textfiles/magazines/CYBERSENIOR/cybersenior.4.2

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	* THE
	* CYBERSENIOR
	* REVIEW
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VOLUME 4 NUMBER 2 (#13)                   JULY 1997
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The CyberSenior Review is a project of the Internet
Elders List, an active world-wide Internet  Mailing
List for seniors. The Review is written, edited and
published by members of the Elders  for  interested
seniors worldwide.  Contributions  from  non-Elders
are welcome. Please query one of the editors first.

Contents  copyrighted  1997  by the Internet Elders
List and by the authors. All rights reserved by the
authors.  Brief  quotes permitted with attribution.

The editorial board of The CyberSenior Review:

Elaine Dabbs esudweek@mail.usyd.edu.au
Pat Davidson patd@chatback.demon.co.uk
James Hursey jwhursey@cd.columbus.oh.us

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CONTENTS, Volume 4, Number 2, July 1997 (#13)

EDITORIAL by Elaine Dabbs

THE GOLDEN MILE by Hadassah Bat Haim
     Hadassah finds kilometres much less poetic than the 
     humble mile.

WHY ECUADOR? by John Davidson
     John eloquently answers this question, describing
     his trip to the cities, jungle and rivers of this 
     most interesting equatorial land.

THE DOGS OF LANE COVE by Roger Sharland.
     Lane Cove's fierce dogs feast on lamb chops from the 
     sky in Roger's whimsical tale. True, he assures us.

KILLING TIME a poem by James Hursey

==============================================================

EDITORIAL
by Elaine Dabbs

A warm welcome from your CyberSenior Review Editorial Board to 
new members of our Elders List, most of whom came to us after 
reading Pat Davidson's excellent article published in Saga.  You 
will find that belonging to the Elders List engenders a feeling 
of a worldwide community.  We acquire new and interesting 
friends, further our education and find that global borders have 
disappeared.

Our Review informs and educates, and in this CyberSenior Review, 
firstly read Hadassah's "The Golden Mile", an account of the 
confusion caused to those of us who were educated in our early 
life with such indisputable and memorable facts, for example, 
that 1,760 yards equals one mile.  A world of chaos results when 
we try, in our later life, to picture in our minds the distance 
of a kilometre.  A kilometre!  What a vile word!  We know how 
long it takes to walk 'a mile', to drive -- in fact the very word 
just rolls off our tongue.  So, what should we do about it?  
Start a world-wide rebellion, peaceful of course, but nevertheless 
forceful.  Let's start right now?

Our next article takes us to Ecuador, where John Davidson and his 
wife Louise had many exciting adventures.  Ecuador seems to be so 
remote.  If we cast our minds back to reports of life in our own 
country, say just early last century, John's description of 
"streets so filled with peddler's stands and pedestrians that 
cars simply could not get through in the middle of the day" would 
be no different from life that existed then.  Yes, there would 
have been a fascinating mix of people, from the elegantly clad to 
the beggars.  I'm mindful of reading about life in Melbourne in 
the early days of the gold rush -- 1850 -- when the streets were 
paved, not with gold but with mud.  But, against all this, John 
tells us that there in the background were wonderful/awesome/
stupendous mountains. As with other parts of the world, people 
used to live in the valleys but, whether it be the Catholic 
Church, the Spanish, or just development, we all get crowded out.  
Thank you, John, for reminding us what luxury we enjoy with paved 
roads, bridges and warm houses.

It appears that Roger Sharland, in his "Dogs of Lane Cove" has 
been an avid television viewer of 'Animal Hospital', which is 
being screened here in Sydney at present.  The scene Roger 
describes, that is dogs that are thin and cruelly confined, is 
just what our RSPCA (Royal Society for the Prevention of Cruely 
to Animals) investigates in this series.  I live within sight of 
Lane Cover National Park, which was devastated by bushfires just 
a few years ago, and where feral dogs and cats abound.  These 
animals have been let loose by neglectful owners and roam within 
the Park where they kill native animals.  Maybe those very dogs 
that Roger fed with juicy/mint jelly/crackling lamb chops were 
freed there.  Perhaps the bushfire destroyed the remains of 
Roger's chops high in the trees when it raced through Lane Cove.

To finish this Review, JimH has written a fascinating poem, 
"Killing Time", delightfully pointing out that we are free to use 
time as we please.    A very thought-provoking idea. How true, no 
one can dictate what we do with it, and there's plenty of it for 
us to use.

