inch MK VII gun being fired across the bow of the ship. The pilot on board the Pfalz apparently persuaded the captain to turn the steamer round and surrender, thus avoiding any fatalities. The crew were arrested at Portsea and interned for the duration of the war. The Pflaz was found to have 4-inch guns mounted on it, so had it made it’s escape to the open sea, it could well have posed a significant threat to Australian war-time shipping. Instead, it was renamed and used as a Allied troop carrier during the war [http://historic-landmarks.com/fort-nepean-protecting-the-entrance-to-port-phillip/].

25 year later, Fort Nepean, remarkably, was the scene of a parallel incident at the onset of the Second World War. When Britain declared war on Germany by Britain on 3rd September 1939, Australian PM Menzies followed suit immediately, and Fort Nepean was ordered to monitor all maritime traffic entering the heads. The next day the fort command at Point Nepean challenged an incoming vessel to identify itself. The freighter, a Bass Strait trader called the SS Woniora did not comply with the gun battery’s orders, and a single warning shot from another 6-inch gun was fired across the bow of the Woniora. The shaken crew of the freighter quickly identified itself and was allowed to proceed on its course to Melbourne. Like 1914, this was the first Australian shot fired in anger in the world war, in this case though, this was the first shot fired in confusion as well![‘Fort Nepean’, http://weekendnotes.com/]

Today, the long disbanded fort is now part of Point Nepean National Park, a nature conservancy where visitors can explore the remaining gun emplacements including the two gun barrels (A1 and B1) which fired the first shots of war (originally sold for scrap after WWII but later restored)

PostScript: Definitive bragging rights?
The shots from A1 and B1 on those two occasions were the only ones ever seriously launched from Fort Nepean in its history! Were these the first shots fired in anger by anyone in the two world wars? Probably this can’t be said in any absolute definitive sense, there is too much that can’t be certain about the exact start of hostilities in both conflicts. ‘Firsts’ are not always a straight forward phenomenon to try to pin down in historical fact. The established wisdom had accepted without serious disputation for 100 years that the Wright Brothers were the first persons to successfully make a manned, heavier-than-air flight, and then along came the counter-claims for Gustave Whitehead and Santos-Dumont et al, and the comfortable ‘certainty’ of this ‘first’ was suddenly up for serious reconsideration and hotly-contested debate. With much more confidence, we can say that the actions of the Fort Nepean gun battery on those two occasions represent the first Australian shots in anger in the two world wars, and almost certainly the first also by the Allied forces.

Close Encounters with Unaccredited Chilean Translators

Travel

Chile: La Parte Dos

Bellavista mural, Santiago showing Valparaiso hasnt monopoly on murals!
Bellavista mural, Santiago showing Valparaiso hasn’t monopoly on murals!

Day 3 in Chile, CTS has organised a city tour of the capital. Yesterday I had complained about the Valparaiso tour bus being late and having to wait round twiddling my thumbs for the best part of an hour, so overnight I receive a neat, typewriter-typed note under my door. It says, “Dear Sir, Tomorrow I happen to look at 9:00 for city tour. Regards, Monica”. I inquire at reception as to the whereabouts of this ‘Monica’ (the English was not perfect but it was a marked improvement on the others’ attempts, so I thought possibly she could help with the communication problem). “Is Monica here?” I ask, based on a not unreasonable assumption. The duty reception guy looks a bit puzzled, hesitates and then answers “No”. When I asked where she was, he says simply, “At home!” so I thought the absent Monica was off-duty. I am perplexed when he admits that she does not actually work at the hotel. In exasperation I ask him, “Who is Monica?” With a sheepish look on his face and a shrug of his shoulders, he tells me in his very halting English, “She my wife!”. So, this fellow’s wife, when told of my frustrations, volunteered to go lookout for the bus’ arrival in the morning. I thought that this was sweet that a hotel employee’s wife was trying to help me with my tour connection, but with all the confusion I was experiencing and creating, I was starting to think that my stay in this mishmash of a Santiago hotel was becoming something akin to a Fawlty Towers episode, a feeling given further currency with every new miscommunication experienced.

