The end of World War One Lets We Forget

The end of World War One Lets We Forget - Today is that the day that a lot of Commonwealth countries (Great Britain, Australia, Canada, New Zealand, etc), France, Belgium, and others bear in mind and pay respect to mark the top of World War One. The armistice was signed to finish hostilities at the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month.

In cities, cities and villages across these countries, individuals observe 2 minutes silence to recall the supreme sacrifice paid by youngsters to defend the numerous freedoms we have a tendency to relish these days. Walls of names on these monuments stretch into the gap and determine the hellishness of war. This year marks the ninetieth anniversary of the top of the war and {very|and intensely} few very elderly men survive from now, all well over a hundred. The last Australian WW1 soldier gave up the ghost recently whereas solely 3 British WW1 troopers stay.
The symbolic red corn poppy that grew wild across the muddy and harsh battle fields of the flatlands of Flanders in northern France and Belgium is worn close to the guts - the red being symbolic of the bloodshed of the fallen troopers.

Along with the only real bugler taking part in The Last Post, the words of the Ode of Remembrance are scan out:

They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning,
We will remember them.
Lest we forget.

I recall visiting two of these cemeteries in France some years ago, both near Villers-Bretonneux in northern France - beautifully maintained and places of true serenity and peace. The vast majority of those headstones marked young men who were less than 25 years of age, many in their teens and many unidentified. Even the hardiest of souls couldn't help but be moved.

There is a resurgence in interest in understanding, remembering and paying respect to the fallen from these past wars. I find it reassuring that the memories are strengthening with time rather than fading.

Lets we forget!

Where's the Belgian pride? - Many years ago, travelling in Belgium, I heard a story in a very pub regarding Camel cigarettes. This happy-go-lucky life-of-the-party soul pulled a packet from his pocket and proudly said that the designer of this packet was a Belgian which he had left proof. I’m not a smoker however had a careful investigate the packet and couldn’t see something.

He asked me if I’d seen Manneken Pis close to the most sq. in Brussels. Like all tourists, I had wandered pass and brought the obligatory snapshot. I didn’t have the center to say that i used to be a bit underwhelmed because it was smaller than i assumed it might be and looked a bit worse for wear. Mind you, guests thronged around it and flashlights shot sort of a movie star was walking down the red carpet.

There seem to be variety of stories surrounding the origin of the statue. the foremost common holds that this tiny boy extinguished the fuses of explosives setup by an attacking army using the foremost natural of means that, thereby saving Brussels.

Anyway, there's a claim that the artistic artist behind the imagery on the packet of Camel cigarettes was a Belgian. He strongly disliked the pinnacle of promoting and to spite him, he hid a picture of the famous Belgian image within the higher front leg of the camel to forever highlight Belgium during this cigarette's most enduring image. the parents at Camel haven't confirmed this and think about it as nothing over people’s imagination.

I couldn’t see the image until it was pointed out to me. Having stated that, there does appear to be a strong likeness - the right arm on the boys' hip and the left arm directing the flow.

What do you think? Can you see a likeness? Is it beyond a coincidence?

Look up a phonebook in Iceland and a surprise awaits you. It is listed in first name order followed by surnames, occupations and addresses.

This makes good sense when you realise that everybody in Iceland is known by his or her first name and nobody uses Mr. or Ms. in any situation. Young children call their teachers and friend’s parents by their first name and Icelanders even reference their president by her first name. Unlike virtually all countries, Icelanders do not have surnames in the traditional sense. A surname in Iceland is simply their father’s name suffixed with either son for boys or dóttir for girls, based on the same patronymic system from the time of the Vikings.

This can be confusing when you consider that it means that a typical family of four will almost certainly have multiple different “surnames”. For example, if Jón Helgason (his father’s name is Helgi) and Margrét Magnúsdóttir (her father’s name is Magnús) have a son, then his surname will be Jónsson while his daughter would take the name Jónsdóttir – four different surnames in the same family!

In a strange way, I believe that this approach to names gives Iceland a greater sense of equality and respect in how they approach their lives with excellent gender and age balances in most walks of Icelandic life.

