Lost Downtown 1994

“Beam me up Scotty!” The proposal of marriage to an American citizen rescued me from the difficulties of living in that African region which was struggling in the aftermath of a dictatorship. I arrived in America in 1994 expecting, like Dick Whittington, that the streets would be paved with gold.
Although it had taken me less than a week to get here by plane from the poverty ridden Africa of the Nineties, I might just as well have made an interstellar journey. The places seemed light years apart. Lusaka, the capital of Zambia, had been grimy and dingy — a broken down city. Little Rock, on the other hand was gleaming, with the Excelsior Hotel dominating the skyline. It was set like a jewel overlooking the mighty Arkansas River.
The entire culture was different to anything I had encountered before. Coming from a newly developing nation on the continent of Africa, the influences I had grown up with led me to assume that the United States was a paradise of wealth and stability. The ‘Voice of America’ radio which we listened to as children in Rhodesia was one form of brainwashing worldwide in the middle of the twentieth century. Our perceptions were further affected in the era of our early teens by the multitude of imported automobiles from the USA resembling spaceships. They were brought in and sold as a result of the booming price of copper.
However instant fortune did not seem a likely event in Arkansas – one of the poorest states of the USA. Here to welcome me were the amazing members of my new tribe. Family in the South is everything.
I had never before met people like shop-till-you drop May Belle, who was married to my fiancé’s younger brother. She introduced me to the whole new concept of twenty-four hour shopping.
“I need to go to the store,” she said, after I had been here about a week. “Why don’t you come with me?”
“Uh oh,” said Paul in a gloomy tone, “Wal-Mart? Everyone goes there. It is more Southern than grits. A black hole sucking in humanity. Mysteriously, many go in but few seem to escape. It feels like the well of souls. First you park a quarter of a mile away, then join in the procession of zombies marching mindlessly like in Dawn of the Dead along the aisles. They snatch up some discounted item that they don’t need, don’t want and will never use; simply because it’s such a bargain.
“Here are some greenbacks, baby girl; but don’t come home with 30 pounds of potato chips because you are saving a dime on each pound.
“Why not you buy yourself a pair of shorts? It is hotter than hell round here in summer.”
Having heard the word Wal-Mart bandied about in conversations, I unconsciously associated it with some kind of brand of ice cream. My fiancé further complicated my perception by his words. Realising that Walmart was a shop, or store as the shops are called in America, I leapt at the opportunity.
May Belle was carrying her coffee in a large insulated cup with a perforated lid on it. To my surprise the vehicle had a special place designed for it. I was taken aback at her nonchalance at drinking inside a motor vehicle. In Zambia we had used the word transport. It applies to any form of motor driven vehicle. Everyone without transport is ready, at the drop of a hat, to climb on board a truck or into a car and go. Carrying a drink in the early nineties would have been considered bad manners, and you would lose your place.
May Belle brought along Louis her two-year-old son, and we all piled into one of the immense USA type vehicles that the locals drive fearlessly along (what seems to a Zambian) the wrong side of the road. I looked out of the window. We seemed to be moving at breakneck speed down the highway, and I looked on in amazement as a whole New World flashed before my eyes. I felt that I needed sunglasses as the color jumped out at me. Billboards. They were fantastic. Zambia had been short of paint for years and I was used to grey.
Buzzing by, the cars all looked brand new, not a single Zam cab. The ubiquitous taxis (along with the majority of the vehicles) on the road of the capital city of Zambia, had cruised the streets like shabby mobile junk heaps. I thought of the city I had left behind, where a car ahead of you would suddenly veer sharply to the left or the right. It was only avoiding a pothole. Lusaka that straggly, mishmash of housing. Once the city had been planned but, with the advent of Independence the new powers that be, had built over haphazard anything-goes buildings, with the occasional fine new one. I remembered the teaming thousands of pedestrians along with exhaust fumes and faint aroma of bad sanitation.
Little Rock, on the other hand, was scenic; with houses subtly painted in earth colours. These blended into the scenery so naturally that, for the first week, I barely saw them.
As we sailed off the highway my heart was in my mouth. Apparently it was my moment to die. The car coming in the opposite direction was travelling at an equal pace, and directly in line for a head-on collision. Little did I know that my driver had complete faith in a small red yield sign that would miraculously stop the oncoming car.
Although I had grown up walking African jungles and even seen a lion in the wild – this journey was not for the faint at heart. Turning round to look to Louis for assurance, I saw that he was secure in his child seat and appeared quite unconcerned. He was muttering:
“Pooh, I want Winnie the Pooh.” For my part, I was far too worried about whether or not we were going to survive this ordeal. (It took a year before I was to get used to this sort of suicidal dicing with death.)
May Belle drove slowly, as if on the prowl, around the car park looking for an empty spot. There seemed acres of space to me, but she wanted to park some 100 yards from the immense front of a building, and all those spaces had been occupied. Five other cars were having the same problem. Hardly anyone walked in Little Rock, certainly not to the store.
Finally we settled on somewhere suitable and I noticed that, here too, many people were carrying drinks of one sort or another. I laughed at the conspicuous consumption. Where I had come from one had to be aware to cope with the pickpockets, and avoid falling into the chasms where the pavement had given way to an underground trench.
We walked towards the entrance in a square box-like concrete edifice with huge letters: ‘Walmart’. Inside was aisle upon aisle of gleaming cellophane wrapped items. With all the weird vibes and bustle I soon became separated from May and Louis, drifting off mesmerised by the merchandise. Shelves seem to reach to the ceiling. In Zambia the old supermarkets had had little on their shelves for years.
Wouldn’t it be good to own a microwave? A vacuum cleaner… or coffee jug that can tell the time and wake you up! Oh computer chips. Oh plastic, all white and sparkly. Everything you can imagine to plug in and be labor saving. If there are poor people in Little Rock I don’t know where they are. How much does life in this world cost?
I began to feel quite faint as waves of panic gnawed at my stomach. Surrounded by products, perfumes, music and items that I had never encountered in my life before: the more I tried to think, the more uncertain I became…about anything, about everything! Trying to read labels on the items only contributed to my confusion.
I felt in my bag (or purse as it is called in Arkansas) and pulled out the dollars that I had stuffed therein. I wanted to count them. Uh oh, watch the greenback. Look at the dollar bills, they are all the same color – (in Zambia the different amounts are in different colours). An old gent on the front side and some version of building with Grecian columns on the other. I fiddled desperately remembering how my Paul had told me to put them in order with the highest denomination on the outside.
Where am I? What did I come for? Where are May Belle and Louis?
The panic mounted.
Eventually a shop assistant came up and spoke to me politely in Southern tones. Sadly I shook my head because I barely understood the new dialect. In retrospect it is obvious that she wanted to know if I needed help.
I gaped at her disorientated, and with total incomprehension. Unconsciously holding my breath and feeling giddy, I sort of grunted and smiled vaguely. She gave up, and moved away to straighten up some towels.
All at once the ringing in my ears was replaced by clarity, like a bolt of lightening out of the blue. I had remembered Louis, May Belle’s son. He would have drifted to the toy section surely. Of course that was where I found him.
He smiled up at me and told me about Barney.