==============================================================

THE GOLDEN MILE
by Hadassah Bat Haim

Having been brought up to reckon in pounds, shillings and pence, 
it took me a long time to reprogramme myself to one hundred pence 
to the pound instead of two hundred and forty.  Twelve pence to 
the shilling and thirty pence making half a crown seemed more 
natural somehow than calculating everything in units of ten. 
Americans had less of a cultural shock as they always used the 
metric system and you even, with your intimate connections to 
Europe, had some knowledge of grams and milligrams. 

By European, I do not of course mean British. Though Britons 
never deny that their land is part of the continent of Europe 
there is still a distinct feeling of "them" and "us". When we 
talk of the capitals of Europe, we are not referring to London 
and however we are pressed to amalgamate, there is a gut feeling 
that maybe Mrs. Thatcher was right to be cautious. Someone who 
instinctively knows that two gills make a  pint and that eight 
pints equal a gallon, does not easily come to terms with litres.

Those of us who are old enough to have these indisputable facts 
printed on our minds are often nostalgic for measurements of 
distances which are hard to dislodge from our subconscious. 
Twelve inches to the foot, three feet to the yard, five and a 
half yards one rod, pole or perch, words romantically connected 
with fishermen. Mention these terms to a computer whiz kid and 
you will no doubt be referred to a sports shop.  They are also 
ignorant of the fact that two hundred and twenty yards make a 
furlong. Very few people today, even college graduates of today, 
know what a furlong is, nor do they care that with eight of them 
you make a complete, exact mile,

The poetic mile. It has a special appeal to it beyond its common 
usage. It conjures up vistas, far horizons.  It brings pictures 
to the mind. Robert Frost felt it when stopping by the woods at 
night. "I have promises to keep and KILOMETRES to go before I 
sleep." Would he not have scorned to put that down in his 
notebook?  It is cold, mathematical, no mists surround it.  The 
great Longfellow would certainly have been Poet Laureate if not 
for that unfortunate misunderstanding in 1776.  Proof of this 
lies in the compulsory learning by heart the whole of "Hiawatha" 
by all British schoolchildren. Would he have waxed so lyrical 
about that red blooded Pilgrim hero, if his name had been as 
unharmonious as Kilometre Standish?

Literature is redolent with references to the elegiac mile. "How 
many kilometres to Babylon?" Perish the thought. The Walrus and 
the Carpenter would never have walked on a kilometre or so. 
Firstly it doesn't scan, secondly, there would not have been time 
for all the little oysters to get out of their beds into the 
feast.  A kilometre is only five eighths of a mile, quickly 
traversed. They would not have been able to wash their faces, 
never mind clean their shoes.

That crooked man, known in most nurseries, would never have found 
that crooked sixpence because nothing rhymes with kilometre so 
that splendid example of his tolerance, living as he did with the 
crooked cat and mouse in the crooked house would not have been 
passed down to inspire us. 

The Scots, sentimental to a man, though largely incomprehensible 
to those born south of the Tweed, had the mile firmly fixed in 
their vocabularies. Often it is the only word recognised by the 
desperate Sassenach.  Consider this by Robert Burns:

'A mile an' a bittock, a mile or twa,
Abune the burn, ayont the law
Davie an' Donal' an' Charlie an' a'
An' the mune was shinin' clearly'.

It would not have been seemly for him to write "four point five 
of a mile or twa" and I respectfully submit that were he still 
writing, the suggestion would have dismayed him. "Oor Rabbie" 
(Nothing to do with Jewish theologians) the rebel, the 
outrageous, the ultimate romantic, the passionate lover, could he 
have promised his "luv", the one "like a red, red rose", to come 
back to her if t'were one hundred and sixty thousand kilometres?  
He would not have been buried in Westminster Abbey after that 
abomination.

Probably there will soon be ten hours to the day, ten days to the 
week and ten months to the year.  The moon will wax and wane in 
ten nights, and the sun will scamper round the earth in one 
hundred days. I shan't wait for that and for the present I shall 
cling to my beliefs that sixteen ounces make a pound, fourteen 
pounds a stone and sixteen stones a ton. It is so logical, so 
precise and so easy to remember.

==============================================================

WHY ECUADOR?
by John Davidson

"Why Ecuador? " seems to be the first question Louise and I get 
asked about our recent trip. The factors that were involved were 
my interest in the high Andes, the crafts, a Spanish colonial 
civilization built upon Inca and Indian ruins, and the jungle. 
Also, it was cheap because of its poverty, and we had a Spanish 
speaking friend (Kay) who had been twice and wanted to go again. 