Presidental Palace: Allende's last stand Presidential Palace: Allende’s last stand

The ciudad tour takes me to several of the outer barrios of Santiago. These suburbs tend to be cleaner areas with smarter-looking houses than around where I’m lodged (Historico Centro). Definitely seeing the more affluent, middle class areas of the capital now, with names like Independicia, Providencia, El Golf (sounding very aspirationally bourgeois – love it!), Bellavista and Barrio Brasil. Lots of new construction, commercial and residential, happening. We visit another former home of the famous Chilean poet, Pablo Neruda, this one in Bellavista. There is more parkland, larger green areas here too. We come back later to the city centre, see the presidential palace where Salvador Allende fought his last stand against the Pinochet-led military coup forces in 1973. Like many older Chileans, our tour driver/guide is clearly no fan of the Pinochet regime, giving us his opinion of the Pinochet era in very scathing terms. We ventured on to Plaza de Armas (most South American cities have a Plaza de Armas or Armes, Santiago’s one was founded in 1540), and typically, there is another political demonstration going on. With this one, the large boldly-coloured banners waved by the protestors contain the words ‘sindicato’ and ‘bancerios’ – so I’m speculating that its a protest by Chilean trade unions against the rapacious policies of big banks, a familiar theme for the left in Chile.

Peaceful demonstration in Plaza de Armas - still Santiago policia ever vigilant. Peaceful demonstration in Plaza de Armas – still Santiago’s la policia are out in force.

When I returned to my hotel after the tour, there was another note from the staff waiting for me. I was due to leave Chile the next day for the next leg of my South American trip, Argentina, but the time for departing had apparently been changed, and the non-English speaking staff had been tasked with the duty of conveying this to me. Having been palpably unsuccessful in their attempts to date to verbally communicate with me, they were now resorting to written communications.

The note that had been slipped under my door, which I suspect hadn’t been written by the aforementioned Monica, reinforced the notion that the formidable barrier of English still loomed as large as ever. The letter addressed me as ‘sr.’by which I guessed they meant ‘Sir’, and not I hope ‘Sister’! (only later did I twig that the ‘sr.’ signified of course Senor!). The note’s meticulously-typed message was divided into two versions, the first in Spanish (perhaps hoping that I had become fluent in the Latin tongue overnight!), followed by an English one which mentioned 5:15am as the new transfer time, but also (unhelpfully) with the imprecise Spanish word ‘retirarn’(?) incongruously inserted into the middle of the message otherwise entirely written in English. Thus, it somewhat clouded it’s meaning, but the message did end however on a self-improvement theme – “(we) apologize for the problem of communication, (and) try to improve our shortcomings in the future” – an admirable sentiment, albeit coming way too late to help me!

Later that night I get yet another note under the door. This one reads: “Dear Guest, your Taxi removed on Sunday at 5:15am to Airport.“ By now I had got the gist of what was meant to happen, but upon receiving this latest message I was tempted to ask reception, “OK, my taxi is removed at 5:15, si, but what about me???” but didn’t have the energy to embroil myself in another agonising, circular conversation with the English-deficient staff!

The staff at this hotel, I must say, have been always polite and attentive, if largely incapable of helping me due to the language barrier. Invariably, our conversations (perhaps more quasi-conversations) would usually end with the staff member with a sheepish expression on his or her face apologising profusely for inglés inadequacies. It was manifestly clear to me that I had been assigned to a hotel which catered exclusively for Spanish or Portuguese speaking guests. I was left to muse on the obvious point of what an invaluable advantage it would be to come to South America equipped with a decent smattering of Spanish (or even a reasonable bit of working Spanglish!).