Old South

Americans think of Vietnam as a war not a country…

(This is how I felt). Or a window into life in the old ‘South’.

It will come as no surprise to the gentle reader who lives in this part of the world that us yankees take pride in being from ‘out there.’

There is a timelessness about Arkansas that relates to

1)their refusal to speed up to the modern world.

2)Their determination to remain within the state…ie. Travel & leaving home is not considered a virtue

3) Some old tongue is retained as they love the sound of storytelling as much as the content (music).

In the beginning, having worked in an office much of my adult life I took up answering the telephone to the house I had moved into with my fiancé. His work partner owned the house, running a small electrician’s business from home.

Answering the phone when they were out working on the job gave me something to do. Although I was polite and identified myself with the best manners, I soon gave up the practice as no one ever spoke to me. There would be a click at the other end as I was cut off. It took at least 3 weeks in Little Rock before the secret was revealed to me.

In 1994 few locals bothered to travel outside the borders of the state. They contented themselves with the occasional weekend away gambling in Tunica on the Texan border; or even, for the more adventurous, a short visit to Memphis alongside the mighty Mississippi. The whole of the outside world was merely just outside the state.

I discovered during my first month in Arkansas that anyone born in an area that wasn’t the south made one from Elsewhere (as most of the local inhabitants of little Rock had no concept of overseas.)

Being as they were both ex military, Paul & Dave would drive past a flag with the stars and stripes in the evening and decide it was time to go home. The kitchen bench served as a bar for after work beers. I sat with Paul on a stool opposite Dave who stood ready to cook the evening meal (this could take several hours).

They would each relate their version of the days events which involved some colorful language.

Along the way they taught me that the Mason-Dixon line was situated nearby. Thus I discovered that whether I liked it or not, I was a damned yankee. They regarded my accent as British (mother always wanted us to speak ‘Queen’s English’) and classified me as a Yankee. They taught me some history such as where the Mason-Dixon line was situated, and that my origins were to the North.

Of course the young ladies boarding school I had attended in Rhodesia had given me an excellent grounding in history so I knew about the Civil War. But history always seemed like a grey past.

Listening to them tell tales – it was as if it was a recent matter, rather than over a century ago – here was a time warp – in that War seemed to have taken place only 3 weeks ago.

