White Ribbon Week

I didn’t wear a white ribbon last week, for that matter I have not worn any sort of ribbon, not because I lack empathy - I’m just not inclined to display. Even when I donate, I don’t wear those little sticker-badge things, (actually when I go to conferences or place where I’m given a name label, I don’t wear them). Perhaps I’m just contrary.

There is plenty of evidence of violence against women and girls, the statistics are pretty alarming! One in three, we are told, experiences some form of abuse! Personally, I have seen none of it – within my extended family, at work nor with friends and associates. Apparently that’s not unusual because abusers can be discreet.

I wonder if I did witness something, would I react like most, and do nothing? It’s hard to say, but hopefully I would be at least empathetic.

In a remote village, I once gave a lift to a Maasai woman who had been badly beaten by her husband and took her to a nearby clinic – I tried to convince her that hospital would be a better option but she refused because it would mean that she could not cook for her husband that night. She had facial bruising and damage to her ribs caused breathing difficulties.

Sanawari is really a suburb of Arusha, not that you think so at first. Most Friday and weekend nights we would be woken by a scream somewhere in the vicinity, of a woman being beaten by a booze-fuelled man.

In both these cases, it was not within my capability to intervene.

So perhaps I have nothing to contribute to White Ribbon Week that could help vulnerable women and girls other than relate to an episode that still haunts me about violence meted out to two brothers:

The Easterly end of my property was bounded by the main road – altered slightly today – and across the road, on a small area of flat land stood the first school in North Otago. The area was known as Otepopo. Nobody seems to know exactly where the school stood but it was roughly there.

In conversation about its possible location, a friend showed me a copy of an article written by one of the brothers that had attended the school.

I only had the opportunity to read the article once and the following is from memory.

Mid-1850’s the colony was far from established and the pioneers needed to be resourceful and hardy. The ferryman at the mighty Waitaki River wanted to educate his sons so they made to difficult journey to Otepopo where Mr. Robertson had his boarding school – the two brothers were to be the only boarders.

This guy Robertson turned out to violent and sadistic and although the article did not say so, he was undoubted a paedophile.

He apparently picked on the older brother most, though not sparing the younger. Most of the beatings were with supplejack, a vine that early fishermen used to make crayfish pots and eel traps, but a short length would be much like a cane.

For perceived or no reason, Robertson would strip the boy naked and thrash his back until it bled, then took delight in picking off the scabs, while the boy bathed; the wounds would remain unhealed for longer.

The need for firewood was constant and Robertson regularly took the boys foraging for wood up in the Otepopo Bush, often threatening them about how easy it would be to murder them up there and hide their bodies. One day Robertson’s victim did something wrong, so the lad was forced to lay his finger down and man bashed it with a hammer!

Robertson was a pious man and conducted services in the school, one freezing day, during the service he had the lad stand naked in an adjacent room, ordered not to make a peep, while the hymns and prayers were going on just through the wall!

The article didn’t elaborate, only saying that Robinson often took them to his bed and they were made to do awful things.

The boys planned to escape but remoteness was their constraint – they were not yet ten! Robinson’s last and incriminating act was to demonstrate what Hell was like, by taking the boy’s finger and holding it over a candle flame!

Shortly after, the boys’ father arrived and rescued them.

The primary court in Oamaru had no jail, so the man was fined £5, which he easily paid.

These were awful things for those young boys to endure and the warning is, such evil people do exist and persist – as bad as that? Maybe not, but you can bet there are still instances.

Look for the signs, speak up, and offer a non-judgmental ear.

Abuse is not ok.

Angie's Gold

It happened in Central Otago, at a place called Naseby where during the 1890’s it was a remote, bustling goldmining town. 

Angie was just eight years old when she found the gold nugget, after a severe rainstorm which caused the water race to burst and sluice away a large area of land. She was the first one out there hunting with her dog, Muffin, who liked nothing better than  chasing rabbits – and it was good to get away from those filthy miners.

Angie knew that the nugget was valuable, but had no idea just how much it was worth, recalling that the last stagecoach taking gold to Dunedin had been held up; two men killed and the robbers made off with the gold – they were wild times with jealousy over gold and land. Men often lost their gold gambling or buying cheap liquor! Angie had seen it all!

Her father owned the general store, selling all manner of goods to the miners; flour, shovels, nails, pick axes, knives and her mother, Sarah, helped in the store as well as doing laundry out back for the town’s two pubs.

She imagined what her father and mother would say about the nugget and guessed she wouldn’t have her treasure for long, so she decided not tell them about it yet.

‘Father?’ she asked that night at the dinner table, ‘Can anyone sell the gold they find?’

Her father peered sternly at her over the top of his spectacles, and she felt the heat as her cheeks reddened.

‘No,’ he replied, ‘to sell gold you have to own a Deed of Claim that allows you to work a specific area to fossick for gold.’

Chewing on a piece of gristle, Angie realised she couldn’t keep the secret from her parents so reached into her pocket and quietly placed the gold nugget on the table.

Both parents stopped chewing and stared at the nugget, then at Angie, and back again at the nugget.

After a lengthy inquisition, Angie’s father agreed the gold was hers by right but it should be hidden for safety.

‘We could hide it in a jar of marmalade!’  Angie suggested brightly.

‘Now that’s a good idea,’ agreed her father, ‘we could display it and nobody could ever guess that gold was in there.’

