Different Travels.

10 Thursday Sep 2009

Moscow Metro

At the arrival at Moscow airport we were met by our Russian guide and went through customs with some strange requests. We had to declare all our money and jewellery, including our watch and were given a receipt of both money and jewellery. We had to be able to show receipts of any money spent during our stay and also show the jewellery again before departure. We were told that one could get good money for any western type of clothes, especially western jeans etc. We were at the middle of Russia’s perestroika period and the freeing up was already having its effect whereby I did not get asked for any items of clothing and in fact so many young people wearing the same sort of fashion as in the west. Shops were almost nonexistent though. We were taken to a market place where women were queuing up and selling clothing or perhaps trading them for other items. I bought some apples that cost about five times as much as in Australia. We had a couple of Australian girls loaded up with enormous bags that everyone took turns with hauling to and from buses and trains. They told me they wanted mainly to go ‘shopping’. Shopping in Russia!

I loved everything about those two weeks. I know Stalin was not the most benevolent leader but has anyone experienced the Moscow subways? The hotel we stayed in had been used for foreign journalists during the Moscow Olympics in 1980 and we all had a room each with television that would show a screen that flickered somewhat. It was an enormous hotel with lifts and many floors. Underneath was a post office that sold stamps if they bothered opening up which they did most times after 1pm, but was usually delayed till 2.30pm. Each floor employed a lady at the end of the corridor who would just sit on a chair and watch televisions that would miraculously work. They watched comedy and much laughter would well across the corridor which gave the hotel a certain ambience and an air of easy going bonhomie. It seemed that Russia in transit with perestroika in full flight did still have ‘full employment’, especially of ladies that would just sit on a chair and watch television. Of course, that did not stay once western style capitalism became established. Watching from my window at the Moscow street scene below, I noticed men busy stirring things in a drum which was burning something. This they did all day, just standing around a smouldering drum.

lovely toilet.

My bathroom had of course all the necessities including a toilet that was erratic in its flushing habits. I suspect that water was in short supply and flushing could not be achieved when the cistern did not fill with water. From the sound of rushing water into the cistern I worked out the times when water was ‘on’ and saved this water for only the essential part of ablutions. Another architectural oddity was that the toilet’s waste pipe did not have an S bend; it just had a terracotta pipe going straight down but at an angle so absurd that one had to sit sideways, so that you could close the bathroom door and not be with knees pushing against the door. All in all, it gave me a good example how things can be different and this is what I mainly look for when elsewhere, a total difference.

My fellow travellers apart from the Moscow Library union man were doing the typical tourist thing of forever comparing how things were in Australia, and that by and large, Australia was far freer and superior and better in this and better in that. It started to grate me severely and I rebuked a couple when it came to having dinner at a restaurant connected to this Hotel. There were the usual complaints about how in Australia we cooked this and that, and had bigger steaks and what not else. There was a wedding going on and our food was the same as the wedding party which I thought was not only delicious but also genuinely Russian fare. There was borscht and piroshky and the wedding table was having such a good time that the moaning of my fellow travellers again about the food just made the bucket run over and I made the remark about the awfulness of dribbling meat pies and those brown streaked vegemite pieces of toast to our Russian guide. The horror of Australian food fortunately does not get a run in overseas restaurants except perhaps in some below pavement and well hidden dives in London’s Kangaroo court.

We went to see, of all composers, the folk opera/ballet of Porgy and Bess by George Gershwin at The Bolshoi Theatre. It was an unforgettable experience and the encores and applause went on forever. Nothing casual of the theatre goers though, everyone dressed up and obviously out for a good night. Our travel guide had dressed up for the occasion in a splendidly looking dress with golden little applications to hems and collar. Her name of Natasha was all in style as well.

Patrick White.

There were sometimes fellow Russian students amongst us who were interested in Australian literature and to my surprise were much better informed than my Aussie travellers were in Russian writers. Of course they were also students; even so, I felt that the average Russian student had a keen interest in things away from materialism. Of course that long suffering society steeped for centuries in so much tragedy and misfortune with leaders imposing their murderous campaigns over and over again, could hardly be expected to contemplate the dribble of average weekly earnings or the state of cricket. While the Russian students knew Patrick White and even the recent P.Carey, they had not heard of Boris Pasternak and even Alexander Solzhenitsyn.