In Paul’s family alone all the men were wiped out and the only reason that his grandfather survived was because he was a drummer boy – too young to be in the fighting. Paul seemed to feel as strongly about this dead member of his family as he did about the living.

Dave had served in the Navy seals during the Vietnam War. On occasion I had the distinct impression that he was quoting from a spy novel rather than memory. However I never saw him pick up a book.

Amongst his close friends he was known as ’10 story Dave’ on account of his repertoire being so predictable. I do not lie if I relate this event which truly occurred after I had lived there several months…

It took place on a rainy day, during which the service industry took cover and refuge in a beer or two. A middle aged man walked into the kitchen and entered the story telling by Dave without missing a heartbeat. He spoke a line or two of the tale that Dave was in the middle of explaining, as if he were an accomplished actor spot on with his lines of script. Dave finished his story and then they welcomed the man who, it turned out was only a stranger to me. He had been born just down the road, but had recently returned having spent 7 years in San Francisco.

The same bench served a classroom when Dave was away from it for any reason. We sat there and Paul coached me on the language of the South. He begged me not to try and imitate the accent, which he assured me, I would never accomplish. The subtleties of intonation were vast as with words such “motherfucker” or “bastard”. It seemed these could vary enormously in their impact by the way they were uttered. From endearment to fighting words.

He also told me some rich and raunchy and sometimes downright disgusting plumbers jokes, which will remain a mystery to the gentle reader.

Doctors (especially pathologists), journalists and plumbers share a delight in dark, sick and sarcastic humor. It gives them a way to unwind from the stress of their jobs.

 

Stafford

Boy’s initiative

LED FAMILY TO MIGRATE HERE

A thick file dating back to February last year, and labelled “Woodrow-Norwich” has personal interest for the State Migration Officer (Mr David Longland).

In February, 1946, Stafford Woodrow, 13, eldest son of a fatherless family of four children wrote this letter to “Any Farmer, Brisbane, Queensland.”

Sought pen friends

“Dear Farmer: My name is Stafford, and my sister and brothers and myself want to come to Australia when we grow up.

“Do you think you could find us pen friends, so that we shall know something of the country by the time we are able to come?”

“Our ages are, sister 13 1/2, brother 10 1/2, and youngest brother six. Our father was killed during the war, so that we only have Mummie and so, you see, she will have to come, too.”

Made big move

The Post Office delivered the letter to the Africulture Department, which forwarded it to Mr. Longland.

He answered the letter personally, and outlined the steps to be taken for the family to come to Australia.

Finally it was decided that the Woodrows should leave Norwich for Australia. In January this year, Mr Longland approached the Queensland Women’s Association, which agreed to nominate Mrs Kathleen Woodrow as a hosted matron.

Yesterday, one year and eight months after Stafford’s first letter the Woodrows attended a New Settlers’ League reception at Y.

A Just Nation

My father used to tell an old Irish story about a tired traveller walking between towns. He met a couple of codgers on the road and asked how far the distance was to the next town.

‘Oooh,’ cried one man A ‘she be just around the corner over there!’

The weary man struggled on with relief.

‘What d’you mean by telling him that?  Killarney is 2 miles away!’ shouted man B in disbelief.

‘Agh, but did you not see how exhausted the poor fella was? I couldna tell him that,’ said A.

How many times in a paragraph do you use the word ‘just’?

1. Lack of power – we cannot own our actions?

2. Fear – fearful that when we instruct some one they may not do what we say, and so try to belittle the instruction.

a) Make it easier for them.

b) Make it easier for them to accept the instruction.

c) To make it seem easier.

d) The lack of self esteem that makes us long to tell someone else what to do.

Much more sneaky and cunning is when the word ‘just’ is used to subtly manipulate. e.g. in sales talk.

It has it’s place – but the word can be used as a minimizer. So I am wary when it sneaks up on me: wary of what is implied and the chasm of reality.

 

Crocodile

Lurking there at the height of the flooding river. For days now he had shown off his massive predatory length – basking in the sun as the water rushed by.

Since growing up beside the Kafue River in Central river the crocodile was the only animal I was phobic about. As a young child they had invaded sleep with nightmarish regularity.

This Saturday afternoon I was waiting for a visit from a friend who lived in the nearby city. My brother had been away for 10 days on a walking safari out near the Luangwa valley. He needed time away from our game ranch, so I had been alone for hours. As there was not much housework to occupy Beauty the maid, I had told her she could leave early. In the morning she had been acting in a weird manner, talking out loud at the the back of the villa. When I asked her in a conversational manner who she was talking to, as I passed on my way to the other house, thinking it was one of the gardeners – she maintained she was singing. Although intuitively I knew it was not so, I walked on wondering vaguely why I did not confront whoever was there in the shadows. Later I would remember this incident after the appalling events; and it held dreadful significance.

