Modern Gadgets V. Old Books.

Just yesterday, after taking my wife to a GP surgery for her monthly anti-cancer jab, as it was raining and we didn't want to get soaked, we took a taxi to South Hill Park, a mansion turned into an Arts Centre that also boasts a pub-restaurant. At the bar, I asked my beloved to find a suitable table in the otherwise deserted eatery whilst I waited at the bar to deal with the orders. At Alex's request, I ordered a bowl of chips (potato wedges) and a coffee each for lunch.

South Hill Park Arts Centre. Stock Photo

As we were the only customers present, the young lass who was taking our orders then asked, perhaps making me feel slightly annoyed, what my table number was.

Does it matter? I responded. We will be easy to find. With that, the male assistant nearby began to laugh as I tried to figure out exactly what was so funny - since I was convinced that the female assistant only wanted to show off her professionalism. It was after leaving the premises that the penny dropped.

As I was snickering to myself, I began to reflect on the impact such an innocent misunderstanding of communication can bring. For instance, going back to my childhood days at our Primary. Around the time I was eight or nine years old, I might have been the more advanced in the class in learning, then again a misspelt word has caused raised eyebrows. The teacher asked us all to think of a common noun, write the word and next to it, draw an outline of the object. For example, Table, and on the same line just after the word, I drew a small sketch of a table. And so it went on, several nouns were written with their corresponding sketches that created a chart that covered the page. The teacher came around to check on our work.

I thought I saw an expression of shock as she pointed to one word on my list, which read Lustic. Next to it was a drawing of an elongated oval. What is this one? she asked.

Lustic, I answered what I thought was the correct pronunciation. With my Italian mother still grappling with the English language herself, it's no surprise that, as her eldest son, I can only pronounce the same way she does, not having seen the written word. I then went on to explain, It's that rubber band that stretches when you pull it. 

With a look of relief, the teacher then exclaimed, Oh, you mean an Elastic Band! She then wrote the correct word next to my crossed-out original. How innocence can turn to drama in a mere exercise book.

At home, now and again my mother bought me an exercise book, although why it was called an exercise book was also a bit of a mystery, as I never took it to the gym, neither was Mum able to explain the proper meaning. Not that I heard of the word gym either, as public gyms that exist at present didn't exist in the late fifties, in which this tale is set. Let alone the full Greek word Gymnasium. But I certainly knew what exercise meant. Not only had I watched my Dad on a home workout with a set of spring chest expanders, but as a boy, I was full of energy. How I loved roller skating up and down our street, laid out grid-style, thus never disappearing around a bend. Or cycling up and down on my little bicycle, still fitted with removable rear balancing wheels.

Another prize possession was the Collins Atlas of the World. The size of an A4 page, this Atlas contained all the countries of the world, each in its own colour. All the colonies of the British Empire were shaded in light red. Thus, I was quick to identify those lands colonised by the British, By contrast, France was in deep purple, Italy was yellow, Spain was green and Portugal might have been orange, as with Germany. From this Atlas, the seeds of curiosity about what other lands overseas were like in real life were sown.

It was in the days when I was able to walk the 1.7 miles to Battersea Park unsupervised, or even the two-mile trek to the Natural History Museum, again on my own. Or play at the swings at a nearby adventure playground that feature a castle with an underground tunnel. Indeed, as I look back on the incident of a misspelt word, I can't help but reminisce on other childhood memories associated with it and compare such times with the present, when the advance of technology had transformed our society into one of zombies, constantly staring at their iPads as they stroll along outside without looking where they're going. Then, not to mention "helicopter parenting" where children play outdoors under constant supervision in fear of a possible abduction.

As for books, good old books. With the exercise book, I could use merely a biro and start writing - no keyboard, no use of power, no need to change batteries, no fear of accidental deleting, no risk of text-save failure, no fear of a power cut, no advert pop-ups, no sudden alerts - just a page of scribbled handwriting interrupted by an occasional inkblot and several misspelt cross-outs. And the many occasions when accidentally missing a letter out whilst writing a word and then heavy-inking the missing letter over the mistake. Ah! the art of old-fashioned writing! What a wonderful privilege to be literate.