Pigs fly on Father’s day in Bowral.

07 Monday Sep 2009

Posted by gerard oosterman in The Public Bar

≈ 30 Comments

Pigs can fly indeed

By Helvi Oosterman

Pigs Fly on Father’s Day in Bowral

Father’s and Mother’s days are a good excuse to go out to lunch; presents are forbidden unless they come in a shape of nice bottle of Shiraz for Gez and a bunch of flowers for me.

We had made arrangements to meet in Bowral as it is roughly halfway for us in Brayton and the family members in Sydney. We must have synchronized our travelling time well , as we all arrived at the agreed time, spot on at mid day. Son loves his beer and could not resist swapping the usual Shiraz for beer as the mini gift for his dad, and what better beer for the Pig’s Arms customer than the aptly named one: Pigs Fly!

I don’t know where he found it but I’m not inventing anything here; It does exist and it’s made by Bowral Beer Company and is advertised as Bradman Brew. I just found out that it got a silver medal at this year’s Food Festival in Sydney.

I could not help but sharing this with you, if only to prove that there is only six degrees of separation between just about anything; Pig Arms, Pigs Fly Beer, Bowral, Bradman, a bottle of Shiraz and the place where my son bought it, Burrawang!

The Liberal’s everyman.

07 Monday Sep 2009

Posted by gerard oosterman in Politics in the Pig's Arms

≈ 12 Comments

Joe (Peter Griffin) Hockey

By Warrigal Mirriyuula.

As more and more politicians choose television celebrity to boost their electoral standing we’ve seen Anna Bligh cook and our Deputy Prime Minister take on a bunch of 5th class kids in a battle of intellectual wits; but did you know that another Australian politician is seeking hollywood fame? That’s right, “Jokin” Joe Hockey, the Liberal’s everyman, rightly conceding that he’ll never be PM, is currently in talks with the FOX network and the creator of popular animated series “Family Guy”, Seth MacFarlane.

MacFarlane is said to be over the moon at the “fit” between the character of Peter Griffin and Jokin’ Joe’s personable style. “We don’t need training, we don’t need method! He’s got the role down pat from the get go!” an ecstatic MacFarlane told reporters.

Though privately concerned that the new role may be a bit of a stretch for the first time actor, Jokin’ Joe’s says his experience in the parliament should stand him in good stead. “I’m quite used to delivering someone else’s lines” the jocose giant quipped, before roaring away in his BMW while he tossed back to assembled journalists, “Here’s lookin’ up your bi-election.”

After leaving the show at the end of the current season Peter Griffin will be taking up a public relations and communications management position for the George Bush Presidential Library.

Father O’Way Comes Home.

05 Saturday Sep 2009

Posted by gerard oosterman in Mark

≈ 21 Comments

Tags

Father O'Way

O’Way Returns.

By: Hung One on.

God, Jesus H. Christ, long distance plane travel is boring, but I’m coming, home, yes, coming, ho, ho, ho, hmmm, yes coming, ohh, ahh, oh yes [Stop, cut, Voice here, Look Sandy please don’t divert off the story with this silly innuendo about sexual experiences, okay? Otherwise none of my friends will visit this website, do you understand me?] [Okay, okay, I’ll stick to the story, sheez, I’m starting to get square bracket phobia] Anyway I’m headed home back to the Window Dressers Arms Pig and Whistle, a Trotters, my mates, can’t wait. Belinda left a few days earlier after a phone call from Glenda, her big sister, “Belinda, get home, Merv wants us to clean up the pub and anyway I’m sure you’ve had enough of him”

I enter the bar and am in heaven. Astyages is in the corner in his wheelchair due to his broken leg, “Sandy” he roars “You old bastard, Merv a pint for the good Father, put it on Emmjay’s tab”. “Thank you my dear poet, how the devil are you?” “Yes good Father although there are strange things afoot here in the shire, oops, sorry, wrong story, no everything’s fine Sandy. Now is that right that England won the last test by 200 runs? Sorry, what was that Sandy?” Okay, okay. Astyages and Jayell are in fits of laughter over their triumph.

Gez and Helvi come over and slap me on the back nearly knocking out my false teeth that I borrowed from Emmjay in London. “Good to see you old man, how’s the world?” “Stuffed Gez” I reply “No Trotters Ale and the Aussies lost the Ashes”. “Angela’s Ashes Sandy? I’ll loan you my copy, pipes in Helvi. “Different set of Ashes Helvi, thanks anyway” I retort.