We knew we couldn't see (or enjoy) everything,  so we narrowed 
our visit down to three cities: Quito the capitol, Cuenco a major 
colonial city, and Banyos a resort community in the mountains and 
noted for its thermal springs. The headwaters of the Amazon and a 
canoe trip on the Napo river, and a visit to the famous craft 
market of Otavalo were also included. In addition we just had to 
get to the equator monument and shake hands with each other 
between the Northern and Southern hemispheres. To me this was a 
sort of nonevent since it is only an imaginary line. However the 
museums and shops there were worth visiting.  

We started at Quito, the capital (elevation of 9400 feet) because 
that is where Continental Airlines lands. It is a long day from 
Seattle via Houston and Panama. We left Seattle in the rain, 
landed in Quito in the rain and had rain at some time almost 
every day for the next two weeks in Ecuador.  

The most scenic part of Quito was the old city founded in 1534 
by the Spanish, but built upon Indian and Inca sites existing 
long before that. The Spanish buildings are still there and in 
use.  The churches were magnificent but the stories of the 
church's exploitation of the natives were very cruel. The streets 
were so filled with peddler's stands and pedestrians that cars 
simply could not get through in the middle of the day.  
 
We stayed in a newer part of the city in a two story hostel, with 
a pleasant courtyard. We had a modern bathroom except a sign next 
to the toilet said to put the toilet paper into the waste paper 
basket (the sewer system can not handle the paper). This was hard 
to get used to. Our room was about 30 dollars for two of us but 
hotel rooms were cheaper outside the capital.  

The mix of people on the streets was fascinating: business men 
with cellular phones, shapely secretaries in mini skirts, 4-foot 
tall natives who were permanently stooped from the loads they 
carry and barefoot in any weather, beggars and a variety of 
native costumes. Court yards have ten foot tall poinsettias, 
humming birds and orchids. By chance we drifted into a coffee 
shop called "The Magic Bean" and met seven people from Seattle. 
The pull of the volcanic mountains and white water rivers is 
pretty strong to a Northwesterner.  
 
Even though we were in the capital we were warned about the tap 
water. It is unsafe to drink and the hotels provided bottled 
water. One also sticks to cooked vegetables unless you are 
certain that "Bac-Stop " has been used on them. Even ice cubes 
are dangerous.  
 
Our next stop was the old colonial city of Cuenca, at only 7755 
feet. To get there we flew south from Quito, down the "avenue of 
the volcanoes". It is the only view we had of the high peaks, 
because they stick through the clouds.  From the ground they are 
almost always hidden.  Cuenca was the site of an Inca capital of 
the area, but they only had it 100 years before the Spanish 
arrived in 1530 and destroyed everything within 15 years. We 
visited a site where structures for the Indian era, the Inca 
occupation, and then the Spanish are adjacent.  
 
Cuenca is a service center for a large agricultural area and is 
much less hectic then Quito (except on market day). We stayed in 
a hotel that was a remodeled colonial townhouse. It had two 
lovely court yards which all the rooms opened on to.  
 
The day we got there was the day for the local farmers' market. 
We walked to the square where it was held and were almost 
overwhelmed by the noise, smells, and seeming confusion. It was 
sobering to realize that many of the sellers had left their homes 
at 3 am to carry their produce on their backs to the market. A 
sight I will never forget was a man with a switch herding five 
young ducks through the meat section of the market so that the 
ducks could eat scraps from the side walk.  
 
Cuenca has its share of old churches, which we explored. Our 
second day we rented a taxi to go to the "Reed" Lakes we had 
heard about where the farmers made islands of reeds and farmed on 
them. There was a communication breakdown and we ended up in a 
nature preserve at about 13000 feet of elevation. It was on the 
route of the old Inca trail leading across the mountains.  

The next day was the first of many bus trips. They all seemed to 
take about six hours and cost 3 dollars per person. Some people 
had to stand the whole time. We went over the backbone of the 
Andes to get to the eastern slopes. Much of the time was in dense 
fog which is probably perpetual. The highest areas, with little 
agricultural potential were grazed by the peasants who used to 
live in the valleys. They were crowded out by the Catholic Church 
and the Spanish. When they couldn't pay their tithes their land 
was forfeited to the church.
 