I have found a lot of enjoyment in just reading, whether it was the daily newspaper or a book, either fiction or factual. The Dail Mail is one good example. Every Saturday I buy the paper version - the real newspaper where pop-ups never appear, nor the appearance of any 30-second video ads preceding a 15-second soundless video of the news article. Furthermore, if sunbathing on the beach with a book, the book is unlikely to get stolen whilst off to buy ice cream. An iPad or mobile phone is far more likely to disappear.

Adventure Playground, Pimlico.

Sunbathing on the beach. I wonder how many office workers dolled up in a suit and tie secretly wish he could lie there on the beach when the weather outside is warm and sunny? Or dreaming of Paradise Island in the Maldives, where his hotel room is a luxury hut built on stilts and lapped by the calm, turquoise sea within the calmness of a lagoon? 

Dream on. Superb as the location would be, for me, travel is about adventure on a tight budget. And after travel writing on this Blogger page in the recent past, a few people had, over time, asked me why not write a book about my adventures? Even as recent as last week, one dear lady on Facebook expressed her desire for me to write such a book.

Yet, how could I compare my travels with those of Simon Reeve, Bill Bryson, or Geoffrey Morrison? Okay, so I did wade through a 2,700-year-old water tunnel dug into the limestone cliff beneath the ancient city of Jerusalem, attended an Arab wedding reception and watched a sheep being skinned alive, or got caught up in a massive Israeli protest demonstration outside the same hotel I slept in, seventeen years earlier. And soon after booking into that hotel in 1976 and settling down, a loud sound of gunfire vibrated the building. 

Then there is an occasion when approached by a Jewish family whilst standing at the Wailing Wall holding a camera on the Sabbath. And at another time, near Haifa, I found myself shedding tears in the arms of an elderly gentleman. Or the time my wife, 18 weeks pregnant, and I were marooned on the summit of Mt Carmel, and it took the inquisitiveness of a Christian taxi driver to rescue us and even paid us to get us to our destination.

Or became a victim of a pickpocket whilst on the train to Florence from Pisa one Friday afternoon and had to live on the hotelier's charity for the whole of that weekend before applying for a refund at an Italian bank.

Or due to carelessness on my part, going down with hyponatremia near the completion of a Grand Canyon hike. Or at the San Diego backpacker's hostel, feeling that fever was coming on, yet I was saved from having symptoms by buying a packet of Paracetamol at a nearby drugstore and resting for that evening. 

Yet, despite those setbacks, I recall the icy waters of the Colorado River, the brilliant display of stars in the night sky above the Canyon, the dramatic rocky cliffs of the Inner Gorge, and the spectacular view from the South Rim. Also, the palm-fringed Californian coastline is in contrast to the bustling life at Manhatten, standing in a cave underneath the Niagara Falls and almost within touching of the thundering waters that literally shook the ground. Or the moment I sat on a painted line crossing the footpath, with one leg in the USA and the other in Canada.

Or the time I stood on the trembling rim of the Central Crater of Mt. Etna with just one other person and gasped in near fright as steam and sulphur gas rose from within as the ground shook with the hollow thunderous noise. And then, on our way back down, having to chase the outer cover of my camera as it was caught in a strong wind.

And Singapore. How I was spoken to with rudeness by a jealous Dutchman who had to return home the next day after I told him that Singapore was a five-day pit-stop on my journey from Britain to Australia, where I snorkelled the Great Barrier Reef, hiked the Blue Mountains National Park, enjoyed a train journey on the Australian railways and looked up to the Southern Cross Constellation in the night sky overhead. And while I sat in the cafeteria some 10,300 miles, 16,680 km from my home town and thinking that I couldn't get further away from home, someone approached me and called my name...

Therefore, writing a book on my travels? The highs and lows of a lone backpacker? No. I doubt that the readership would be interested. Now, if I was a famous celebrity enjoying a beach holiday at Paradise Island, such a book would sell like hotcakes! According to one YouTube video I watched about the Maldives, one of the islands looked a bit like a dump, with derelict buildings and tons of litter, mainly discarded drink bottles, spoiling the beaches. At Paradise Island, the scene was much better, especially in the sunshine. Yet when the presenter swam underwater with a compatible camera, all I saw was a smooth seafloor with some seagrass - the same I saw whilst snorkelling at the Blue Lagoon in Malta a few years ago.