Gez been won over (for a duck)

Merv approaches “Sandy, you dickhead, what happened at the Oval? Thought you was goin’ to streak? Save the game and all that.” Slight problem with timing, I mean I didn’t know that a Test could be over before five days, five days of tedium I might add. “Got busy Merv” I meekly replied, “Oh well, shit happen Sandy, wedges?” says Merv as he proffers some wedges. Hmmm, granny’s wedges, I’ve a penchant for wedges, especially vegemite and herring flavour, “Bewdy Merv” I splutter as I cram in a gob full.

Poms in victory

“Hey Sandy” Merv prompts “That Bish bloke, comes around here sometimes looking for you, mate, what actually is his name?” The Bish, oh no, not the Bish, looking for me, isn’t he on holidays? “The Bishop”? I inquire, “Yeah, The Bishop?” Merv presses “Bishop” I say, “Yeah, that’s right Sandy, the Bishop” Merv looks puzzled, “Bishop” I reply, “Pardon?” [Stop, cut it right there, Voice here again, for fuck sake Merv, you single digit IQ knuckle dragging Neanderthal, Sandy’s trying to tell you that the Bishop’s name is Bishop, you tool, an amoeba has more brains than you] “Bishop Bishop” The bar roars with laughter. Bishop Bishop how terrible is that. Warrigal, who has been sitting patiently and is spitting out spurts of beer “Yeah I met a copper once by the name of Constable, Constable Constable”. Well the bar is alight now. Tears are rolling down cheeks and hands are delving into pockets for tissues. Algernon, who has been laughing so hard his face has turned red “Hey what about that guy in Catch 22, Major Major” The bar cracks up with laughter. Tutu, Glenda and Helvi decide to adjourn to the ladies lounge. “Sergeant Sergeant” “Judge Judge” “Richard Dick!” Ah yes the Trotters Ale is working a treat, no antidote needed here, these are my people, and to quote Steely Dan, I’m home at last, home at last….

Whoring in Fremantle and lamingtons.

03 Thursday Sep 2009

Posted by gerard oosterman in The Public Bar, Travels

≈ 34 Comments

Johan Van Oldenbarneveldt

As hinted earlier, the first Australian Port of Call, Fremantle on a February Sunday, 1956 was somewhat of a surreal experience. I am not sure what the Italian Luigis or Greek Stavrosses thought about it all. Despite my fifteen years of age or because of it, I needed to see and meet new people, our first Australians to be precise. After the whole ship donned Sunday best with coats and ties, pre-pressed and creased pants and frocks, the twelve hundred passengers could not get off the boat quick enough.

We all sauntered ‘en masse’ over a large steel bridge spanning acres of industrial rail-lines and rubble, walking for quite some distance when we finally found our way to Fremantle’s first row of houses. Perhaps because of the intense heat and distance we already encountered some passengers who were on the way back to the ship. One Dutchman who we knew from onboard proudly practised his English and said “kept left in Australia” to us, in a strong guttural accent, eyes sparkling. We of course still walked on the right hand side, but not him. He would definitely succeed in Australia! Our eight of us persevered but somewhat uncomfortable in the simmering heat and in all our finery.

Not a soul to be seen. Was this a practise run for a Neville Shute’s film set of ‘on the beach’? This might be the best way to describe what confronted our family walking through the deserted and weather board peppered street scapes, even though the ‘on the beach’ was not written till 1957 with its theme of an Australian town awaiting death from an atomic bomb. Perhaps the feeling of a town without people being visible often acts as a catalyst for many a book or painting. Did Neville Shute visit Fremantle on a Sunday prior to writing his best seller, I wonder? Apart from Neville Shute’s book and film with Ava Gardner, another example of the strange feeling of this typical Australian town on a Sunday, might well be in contemplating a painting by Jeffrey Smart. Of course at that time, those artists were totally unknown in Fremantle and no amount of clairvoyance of its people could have been responsible for the feeling of emptiness in those streets.

In fact, there were people there, with here and there a steady radio drone coming from within the cream painted weatherboards. Years later when I learned how to spot signs of life within those curtained and venetian blinded off houses, a cricket score then often betrayed life, even though the desire to be unseen and to remain private was strongly adhered to.

