Ojai 1958

J. Krishnamurti

Sujets

• Philosophie et théologie

Informations

• Publié par: M-Y Books
• Date de parution: 01 décembre 2009
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781907556821
• Langue: English

Extrait

Prologue
From 2001 to 2004, I was the Australian High Commissioner in Barbados. In 2002, Miss Wendy wanted to get a dog and we stumbled across the dog that is now called DD. We only found out about what DD’s earlier life may have been like from Miss Wendy’s work with the Animal Shelter and the tales from the dedicated band who looked after stray dogs in Barbados. It is also based on our own observations of the lives of dogs on Barbados. DD – with a large measure of luck, and a great deal of help – is a survivor… and here is his story and the impact that he had on our lives in Barbados.

Winfred and Wendy Peppinck
The Kingdom of Bahrain
2006
CHAPTER HEADING

1. ROUGH BEGINNINGS
2. LIFE’S A BEACH
3. CAUGHT
4. BRUTAL ‘TRAINING’
5. FREE AGAIN …
6. … AND CAUGHT AGAIN
7. MISS WENDY GOES SHOPPING
8. THE ‘BIRTH’ OF THE DIPLOMATIC DOG
9. LIFE AT MOLYNEUX HOUSE
10. AND DIPLOMATIC LIFE TOO!
11. CHARITY HOUND
12. UNDER THE WEATHER
13. CRICKET, LOVELY CRICKET
14. IN PUBLIC SERVICE
15. THE ARRIVAL OF MISS LUCY
16. AN ISLAND WEDDING
17. BARBADOS FAREWELL
18. ENTER THE ‘DESERT DOG’
19. LIFE IN BAHRAIN
20. THE DEATH OF THE DIPLOMATIC DOG
21. A PHOENIX FROM THE ASHES
CHAPTER ONE
Like a dollop of black ink shaken from a pen, the island of Barbados emerged out of a blustery sea of angry blue. The land was grey and craggy with white spume at the base of chiselled cliffs. It was not at all the postcard image of sun-sprayed beaches with dotted palms and an aqua sea. Concorde lifted its pointed nose ever so slightly to slow its flight, and the sun glistened on its huge delta wing as it banked over the rocky headland, with all the grace of a bird wheeling in flight. The first view of Barbados was decidedly disappointing. For an instant, a feeling of dismay flickered over those imbued with thoughts of lying on the beach or wallowing lazily in the water. It simply had to be better than this!
Inside Concorde’s slender body there were all the signs of a journey’s end; the clacking sound of overhead lockers being closed, the clicking sound of seatbelts being fastened, the slight swish of seats being returned to the upright position as requested by the flight service director, a woman in her mid-thirties, chosen as much for her poise and fetching beauty as for the soporific modulation of her posh-sounding voice. Some of the passengers leaned forward to put away the last unwanted magazines into the grey leather seat pockets. Here and there a woman strained a practised eye in her small hand-held mirror to apply the last dab of make-up or to roll her lips to show an even spread of lipstick. The door of the tiny toilet clicked shut for a last time, and an expensively attired, grey-haired man with dark, bushy eyebrows, and the weasel-face of a lifetime in banking, walked purposefully up the tiny aisle. He leant slightly forward, as though beating into a fresh breeze, to counter the obvious incline of the plane, and the strong smell of a spicy after-shave followed in his wake.
Within the plane there was now silence. There was no longer the sound of laughter or the clinking of glassware which had resounded around the cabin for much of the trip. Where people did speak, it was largely in whispers, as though all the bonhomie of the flight had disappeared, and they had resumed the stiff persona they had cautiously set aside during the flight. The plane shuddered slightly as the Captain bled off more speed as he brought the nose up yet again, and there was the low, electronic, whirring hum while the flaps were fully extended. The big, white, majestic aircraft was readying itself for a return to earth, some four hours after its parting. Four hours after leaving Heathrow, with nothing to see but a dark sea below, the curvature of the earth and the violet, then magenta sky above.
For most passengers their time aboard had involved very little thinking. They were just pleased to be aboard, to have taken off on time, and happy to let the on-board service just wash over them. They had reclined in their small leather seats, ate and dozed, or watched a movie, content in the thought that their lives were in the hands of the best pilots that training and money could buy. They were on track straight to Barbados – no transit stops, no getting off. Lobster and French champagne, medallions of the best Scottish beef with asparagus, courgettes, and perfectly-done potatoes, complemented by a woody Californian Shiraz, and followed by gateau, then the finest of Belgian chocolates to accompany the coffee and Napoleon cognac. All served in splendour from the tiny galley by elegant hostesses whose smile and poise never wavered. And now the time was coming to say farewell to their luxurious, albeit somewhat cramped, home of four hours and jostle again in the ranks of humanity. For some, the journey was a return home and so the jostling would be largely confined to the Customs and Immigration queues. Then there was always the wading through the throng of people who gathered in large, unruly numbers outside the arrival’s hall. This unpleasantness however, only lasted until the chauffeur appeared, took their suitcases, and led them, like a Japanese tour-guide, to the practised leather comfort of the Roller or Mercedes. The noise, the smell, the bustle therefore, was only a minimal disturbance in their otherwise cocooned lifestyle.

