Diary Note: Day 375, 29 August

Jumping to conclusions!

To Engorora village to visit the man, Moses, who lives away across the hill from the village.  I wanted to visit his fishpond because we have been asked to make some recommendations for a prospective volunteer. His fishpond is operating well, but before we could get into the detail of it all, some angry men came to take away his hosepipe accusing him of causing the school and village to run out of water!

Ok, I left them to it as I thought it was essentially a village matter, but wondered where the village government guys were because I know them! They argued on, getting nowhere so I threw my oar in to suggest that someone look into the reservoir to check the water level [I was prepared to look myself]. One of them climbed on top of the reservoir and found that it was full! The problem was, it turned out, a blocked outlet – somehow a plastic bag was shoved in there! Looked like sabotage to me! The hose was returned and I suggested they apologise to Moses – actually they did.

Then to the Moses’s house to assess the trees he planted and generally they are very good – I reckon the ones on the hillside have not been watered quite the same, but are ok.

Beyond his planting we found a small indigenous fruit tree, so took some fruit to extract seed – we will distribute plants here and in the other villages.

We took milky, sweet tea with Moses and his wife who was keen to receive a few bougainvillea plants – we can do that. As usual the special request is for white ones.

Across the main road to meet with Francis to ask him to host a school field visit - he had no problems – and will liaise with Alfred. Poor old Francis had really good growth on his trees, but one night several marauding donkeys swept through and demolished them. As there was still good soil moisture, we replaced them but they are considerably behind the rest in the group. Francis had trialed with some success, the use of stones or small rocks to weigh down mulch.

To the school to arrange the visit – all activities will be Monday. We also delivered some toys, photos and letters from Otepopo primary school back home. For a wee English lesson, Nai and Heri, had translated the letters – they did well.

I had suggested a format for the letter exchange – how far do you walk to school? What is your favorite subject? What is your favorite food? What is your favorite leisure activity?

It is fair to say that each school did not quite grasp the concepts of the other.

Their eyes glazed over during my reply when, after they asked if one person from Otepopo could visit the school, or one from here go over there, I explained that the aeroplane travelled at 800km/hr and the actual flying time between New Zealand and Kilimanjaro airport was 36 hours.

For kids who rarely, if ever, had travelled in a vehicle, my explanation was simply beyond them.

ANZAC Tribute: The Ancient Yew Tree

Yew trees have a special place in history involving myth, legend and religion, stemming it seems, from the trees’ longevity because of the ability of its drooping branches to take root among the duff and rejuvenate the tree. Always safe from browsing because of the toxicity of its foliage.

Some one hundred years before William the Conqueror arrived on the coast of England, the poisonous seed of a Yew tree germinated in nature’s random way, most likely after passing through the gut of a blackbird. The blackbird would have enjoyed its feast of the juicy, red berry, unmindful of it’s a role in nature. Only a small percentage of the seed germinate, and a smaller percentage eventually grow into trees.

Christians have worshiped at the site since AD 737, perhaps because they found the Yew tree sapling thriving there and it represented an omen.

The Yew tree was unmoved by the arrival of William and his army and it grew on through crisis and good times for over one thousand years and it stands today in the consecrated grounds of Saint Nicholas Church at Brockenhurst.

The Saint Nicholas Yew tree is no beauty compared to some of the other magnificent trees within the New Forest district, but it is nevertheless a ‘beauty tree’. Beauty: colloquial New Zealand for great, wonderful. 

This is because the Saint Nicholas Yew tree stands vigil over a World War I cemetery of 106 graves, of which one hundred are in the New Zealand plot. In addition to the 93 New Zealand graves, there are three Indian and three unidentified Belgian civilians, workers from the Sopley Forestry Camp.

These are the graves of wounded or sick soldiers who had been transferred to the No.1 New Zealand General Hospital at Brockenhurst, but were not able to be saved.

Brockenhurst was chosen in 1915 by the War Office to become a hospital centre because of its proximity to Southampton and the railway line.

Initially, Lady Hardinge's Hospital for the Indian troops from the Lahore and Meerut Divisions was established south of the village. This was later replaced by No.1 New Zealand General Hospital in June 1916, when the Indian Divisions were replaced by ANZAC troops. The No.1 New Zealand General Hospital remained at Brockenhurst until it closed early 1919.

On 17^th December 1918 the Otago Daily Times reported with some enthusiasm about the evacuation from Brockenhurst Hospital of 250 men who were fit for travel, and would join another 260 men from Walton-on-Thames Hospital to be repatriated back to New Zealand.

The train departed the Brockenhurst station precisely on time – 10:20 am.