Bustling Fremantle 1956.

My dad and kids bravely walked on determined to finally say something to someone, preferably a real Australian. We walked up a hill with on top some kind of monument and even the so longed for palm tree finally in sight. Diagonally across from the monument and palm park we spotted a shop with doors open. We made a surge towards this shop, thirsty for any quenching liquid and first contact. We entered the shop and expectations of an introduction and possible handshake were foremost in dad’s mind.

A handshake was always done back home and as common as donning a hat to a passerby, or standing up for a lady in the bus or tram. Surely, anyone could sense that we were belonging to the just landed. The shopkeeper seemed totally unaware of our presence and did not even look around from where she was stacking a shelf with her back to us. The situation was not helped when the younger kids started to fidget and the thirst and promised quench was getting more urgent. We had no option though and surely with the noise and restlessness she would finally have to acknowledge us. Was she deaf or mute, possibly blind?

It was none of that, it was just that in that part of the world, customer service was still not to be given under any circumstance, a mere leftover from the days that it was common for people to disrespect authority and not to be seen grovelling to the gov’nr. A fair crack of the whip is all they could hope for and this shopkeeper and her ancestors had been taught and also learnt that the customer was now the person to be kept subservient and waiting. The shopkeeper was the Guv with the whip. Of course, my dad had no inkling at that time of those delicate cultural nuances brought out and exposed in those minutes of waiting for a response from this shopkeeper.

Lamington shop. ( Amsterdam)

Yes love? Finally a response, but ‘yes love’, did he hear right? A question from female shopkeeper calling someone a’ love’, what was this now about? Dad and family went through war and hunger, changing and moving to other city, had a large family, took a boat to the end of the universe with a marriage and fine wife intact and so strong, and now, finally when on first walkabout in Australia and on a first meeting with an Australian and after a long and hot walk, he was called ‘love’ by a strange woman? This was too much to take in, he quickly pointed at some brown cakes sprinkled with some white flaky stuff, and two large bottles of a luridly coloured soft drink or lemonade. We all bolted as fast as we could. ‘Love’ indeed. It must have been a brothel. Those very first cakes were about twenty years later identified as ‘lamingtons’.

It was a slow walk back to the ship. There was a lot to think about and to digest. The lamingtons were eaten in silence and the soft drink shared amongst the eight of us. I remember being vaguely aware of my friends comments back home about Australia being closed up on a Sunday. I started to feel apprehensive as well as tired and mulled over the shop woman and her strange reluctance to serve us. It was way beyond my depth to accept the day as a rewarding experience in meeting our first friendly and welcoming Australian. I missed my friends.

Pig’s Arms Bar Decontamination Staff.

03 Thursday Sep 2009

Posted by gerard oosterman in Ladies Lounge, The Public Bar

≈ 50 Comments

Watch out, I'm coming for the contaminated.

Pig’s Arms Bar Decontamination Staff

By Madeleine Love.

The Pigs Arms Bar Decontamination Staff have to be called in most mornings.

Daphne: I’m interviewing barmaid Belinda for the Pig’s Arms Trumpeter this morning as we tiptoe through the early morning bar after the night before. Good morning Belinda!

Belinda: Good morning, Daphne.

Daphne: I see you’re all kitted out for the cleanup, Belinda.

Belinda: It’s a Work and Safety necessity, Daphne.

Daphne: You’re wearing the full asbestos outfit.

Belinda: Yes, we are usually dealing with asbestos after a rough night in the Bar.

Daphne: How often would a head or a fist go through one of the asbestos sheeting panels?

Belinda: It doesn’t happen every night, but fairly regularly. Merv repairs the sheeting where he can, but eventually there’s nothing much he can do and he’s forced to replace it.

Daphne: I see a lot of broken plates around this morning.

Belinda: The Greeks were in last night. They’re in most nights. We do ask that they bring their own plates, but we offer the cleaning service.

Daphne: Have you ever thought of making a ceramic mosaic out of all these shards?

Belinda: Merv’s a wonder with recycling. If granny can’t araldyte the plates back together he makes use of the bits. I’ll show you through the toilets later.

Daphne: What’s all this burnt metal in the corner?

Belinda: That was the thespians. There was a Persian war re-enactment thing – they set a few aerosol cans burning.