My sojourn at the nondescriptly-named AH Hotel, which perhaps would have been better named AA Hotel (as in Absolutely Anonymous Hotel!), had been underwhelming from the get-go. Aside from the diabolical communications situation, the hotel and room added up to just about the worst accommodation experience I have ever had in all of the five continents I have visited (although a guest lodge in Johannesburg also registers high in my International Hotel ‘Hall of Infamy’). The room of itself was basic and serviceable (just), though the floor was a bit dirty. Worse of all, it’s location was terrible, directly across the way from reception and a few steps away from the hotel entrance. This was catastrophic for anyone trying for a peaceful sleep as people (guests) were coming in at all times of the night, pressing the buzzer to be let in (nothing as modern as swipe access here!). At one point, the person at reception, which was supposed to be manned 24/7, went walkabout around 3.30-4 in the morning, so there was a returning guest at this time continuously pressing the buzzer and banging on the glass for a good ten minutes before the AWOL staff person finally stumbled into consciousness and answered the door call.

The buffet breakfast, in keeping with the hotel’s other shortcomings, is very basic, spartan really, even for a continental, and the quality is cod ordinary by any standards. Being in this one star joint for only a couple of days, I decide to stick it out for the duration and vent my displeasure at the tour company in Sydney. Also, the stoic in me reconciled it as being all part of the vicissitudes of the global travel experience, the luck of the draw that you will always get your share of when you go to Third World regions.

In the afternoon I went for my own city tour by foot. Next to my hotel I found and old inn with the intriguing title “Expedio de Bebida Alcoholicas Hotel” (the plaque on the wall said it was a ‘B’ hotel, so what does that make the one I was lumbered with, I wondered). It’s clientele seemed to be backbackers and other transients. Someone told me it was a kind of jokey name, that it was’nt intended to cater specifically for practising alcoholics. In any case there are enough of these establishments in Santiago to go round. I explored the area on the other side of the water-deficient Rio Yaque del Norte, visited the markets at Bellavista, the Funicular and the City Zoo park where I witnessed an anti-abortion rally in full flight. A young, enthusiastic pamphlet distributor tries to foist her anti-abortion literature on to me. I demur to her attempts to make me take her rigid Catholic ‘pro-life’ message, managing to utter a terse “Si a aborto!”, which left her sour-faced as I scuttled off.

Traffic lights juggler, Bellavista Traffic lights juggler, Bellavista

Travelling round the different barrios, I note the presence of what might be generously labelled “performance traffic artists”, young guys who juggle balls, ten-pins and various other round or curved objects in the air at traffic lights for the entertainment of drivers waiting for the lights to change. They obviously know exactly how long the lights stay red because they always cease their performance with enough time left to sweep past the drivers’ windows in the hope of receiving some small change from an appreciative ‘audience’. I compare this street activity to the windscreen cleaners you see in operation at traffic lights in Australian cities, but these guys are obviously much more original and inventive in the way they etch out the shell of a living on the streets.

Walking through Parque Forestal a young guy accompanying his girlfriend passes me, and then suddenly backtracks to caution me, first in Spanish and then in English, of the danger of carrying my expensive camera in too loose a manner. I thank him for his concern, which served to reinforce the earlier tourist warnings I had received of the risk of “grab-and-run” thefts in the more isolated parts of Santiago.

Santa Lucia Hill: Best views from Santiago Santa Lucia Hill: Best views from Santiago

Later on I head south to follow the long Avenida Libertador General Bernardo O’Higgins (for short, the Alameda, which is a much more manageable handle!) a principal Centro road which sweeps past Paris-Londres. As dusk falls I pass the National Library and the high hill of Cerro Santa Lucia with its fine, sandstone rotunda building, fountains and ornate columns. Santa Lucia offers the best views of the capital but is also a danger spot for tourists after dark, due the incidences of thefts there as well.

That night, I have that South American staple, empanadas, for dinner, just as I did for lunch yesterday. In truth, I’ve probably had my fill of empanadas by this point! But they are tasty and filling, and come in sufficient variety (carne, jamon, pino, pollo, neapolitan, etc), an easy, convenient meal. And, if it came down to a choice in South America only between eating them or the unappetising ceviche, it would be empanadas for me every time!