The Hike
by Nookie Middleton
The hike was uneventful until after summiting Mount Elbrus. On our descent, the weather changed in minutes as it was wont to do on any mountain, but especially on this one. I thought I would be blown off the top. The temperature dropped to minus 5 degrees and the sky turned from a pleasant blue to a thunderous black in moments. We picked up our pace and scurried down, all tied together by rope, slipping on the icy surface and then falling into deep snow.
I doubt I have ever been so cold and wet and exhausted. Despite four pairs of socks and wearing two pairs of hiking boots, my feet felt like blocks of ice.
At last, we saw the barrels. Yes, we stayed in large barrels, eight people to a barrel and ten barrels in total. Our base camp!
We fell down in gratitude and thankful prayer. By the grace of God, we had survived. Forty-four people on average die on this mountain each year so we had every reason to be grateful.
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The Accident
by Noreen Burton
The loud, frantic banging on the front door woke Angie with a start. Bewildered, heart racing, she looked at her phone. It was seven minutes past midnight. She must have fallen asleep. Angie was married to the love of her life, Pat. They were a fun-loving, sociable couple with plenty of friends. They had been married for just over a year and were really enjoying each other’s company. Pat was a teaser and Angie almost always fell for the trick. As she grew to know him better, she learned to give as good as she got and so their marriage was always fun. Angie was deliriously happy.
On this evening Pat was to attend the AGM of the society to which he belonged. He was sure that he was going to be elected as chairperson for the upcoming year. Angie was excited for him so instead of going to bed she had come downstairs after her shower to wait for his return. He should be home around 9pm, although he had intimated that, if he was elected, he and the guys might go out for a celebratory drink after the meeting. So, Angie had snuggled up in her favourite armchair to watch the news and a documentary.
She tightened her dressing gown around her and slipping on her slippers, she stumbled to the front door. Looking through the spyhole she saw two police officers, a man and a woman. Angie felt her blood run cold and fear gripped her heart as she opened the door.
“Good evening, ma’am. Is your husband home?”
“No,” replied Angie, hugging her dressing gown to her body as though it was a shield to protect her from what she knew must be coming. “I was expecting him around nine. I fell asleep in front of the TV waiting for him.”
“Then I think you had better let us come in, Ma’am,” said the policewoman. There has been an accident.”
Angie stepped aside and followed the officers into the lounge. She switched off the TV and slumped down on the edge of her chair waiting for the dreaded news. The police woman explained that while on patrol, they had come across a man under attack in a street. She reached into her pocket and withdrew a man’s watch.
“Do you recognise this watch?”
“Yes, it’s Pat’s.”
“Your husband is okay,” said the policewoman, kindly. “He is being attended to at Casualty.”
Just then there was the sound of a key in the front door, and a few seconds later Pat walked in grinning like a Cheshire cat. “April Fool, darling!” Angie stared at him blankly. “It’s April the 1st. I got you good, didn’t I?”
“It’s not funny, Pat. I got a terrible scare.”
But then she thought about it. She had been expecting an April Fool’s prank from Pat, and she had fallen for an obvious trick. Police officers don’t normally come to tell the wife that her husband is in Casualty. She should have guessed. But who would, when they had been woken from a sleep?
Pat explained that he had been elected Chairperson and he and some friends had gone to a pub to celebrate. There they had met up with other friends (the two police officers) and so the prank had been planned. These friends were actors and had borrowed the uniforms from the theatre where they were currently employed.
Everyone enjoyed a good laugh over a late-night, or rather early morning whiskey. Angie asked if she could take some photos and they parted on good terms. Pat and Angie finally retired to bed, but Angie couldn’t sleep.
The next morning the two actors were rudely awoken by two police officers and arrested for impersonating a police officer. They were taken to the police station and\ interviewed. They told their story to the detective who sent officers to arrest Pat and all three were remanded in custody. Pat used his phone call to phone Angie who hurried to the police station.
Accompanied by the detective and the two arresting officers she visited the three friends in the cells. “April Fool, darling! Some of us have friends who are real police officers.” It was seven minutes to noon.
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One Day in Provence
by Denise Fielding
One day in Provence I asked a question of a young woman. Her unwavering response as she alighted from the bus we had travelled on as far as The Vieux Port, Marseille – the year, 1993 – was, “I am a Musselman”.
I felt embarrassed by my question! With heart swelling, suffused in anguished knowledge of our conflicting histories, I, in that moment, reached out and said, “Please may I take you to tea if you will not accept money for your kindness.” She smiled and agreed.