Daphne: Curtains are a mess! And this wall that’s been knocked in?

Belinda: That doesn’t usually happen. Bloody Danny from the car yard next door was cleaning up after last night and he’s driven his bulldozer into the pub. He say he can get us some fibro from somewhere, cheap.

Daphne: Thank you for the wonderful insight into mornings at the Pig’s Arm Bar, Belinda.

Belinda: Thank you Daphne.

Daphne: That was Belinda, and I’m Daphne at the Pig’s Arms, where a little thing like lipstick on a table is completely unimportant.

Where is Tim Holding?

01 Tuesday Sep 2009

Posted by gerard oosterman in Politics in the Pig's Arms

≈ 54 Comments

By Madeleine Love.

We’re having so much fun down here in Victoria over the bush wanderings of water minister Tim Holding.

Mount Feathertop

He decided to go on a jolly overnight walk up snowy Mt Feathertop on his own over the weekend. The weather was rather grim. He was meant to reappear at 4pm Sunday but didn’t. All day yesterday we had news reports about the search for The Hon Tim Holding.

I wondered his opponents would be feeling. Surely no-one could wish for an ill outcome while friends and family lingered distressed? I know I couldn’t.

Oh,oh, getting lost.

Tim Holding is given continued abuse over the North-South water pipeline (pumping water destined for the food bowl and the dry Murray over the hills to Melbourne instead), and over the Wonthaggi desalination plant.

I have a good friend who’s very active against the desal plant, and I’m on the mailing list of the North-South pipeline opponents, so have a little insight into how his opponents may feel about his disappearance.

Last night things were beginning to look grim, such that the topic became a discussion at the dinner table. This morning I woke hopeful, and not long after dropping the children at school I noticed breaking news and sent this email to my desal friend…

Good News: “Victorian Minister Tim Holding found alive during helicopter search. More soon.” www.abc.net.au Thought you’d like to know.

And then we saw him get off the helicopter http://www.abc.net.au/reslib/200909/r428043_2042473.asx ,

alive, well and walking.

So I sent another email to my desal friend…

Desalination friend.

“quick, quick, get the lines out…

“Tim Holding loses his way over desal plant”

“Tim Holding stumbling in the dark with Victoria’s water”

“Victoria’s water strategy directionless”

Travels with my uncle Jayell

01 Tuesday Sep 2009

Posted by gerard oosterman in Julian London

≈ 23 Comments

A shadowy figure

I had lunch in Covent Garden today, with cousin Tony, whom I had not seen for three years- so I thought that I would pass on my observations.

Being a sunny bank holiday the town was buzzing with grockles, chuckling and bustling around The New (to me) Opera House, like a relentless army bringing the cobbled streets to life.

We dived in to Tuttons and sampled duck confit, pasta and mineral water, watching the swathes of tourists meandering aimlessly past our protected respite in a dandy little alcove. It felt good to see that many people, all in a good mood. Living on The Gold Coast, I had forgotten that the world was so crowded.

We opted out of The Notting Hill Carnival- as that can be hectic and sometimes violent.

IMGP0629 (2)

After lunch, we became the meanderers. Trickling through the narrow streets to Cambridge Circus and on down Charing Cross Rd to Trafalgar Square, passing hordes of sightseers and hawkers- a great atmosphere. Especially pleasing to see the portrait gallery and the National so well patronized .

And here’s my contribution…..Well it’s three photographs actually. Me learing in the Covent Garden Restaurant. A self explanatory sign about the girl standing on the podium. The girl close up and from a distance, showing The National Art Gallery in the background.

Where is the machine gun?

Oh hang on that’s four. I don’t know if this bloody webmail will send four- but I will try. Happy Holidays and love to all. I think that I can say that, after exchanging missives with youse all for more than a year.

Wish you were here.

Part time foreign correspondant JL, signing off.

PS For Madeleine. I collected a menu from Harvey Nichols that promotes and sells organic food and denigrates GM. I’ll post it on my return

Persian delight.

30 Sunday Aug 2009

Posted by gerard oosterman in The Public Bar

≈ 30 Comments

Cyclamen rescued

gerard oosterman.

It just happens that we need flowers in the house as much as vegemite on toast (Helvi) or blankets on the bed. We could not live without them. Admittedly, this is taken care of more by her than me, although at Aldi I often spot a nice bunch for little money, urging her to get them. The best way is of course to buy flowering pot plants.