Father sold clay jars of marmalade in his store and mother had a half used jar on the kitchen shelf. With the gold nugget safely inside the jar and covered with marmalade, they needed to seal the top so flies or bugs didn’t spoil the jam so used candle wax as a seal – Angie’s chin jutted out with pride at the neat job and now the marmalade would keep fresh for many years!

The jar survived a few dangers: Bad Kenny broke into the store and among other items, he stole the jar right next to Angie’s! There was the fire that burnt one end of the store and there was looting! And the time Muffin chased a rat that knocked over several jars and five were broken!

When Angie was fourteen, she boarded the stagecoach to Dunedin, where Father had arranged a job for her at a general store on the main street. Not a paying job, just lodgings and food.

Her bag (with the jar inside) was missing when she went to pick it up but saw a man making off with it down the street, so she chased him!

‘Go away!’ he growled aggressively, making it obvious that he was prepared to fight for her belongings.

There was no help at hand for Angie, so she poked him in the eye with her parasol! The pain caused him to drop the bag, cursing. Quickly she retrieved it and scampered off towards the store!

She worked happily there for three and a half years and made friends with the storekeeper’s wife, Molly. Through this friendship she negotiated the rental of a small spare room at the rear of the store.

Angie found that Dawson, the jewelry-man down the street paid a fair price for black-market gold, nuggets or dust, and when he saw her nugget, his eyes narrowed but she bargained hard and sold three quarters of her nugget, by weight, for eight hundred and fifty-three pounds!

She kept the other quarter ‘in reserve, for an emergency’.

Angie used the money and the room to set up a small factory making jam and cordials using local and imported fruits.

Her business thrived, expanded and became profitable so she had no need to cash in the last quarter of her gold nugget, which much later, she gave to her daughter, Primrose.

Together they built a new factory and named the company after her, which became famous for quality jams, cordials and specialized in marmalade.

A Mild Night

The scree from a Little Owl woke Henry, but not in a frightening way, he knew immediately what it was and imagined it wide-eyed in a treetop surveying its territory for prey. Most call them German Owls and it is unusual to see them except around autumn when they sit on the power wires – probably fledglings which is why many become road kill because feeding on road kill is what they do.

A full moon shone brightly through the window and although it was just past 2:00am he slid quietly out of bed to have a look around.

It’s not Henry’s habit to wander around during the night, but on reflection he has done his share.

As a lad helping his father deliver milk during all weathers and then going off to school. Or attending fires in and around the forest as well as keeping watch after a controlled burn-off. And of course there were those spotlighting episodes for undesirable animals that did damage to the forest – and yes chasing off the looney, illegal spotlighters.

This night was unusual because it was so warm. The only time the nights are warm is when there is north-westerly weather but those times are windy. Warm nor’westers are caused by rain-laden clouds rising and dumping their load on the west side of the ‘Alps warming the air as it descends on the east. Adiabatic it’s called. The same as the chinook and foehn winds.

This night the air was still and warm.

A huge cheesy disc bathed everything in its pale light and Henry saw four rabbits feeding on the lawn – one of them paused to scratch before a warning thump of its foot sent them scurrying for the shrubbery.

He felt them watching from their haven as he walked towards the paulownia tree where he expected the owl to be sitting.

The fragrance of the pale blue foxglove-like flowers wafted towards him – no wonder bumble bees are attracted to blue! The paulownia has the lofty title of Empress Tree in Japan and is sometimes called the Imperial Tree of China, but it’s not for the flowers, the name comes from the high value the Japanese and Chinese put on the timber.

Those corky seedpods were used as packing when shipping china – early polystyrene chips!

Henry picked up a fallen flower and didn’t need to hold it to his nose to enjoy the fragrance – such sweetness you won’t find in a chemist shop!

The owl had long-since flown off, perhaps after some quarry but there was the cooing of the wood pigeon woken by Henry’s tread – not am alarm but requesting a reply. Joining the conversation he cooed in reply, but the bird was having none of it and with a flurry of her wings, she sought safety on a higher perch.

In a nearby paddock a lamb bleated for its mother and was immediately given a comforting reply as they settled down again to sleep or chew their cuds.

Just a few more steps took him to where he could hear the cackling of the river below, peering over the bank he could plainly see ripples that reflected moonlight. He could see the dark shapes of paradise ducks, with the glowing white heads of the males. They constantly honked, bickering and arguing over the most comfortable stones to lie on, or competing to sit next to the most attractive female.

The pied stilt woken by the noise, screeching in protest, these are the birds to fly in at eye-level warning off approaches to their nests or chicks. This time he was just moving away from those pesky, noisy ducks.

Turning away from the bank, Henry saw that two of the rabbits had left their cover, nervously venturing to chew on the short grass – looking up after each nibble, moving their ears like antennae searching for a signal.

Looking skywards, the Southern Cross was clearly visible in the cloudless sky but the moon cast too much light, drowning out most of the smaller stars, while others hung there like little bulbs hopefully sharing their brightness.

Henry was content with the peace of that still mild night. He felt like spending more time out there because the experience was so very rare, but tomorrow he had plans and to make them happen, he needed sleep.

As he lay in his bed, still euphoric from his stroll in the moonlight, he reflected on his good fortune, realising few people on this earth are able to experience such peace and indeed pleasure.

He closed his eyes, not to sleep, but to shut out thoughts and memories of the world’s troubles and of its condition.

There would enough of that when he switches on the radio news at six o’clock!