Another problem I would indeed come across is finding a publisher who would be willing to throw in his lot and publish my book. That's not easy. I once read that so many rejected unsolicited manuscripts wing their way back to their authors, that an agency is often needed to help connect with the publisher. I once knew a fellow churchgoer who graduated to be a historian. He wrote two books on the history of the Middle East, but despite his thorough knowledge, it took a while before his agent managed to find a publisher willing to receive his manuscripts. Furthermore, I was already aware that his speciality will only draw in an audience who is interested in Middle East history, hence imposing limitations, and I cautioned him on it, not to mention competition from established authors. However, he was successful, but not to the point of his books appearing on the shelves of Waterstones.

Paradise Island, Maldives.

However, I do have paperbacks on travel writing by authors such as Simon Reeve and Bill Bryson, the latter containing enough humour to make his reading a special delight, although I'm equally impressed with Simon Reeve and his intense rollercoaster ride of ups and downs that would make my own travel rollercoaster look more like a children's ride.

Finally, let me say that the book that is the bestseller around the world and a must-read for everyone, is the Bible. No other book ever written and published would ever hold a candle to the Bible's uniqueness. And a lot of that uniqueness is in prophecy. For example, if all the Old Testament prophecies fulfilled in the life and the ministry of Jesus Christ were without divine authorship, then the probability of all these prophecies being fulfilled in the life of the one man purely by chance is one in one, followed by 181 zeroes!* Therefore, unlike all other religious and secular books, the Bible stands unique in its demand for Divine inspiration.

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*Mathematician and Professor Peter Stoner tasked his students to work out the probability of 48 Old Testament prophecies fulfilled in the life of Jesus Christ, including the location of his birth, his manner of death, his burial and Resurrection. The figure was recorded by the late Henry M. Morris in his book, The Bible and Modern Science, 1968, Moody Press.

If Only...

After snorkeling in the warm waters of the Indian Ocean, exploring the rich coral reef turning the sea bed into a beautiful marine garden bustling with life, I eventually make my way to the wooden steps to the boardwalk set just above the calm surface of the turquoise water. Alex my wife runs along the platform, arms wide open in greeting me as if I had just returned from a far-away mission.

Together we saunter back to the thatched wooden hut which was our beach-side hotel accommodation on one of the islands of the Maldives. I felt peckish, but as Alex suggested a gentle stroll along the golden sand beach, I was willing to forgo any food for now and spend some time together. Especially when the sun was beating down from overhead at a cloudless sky.

As we sauntered along the beach, with the sea gently lapping, and backed by a forest of palm trees and other tropical bushes, we came to a group of young people, three couples to be precise. The three men looked fit, their bronze topless torsos reflecting the sunlight from their glossy skins. In turn, the women were equally bronzed by the sun, even in their bikini swimsuits. In the midst of them was a barbecue stove emitting an appetite-stirring aroma of sausages and beefburgers. As we were about to pass them by, one of them stopped us in our tracks by asking why not join them in the feast. He also assured us that there was plenty to go around, therefore there was no need to economise.

Alex and I looked at each other and both of us agreed to the fellow's invitation. We took our places among them and sat down in their midst.

I perceived that they were not from the UK, or at least not from the London area or the Home Counties. This I surmised from the accent the young man spoke with, even if his English was good. Where they were from was not of my concern, so I let it pass by.

"It's so nice of you to invite us." I said, to open a conversation.
"Of course," the one sitting next to me responded. "We are family."
"Family?" I was curious.
"Yes, family. All of us here love the Lord Jesus, and I know for sure that had he been here in person, he would have invited all of us."
"So you're Christian? I too..."
"We already know, all of us. It stood out from both of you when you were strolling towards us."
The speaker then put his arm around me and gave me a hug. I hugged him too and said that it was really nice to meet him and his friends.

Then enough curiosity got the better of me to make me ask, "What do you all do?"
"We are university graduates. Mike over there wants to achieve a doctorate and become a medical doctor, Dave wants to become a barrister and I wish to pursue journalism. Our girlfriends have similar ambitions."

I felt my face redden, and it was not from the sun.