Here in the dry and crispy climes the most outstanding plant with months of flowering would have to be the simple cyclamen. When we wake up,( So far fairly regularly), we are greeted by a pink cyclamen in front of the window frame, with its buds and flowers nodding at us.

After flowering we were brutal enough to chuck them in the garden, where they die from drought or simply go underground. It was one of those that had gone sub-soil who decided to rear its head last Autumn with the leaves poking up after some rain. Helvi dug up its tuber carefully and potted it. It was given top mulch and some fish emulsion. It got more leaves and soon the first of its flowering buds. It is now in full glory and the picture above is the one.

They grow wild, with many species in abundance around the Mediteranian countries, usually in subdued light and underneath trees. According to some experts, it came originally from Iran’s mountain slopes and spread throughout Asia Minor, then to Greece, Spain and other countries.

They, the original species, could withstand frost of minus 15c. Amazing. On top of all those delightful qualities, it turns out you can not only admire the cyclamen for it’s looks but also eat them. The leaves in Iran are sometimes used to make tea. It makes one almost want to join the Cyclamen societies of which there are many. Perhaps go to a meeting and see what exciting things members come up with in the simple world of the Cyclamen.

The contented tombs

In the world of flowers, there could be nothing more depressing to a cyclamen, or a kalanchoe for that matter,than the popularity of artficial flowers, especially our fondness for those plastic things on graves and tomb stones. Can you imagine the dearly departed, after such difficult and tormented lives, to be further insulted by fading plastic. Even weeds or a gentle dusting by wattle flower would be better. Is it true, that a culture is judged by how we look after our dead?

Plastic homage to our dead.

Anyway, who would have thought the cyclamen would pop up in the Goulburn’s region?

Hope is alive.

Cyrus. Chapter 5, part 4

30 Sunday Aug 2009

Posted by gerard oosterman in Cyrus the Great: Chronicles

≈ 1 Comment

CYRUS

Theseustoo/Astyages

(Continued)

Judgement of Cambyses.

By mid-morning the next day, everyone had bathed and put on their finest clothes just as Cyrus had instructed them and started to gather in the garden of Cambyses’ palace. On their arrival they found that all the wood from their previous day’s work had been used to build dozens of large bonfires, spaced at almost regular intervals all around these extensive and beautifully landscaped palace gardens. Over these fires dozens of whole cattle, sheep and goats were already being roasted on spits turned by attentive servants; all provided by Cyrus, who had personally sacrificed them himself; working since before dawn beside his own servants, and harder than any of them, to prepare this feast.

In the huge ovens of the palace kitchens, countless loaves of flat, un-leavened bread and all kinds of cakes and other delectable sweetmeats were being baked; and, when they were ready, laid on platters on nearby tables ready for Cyrus’ guests to help themselves; while other platters were carried off by servants who circulated with them among the crowd, offering them to the guests.

Soon Cyrus’ servants began to circulate with huge trays of bread and honey-cakes and silver platters, piled high with pastries while others were filled with freshly-carved slices of deliciously roasted meat; offering their treats and titbits to all of Cyrus’ guests, regardless of their social positions. Other slaves carried goatskins of wine and similarly, they circulated among the crowd, keeping the wine-cups of their guests constantly filled as they ate and drank and generally amused themselves.

At first the poorest of the people thought that they would have to wait until the end of the banquet to beg for food as they usually did in their ritual guise as beggars, whose social purpose and function was to cleanse banquets of pollution which may have been generated over the course of the evening, by taking it upon themselves. Such pollution was usually transferred to these human ‘scapegoats’ or beggars, who were often nicknamed ‘killjoys’ or ‘the scourge of banquets’, in the form of small gifts of scraps of food and drink, or occasionally small coins; in return for which, these beggars also performed a priestly function; for to beggars especially was given the power of calling down the blessings of the gods upon the host and his house-hold.

Yet they were only too keenly aware that, although they were tolerated at least to the extent that they were thus fed, more or less, where they might otherwise have starved; yet apart from a few notable exceptions no-one really liked these beggars; they paid for their livelihoods by virtual ostracism, relegated as they were to society’s margins. Indeed, beggars were often feared; for the hand that blesses can also curse. They knew that they were tolerated merely for their services as ritual cleaners; and they were only too painfully aware that another method of transferring pollutions to them was via the medium of blows. Thus, as a means of survival, being a beggar or a scapegoat was not without its own dangers.

