Travel Biography - Week 34.

Ortigia island, Siracusa.

Although I have tended to visualise Siracusa as the New Town on the mainland, and the island of Ortigia as the Old Town, the Neapolis Archeological Park, dating back to the ancient Greek culture around 2,500 years ago, is located on the mainland. For example, the modern apartment blocks lining Corso Gelani are just across the road from the Neapolis with its 2,500-year-old Greek theatre, and nearby, there is a modern hospital, along with civic administrative buildings.

By contrast, Ortigia is an island off the mainland, separated by a very narrow strait. From the air, the waterway looks so much like a wide canal, one would be convinced that mainland Siracusa and the island of Ortigia were once a continuous peninsula before it was cut straight across. Two road bridges link the island to the mainland. Arriving in Ortigia from Siracusa, especially on the Corso Umberto, one is faced by a large archaeological site, the remains of the Temple of Apollo. Small excavated areas are also found in the middle of the street, yet they don't hinder the flow of traffic.

Ortigia is separated from the mainland by a strait.

Although the entire island is surrounded by water, there were no beaches. Instead, a wall enclosed the island entirely, with the Mediterranean lapping gently at the base of the wall. Since the Med doesn't have tides, the water level remained constant throughout. In 1982, from Port Victoria Emanuelle on the west side of Ortigia, a small ferry carried foot passengers to the port city of Valencia in Malta (with the car ferry setting sail from Catania.) Unfortunately, I never took the opportunity to board the ship due to the tightness of funding, lack of time, or both. Besides, I was happy just to be in Sicily itself. 

The streets of Ortigia, unlike in mainland Siracusa, were laid during Medieval times and therefore tend to be narrow. However, there was a widening of one street, Via Saverio Landolina, into the Piazza Duomo. This was fronted by the Duomo di Siracusa, that is, the Church of the Birth of the Virgin Mary, and the seat of the city Archdiocese. I remembered sitting inside the duomo. Although built in the 7th Century AD, it's actually founded on an ancient Greek Temple of Athena, itself built in the 5th Century BC. Surrounding me were the original columns of the Temple, left there when the church was built some 1,200 years later.

I sat inside for a while until an escorted tourist group entered, and the ranger disturbed the silence as he began to narrate to his group. Although I could see that I was in his way since I was already seated at that spot, he had no power even to ask me to move, and so, he continued his discourse in the central aisle and in my presence.

Many residents of Ortigia sat outside their front doors and neighbours chatted with each other, with groups lining the street as they sat outside their homes. All that has made me feel that I'm indeed in a foreign country, with a culture so different to ours in Britain. Here in Sicily, the Mediterranean climate brought these residents outside to chat casually, whilst our British cool temperate climate keeps the Englishman confined within his home he calls his castle.

One warm evening, as I was strolling through Ortigia, I arrived at the Piazza Duomo, to see a live band playing directly opposite the cathedral, and apparently a public street party. The event was orderly, the people were enjoying themselves and, as I could see, there was no alcoholic abuse, no sign of any drunkenness, no bare torsos, and no vomit on clothing or the ground. Instead, a large group of mostly young men were dancing the Conga to the music from the band.

As I approached the rotating circle of young men, each with both his hands resting on the shoulders of the one in front, one of them who was nearest to me beckoned me over to join the dance. I was happy to and joined the rotating human circle that spanned the width of the square under the beat of the music.

However, I was struck by the absence of women. Yet, all the young men looked happy, contented, and fully committed to the dance. But, at least in 1982, this was the culture of the region. And that was when I was glad to be single and not have a girlfriend. This was a culture where many, if not all, dating couples were accompanied by a chaperone, sometimes the girl's brother or sister, or even the girl's uncle, aunt, or father himself.

A Visit to Taormina

I believe that one of the most spectacular resorts in the whole of Europe is Taormina, north of Mt Etna. The town is built on a mountainside, starting with the Spiaggia di Isola Bella, or Beautiful Island Beach, and with a cable car up the mountainside to the town centre. Even from the town, the commune of Castelmola reaches 529 metres towards the sky about a mile inland from the town, and I managed to hike uphill to this village. Resembling a molar tooth when seen from both the beach and the town centre, the streets were so narrow that all motorised traffic was banned. And so, I spent a whole day at Taormina after boarding a train at Siracusa Station early in the morning. The day included a swim in the sea before exploring the town centre and then Castelmola. The day also took in a visit to the Greek Theatre, although most of the ancient masonry making up the theatre was Roman.

The Greek Theatre, Taormina, 1982.

My surname is very common in Italy. Taormina, 1982.

Castelmola offered fantastic views of Taormina and the Sicilian coastline, especially of the tiny isle which gave the beach its name. The privately owned islet was connected to the beach by a sandy causeway which was barely above the water level. Just above the level of the beach but below the height of the town, the Messina-Siracusa railway line passes through one tunnel after another as it heads south, passing along Naxos Beach, skirts the base of Mt Etna before passing through Catania Station on its way to Siracusa.