Marseille was an unknown place to me. She walked with me until I found what I was looking for - a lovely French non touristy restaurant. The room was tastefully decorated; waiters, waitresses, impeccably dressed in black with white aprons and head coverings; tables well laid, white linen cloths and napkins, silver and glass, bone China tea plates and cups. My little khaki skin-toned guest whose name I did not yet know, held back. I realised her hesitation could have been uncertainty about her reception. I had unwittingly taken her into an unaccustomed experience. Although we did not have a booking we were shown to a delightful table. We ordered tea, coffee and gateaux. Her appreciation was sincere. She was on her way to work and I would still have time to catch a ferry.
I heard her story delivered quietly in broken English - acquired because her sister had made a home in London and often visited. She said that for ten years she had lived and worked in Marseille. In what capacity I do not know. And in passing, almost lightly, she told me that she had been a refugee from war torn Lebanon. She sighed and cast her lids down over warm brown eyes, glittering a little now as she looked deeply within, to the place of her own privacy. How did two strangers from widely disparate backgrounds come to sit so happily and communicate effectively through her tentatively offered phrases in my language? It was due to an act of unprecedented kindness extended toward me by this other foreigner.
Earlier on that sizzling day, I clambered aboard a long-awaited bus at the Port du Prophète. Without map or knowledge of Marseille, its surroundings or distances, I, with great insouciance, had set out from my accommodation. My intention was to link up with a bus route and catch one that would drop me off at the Vieux Port. There I would board a ferry bound for the ile d’if. Little did I realise how great the distance my accommodation was from a bus route. I walked a few blocks, and continued along the curve of that wonderful bay. Then I walked and walked and … The sun was high and ablaze. It was hot, very hot. Eventually, at the end of the bay, near a rocky outcrop above a small inlet, I found shade offered by a bus shelter. I plonked down to wait and wait and … wonder whether the ferry ride would happen that day!
Relief surged as a bus arrived. I hurriedly scuttled aboard on tired feet and handed a franc note to the driver. He immediately gave me a firm rebuff and with a wave of his hand toward the exit made his meaning perfectly clear. I tried again. He seemed exasperated. I understood nothing he said. The bus was full. Everyone stared at me, aware of his problem but it was totally incomprehensible to me. He gesticulated with great firmness. I must get off. I was horrified. There was no sign of a shop or public phone in sight! I had not anticipated being in desperate need of water either. In absolute shock I stood rooted to the spot. We locked eyes. Getting off was unthinkable but he insisted, waving me away. It began to occur to me he was either unwilling or unable to give me change!
A stir of impatience from among the passengers further raised his temperature. Then a movement happened at the rear of the bus. A small female figure dislodged herself and walked forward. She handed the driver a coin. He accepted it and drove on. I lurched into the nearest seat, turning to see the little person who, without a word, paid my fare, then re-seated herself. Everyone else seemed hunched down, completely silenced.
We arrived at the Vieux Port. I disembarked quickly and waited for my rescuer to give her the franc note and express my gratitude. She refused to accept it. I said, “Well please let me get change”. Again, she shook her head. Feeling helpless but realising she understood English, I blurted out, “That was a wonderfully kind thing you did for me. Are you a Christian?”
I have already told her answer.
Decades passed. When in Dublin again one year, I was invited by someone prominent from The Church of Ireland to attend a Conference at Trinity College. A group of academics, all of international repute, were due in the next few days to read papers on subjects of interest to me. It was an unexpected privilege! An opportunity to listen to specialists, including recent archaeological finds at a Roman town built about four miles from Nazareth, with dating indicating a very pertinent period which could change much previous presumption. Of course, I accepted.
But on reflection, the reason I think I was really there was to notice the approach of a couple dressed very differently from everyone else. A man and woman, two Musselmans, who seemed caught in cross currents of embarrassment as they looked towards those already gathered in groups. All in the reception area appeared to be “western”. As they reached the top step, they paused, looking uncertain if not ill at ease. It was my privilege, being closest at hand, to first reach out in welcome.
On the coach that evening, among invited guests and delegates going to a social function, the wife of this (as I later was told) very prestigious man I had greeted in welcome, moved from her allotted seat to sit beside me. She then, rather unexpectedly, confided a recurring dream she’d experienced. She stressed it was a repeated experience. I was amazed. It held an answer so simple. An answer, if acted upon by those identified, could alter much in our divided world!
I was glad I had not forgotten the lesson learned in 1993 from a young Musselman at the Port du Prophète bus-stop in Provence. Our rooms in life have no ceilings if we are willing to see there is no ceiling. A lesson often forgotten but taught in the parable of the Good Samaritan as I had been reminded by the action in 1993 of that kindly refugee lady from war torn Lebanon.