Our destination was Banos which is only 5900 feet high. It is on 
a narrow bench above the gorge of the Rio Pastaza. It is a resort 
town noted for its hot springs and a mild climate. We rented a 
taxi to take us to nearby attractions including a new conference 
center on a high ridge above Banos. We did a lot of walking in 
the town and found another watering hole for displaced Seattle 
visitors. Our accommodations were excellent for only a few 
dollars a night. Our dinner on one evening was at a remodeled 
town house which featured a guitarist and a maestro of pan pipes 
and various types of wooden flutes. They were going on a United 
States tour shortly and I bought a CD from them. The music is 
unbelievably mellow and haunting.  
 
Leaving Banyos was complicated by having the road down to the 
Amazon Basin under reconstruction and it was only open one day a 
week. Our friend Kay called it the "road through hell".  The road 
is on a narrow shelf cut into nearly vertical cliffs with the Rio 
Pastaza maybe a 1000 feet below. The guard rails were gone and 
the road bed was a sea of mud. Some people on the bus insisted on 
getting out and wading through the mud a half mile to get past 
the worst place. The bus went slowly, dodging earth movers, and 
when we saw another bus we had to back down around a curve to 
where we could pass. Louise just hid her head and wouldn't look 
out. We were only inches from the edge and I was worried that the 
bank would give way.  
 
Like all things, the bad part ended and we finally arrived in a 
jungle town that had been a staging area for oil development. The 
land developers were now there and they were building a four lane 
lighted boulevard through the town with streets laid out for new 
homes. The jungle here had been largely logged and little farms 
had taken over. Our destination was the town of Misahualli on the 
Napo river. The taxi to there was a pickup truck on a single lane 
track through the jungle. Louise and I sat in the back, leaning 
against our packs. She had been so provident that she had packed 
a Sprite bottle with vodka in it in the outside of her pack. We 
broke it out in the first kilometer of our 28-kilometer trip. The 
scenery was exotic and the vodka helped cushion the truck bed.  
When we arrived the little hotel had rooms for us that were 
adequate, cheap and clean.  
 
The next morning we were outfitted with life jackets and rubber 
boots and set off down the Napo River in a dugout canoe powered 
by an outboard motor. Because of upstream rains the water had 
risen a meter overnight and the rapids looked fearsome. At one 
point the bottom grated on the rocky river bed. Water sprayed
 over us frequently and I decided that I wouldn't need to go 
rafting after this. We landed in three hours at a jungle 
clearing. I caught my rubber boot when stepping ashore. The boat 
lurched sideways and I was in the river with my shoulder bag 
swinging forward to get dunked. I scrambled out, wet and 
embarrassed. 

The guide had arranged demonstrations of animal trapping, blow 
gun use, and a two-hour trek through the jungle. Mud was knee 
deep and tried to suck your boats off. There were many 
demonstrations of jungle lore. I leaned against a tree and got 
stung by a fire ant. I said something to our guide about it and 
he looked around and selected a tree. After tapping on the bark 
he cut a slit and gathered some of the juice on his machete. He 
spread it on the ant bite and the pain was gone and never came 
back. He then picked up a little ball of mud and carefully 
pressed it into the slit in the tree bark. He said that now the 
tree would not suffer from the cut.  
 
After a big jungle cooked lunch of chicken and fruit (and Pilsner 
beer) we climbed back in the dugouts for another three hours 
going back upstream. The river had continued to rise and it was 
fast approaching 6 p.m. when it suddenly gets dark. The boat had 
no lights and none on the shore. I was beginning to worry, but 
then I recognized a small river just below our landing. By the 
time we unloaded it was dark. To me that was cutting it too 
close.  
 
The next day it was pouring rain and we had to double up in the 
pickup "taxi." My wife rode on my lap for 28 kilometers to the 
town of Tema where we got a bus to Quito.  
 
Our last adventure was to take the bus north of Quito to the 
craft center of Otovalo. They have a Saturday market that is 
famous for the variety and quality of the crafts, particularly 
woven and knitted fabrics, leather goods, and wood carvings. We 
spent the day looking and haggling. We bought most of our gifts 
to take back. We saw a notice about a cock fight and we decided 
to take that in too. It was a very slow process with everybody 
looking at each new contestant before they were put in a cage 
near the ring. Most of the roosters were crowing while waiting. 
The referee carefully wiped with alcohol the claws and the metal 
spurs attached to their legs. His last step was to squeeze some 
alcohol on their beaks and into their mouths. The first two ended 
their fight when one rooster went down in a submissive posture 
and could not be provoked out of it. The second fight was furious 
with feathers and blood scattered in the ring. The loser was 
killed very suddenly and carried out. That was enough for us.  
 