Palermo and the Catacombe dei Cappuccini.

I spent at least a week in Siracusa before vacating my hotel room to board a train to Palermo, the capital city of Sicily. In 1982, there were two ways to travel to Palermo from Syracuse. The "proper" way was to take an express train and change trains at Messina for the Palermo branch which runs along the northern coast of the island. Alternatively, there was a slower, more scenic route cutting through the middle of Sicily, stopping at the inland town of Caltanissetta before proceeding to Palermo. I chose the latter route, changing trains at Catania.

The train eventually pulled into Palermo Terminus by early evening, and I found a suitable hotel to stay in for the next three days.

I wasn't so impressed with Palermo as I was with Siracusa and the east coast of Sicily. As I saw it, the capital was like most others, a sprawling city with a large international port with ships sailing to Tunisia as well as other ports such as Naples, Cagliari, and Civitavecchia. However, there was one place of interest which stood out, the Catacombe dei Cappuccini, over a mile west of Central Station. 

I have already visited the Catacombs of St John in Siracusa, and now I'm about to visit the underground crypt of a church that was used as a resting place for the faithfully rich, all placed there by the Capuchin monks approx between the years 1600 and 1920 AD. Within a couple of years later, I visited the equally macabre Paris Catacombs. All three were underground. Furthermore, I was alone in all three burial sites.

But it was the Catacombe dei Cappuccini that not only impressed me but shocked me into the reality of life and death. Believe me, it's not the place for the squeamish, the fearful or with a nervous disposition.

I arrived at the church (having already known about the catacomb long before 1982) and I paid the entry fee. I then went downstairs into the church crypt. There were a few people in there to start with, but they soon left altogether, and I found myself alone in this subterranean vault.

The walls all around were lined with well-preserved corpses, many standing upright, others lying horizontally. There were several corridors, all lined with these dead bodies, many of them staring straight at me as I walked past and looked up at them. There was only one public notice, and each was fastened in each corridor, VIETATO FUMARE, the signs shouted. Okay, I fully understand why smoking was prohibited, such pollution gotten from tobacco would have been detrimental to the corpses. But there were no signs forbidding photography, as there are at present. Therefore, I felt free to take pictures, like I did at the Catacombs of St John, without any awareness of breaching the rules.

Although I wasn't aware at the time, I later learned that there was a reputation that these corridors were haunted by the discarnate souls whose bodies were on display they once inhabited. However, there was no supernatural incident whilst I was down there, yet the vaults weren't entirely silent. Rather, a fan was blowing through an air vent, and one of the hinged covers had worn loose. As the air current was circulating, there was this constant clunk, clunk, clunk, clunk - a continuing rattling of metal against masonry, powered by the air current. But to me, in this morbid environment, the sound of a fully functional air fan also reminded me that the world of living is just above the ceiling.

However, there is a legend many visitors may not be fully aware of. It concerns one of the bodies standing upright in one of the corridors. On one occasion, this deceased individual fell from his place in the corridor to land directly on a passing visitor, almost as if the dead actually leapt on the living. The figure was put back in its place and chained in for greater stability.

The individual in the centre fell on a passing visitor.

They grinned as they stared down at me...

This guy, I felt a special affection for.

General view of one of the corridors. 1982.

So you can ask, or even I should ask myself: What is this obsession with the morbid, the macabre, the mortal? and that's not confined to the catacombs I had visited on the Continent, but the most interesting gallery in the British Museum in London is the Egyptian mummy gallery. In the last blog, just before I started this Travel Biography series, I wrote about how I spoke softly to one of the Egyptian mummies on display at the museum. I think such an obsession - if that's what it is - is borne from my upbringing. By not doing well at school to my parent's satisfaction, pride and joy, I held low self-esteem.

Church life, rather than allowing me to grow my faith in Christ, instead, turned out more of an emotional hindrance by mixing with graduates who shared my age. Deep in my mind, and with little verbal expression, I have wondered just how proud the parents of these graduates must be, the joy felt over the upbringing of their offspring, to see them off to University, and then to see them land useful careers with a respectable income. And then watching them find girlfriends, marry, and have children while I remain sitting alone on a shelf with my legs swinging alternatives back and forth like a child.

Looking up at those corpses as they gaze back down at me has shocked me into the reality of eternity. There is something terribly wrong with God's plan of Creation! Mankind was never created to end up in such a sorry state. Yet there they are, on display for us to look at, think, meditate, and find a rationable reason, which is the entry of sin into the world, and through sin, death. And to kill off any argument that a person is evaluated by his level of social status, his education, his wealth, his family background or his occupation. Indeed, the emperor and the humble worm both share the same fate.

I make my way back to the hotel with my mind spinning. Ah, that is what travel is all about.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Next week: The start of the journey home.

Travel Biography - Week 33.

Concluding the Etna Ascent.