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Summit Walk
by Nookie Middleton
It was minus 25 degrees and pitch dark, but when the wake-up call came at one am there were no moans or groans. Instantly awake and ready, we jumped up. This was the climax to three years of planning, training, disappointment and now, finally, the summit attempt. The team: Thomas Alexander, Cape Town, Matthew Boucher, Namibia, uncle to Shawn, Ronald Bergh, Cape Town, father to Shawn, Shawn Berg, Cape town, Hillary Horne, Cape Town, Fredeline (Freddy) Hartnick, Cape town and friend of Hillary, Clinton Parker, Brechta Kopke, Angela Labuschagne, and myself, Nookie Middleton, East London. We had all grown close during our journey and many days of training on the mountain. Mount Elbrus is the highest mountain in Russia, at 5642m. It is one of the seven summits – that is, the highest mountain on each of the seven continents. Today we would attempt to summit this giant.
We began our climb at three am. The only light was the light from one’s headlamp, a small glow in the stygian blackness. We had two extra guides in addition to our main guide, Vladimir. It was pitch dark and freezing cold as we began. As the sun rose in the sky, the world changed and became wonderfully beautiful as the sun painted the snow and ice and the mountain tops with red, orange and gold. Sometimes we zig-zagged and sometimes, on the narrow ledges, we put one foot in front of the other, or we walked with feet splayed out like ducks. Slowly, slowly, slowly. At this altitude, you go at snail’s pace. Sometimes you feel as if you cannot take another step. Your breath seems to cut into your lungs like a knife, but you keep on going, even when some of the team turn back.
We kept strictly behind Vladimir. No one wanted to fall into a crevasse. The majestic mountains all around us seemed to hold us in their wonder and power.
After the Pastukhova Rocks came the Diagonal. Valdimir had warned us that this would seem to be never-ending and he was not wrong. When it seemed that I could not take another step, we reached the Saddle and had a short break before we began the ascent to the summit. It looked tantalizingly closely but took another two hours that seemed endless. The mountain reduced to a narrow peak, with hardly enough room for all of us. Although bitterly cold, nothing seemed to matter. We had reached the summit. All the exhaustion, the agony, the cold – nothing could stop the euphoria we felt. It is difficult to describe the emotion you feel when you get to the top of one of these awesome giants. The views are unimaginable. You are in love with everyone and everything. You feel as light and as free as a bird. You hug and hug everyone. You can’t stop grinning.
It was too cold to stay for long. Suddenly, as happens on these mountains, the weather rapidly changed. Ominous clouds started rolling in at incredible speed as we began our descent. Because of the weather, our descent was even more difficult than the ascent as is often the case.
And so, we come to the end of this mountain walk. The beauty of these mountains blows you away. The silence, the starkness and their antiquity overwhelm you. We never conquer mountains. I feel very privileged to have been able to have done this.
Espionage at Dinner
by Linda Smith
It was so small, certainly no bigger than a single tomato seed. Who would notice it? What would it mean to a layman, even if he saw it? There were only three of us involved in the project and even we were relatively uninformed of the overall design and functionality of the product, having, as we did, different areas of expertise: microelectronics, chemistry and immunology. What we lacked, and I say this with hindsight, was a minister of religion, or perhaps a philosopher with a bent for ethics.
Now, I know this will sound like something from the pen of Ian Fleming (and it would be straining things even for him), but what we had designed was a micro-, no, nano spy chip with a threefold purpose: recording information, administering a miniscule but lethal dose of a neurotoxin and protecting the wearer in the case of similar exposure. One must always anticipate that the enemy may be developing a similar product and may be just that smidgeon faster than we in succeeding.
There were, of course, several criteria besides size that had to be met, the most important being that the device be permanently attached to the subject. That was where the comparison to the size of a tomato seed came in handy. “How about making it look like a tomato seed?” suggested Leonardo, one of my younger colleagues. “We know from our information files that the subject is a bit of a health freak – regular exercise, careful diet and all that, has to have fresh salad with every meal. How about a special tomato seed in his salad at the embassy dinner? If one of our biologists can design a way to keep the device in his stomach rather than passing through the digestive tract we could have a lifelong source of information.”
After several months of working on protecting the device from gastric enzymes and devising a screening function to allow only vocal sounds to be transmitted to our receiving equipment – you have no idea how loud a “tummy rumble” is when heard close up – our “seed” was finally ready for deployment.
The embassy dinner was, as always, a quietly lavish affair: one wants to impress without appearing to do so. Our cutlery was, of course, carefully tailored to prevent any item from being used as a weapon: no pointed tips to knives, fork tines not too sharp, et cetera, and that practice proved to be the downfall of our project. As General Tretyakov attempted to spear his “baby tomato” with his slightly blunted salad fork, the harder-than tomato edge of the device skidded away off his plate, over the table edge and onto the floor, just in the path of our solidly-built waiter. Only a lifetime of discipline kept us blandly smiling as two years of development and millions in funding crunched quietly in our ears.
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