They sauntered in from the bush with powerful nonchalance – up the steps and grabbed me before my brain could grasp the reality of the home invasion. Speaking in the local dialect I pleaded with them in a crazy attempt to reverse the inevitable. (I had never been afraid growing up in Africa. This turned out to be naive and left me vulnerable).

Wrestling me to the floor they soon stopped my speech by tightening the scarf around my neck.

A fleeting memory of a friend spoke of being mugged one time in the USA, prompted me. She’d said that she escaped by surrendering her wallet. The scarf choked me, but with garbled gasps I managed to convey that I would give them my money.

This took some time as the group were amateurs: 3 teenagers and two ringleaders. They dragged me around and threatening me with various scenarios.

I became immensely polite and over time directed them to what money I owned in cash; as they dragged me around the house.

The ringleader took time off to stare into my face, threatening me on several occasions. He was not happy that the big metal safe that they had crowbarred open contained less of the months wages for the game farm than he had hoped for. He terrified me by glaring angrily into my face and declaring:

“We will take you with us and throw you in the river!”

The massive Kafue  filled half the landscape.

Incredibly, my calm honesty and acting even older and more frail than I really was resulted in them tying me into a chair outside on the verandah overlooking the fields and water.

The banging on a brass knocker at the front door (which they had closed) resounded through the courtyard. Four of them sprinted to the bush.

I struggled managed to untie the looser bonds that I had pretended held me to the chair and walked slowly past the least efficient of the bandits to freedom.

Inconvenient ‘convenience’

Having studied “use of English” in order to be admitted into university in Great Britain in the 60’s from Africa, I read early on about brainwashing. Brave New World revisited Aldous Huxley showed me a frightening view of how I could have my opinions shaped if I was not wary.

As a result of that book, & living with a film maker of early advertisements in London – I use the mute button & more or less pay no attention to ads. That is unless I am trapped in a queue at a doctors surgery where we are forced to listen to ‘radio’ (commercial) please note the receptionists have headsets so are not so vulnerable.

Today I went to the local burger joint in a country city. To my horror I was subjected to an unending stream of incentive to buy buy spend etc… until I managed escape through the exit. Yikes they finally caught me!

Laundry

Doing my laundry in what my gypsy friend calls the best laundromat in Australia. She should know as she has been down to Tazzi from Queensland & everywhere in between – then accross to Western Australia & back. As far as I know she hasn’t been to the N W Corner – but I know she wandered as far outback as the Alice.

She buys clothes from the op shops in $5 bags which means she can chuck em when they no longer fulfill their purpose. However I assume she does do some laundry otherwise she would not know so much about laundromats.

As for me, I am attached to my old clothes. They become soft & carry memories – fond memories. I chuck out or recycle those that carry any heavy vibes from the past.

I enjoy the rediscovery of my warm winter woolies & long pants as the weather deteriorates into rain & or chill. the summer stuff is essential in Queensland when the heat becomes unbearable. That’s when I am prepared to pay big bucks for cotton (particularly white cotton) rather than synthetics. Also for the occasional real wool item for the extremes of winter.

While traveling overseas I frequently rinsed most clothing on a daily basis – especially as large old baths can be found in the big colonial buildings where I found hospitality.

TEMPING

I became a ‘temp’ in travel after some years. It was in Perth and a real job in the 80’s. OMG I was gooood at pickin up stray ends, fixing up messes, catching onto mathematical problems & generally stickin within the IATA guidlines.

My first big job for an airline had been working the International Desk for Ansett in the outback mine of Mt Newman. Big money was available, and as soon as I was qualified I found myself writing way out tickets for people going all OVER the world.

Had to be prepared to ask for help at every step of the way. Those tickets were HANDWRITTEN…I regarded them as my works of ‘art’. Lovingly crafted & agonized over.

London for the 1st time

Part of my soul journey was to become a travel agent & help peeps fulfill their dreams. This came about because I had had such odd experiences on my long journeys in different lands.

Even being picked up from London Gatwick in the 60’s turned into a mix-up. One party arrived at the airport & I was so grateful for the ride to stay with my friend who lived near Chelsea….At the same time however my mother had unwittingly arranged for my brother (with another friend in tow) to meet the Gatwick train at Victoria Station. I had presumably made the 1st arrangement.

These things happen to everyone!

SPEED

A Subtle point for Learner Drivers and later Defensive Drivers

Having held licenses on 3 continents (UK,USA, Zambia and the Antipodes) I became aware of the international road signs with the red ring and number in inside on white background.

All students are told that this is the MAXIMUM speed allowed in the area of the road.

MOST students (or have never really learned) that this is NOT the minimun speed.

The car coming up behind please note (who likes to push rather than overtake (and may be rich enough to afford a fine for speeding).