The well-known eclectic Icelandic singer Björk simply uses her first name as is the Icelandic tradition. According to Wikipedia being the daughter of Guðmundur, her full name is Björk Guðmundsdóttir of which there are a few in the phonebook.

Moreover, when choosing a name for a newly born, the parents must select a name already approved by the Icelandic naming board which would screw up some of those Hollywood types with a penchant for choosing weird names (like Dweezil, Moon Zappa, Diezel and Pilot Inspektor to nominate just a few). New names can be added by special application but they need to be Icelandic in nature.

Similar in motive to the names, a special group designs new Icelandic words to maintain the purity of the language from the Viking age. So rather than take modified English words for modern terms as many languages do (what is the word for computer or television in most languages?), the Icelanders create their own suitable words to maintain their language. So the word for telephone is sími (Viking word for thread) and computer is tölva (by combining Icelandic words for number and soothsayer).

With such a potpourri of surnames, it is little wonder that the Icelandic phone book is sorted by first names. Try the online version in Icelandic or English if you want to test it. Mind you, if the population were 300 million rather than 300,000, I suspect the system may not work as well.

Other Icelandic Posts
Lake of Dancing Icebergs
Astride the Continents
Nature’s Wonderland
Remote Sign

At 12:34 and 56 seconds on the 7th of August this year, the time and date is 12:34:56 07/08/09.

That is 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 in order in a freak of numbers.

For Americans that tend to write the month then the day, this same phenomenon happened around a month ago on the 8th July.

In 80 years time for those of us around, the same thing will happen in 2090 with the added zero on the end.

Just a bizarre combination of time and numbers.

I rolled over trying to work out where the alarm was. I'd only got into Hong Kong late the night before so what moron had set the alarm for 5:30 in the morning? Startled from my deep slumber, I suddenly realised it wasn't the alarm but a phone. I flapped about the table in the semi-dark slowly coming into mild consciousness and finally answering this obtrusive device. I scrambled open a curtain to allow a sliver of light to escape into my room.

It was home and it was bad news. It normally is at that time of the morning. I decided there was little I could do about it right at that moment and thought I'd go back to sleep. Sure enough I couldn't sleep, my mind going a million miles an hour. My eyes flashed around the room to get my bearings when I stared transfixed at a small goldfish bowl in the centre of the decorative table - the only room furnishing in the tiny room apart from two rickety wooden chairs. The sole goldfish lay upside-down floating on the surface.

This must be bad karma. And bad things happen in threes...

I decided to get up and go in search of food. Compared with the bustle of the night before, Hong Kong is surprisingly serene at this early hour. The weak sunlight paints the harbour in a dull yellowish glow as it tries to penetrate the heavy haze. I stagger into a small cafe and grab some food and a steaming black tea. I have never trusted the coffee in Asian countries and their tea is always excellent. Both the breakfast and hot drink are surprisingly refreshing and I head back to my room a little better in spirit, ready to face the day. I still have to handle the issue back home but the body feels much better than its shock awakening an hour and a half earlier.

I fidgeted for my room key to find the door ajar to the sound of vacuuming. I stepped in to the fully lit room, curtains drawn open with the bed made. To my surprise, I discovered that Bubbles had miraculously revived, swimming contentedly around his bowl and circumnavigating the single black rock and sad wilted water plant. Do goldfish really sleep and was Bubbles simply resting?

The cleaner whispered to have a good day as she rolled her trolley out the door. And the truth stood before me. Among the little bars of soap and mini-shampoo bottles was a large bowl with two dozen or more of Bubble's relations gliding around. A plain over-sized white ashtray sat next to the bowl with not one but two dead goldfish. They were planning for a goldfish pandemic.

Along with the bed-making and cleaning, it seems that goldfish replacement is part of the standard service at this hotel.

Bad karma or clinical indifference? During the day I couldn't get the goldfish out of my mind. It gave me an eerie feeling. The third bad thing never did occur that day but I have never faced the discomfort of a goldfish in a hotel room ever again.