It was deserted at Spiaggia di Fontane Bianche, or White Fountain Beach, despite its turquoise sea lapping gently on the sun-drenched sandy shoreline. Whilst staying at Hotel Aretha in Siracusa, I decided to spend a day at this beach, which was a 30-minute, 22 km, or approx 14-mile bus ride south of the city bus terminal. 

Spiaggia di Fontane Bianca may be classified as a holiday resort, but very quiet and sedate compared to, say, Tossa De Mar on the Spanish Costa Brava, (visited in 1972) or the lively Lido di Jesolo near Venice, or the loud, boozy nightlife of Ibiza. Rather, White Fountain Beach is more of a local community, and in 1982, what I saw of it, apparently devoid of tourism. Yet, it was one of the best beaches on offer, a sandy strip curved to form a wide bay, and sloping gently into the clear water of the Mediterranean. It was served both by buses (which I took) and also has a railway station on the south branch line to Siracusa (which, at the time, I wasn't aware of.)

After a relaxing swim, I sauntered past a beach cafe and made my way to a footpath along a cliff south of the beach, from where I had views of some limestone stacks further out to sea. I then finished the day at the beach cafe for refreshments before boarding the bus back to Siracusa.

White Fountain Beach, taken 1982.

While I was in the cafe, I encountered a bit of unexpected drama. At the counter, I became acquainted with a couple who were seated next to me and also enjoying a coffee. He told me that he was a geologist, a subject which spurred my interest. His partner then left her seat to visit the latrine while I remain talking to him.

I told him of my visit to the Central Crater on the summit of Mt Etna a day or two previously. He then began to rebuke me, even raising his voice slightly, saying how stupid and thoughtless I was to undertake such an endeavour. I knew that he was right, although I felt no regret. On the contrary, to stand on the lip of such an active crater, with the ground I was standing on literally shaking like an endless earthquake, the explosions within, as the giant plume of steam rose, accompanied by a strong whiff of sulphur. All that gave me and one other person an unforgettable experience.

By checking the photos in a guidebook I bought at Refuge Sapienza, and more recently, the reviews and photos written, taken and posted on the website Tripadvisor, there seems to be evidence that, since the major 1971 eruption that destroyed the old cable car and the observatory, we were two of the very few who managed to venture to the main summit vent. All the other tourists, whether individually or in a group, were kept well away from the summit craters. A couple of reviewers, both independently, wrote that all guided ascents end about a mile from the summit, hence proving the geologist's point.

I didn't answer back or tried to justify myself. Instead, I acknowledged my stupidity to keep the peace. However, I always believed that a bit of risk-taking does lead to a sense of achievement, along with a sense of excitement and purpose. For example, in 1995, just before my life's second hike into the Grand Canyon, a church friend of a singles group I was in warned me of dangerous wildlife I was likely to encounter during the remote desert hike. And he tried to discourage me. My answer to him was if that was the case, I might have well stayed at home! Dear me! Little wonder that some of these churchgoing graduates look as if their dull, sedentary lives were devoid of any form of excitement and lacking a sense of adventure. Did the geologist's rebuke at Spiaggia di Fontane Bianca arise from an unexciting yet envious heart? Just a thought.

Blown away on the way down.

And so, after such a scary experience on the edge of Central Crater, my new friend Miguel insisted that it was time to return to the group, after an extra loud explosion within the crater. Fearing an imminent eruption, we found the start of the trail that would take us to the right place without getting lost. A strong wind was blowing, and as I was packing away my camera, the wind caught the inside of the leather lens cover, and like a parachute, the wind snatched it out of my hand and was driven along the upper cone of the mountain, and I left the trail to chase it.

The strong wind proved an advantage to us, as we stood at the crater's edge, since the wind was behind us, it also drove the steam plume away from where we were standing, thus avoiding engulfment into the cloud. Now, it was a race with the same air current to retrieve my camera lens cover. Treading on virgin basalt sand, I managed to retrieve the item after it landed to rest about a hundred metres from where Miguel was still standing, looking rather shocked as he waited for my return.

Near the basaltic wall, just before the hike.

A group of tourists was about to leave the basalt rock wall to board the jeeps to take them back to the refuge. As they were boarding, we joined them, and no one was aware of us or where we came from. The jeep took us safely back to the base where we handed our weather jackets before having refreshments in the refuge cafe.

A lesson from the Catacombs of St John.

I'm one of the fortunate to be born almost exactly in the middle of the twentieth Century. That explorative travel was idealistic during my twenties and thirties was proven during a visit to the remains of the Church of St John with its neighbouring Catacombs. 1982 saw my thirtieth birthday, and as one who was still unmarried, an ideal age for travel and exploration. This particular attraction in the heart of Siracusa was, in 1982, a template of how travel should be, and I have a degree of pity for anyone in his prime of life who had in mind to visit the same site during the present-day.