The article went on: From its opening until 26 September 1918 (when the reported visited) No.1 New Zealand General Hospital, Brockenhurst had admitted 19 599 patients with the loss of 79.

Listed in detail were the various categories of rank and the location their wounding or sickness happened.

Our image of World War I is one of black and white, mud, trenches, blasts, gunfire, gas and broken or dead men – also white crosses.

Any war, ancient or modern means the flowing blood, unthinkable wounding, horrible premature death, deafening noise, smell and the witnessing of those unforgettable events. Not forgetting the protracted mental anguish.

ANZAC Day 25 April 2015 commemorates 100 years since the Gallipoli landings and the slaughter that ensued. That date each year New Zealand and Australia remembers the fallen of all conflicts where their soldiers fought.

The machine that is war, comprises not only soldiers, nor the doctors and nurses, who were forever scarred by their experience, nor the stretcher bearers who dragged the wounded from the front, experiencing mortal danger.

The local people like those of Brockenhurst played their part, undoubtedly contributed to the running of the hospital, thereby nurturing the wounded.

So many contribute to the machinery of war, from the growers of food to the manufacturers of munitions, the families of lost soldiers and other participants should never be forgotten for theirs was a sacrifice too.

During World War I news reached New Zealand slowly, the reporting of the killed in action and the wounded seemed emotionless. Families faced the raw reality as best they could.

The Saint Nicholas Yew tree maintains its vigil, perhaps a hopeful omen that peace will reign.

So, this one hundredth ANZAC Day, 25 April 2015, let us remember them all.

- By wearing a Poppy.

- By standing when the words are spoken from Laurence Binyon’s Ode of Remembrance:

‘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 shall remember them.’

Remain standing as the lone bugler plays The Last Post.

Choices

Have you ever read any of those fantasy-fighting, role play, ‘choose your own adventure books’? Popular before computer games, video games and the rest of the modern stuff, my sons waited eagerly for the next edition by the authors Ian Livingstone and Steve Jackson.

Even now I reread them and remember nudging the boys through them – there was one where the hero is in a maze and I actually drew a map, without which we would never have completed the tasks. In the books there are spaces to jot your progress and artefacts collected down, but we had too much respect for book and used slips of paper – still there after all these years. The reading comprehension has left its mark.

Livingstone/Jackson books give the reader choices, crossroads if you like, where daring and skill are rewarded. A bad choice and you face monsters.

When I am driving a tractor or mowing the lawn of my mind tends to go into overdrive, coming up with brilliant ideas, or not so brilliant – even rubbish. Then again, heaven forbid, I might become all philosophical! The dangers of thinking!

You see, life is a bit more complicated than those role play books, but the concept is brilliant and does mirror real life.

I often mull over what makes us as a species tick compared to the other lifeforms on this planet. Why we do what we do, what motivates us as individuals? Ask someone to identify the wonders of this world, and they will likely mention the pyramids, the coliseum, or any number of manmade structures.

But what about sight? It is a miraculous thing, text books might show the theory of how it works – but to actually see, you think it is your eyes, but that lump of grey matter eh? Hearing, actually all our senses are miraculous and wonders but not separate to other lifeforms. Quantify if you will understanding? Quantify if you can love, empathy, do they exist anywhere other than in humanity? Is Are they explained by science? The same goes for hate, lying and dishonesty.

There should be some logic in all this but logic is not always a happy buddy to philosophy.

Livingstone and Jackson hit on something interesting - choice.

One moment in history for me, was being selected to carry out a forestry contract in Cambodia on behalf of our government. This was back in 1966 and the contract never happened due to the escalation of the Vietnam War, so the choice was taken away from me – forcing me to make other choices.

But it serves as an example. In the first instance I was confronted with two choices; either to go or not to go. Had I gone, the outcomes are impossible to know; because I remained, the outcomes are history.

You walk along a path and arrive at a fork. To the left there are possibilities – good, bad and indifferent. To the right there is a completely different set of possibilities but still – good, bad, and indifferent. All of these possibilities are on the table, all are viable while you ponder.

The moment you make a decision and start off in one direction, all of those possibilities of the other direction that could have been are dead and gone forever.

In the Livingstone/Jackson books you could always go back and try again, but in life everything is moving on, and if you are able to go back, it’s never exactly the same.

A bit like our experience of working in Africa for seven years, on our return, our friends, relatives, colleagues and we, ourselves were still the same people, but subtly different because we had not endured those years together.

I have no insight to the why, how or does it even matter? I just find it fascinating that possibilities can be viable at one moment and void the next.

There is no revelation here (I guess), no answers either, in the end, we have to live with our choices, path – but wait, here is yet another little quirk that is exclusive to humanity, we can regret.