"I'm just a window cleaner, Alex here keeps the home. In the past this was known as 'housewife.'" I muttered with a degree of embarrassment. "We are absolutely fortunate that we are here, in this beautiful paradise of an island."

Mike looked at me what seems to be with a degree of envy. I found this a little disturbing. Then the student confirmed how he felt.

I envy you, both of you." he declared.
"Whatever for?" I gasped in surprise. "Gosh, if I was given a chance to become a doctor, I would be fulfilling my childhood dreams!"

"It's not that." Mike replied. "It's what Jesus and Paul said and wrote."
"Er, what?" I asked.
"Jesus said on one occasion that he who is least among us would become the greatest in the Kingdom of God, and on another occasion he said that the last shall be first and the first, last."
"Yes, I read those sayings." I replied.
"Then Paul also wrote that the foolish things in the world will confound the wise." Mike finished.
"So what are you saying?
"We are saying that you should not be ashamed of your occupation, for if you please God, he will reward you richly."

I was rather aghast! In all the years of being in the faith, I have not heard that before.
"But surely, God will reward you as well. He is not into favouritism." I answered.
"No, he is not into favouritism." Steve confirmed. "But because he has given us greater responsibilities, so his judgement on how we had stewarded his goods will be far more severe."
"So you're not into social class then? Many back at home seem to be obsessed by it."
"No, definitely not." Steve answered. "To all of us, serving God is our greatest priority. Remember, his love for us when we were helpless was so great, that he sent his Son to suffer and die for us, so we could be redeemed. Social class does not come into the equation."
"Gosh!" I exclaimed as I turned to my wife Alex. "These guys have some wisdom."

Then again curious, I asked, "You say you are all boyfriends and girlfriends? Does this create a problem with hotel accommodation?"
"Our hotel is just behind those trees." Steve answered, as he pointed to the opposite direction from where our thatched hut was. "But booking was not a problem. We have two huts, one for us and the other for our girlfriends. In this we keep ourselves disciplined, and we found the holiday to be richly enjoyable. There has not been a single disagreement between us."

Then David, who had so far been quiet since we were invited, stood up and tended the barbecue stove. Then he announced that the food was ready, and he began to insert the sausages and beefburgers into cut rolls of bread. As we were the guests, we were served first, and as I reached out to take the roll, I suddenly found myself in bed in our semi-dark bedroom.

Yea, it was all just a dream...

Alex was still asleep beside me as my heart fell at the sight of my own bedroom here at home in the UK. At daybreak I had to attend an assessment at a London hospital, so I declared it a day off from work, which, I have to admit, made me feel better after having such a wonderful dream with such a rotten anticlimax! After all, a day off to break the monotony of daily window cleaning in the thick of winter was most welcoming.

The chilly wind blew through the station, its design and construction making the station itself a wind tunnel, as one side had a wall topped by trees and the other, a high office block which sits over the station entrance. With the cold easterly wind, occasional snow flurries blowing in the air, the current weather making us all concerned whether the whole nation would grind to a halt yet again due to an inch of snow on the ground.

Bracknell Railway Station

The platform I was standing had a large number of men in suits waiting for the delayed train to arrive. While the wait was seemingly long, the voice of the station manager crackled through the speakers:
"The o-seven eighteen to London Waterloo will be twenty minutes late. We apologise for the delay. This is due to staffing problems."

Staffing problems. In other words, the driver scheduled to bring this train here was still in bed! So they had to call another driver who was originally meant to take the next train out. I surveyed the platform. The guys in their suits were either stone deaf or because of such British stoicism, no one stirred or said a word. There were no protest or any grumbling heard. It seemed to me that delayed trains were a normal way of life for them.

As not being a regular commuter, I muttered something about being stuck here in the cold and the threat of being late for my appointment. One of the well dressed men gave me that unpleasant look from the corner of his eye, and walked off to the far end of the platform. So much for encouragement.

On board the late train, I managed to find an empty seat. Just as well, as further down the line, later boarding commuters had to stand in the central aisle. It was almost eerie. Not a single vocal conversation could be heard, not a greeting, a good morning or asking how you are today. Above the mechanical sound of solid steel wheels rolling on solid steel rails, the only sounds heard were the rattling of the newspaper as one turned the page, along with the shuffling of well shod feet and thick sleeved arms, an occasional harrumph of a cough, the unwrapping of a sweet wrapper and perhaps, once the train had halted at a red signal, a distant dssst-dssst of a personal earphone player.