However, that's according to personal opinion. Some tourists feel more comfortable following an escort in a tour group. However, in researching Tripadvisor in preparation to write this blog, many reviewers who visited the catacombs within the last year or so were impressed with the history of the caves, but many also expressed dissatisfaction with the tour itself. Examples of this include the forbiddance of all photography, an apathetic escort who only wanted to rush through the tour as quick as possible or who was overcome by repetitive boredom, poor communication skills, especially with a foreign language, the tour being too short for the expense, shortcuts, or the sense in being treated like children. Not to mention the waiting room, non-existent during the eighties, where every visitor must now wait there before the escort decides when to lead the group through.

How different this was in 1982 when I came across the church and catacombs by chance whilst walking through the streets of Siracusa! Back then, a toll booth gave me full access to the site. Both in the ruined church and the catacombs I was free to wander around at my own pace, alone, and taking as long as I like. And that was what I did back then, wandering through the catacombs with the camera in hand complete with a flashgun, as this was a necessity in the gloomy dark catacombs.

The catacombs consisted of a main corridor with passages branching off it, a dendritic layout, hence, not that easy to get lost, as one might think. Once an ancient Greek aqueduct, all the walls and even the floor had nitches cut out of the rock. In these, the bodies of dead Christians were laid to rest between the fourth and the sixth centuries AD. However, when I arrived in 1982, all the human remains had gone. They were removed and reburied elsewhere, as the catacombs served as a bomb shelter during the Second World War.

In 2006, my wife Alex and I returned to Siracusa to celebrate our 7th wedding anniversary, and we visited the Catacombs of St John. It was then that we had no other choice but to go on one of these ranger-led tours. To be honest, although my spouse enjoyed it, I hated it! Especially when we had to sit in the waiting room for around twenty minutes until our escort was ready to lead a group of up to twenty people. As I cast my mind back over 24 years, the whole site had lost that explorative spirit. It wasn't the same any more and it will never be the same again.

Below, I post a few photos I had taken both of the church and within the catacombs in 1982. Having just bought a slide viewer, it was possible to "take a picture of a picture" and reproduce it here. They show the nitches cut in the limestone tunnel walls which served as resting places for the departed.

The Church of St John, 1982.

Main Corridor, Catacomb of St John. 1982.

Catacomb of St John, 1982. A detail.

Catacomb of St John, 1982. A closer detail.

The Tears of Our Lady, 1982 and now.

Another phenomenon that marks a big difference between 1982 and the present is the Madonna delle Lacrima church which is also in the centre of Siracusa. Literally built around a small, privately-owned ceramic statuette of the Virgin Mary, who on August 29, 1953, began to shed tears, and kept on shedding tears for three days afterwards. This was declared a miracle by the Bishop of Siracusa, and endorsed by the Vatican.

When I arrived at the church for the first time in 1982, only the crypt was built with a wide, circular platform just above ground level serving as the roof. Its construction began in 1966, and by 1982, the edifice remained unfinished, as there was some disagreement on the height and shape of the intended shrine, hence, it wasn't completed until 1994. Thus, the a big difference between 1982 and 2006. The finished structure, seen from the air, looks very much like a serrated ice cream cone that was accidentally dropped, with the cream scattered around the upturned cone. Actually, the structure is meant to represent a teardrop hitting the ground.

The Madonna delle Lacrima, unfinished, 1982.

Inside the crypt, then used for services, 1982.

The finished Madonna delle Lacrima, stock photo.

In 1982, what was meant to be the crypt served as the main church. Above the altar, the small figurine was placed, having been donated to the Church by its original owners soon after the miracle and its ecclesial verification. In 2006, both Alex and I visited the main structure with images of the Madonna displayed around the sanctuary. we then went downstairs. Indeed, this part was the crypt, as originally intended, but this time it looked tired, lacking the freshness so characteristic of 1982.

By describing the Neapolis Archaeological Park, the Catacombs of St John, and the Madonna delle Lacrima, I have covered much of the mainland city of Siracusa. To me, it was an ideal place to stay, especially with easy access to the station.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Next Week: the Island of Ortigia, then onward to Palermo.

A Scare Inside a Church Building...

We were celebrating our seventh wedding anniversary by taking a week's holiday to Sicily back in 2006. In the town of Siracusa, Alex and I stayed in this rather excellent hotel at Via Francesco Crispi for quite a modest price, after learning about a discount in the tariff if the stay is seven nights long, as in our case. We accepted their offer and our smart upstairs room with no further ado.

Not that that particular hotel was the one we had planned staying at. Rather it was the one directly opposite, across the street we arrived at, only to our horror, that it had closed down quite a while ago, and its street sign was still hanging derelict from the front face of the building.

Oh, the memories, memories! I recall 1982, the year I enjoyed backpacking the whole length of the Italian peninsula, and I found myself staying at this hotel, simply by walking through to reception and asking if there is a room. Facing almost directly at il Stazione Ferroviaria di Siracusa, from where I had just arrived after an overnight trip from Naples, my temporary home was very convenient for shorter train journeys to the dramatic clifftop resort of Taormina, and Catania, which is the second-largest city in Sicilia after Palermo, and from Catania, the bus accent to the slope of Mt. Etna, where at the summit I stood on the rim of an active crater with just one other person I met whilst onboard the bus. Then not to mention the ongoing walks into town, including the Old City which is on a separated island bearing the name Isola di Ortigia.