Do you have your own story of animals and hotel rooms?

Hong Kong Vacations

I have two abiding memories of Anzac Day – a national day celebrated in Australia and New Zealand on April 25, when the two countries remember those who fought and lost their lives in military actions involving the countries. It commemorates the specific day in 1915 when ANZAC forces landed in Gallipoli, a remote peninsula in Turkey, meeting stiff resistance from the Turkish army. Over 10,000 died over several months in a savage campaign under severe hardships.

One memory is the story of Simpson and his Donkey, taught to me in school. The other is a story about Jack.

In Australia, on Anzac Day alone, it is legal to play a gambling game called two-up. This same game was played in the trenches as a form of escape from the rigours of war. Unofficial games pop up in parks, pubs and clubs around the country on ANZAC Day. It is a simple game where you bet against another person or the spinner himself on whether two pennies thrown in the air from a flat wooden stick will result in two heads or two tails. A head and a tail results in odds and the coins are re-thrown. Much laughter and yelling adds to the raucous atmosphere as cash passes hands after each throw.

Some sixteen years ago, four of us wandered down to a local pub to partake in such a game and enjoy the comraderie of Anzac Day. With a glass nearly empty, I slipped to the bar to buy another beer and noticed an aged man sitting alone, hunched over the bar, resplendently dressed with a crisp navy blue jacket and a slightly askew rack of medals gleaming over his heart. I offered this old warrior a drink and started to chat.

Jack was born in 1898 and had fought at the tail end of the First World War as a very young man. He wouldn’t speak of the war and said he never had to anyone – it was too evil and shouldn’t be spoken of. I’d have loved to have learned more and despite gentle nudging, Jack kept repeating that war was evil and wouldn’t be drawn. With a heavy heart, Jack passionately described his closest friend, a near neighbour and school buddy from a small rural town in NSW who had travelled to the western front in Belgium with him. His friend was killed in the first 48 hours there and Jack still spoke of his friend’s fine qualities and enduring friendship. He said that he would have preferred it to have been him. While the medals symbolise battles past, Jack seemed to have battled with this burden of the arbitrary loss of his dearest friend and the burden of war locked away inside him every day from that time throughout his life. An old fuzzy photo of his friend kept in his wallet accompanied these mixed memories of a much admired friend cut down in his prime.

Every small town across Australia has a prominent memorial listing those inhabitants who perished in war. It is impossible to miss the strings of names from the same family – the loss of two or three or four or more sons, husbands and fathers must have been a burden almost too intolerable to handle. I am sure that Jack’s friend is memorialised in their small town.

Since that time, Jack is likely to have passed away but the memory of our conversation will last forever. Today, Anzac Day has undergone a revival as the last soldiers of World War I have died and those of World War II grow into their elder years. The sacrifices that these young soldiers made half way across the planet in such foreign lands has etched itself into part of the national character and forged part of the Australian identity as increasing numbers every year crowd Gallipoli, the European memorial at Villers-Brettoneux and memorials around the country for the dawn commemorative service.

Lest we forget.

Source: Lead Photo

As Australians and New Zealanders approach Anzac Day, a day where the two countries remember and pay respects those who died at war, I recall a story of herosim from my school days. It is the story of Simpson and his donkey. In Gallipoli, a remote peninsula in Turkey, ANZAC troops were ordered to land and take out the Turkish army, a key ally of Germany in the First World War. Meeting stiff resistance from the Turkish army, the savage campaign ensued for several months with heavy casualties (over 10,000) on both sides.

From dawn each day and unarmed, Simpson and his trusty donkey Duffy would travel a couple of kilometers through the evocatively named Shrapnel Gully to an area where the opposing forces were in trenches less than twenty metres apart. He would crawl forward, at times under fire, aid a wounded soldier, load him across his donkey and make the trek back. He repeated this same journey ten to fifteen times a day, often well into the night.

Just under four weeks later, Duffy returned with an injured soldier but without Simpson. This brave man had been killed under fire carting over 300 injured warriors from the fields of war. This story was taught in schools as Simpson was one of many who epitomised what became known as the Anzac spirit – qualities of endurance, courage, friendship and good humour. Simpson and Duffy are commemorated with a stirring sculpture outside the national war museum.