Others had come to holiday, or to conduct business in Barbados, and were arriving at the Grantley Adams Airport for the first time. Now they felt the trepidation associated with the unfamiliar and the onset of the what if syndrome. What if the tour representative doesn’t turn up? What if the hotel or the island is not to my liking? What if the luggage has been left behind? It was nothing major, merely a gathering of perplexing thoughts about the unknown, but they rolled around, nevertheless, in the far reaches of the first-time visitor’s mind. Then there were the children coming home for the holidays. There were no worries there. They knew they would be met. They knew they were going to have fun. They knew because they were simply brim-full of faith that adults simply would not let them down. The aircraft held them all.
The people on the left-hand side of the aircraft looked out of their windows, while those on the right also craned to see the land. Some sat unabsorbed with their eyes closed, others reading a book. They had seen it all before – many times. Their week had long been planned with all the rigour of a military expedition. A round of golf on the Sandy Lane ‘Green Monkey Course’, watch some polo and horseracing, have time for a swim, dinner at The Cliff, or Daphne’s , some time to relax, catch some sun, and then home on next week’s Concorde. To them, landing was like any landing, whether it be in New York, Sydney or Zurich. The plane was merely a comfortable and speedy means to an end. For them there was no longer the wonder of flight; it was simply the fastest way to get there, much like a glorified limousine, which they had to endure.
To the right of the plane there was only water – a deep, flat, unbroken, uninteresting blue. Only on the left, where the water met the land, there was the ‘true’ Caribbean. Aqua, lime green, azure blue, turquoise, dark blue, topaz, colours in fusion as on an artist’s pallet. The mesmerising pull of the tropical sea. This was why they had come to Barbados, this was the lure of the Caribbean, this was what they had dreamed about, those waters every bit as alluring, appealing and healing as Venice, Amsterdam or Lourdes. The land beyond was shaped like a turtle-shell, gently rising from the shore. Now beaches hove into view, and looked like bacon rind – a thin ribbon of sand, brushed by the sea. The land was green – the green of cane, of golf courses and gardens, and the darker green of giant fig and casuarina trees. This was now the island that they had seen in brochures, and that they had envisaged in their mind’s eye, the magic holiday island.
The aircraft slowed further and remained almost silent, bar the gentle hum of its engines and the swish of the passing air. It flew over a great, sandy scimitar-like bay with two bright green pontoons looking like a colon mark in the blue water. Then past fishing boats at their moorings, more beaches, and a power station. Then a port with four large, white cruise ships at the wharf. Now there appeared a scattered town beside a narrow quay. Then there was a bay, the stuff of postcards, with an eye-squinting, white sand beach, and water in numerous shades of aqua, and then a run of hotels at the water’s edge. The plane banked left and the sea was lost. Instead, there were now green fields, sugar cane and more sugar cane, small houses and huts, vegetable plots, potholed roads, rusty old car bodies in grassy patches, and the general detritus of the urban-fringe dwellers. The plane slowed further, and the land drew it ever closer. A waggle of the wings in the breeze and the engine noise increased, then a road flashed by, followed by a boundary fence, then a phutt-phutt squeal of the tyres as they bit into the tarmac. There was a final ‘bump’ as the nose-wheel came down, and there followed a bellowing howl of the engines in reverse-thrust. There was an audible collective sigh from those in the cabin – landing safely was always the best feeling in flying. The Captain eased back the throttles during the roll-out and the graceful dart, on its ungainly, spindly undercarriage, taxied awkwardly to the terminal. An old truck with a mobile stairwell drove up to the front door. The pressure equalised as the door was opened and the sun and the strong breeze came aboard. Welcome to Barbados!
The thin bitch, her russet brown fur still blotched by last night’s rain, looked up as the plane flew directly overhead on its path to the runway. From her rough hutch in the sugar cane field, it was a blur that she had grown used to, and the