My heart dropped like a stone as Alex and I stood in front of the derelict hotel in disappointment, hopes of memories revived suddenly crushed. But not for long. Across the quiet street, a voice called out, asking in Italian if we're looking for accommodation.

We both crossed the road to meet this young man. I explained that yes, we as a married couple is looking for a room and we are disappointed in the closure of Hotel Arete. He then beckoned us in and offered us a room with a double bed. We checked in for the week. Oh! Those wonderful days before those wretched Internet pre-booking requirements! 

One feature which now stands tall in the heart of Siracuse is il Basilica Santuario Madonna Della Lacrima, a tall, grey fluted cone, meant to resemble a teardrop, reaching high towards the sky. Back in 1982, only what is now the crypt was completed, under a huge circle of flat and level platform forming the roof of the crypt, which within Mass and other services were held. But 24 years later, we both found ourselves gazing up this cone, and being a tourist attraction, the doors were open for free entry. What was once the huge, circular roof of the crypt is now the floor of the conical cathedral where all services take place, to commemorate a ceramic figurine of Our Lady which is fixed a little above the altar.

Church of the Tears, Siracusa.

The story goes that an ordinary family living in Siracusa was the owner of a ceramic figurine of the Virgin Mary, this piece if I remember, being somewhere between ten to twelve inches in height, 25-30 cm. It consisted of just the head and upper body, and it was fixed to a wall in the house. Although gotten in 1953, in 1957 the statuette began to shed tears. After a thorough examination by a bishop, the Church declared this to be a genuine miracle, and it was donated to Siracusa for public veneration.

Alex and I stood inside the basilica, the apex of the cone making a stunning view as it pointed heavenwards. Also within the church, there was another, more lifelike statue of the Virgin Mary. Whilst Alex wandered off to explore other parts of the church, I stood at a position directly in front of the lifesize statue. It looked directly at me, and all of a sudden, I felt a chill pass through my spine. Although it meant to appear holy and at the same time motherly, I couldn't help but feel a sudden unease as the figure stared straight at me, like some sort of evil.

I moved off, well out of its way, and rejoined Alex as we made our way downstairs into the crypt below. I remembered it as being exactly as it was when I first walked in, except that this time the whole subterranean chamber looked tired as if not used for some time.

It all about Mary, isn't it? This young Jewish woman, narrated by Luke, who was visited by an angel with the announcement that a boy was conceived in her by the Holy Spirit without a human father, and she will give birth to one who will be Christ the Lord. After the birth of Jesus, Mary and her husband Joseph went on to have other children who grew up eventually to be elders of the early church. It was while singing in the presence of Elizabeth she referred to God as her Saviour, Luke 1:46. That means she sees herself as a sinner and in need of a Saviour.

The Virgin Mary of the Catholic Church is a different entity altogether! Through the Immaculate Conception had taken place in her mother, St Anne, the Catholic Mary was born without any taint of sin. Not only is this unbiblical but such a church doctrine deifies her to "Mother of God" and a suitable mediatrix between sinful mankind and her biological son Jesus Christ. This, in a way, has exalted the female above the male, making her the direct link between sinful man and God, and one to be prayed to, adored and worshipped.

The ceramic statuette of the Virgin.

Detail of the tears miraculously shed from the statuette. 

History seems to endorse the supernatural appearances of Mary at certain locations. One example was at the French town of Lourdes, and a church was built at the precise site. The Lady of Fatima, Portugal, was said to be witnessed by up to 70,000 people, and a sanctuary in honour of her appearance now stands at the site. The Lady of Zeitoun in Egypt was also seen by hundreds of thousands. And there are many more Marian apparitions which have taken place throughout history.

One Catholic priest had a vision of the Virgin Mary, who instructed him to "Slay all the Babylonian hordes." This priest was none other than Ignatius Loyola, the 16th Century founder of the Jesuits. At first, Loyola thought that Mary was referring to the Muslims. He soon found out though that she was referring to the Protestant Reformers, who believed that salvation comes as a free gift to everyone who has faith in Jesus Christ as Saviour, without the need of any works to earn it. In other words, the vision ordered the slaughter of men, women and children who relied on God's grace alone to be saved.

Oh, such a need of a mother-goddess, the source of tender compassion and one who can successfully intercede with an irate God who needs to be continually pacified from the endless stream of transgressions thrown at Him from a sinful world. Perhaps all this comes from the perception of our human fathers. Like the time when I did something naughty as a small boy, and Mum used to say:

Just wait until Papa finds out!

That means that the father has always been the one to administer corporal punishment. To be led to the garden shed was always between father and son rather than the mother, the one parent the smarting boy would run to for soothing compassion after Dad had finished with him. Indeed, if the boy's misdemeanour was to anger Papa, then it's usually Mum who pleads her husband to withdraw the punishment or even to calm his rising temper.