The following day we rented a taxi for the day and went to the 
small villages in the area each one with a special craft. There 
was a whole village of leather makers and you could buy a leather 
jacket for 20 dollars. I only bought a belt. We had the taxi take 
us back to Quito. We paid 11 dollars each for the taxi for about 
eight hours of driving and waiting.  
 
The trip back to Seattle was as long as we had remembered, and it 
was still raining.

=================================================================

THE DOGS OF LANE COVE.
by Roger Sharland.

If you ever go to Australia you will soon see dogs.

Everywhere you will see dogs, you will see cattle dogs, sheep 
dogs, pet dogs, and society dogs all poofed up no end.    You 
will see working dogs, trained to follow the horse, trained to 
herd, to drove.  Dogs born and bred in the tough hot brown 
country.   You will certainly see stray dogs, everywhere you 
will see stray dogs.    You will see watch dogs tied up in 
backyards as sentinels.  Dogs trained to guard.  Wild savage dogs 
that would undoubtedly kill a trespasser -- a cat, a possom, a 
human.

There were five such ferocious dogs in a backyard across the 
service road at the side of my flat in Lane Cove.   They roamed 
in their stark compound bounded by wire and a high wooden paling 
fence.  They were as thin as thin could be.  So hungry that they 
surely would have torn an intruder limb from limb.   They barked 
all day and most of the night.  The only way I found to stop the 
barking was to throw them food.  To throw them chop bones. 

Now I am sure that every dog in the world likes chop bones -- 
lamb chop bones, cooked and served with a slight trace of mint 
jelly and a little crispy crackling.  Given a chance a dog will 
devour a lamb chop bone morsel by morsel, crunch by crunch, until 
there is nothing left but licking and a few spots of grease on 
the grass.

No dog that I have ever known will refuse.  The dogs of Lane Cove 
were no exception. They did not know from whence the bones came.  
Never did I attempt to feed them through or over the fence for 
fear of losing my hand, my arm. I was also in fear of the owner 
who would no doubt suspect some foul deed by me, foul poison, 
deadly bait, and surely call the police.

My flat was high on the second floor and the verandah overlooked 
the road and then the yard. If my aim was good I could throw, 
miss the branches of the gum trees and have a juicy chop land 
out of the sky in the centre of their barren enclosure. At first 
they were suspicious, but soon the biggest dog tore into the best 
helping.

With careful aiming I was able to feed them all. Unfortunately 
some bones lodged amongst the branches and leaves of the gum 
trees.  They are probably still there. Some bones fell on the 
stony road below underneath my window. You see I was careful to 
stay concealed inside my flat again for fear of the savage owner.  
I also feared that my exploits would come to the notice of the 
other tenants who would no doubt accuse me of fouling their 
living space with stinking lamb chop bones.

It was lucky that no bones fell on the verandah below.  It was no 
mean task aiming those bones out the narrow gap in the patio 
window, clear of the curtains.  A good swing was essential.  Such 
was the distance and the required velocity, to miss meant an 
enormous splodge of fat and mint sauce on my pristine living room 
wall.  I did not feed the brutes every day.  I did not attempt to 
do so if their master was in sight and the beautiful scrap bones, 
marrow and all, were dumped unceremoniously into the gigantic 
sink disposal unit in the kitchen to be destroyed as waste.

I don't suppose that anyone is feeding the poor animals now. 
Perhaps after complaints to the local council about the noise or 
representations to the Public Health the creatures have been 
muzzled, cruelly bundled into trucks and taken away and shot.

Maybe around the great campfire in the sky when they are lying 
calm in the glow and warmth they will converse, they will talk, 
as I am sure dogs do, and they will talk of many things. Perhaps 
they will tell their cobbers of crispy lamb chops from out of the 
sky, from heaven.

'Tis a true story.

================================================================

KILLING TIME
by Jim Hursey

Sometimes, I'll admit, I'm not up to it,
Just don't feel like doin' a thing,
Just sit and stare in my rocking chair
And hear the mockingbirds sing.

You'll say that I'm just wasting time,
Frittering these hours away.
Where all of it goes, Lord only knows,
But it's my time, is all I can say.

Don't have a lot, time's all I've got,
I'll do with it whatever I will.
Not quite sure how, but it's my time now,
And I've got plenty of it to kill.

And killing time's not really a crime,
Don't shed for it your tears,
I guarantee it -- the way I see it -- 
Time's been killing me for years.

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end cybersenior.4.2