I allowed my head roll from side to side as I closed my eyes and looked back at another train journey I completed way back in 1974. Only this was in Italy, on a route from Foggia to Napoli (Naples) during one of my early backpacking days. The carriage at the time was the old compartmental type with a side corridor. I boarded at Foggia and walked through the corridor looking for a vacant seat. Within each compartment people was happily talking to each other, a torrent of almost incomprehensible Italian constantly filling the air. I found one empty seat by the window in one compartment already occupied a three Catholic nuns on one side and two young guys on the other, where I was about to sit.

I recall a conversation developing between myself and the nun opposite me. I told her in broken Italian that I was from England and I was touring the country. She was very impressed and she even offered me a sweet (candy). Also impressed was the young guy sitting next to me, who took over the conversation with me from the nun and plied me with questions, particularly where I'll be staying in Napoli and whether he can come round to see me again. After arriving at the city terminus, the young man, whose name was Claudio, and I made our way to the hotel where I stayed the previous year. He made sure that I was fully booked in before leaving. Two days later he, with another fellow and two young women made a group of five and spent the day together, including a cable-car ride up the slopes of Mt. Faito, paid on my behalf by my new friend. It was a beginning of a good friendship. Not much different from the dream of the Maldives.

I relate these two train journeys as both are true stories. However, the generosity shown by the people in the Maldives dream was based on a near identical true-life experience I had when staying at a hostel in Australia, back in 1997. At the hostel there were two Italian brothers who invited me to share in the dinner they have cooked and provided. This together with the southern Italian train journey, seem to show a contrast between British culture and those of other countries, particularly those at or close to the Mediterranean.

We in England pride ourselves as being a Christian country. The Church of England has its headquarters at the imposing Canterbury Cathedral, with the Archbishop being second only to the Queen herself, who holds the title of Defender of the Faith, dating back to the days of King Henry VIII. The English Tourist Board relies on the abundance of cathedrals and old churches scattered throughout the land, the more famous being St Paul's Cathedral and Westminster Abbey, both in London, the city where these stoic but unfriendly commuters heading each working day morning.

Then the obsession with social class. In the Bible we read about Jesus endorsing the truth that the least among us will be great in his Kingdom, and the first will be last, and the last, first - and so on. But our culture, based on Christian morals, has reversed the order, with the great being first and the least being last. I have also seen, over the years, the general rejection brought on by some because I don't quite fit in. Many times I receive that hostile look, often from the working classes, their avoidance of my presence, whispering and gossip behind my back, their general dislike, yet no one has ever come over to me with the problem, perhaps fearing that the truth about me might rumble them.

The English pre-occupation with social class was brought home to me by the BBC, which gave a report that the traditional three tier system has now developed into a seven tier system, based on one's education level, type of occupation, salary and property ownership. At the top end we now have the Elite, with their private education, very high salary and homeowner. At the bottom there is the Precariat, to which I belong, after taking the BBC online test. These are the ones who didn't do well at school, either labour or rely on State benefit for an income, and who is a Council tenant (Public housing.)

 John Cleese, Ronnie Barker and Ronnie Corbett symbolising the English class system of the 1960s.

It looks to me that the well structured social class system here in the UK is at odds with the Bible, yet this country claims to follow Christian principles. So what would the best course of action I should take in this country's contradicting culture?

The one and only answer for a believer such as myself is to be constantly filled with the Holy Spirit, and through knowledge of the Bible, allowing Him to guide me, even if this involves swimming against our cultural current. This involves being friendly and ready to be open and hospitable even in such an environment as a morning commuter train. It means having an open door and not feel redundant to give to those genuinely in need. But most of all, to be able to love those who are otherwise impossible to love. And that is a divine miracle, wherever I'm at a golden, sun-kissed beach in the Maldives, or under an overcast sky in the streets of London.
And I can only achieve this through the power of the Holy Spirit. After all, why should only the Italians get the credit in applying Bible principles?