Even with this very occasion mentioned in the Bible is a strong indication that this paternal discipline is as old as the hills. For example, the sparing of the rod by a father indicating a lack of love for his children appears in Proverbs 13:24, which is during the reign of King Solomon.

Perhaps it's no coincidence that there is a crying demand in the human heart for a queen of heaven to intercede on their behalf. I recall once, at the Notre Dame Cathedral in Paris, watching a couple of young men praying to an image of the Virgin erected within one of the side aisles. When one of them turned and saw me watching in apparent astonishment, they then beat a quick retreat.

With this exaltation of the female above the male, stretching from the dawn of time, it comes to no surprise that such a blasphemous movie is about to enter the Big Screen. With the name Habit, it features an actress, Paris Jackson the daughter of deceased singer Michael Jackson, playing the role of a female Jesus Christ. Indeed, if for the last 1,600 years the Virgin Mary had acted as mediatrix, or intercessor between sinful man and God, so the tempo beats on. From intercessor - to God himself, the Second Person of the Trinity, the female has reached the pinnacle of divinity, even if it's merely for entertainment, at least for now.

It as if the Edenic Curse has turned full circle. Ever since it was Eve who was tempted rather than Adam, I can't help but see the rise of women to prominence, especially to the point of reverence. Am I against feminism? That's quite a point! I once watched a documentary on TV about what was once a happy and thriving marriage between this ordinary husband-and-wife couple. He was the breadwinner. She stayed up home to bring up their children. Now that their kids have grown up and flown the nest, the couple was on the verge of a divorce. By a thorough investigation made for public viewing, the underlying cause of the looming separation was that recently she had been attending college and has gotten herself a degree, with which she would go and pursue a career.

Indeed, such a quest for independence at first looks commendable and solve the problem of latter-years boredom. But as sidespin to this is the rapid rise of abortions. Here in the UK, the number of elective abortions has reached an annual total of 200,000 unborn deaths. That is around 570 abortions carried out every working day. And all this for career or social convenience and in some cases, eugenics. Abortion can now be justified if the baby has a cleft palate or lip, a club foot, has Down's Syndrome or has Spinal Bifida. 

Another consequence of feminism seems to be domestic violence. According to the BBC through the information gotten from 43 police forces across the UK, in 2019 up to 173 people were killed by their partners as domestic abuse, the majority of these deaths were female victims. That is one death in just over two days. The rate of non-fatal violence in the home must be much higher.

With divorce made much easier and the honour bestowed on marriage now non-existent, I ask, what's the heck is going on? Perhaps I can look upon myself as an example of the male psyche. There has always been a level of personal satisfaction in being the breadwinner, whether I was single or married. I do recall our courting days when my wife-to-be suggested attending college and perhaps take on an office job. Immediately I felt threatened and quashed the idea!

Trailer image of the blasphemous Hollywood movie Habit.

Perhaps you as a reader is now considering me as a vile sexist and male chauvinist. If you're female, perhaps you click off this page and never read my blogs again. But before you do, please consider this: The biggest killer of all men here in the UK is suicide. And according to hearsay, these victims seem to be mainly from a non-academic background, and with little education, such a victim sees himself as a failure (whether that's really true or not) who will never see himself as a successful breadwinner raising up a family. (And I also accept that financial hardship can also be the cause of suicide.) As an example, in 2018 there were 4,903 male suicides in comparison with 1,604 female deaths. According to my own experience, it does look as if marrying and raising a family is the ultimate aim of the masculine psyche. 

Having faith in Jesus Christ will go a long way to finding life's fulfilment. God has always expressed himself in the masculine gender, and Jesus Christ was born male, not female. And the day will come when all humans - both male and female - will confess Jesus Christ as Lord (not Lady) to the glory of God the Father (and not Mother). A God who will give eternal life to everyone who believes in the risen Son, Jesus Christ for salvation, regardless of whether the Christian believer is a man or a woman.

A female Jesus? On yer bike!

1980s Travel - Class and Racism Crushed!

Warning: Macabre photos.

Last week I was having my weekly read of the Daily Mail newspaper, when I came across these words found in the two-page Saturday Essay:

London in June 1857 - (John) Robarts was among 62 men presented with a medal by Queen Victoria, in a ceremony attended by hundreds of thousands who stood for hours in blazing sunshine at a time when they wore jackets and ties for such occasions, not T-shirts and shorts.
(Guy Walters, Daily Mail, November 10th, 2012. Emphasis mine.)

When I came across this insertion in an article about neglected gravestones of war heroes, I thought: PLEASE, GIVE IT A REST! Guy Walters wrote this article to be published on the eve of Armistice Sunday, therefore making the main theme of the article appropriate. But Walters, who was educated at Eton before attending University of London, is one of a number of middle class, well educated journalists who believe that the English had, over the years, lost their stoicism, the stiff upper lip, their national pride and imperialism, their belief that they were God's chosen people and the notion that they are of the master race.