These stories are enshrined in Australia's psyche and ensure that Australians continue to treasure the ANZAC tradition.

Note
Painting by Horace Moore-Jones now hangs in the National Library of NZ.

Between enjoying the Inca Trail, Macchu Picchu, Lake Titicaca, the Nazca Lines, Colca Canyon and other travel wonders of Peru, most travellers are faced with the question whether than can stomach the Peruvian national dish of guinea pig or cuy.

After responding “potato” to the query of “rice or potato with your cuy, sir”, the waitress skipped off with a wry grin on her face. A few minutes later, another of what my country sees as a cute but slightly novel pet was roasting over the red embers of an open barbeque, skewered by a broad flat stick.

The meal is served with the entire guinea pig flattened as if a victim of a road accident. Its charred face with its toothy grin seems to spookily stare at you whichever way you angle the plate.

It is a messy struggle to coax the sinewy meat from the innumerable bones. Though the creatures appear to be quite tubby when alive, hands are required to do an effective job of stripping every meagre morsel away from the tight rib cage and spine. It is certainly not a meal for fine dining. The drumstick is hardly the prized possession that it may be if claimed from the Christmas turkey though it is meant to be the prime pickings of a guinea pig. The flavour has the gentle gamey sense of rabbit and is rather tasty.

It is difficult to escape the fact that it is a traditional and proud part of the Peruvian diet. Most farms and rural properties have a small area reserved to raise guinea pigs, a key source of protein for these typically poor and subsistence-based communities. Some guinea pigs luxuriate in quite ornate mud and straw structures. The often multi-layered setups with tunnels and pathways encourage these naturally inquisitive rodents to explore.

This delicacy has been enjoyed for over two thousand years in Peru with a guide at the famed ruins of Macchu Picchu telling us that there is evidence of domesticated guinea pigs from well before the time of Christ. In local versions of the Last Supper, both Cusco (top photo) and Lima’s (photo to the right) cathedrals contain paintings of this famous religious event with the main dish being that of guinea pig. There are references to Incan sacrificial ceremonies including the prized cuy.

To complete your Peru experience, be bold and sample the national dish. After all, it’s not likely to be on the menu in your home country and is a significant cultural element of Peruvian life.

While I live in Sydney, many Australians who live in the south-eastern state of Victoria have had their lives changed forever. Over the last week in temperatures in excess of 45°C (110°F) , the horrific tragedy of bushfire has swept across parched rural and forested lands leaving a trail of destruction and death. Around 180 people have lost their lives (with the final count likely to approach 300), around 1800 houses have been lost and over half a million hectares burned out (equivalent to the state of Connecticut or 1/8 of Switzerland). Both stock and wildlife in large numbers have perished. Everyone from these towns and village will have lost family, friends, neighbours or property in what is now considered to be Australia’s worst peacetime event.

Indeed, entire towns and villages have been reduced to ash. As if frozen in time, others lie in a tangled wreck of wrought iron, charred brick chimneys and the faint shadowy structures of houses and buildings. Children’s toys lay blackened where they were last left. Tangled and burnt clothing flutter in the wind pegged to clotheslines.

The stories of heroism fill the newspapers. Thousands have risked their own lives to save others. Communities have come together in support. People all over Australia and around the world have given blankets, food and money to help rebuild these people’s lives. The fire fighters, many of them volunteers and some having experienced deep losses themselves, have fought heroically beyond the point of exhaustion undoubtedly reducing the fires from causing far greater damage. Governments, so often criticised in such tragic events, have been quick to assist and have been impressive in their responsiveness and efforts in aiding those most in need.

While most of the fires have started by lightning strikes, it is beyond comprehension that some of these fires are believed to have been intentionally lit and still others by the carelessness of discarded cigarette butts. Entire towns have been declared as crime scenes.