But when these poor people eventually realized that this banquet was as much for them as for anyone else, and that they need not fear violence from anyone, instead of waiting for scraps they began to help themselves enthusiastically to all the most tempting food and drinks with which the servants still circulated; offering them freely to even these poorest of Persians with genuinely warm smiles of welcome on their faces; just as Cyrus had commanded. But these poorest of Persians were only just beginning to recover from their shock at this latest wonder when suddenly their newly-appointed leader, Cyrus, climbed up onto a small, raised platform which he’d had constructed for just this purpose, and once again started to address them:

“Fellow Persians” he began, “today’s task is quite different from yesterday’s! Today, you are all to recline on the grass; eat and drink your fill and make merry. Enjoy yourselves until your hearts are content! Let the air be filled with revelry and laughter; and let joy be unrestrained! Musicians, strike up a tune, and play merrily so those who wish to may dance and sing!”

Cyrus’ guests did not need any further bidding but fell to with a will and soon the air was filled with the sound of music and laughter as some danced and sang for the amusement of their fellow revellers while still others merely ate and drank enthusiastically, reclining at their ease on the soft grass as if they hadn’t a care in the world. Thus they spent the whole day, enjoying the warmth of the sun and the absence of toil.

Not one of them thought to ask themselves why Cyrus had sacrificed so many beasts just so they might feast and enjoy themselves so pleasantly.

*** ***** ***

Greek mythology

By late afternoon the feasting had slowed down a little; the musicians were now playing slower and more melodic tunes as the guests began to tire of their exertions in their dancing and began to relax on the grass to quench their thirst with more wine; a luxury hitherto known only to the noblest of Persian aristocracy. Amid the continuing scenes of revelry Cyrus had a trumpeter play a brief fanfare in order to get the crowd’s attention. Then he addressed his guests once more:

“Friends! Fellow Persians! I have a question for you! I want to know which day’s work you all prefer? Today’s or yesterday’s?”

With a brief look at the other guests around him, a large, well-muscled man in his mid-thirties took it upon himself to be spokesman for the whole crowd; he stood up and with a deep laugh, began to speak:

“My Lord, the contrast is indeed striking; yesterday’s work was everything that is bad; full of toil and hardship; today’s work is everything that is good; nothing but enjoyment and pleasure!” As everyone cheered to show their agreement to this last proposition, he continued, “I think I can safely say that I speak for everyone here, when I say that we prefer today’s task to yesterday’s!”

This was immediately and enthusiastically greeted with even louder cheers and shouts of general agreement and even more applause from the crowd. With an indulgent smile Cyrus let them continue to cheer for a few moments before holding up his arms for quiet as he began to speak again:

“Men of Persia, this is how things are with you: If you choose to listen to my words, you may enjoy these and ten thousand similar delights, and never condescend to any slavish toil; but if you will not listen, then prepare yourselves for unnumbered toils as hard as yesterday’s. Now therefore follow my advice, and be free! For myself I feel that I am destined by Providence to undertake your liberation; and you, I am sure, are not inferior to the Medes in anything; least of all in bravery. Therefore I say to you, revolt from Astyages, without a moment’s delay!”

The multitude cheered and applauded again; louder even than it had for its spokesman; demonstrating its unanimous and wholehearted approval of everything Cyrus’ had said; for the Persians had long been growing weary under the tax-burden and the levies imposed upon them by their overlords, the Medes. Indeed, each year it was getting harder to meet the king’s ever-increasing demand for tribute and troops, so they were in any case just about ripe for revolution; all they had needed was a leader; and now that they had found one, they were all overjoyed.

Yet among them there was one man who did not share the general enthusiasm. He was one of Astyages’ spies; and as he listened to Cyrus’ intentions, he was so horrified by his speech that as soon as he could he quietly slipped away from the feast, unnoticed by anyone, while the revellers were still cheering loudly for their new master. As soon as the spy was off Cambyses’ property and out of sight of the revellers he broke into a run and, as fast as he could, he soon left the city gates behind far him and headed for the King’s Highway; the quickest route to Media; to report this new development to Astyages.