He joins other journalists such as Amanda Platell, Simon Heffer and Melanie Phillips, who had all languished over the loss of the great British past. Both Platell and Phillips believe that we now live in a emotional, sentimental, mawkish, touchy-feely society, particularly since the death of Princess Diana in August, 1997. Heffer, a self confessed atheist and a devoted follower of the late Enoch Powell, once wrote a filler criticising British men for abandoning the wearing of the neck-tie, even on a warm Saturday afternoon while out shopping. To him, only those who wear a tie during all waking hours are considered to be gentlemen.

The Daily Mail newspaper itself picked up on the issue a few years ago. It launched an appeal to all its readers to send a tie to its office in London, from where they shall be distributed to the journalists and reporters of the BBC News bulletins. Many of the younger reporters spoke on camera with open-neck shirts with the intention of impressing their wives and girlfriends, so the newspaper believed. Rather, I tend to feel that their casual dress was an attempt to shed their "stuck up" image in exchange for a greater public appeal.

Enoch Powell was the M.P. for Wolverhampton, who gave the Rivers of Blood speech in Birmingham on the 20th April, 1968, protesting against the immigration of black people from countries that were colonised by the British. So as I can see, it was okay for the British to have invaded a foreign country and colonise it, with the belief that the indigenous were inferior to them, particularly the tribesmen who wore feathers around their waists in contrast the the smart uniforms worn by the colonisers. But for them to come over here...this was so deeply resented. Notices ordering them to go back home to their own country began to appear in city streets, landlords refused them accommodation, employers turned them away and any work found were the most menial jobs no white person wanted. Indeed, the British certainly saw themselves as the master race, God's chosen and even evolutionary advanced.

The murder of 19 year old Steven Lawrence in London took place on the 22nd April 1993 - just two days after the 25th anniversary of Powell's River of Blood speech. The gang of white youths who committed the crime escaped justice for some eighteen years due to the reluctance of the Metropolitan Police to press charges due to their bias against the black teenager. The BBC investigative programme Panorama exposed the guilty officers who were promptly sacked.

So, after all this I sit down and think back - were there some things I saw and experienced in life which is a direct rebuke to the English culture of national superiority, imperialism, racism, dress code, social class, stoicism and pride?

One of my loves in life is Travel, particularly as a solo backpacker. I have written blogs on this site already on this topic, the last was Travel - How I Loved It, published on the 4th November. In this area I have been very fortunate.  During my time outside the UK, I watched the Jews ushering their weekly Sabbath at the Western Wall in Jerusalem. I also found myself in the midst of an Israeli protest demonstration among TV cameras, against the plans of the Palestinians. I attended an Arab wedding reception where a sheep was skinned alive in front of us all.  I waded chest deep in water, through this 2,700 year old tunnel dug by King Hezekiah's men deep under the original city of Jerusalem. By contrast, I stood in awe across the majestic Grand Canyon, and at the bottom, watched Bright Angel Creek flow into the Colorado River. I felt the ground shake at the Niagara resort as the mighty waters of the Canadian Horseshoe Falls crash below. I was able to compare the bustling metropolis of downtown Manhatten with the semi-tropical Californian city of San Diego, both under the same flag and using the same currency. I strolled through the tropical gardens at Singapore, dominated by the changing night illuminations of the Merlion. I snorkeled over the Corals at the Red Sea and at the Great Barrier Reef. I also hiked the rainforest and eucalyptus trees of Blue Mountains National Park. On the cultural side, I sat and watched a concert at the Sydney Opera House.

But the Italian island of Sicily really hit me in a way no other location had. It was here that I found myself standing on the rim of the active Central Crater on the summit of Mt. Etna, with just one other person. There is a story behind this, which I will share on another blog. Suffice to say, the ground I stood on was literally shaking as the gas explosions from within the crater created a continuous series of crashing thunders, and the huge plume of steam, mixed with a heavy smell of sulphur, rising and fortunately, turning away from us as it was blown north by a southerly wind.

And there were the catacombs. Oh yes, the catacombs.

I stood at the rim of the summit crater of Mt Etna, 1982.

My first visit to Sicily took place in 1982. It was part of backpacking the whole of Italy using the Ferrovia de Italia pass ticket. Like the Greyhound Bus Ameripass, this document allowed me unlimited train travel over a course of three weeks. That year, I entered Italy through Milano instead of Torino, as a church friend Derek, who had a contract with an Italian company based in Milano, as well as a spare bed in his apartment where I stayed for a couple of nights before heading for Napoli.

By boarding and alighting trains at different stations, I covered both coastlines of this European peninsula. After spending a day at the excavations of Pompeii, I took a night train to Brindisi, which was the terminus of the Roman Appian Way, an ancient road leading to Rome, a route not unfamiliar with the apostle Paul. It was in this handsome harbour town where I spent the day before re-boarding the overnight train south to Sicily.