Unable to sleep, I lay in bed listening for hours at the 24 hour radio coverage of our national broadcaster, the ABC. In this time of internet, instant messaging and mobile phones, the radio was the primary source of information and the most up-to-date reports on where the fires were striking.

Balls of flames shot overhead like comets in the hot dry northerly winds lobbing randomly and igniting the tinder-dry ground. It is impossible to imagine the horror that people must have experienced guarding their property as towering flames fanned by gusting winds lapped at neighbour’s houses and property fences. Soot fell like torrential rain and the smoke cut visibility down to a point where driving was impossible.

Everyone will remember stories from the fire. Some are distressing, others poignant and even others seem minor in detail. A parent who packed their children and belongings in the car, returned inside to get their pet dog and returned to find their vehicle in flames. Another who ran to connect a second hose outside never to return. The sheer terror of people stranded in cars blocked by fallen trees unable to escape their burning township. A singed family parrot with only a single yellow feather remaining sits relaxed on a playing field having been rescued, seemingly unaware of its strange appearance.

Maybe photos such as those of the ABC and international coverage says more.

Bushfires are a harsh reality of Australian life with a number of plant species relying on fire to regenerate. Much as these hardened Victorians will slowly rebuild their lives, and the houses, schools, sports fields, shops and community halls of these towns and villages will be reconstructed, the first signs of new growth will appear in these ashen bushlands within a few days. The shell-shocked wildlife will return to their lands able to feed on the tasty new shoots of grass and leaves.

And while it will take years to rebuild the towns, the memories of these bushfires will be talked about, recalled and reflected upon for decades and centuries to come.

Notes
Photo Sources: 1, 2

To all my readers, my best wishes for the festive season. Appropriately it represents the one hundredth post to Travel Wonders. Gathered from a wide number of websites are wishes for a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year in forty different languages.

Afrikaans - Geseknde Kersfees en 'n gelukkige nuwe jaar
Amharic (Ethiopian) - Melikam yelidet beale Melikam Addis Amet (መልከም ልደት)
Bulgarian - Vesela Koleda i chestita nova godina!
Chinese Cantonese- Sing Dan Tung San Fae Lok. Gung Hai Fat Choi (聖誕節同新年快樂. 恭喜發財)
Chinese Mandarin - Shen Dan Kuai Le Xin Nian Yu Kuai (聖誕快樂 新年快樂)
Cherokee - Danistayohihv & Aliheli'sdi Itse Udetiyvasadisv (ᏓᏂᏍᏔᏲᎯᎲ & ᎠᎵᎮᎵᏍᏗ ᎢᏤ ᎤᏕᏘᏴᎠᏌᏗᏒ)
Croatian - Sretan Bozic
Czech - Stastne a vesele vanoce a stastny novy rok!
Danish - Glaedelig Jul og godt nyter
Dutch - Vrolijk Kerstfeest en een Gelukkig Nieuw Jaar
English - Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year
Eskimo (inupik) - Jutdlime pivdluarit ukiortame pivdluaritlo!
Estonian - Rõõmusaid jõulupühi ja head uut aastat!
Finnish - Hyvää joulua ja onnellista uutta vuotta!
Flemish - Zalig Kerstfeest en Gelukkig nieuw jaar
French - Joyeux Noel et Bonne Année!
German - Frohe Weihnachten und ein glückliches Neues Jahr!
Greek - Kala Christougenna kai evtichismenos o kainourios chronos!
Hebrew - Chag Molad Sameach v'Shanah Tovah (חג מולד שמח ושנה טובה)
Hungarian - Kellemes karacsonyi uennepeket es boldog ujevet!
Icelandic - Gleðileg jsl og farsælt komandi ar!
Indonesian - Selamat Hari Natal dan Selamat Tahun Baru!
Italian - Buon Natale e Felice Anno Nuovo!
Japanese - Meri Kurisumasu soshite Akemashite Omedeto!
Korean - Meli Kliseumaseu jal ji naego saehae pog manhi pateuseyo (메리 크리스마스 잘 지내고 새해 복 많이 받으세요)
Latvian - Priecigus Ziemsvetkus un Laimigu Jaungadu!
Lithuanian - Linksmu Kaledu
Norwegian - God Jul Og Godt Nytt Aar
Polish - Wesołych Świąt i Szczęśliwego Nowego Roku!
Portuguese - Boas Festas e Feliz Ano Novo
Romanian - Craciun fericit si un an nou fericit
Russian - S nastupaiushchim Novym godom i s Rozhdestvom Khristovym! (С Рождеством Христовым и С наступающим Новым Годом)
Serbian - Hristos se rodi. Srećna Nova Godina (Христос се роди. Срећна Нова Година)
Slovak - Veselé vianoce a Štastný nový rok
Slovene - Vesele bozicne praznike in srecno novo leto
Spanish - ¡Feliz Navidad y próspero año nuevo!
Swedish - God Jul Och Ett Gott Nytt Ar
Thai - Suk san wan Christmas sawatdii pimaï (สุขสันต์วันคริสต์มาส และสวัสดีปีใหม่)
Turkish - Noeliniz kutlu olsun ve yeni yilinis kutlu olsun!
Vietnamese - Chúc Giáng Sinh Vui Vẻ và Chúc Năm Mới Tốt Lành