One of the most spectacular experiences in train travel was the ferry crossing over the Messina Strait. At the port of Reggio di Calabria on the Italian mainland, the train was split up, with the first set of coaches left on the ship while the second set was shunted back onto land, to be pushed onto the next siding beside the first set, and the third set likewise, until the whole train was on board. On the other side, all the coaches of the train was re-joined to make its way either towards Siracusa or Palermo, the island's capital city.

After spending a considerable time in Siracusa which included the visit to the summit of Mt. Etna, I took a remarkably slow train to Palermo via the inland route from Catania (as opposed to the coastal route from Messina) which stopped at a town bang in the middle of the island - Caltanissetta. By evening. I arrived at the capital and found a convenient hotel nearby.

While staying at a small hotel in Siracusa, one of the attractions I visited were the nearby Catacombs of St John, a series of tunnels running deep underground which once contained thousands of Christian burials. Stone nitches were hewn out of the rock to accommodate the corpses. So many were hewn that the entire system resembled a giant filing cabinet. Back in 1982 anyone can walk unaccompanied into the tunnels as I did, alone and free to explore the labyrinth at my own leisure. Now access is by means of an escorted group tour, which in my opinion, too rushed to absorb the atmosphere of the site.

Catacombs of St John, Siracusa

But it was in Palermo where the Cappuccin Catacombs really hit me hard, and changed, or rather confirmed, my perception of our class-ridden culture, especially in the UK. These catacombs, owned by the Cappuchin monks (who invented the coffee drink which bears the name) is situated in a crypt of a church just outside the main city centre. Unlike the Catacombs of St John in Syracuse, this is an underground cellar filled with many corpses displayed in full view of the public.

Detail of the Cappuchin Catacombs, Palermo

I entered the Catacombs on a weekday, off season. Therefore I was alone in this huge cellar under the church, as back in 1982 the site was not regarded as a hotspot for tourists.  As I stood in wonder at the corpses, the silence of the crypt was disturbed by a loose shutter which was swinging on its hinges as a result of an airflow. "Blap, squeak, squeak, blap, squeak, blap, squeak, blap, squeak," went the shutter, the endless sound creating the perfect environment for shooting a horror movie.

The dead of all ages and class were there, from newborns to the very old, from the worker to the aristocrat (whose cellar was for to begin with). There was a section for academics, another for the clergy, another for women, another for children and so on. The sight of these bodies brought to mind the culture back in England. More class conscious back then than now, I had that urging wish: Oh for a law that every company executive, aristocrat, banker, and office staff must have a photo of the catacombs hung above their desks with the words printed underneath:

This is how I will look one day.
Therefore there is no point in acting snobbish!

Three of the pics I took of the catacombs in 1982, hence the fading of the colour. I had taken to the guy in the middle photo.

Stories abound with these bodies. One was that a fire was started mysteriously, destroying many of the corpses. Another was one standing upright on the upper shelf coming loose and falling in front of an onlooker. Weird. The only notice on display was one that read Vietato Fumare. Fortunately, I had never found cigarettes a problem.

Ever since that day there was one more catacomb I visited, and that was under the streets of Paris in 1985. Here was quite a different environment to the two in Sicily. From street level, I found myself descending deep underground in a spiral staircase before I came to the entrance of a long tunnel. As I kept walking, I was astonished on the length of the windowless corridor. It was 1.5 kilometres, or just under a mile. The corridor ended at a gate, with a sign above it which read in French, You are about to enter the City of the Dead.

The walls of the chamber were lined with thousands upon thousands of femurs, with skulls embedded here and there, many of these skulls forming patterns of crucifixes and even one of a heart. Other corridors led off from this chamber, but fortunately the gates at the entrances to these corridors were locked. This system is actually a tiny section of a vast, complicated labyrinth which has a history of taking the lives of those who got lost within the complex of tunnels.

Bones by the thousands line the Catacombs of Paris.

When I climbed the stairs to the exit, I found myself at another part of the city.

These experiences were part and parcel of backpacking and lone, independent travel. There are more tales I can tell, the one about Etna 1982 is for another blog.  But what drew me to these catacombs? Personally, my delusion with the British class system, the sheer reverence for the Monarchy by the average English (although I'm not into Republicanism), the greater respect gotten in wearing a tie, inequality in education and academic achievements, stoicism with the belief that showing emotion is not masculine (quoted by Daily Mail Melanie Phillips) and the respect and worth of a person based on his occupation and dress code rather than character.

King Solomon knew the vanity of life. He knew that really, there is no difference between a king and a worm, for the same fate await them both. He then advises us that the best course to take is to honour God with the lives we have, short and temporary as they are. And the only way to honour God is to believe in the One he had sent, the Lord Jesus Christ.

Jesus too died, on a cross to atone for our sins. But he also rose again from the dead, proving that he is truly God and Messiah, and that his payment for sin was successful and accomplished. Nobody else in human history has ever risen from the dead. Jesus Christ was the only person who had done so, and to believe this brings eternal life.

Eternal life! Therefore I can search every catacomb in the world, and I would never come across the body of Jesus Christ. HE HAS RISEN!