Joern Utzon (Jørn Utzon), the architect who designed the UNESCO heritage-listed Sydney Opera House (see photos in lights) with its unique sail-design died last night. One of the most iconic and identifiable travel wonders of the twentieth century, and along with many superb buildings crafted in his own country of Denmark, the Sydney Opera House will remain as a legacy to Utzon's creative genius for many centuries to come. Sadly, in dispute with the local government (since settled), he never returned to Australia to see the final result of his prize-winning design. Utzon was awarded the Pritzker Prize (the "Nobel Prize of architecture") and the keys to the city of Sydney in his distinguished career.

The lights will be dimmed this evening to honour the memory of this visionary man.

“What do you call the curly symbol in the middle of an email address?” asked a slightly dishevelled Italian girl over breakfast in surprisingly crisp English.

It was a strange, almost nerdish opening query in the breakfast room of a cheap hotel and caught me a bit by surprise. Most breakfast conversation in these places tend to be about where you are from, where you have been or are travelling and questions to compare notes about what is worth visiting in the current town.

I responded that we call it “at”.

“I know that, everyone says that, but what is it really called”, she fired back disappointed at my meagre suggestion. She proudly stated “We call it chiocciola which is a snail in English."

I was simply lost for words. Chiocciola did seem a much more appealing choice. In a language as rich in words as English, which seems to have a word for every possible circumstance, why is there no real word for the “@” symbol, or am I simply to ignorant to be aware of it. At a nearby table, a Frenchman indicated that they sometimes use escargot in the same manner (though they also have a duller more typical term).

It started me into an embarrassing sequence of shameless nerdish breakfast queries over the following days to discover that most languages have far more flamboyant words for the innocent “@” symbol, which has become so prevalent in our life. After all, I wasn’t likely to meet any of these people again so the odd nerdy inquiry seemed pretty safe.

The answers provide a rich variety of visual descriptors. The Danes and Swedes favour snabela which translates as elephant trunk, while the Finns call it kissanhäntä or cat’s tail. Some Finns utilise the melodic miukumauku which is their description for the sound a cat makes. The neighbouring Russians use man’s best friend (sobaka) in their email addresses.

In the Netherlands, people use apestaartje or little monkey’s tail while the Germans (klammeraffe), the Serbs (majmun), the Bulgarians (majmunsko) and the Slovenes (afna) prefer the entire monkey.

In Hungary, the slightly less pleasant kukac (maggot) is favoured. Similarly, the Thais use their word for wiggling worm. In the Czech Republic (zavináč or rollmop herring) and Israel (shtrudel or strudel) food is the target of their description. Finally, the Filipinos go for utong or nipple.

I certainly don’t lose sleep over it but I do wonder why English didn’t manage a more elegant word for this modest but ubiquitous symbol of the electronic age.

Other Recent Musings
Lest We Forget!
Belgian Pride?
Generosity and Gemütlichkeit