Sahara Daze-3

South from Tamanrasset

15 minutes

A Tuareg on his camel

At the camp ground in Tamanrasset there was a group of five Italian junkies who had decided to hitch-hike across the Sahara to get off heroin. Tamanrasset is the southernmost town in Algeria, sitting almost in the middle of the great desert. In 1972, the town was small with just one or two cafe-bars, and a few shops on the single boulevard, a baker or two, a small municipal market, some government offices, a military base and an air strip.

The Algerian government had a policy that a few basic items would be sold at the same subsidised price everywhere in the country, so that a baguette, or a tin of sardines in Tamanrasset cost no more than it did in Algiers. As we were almost 2,000 km south of the Mediterranean, everything else that was brought in was very expensive. I had left England with about £150, and had been on the road for five or six weeks, so in order to stay solvent as far as the coast of west Africa, I was living on baguette and tinned sardines from the government shops, and the small onions, tomatoes and dried dates from the market. There was a tap with cool, clean water in the small camp-ground just off the boulevard, where a few other hitch-hikers and the occasional overland driver rested before moving onto the next, most difficult, section of the desert.

When I arrived in the camp-ground there was no one going south with a vehicle apart from a Frenchman, Jacques, who was waiting for a part to fix his car. Tamanrasset is on the edge of the Ahaggar, and visiting these wonderful eroded mountains rising to almost 10,000 feet, had been the reason I’d changed my travel plans and not gone down the coast route through Mauritania.

https://www.petitfute.co.uk/v41839-tamanrasset/guide-touristique/photos.html

Some good desert photos near Tamanrasset

Tamanrasset

I made a trip to the heart of the Ahaggar, where I camped for several days, then returned to Tamanrasset to find a ride south.

Ahaggar mountains

Tamanrasset didn’t feel like the desert. It wasn’t even an oasis, more a French military camp with a small dusty town attached. The Italian junkies were still looking for a ride, and Jacques, the French psychologist, who had been at the camp when I first arrived, was still waiting for his part. He was travelling alone in a Renault 4L, and had broken his back axle 100 km north of Tamanrasset. He’d spent 3 weeks stuck in a tiny mud-walled Tuareg village before getting towed into Tamanrasset, where he had been waiting another two weeks for a replacement axle to be flown in. Every day I wandered over to his campsite and practised my lousy French, gradually learning his story, and sharing mundane information about our families and work. I was quite happy to discuss the number of my sisters, and the distance between my house and Trafalgar square, and learn about his own sisters’ children, their ages and names, and how many miles his town was from Paris, as any communication improved my French. I did slightly wonder what was in it for him. I had hoped for a ride south with him, but he’d already committed to giving a ride to a local who knew the route.

After about ten days, with no sign of a ride south, things were getting pretty dull. There was a small turnover of travellers in town, as some people flew in from Algiers for a week, and some overlanders had reached their journey’s end and were planning on returning north. The Italians found a ride with a pair of Land Rovers and made a deal to take them all. They left one morning, and the camp ground was now almost empty. I was beginning to think I might have to pay for a place on the next truck south, but I still really wanted to hitch-hike across the Sahara. One night wandering in the administrative district, I found a small bar with tables under tamarisk trees, and ended up drinking with the head of immigration. Having bought me several drinks at the end of the night, he told me, very drunk, that he enjoyed my company, and wouldn’t give me the necessary exit permit to leave town, as he wanted to keep me around to talk to. I didn’t know how seriously to take this, but it didn’t look good.

The next day, walking on the boulevard, Jacques screeched to a halt in his Renault 4L. “On y va” (Let’s go!), he said. His vehicle was fixed and his passenger had changed his mind. If I wanted a ride, I had to leave with him, Now! I plead for 20 minutes to make my arrangements, and ran to the government store and bought a dozen tins of sardines, six long baguettes, and half a dozen two litre bottles of water, then back to the camp to throw my kit and a kilo of dates I’d bought earlier into my backpack, while Jacques hovered impatiently.

It was about 1,000 kilometres to Agadez the first town in Niger. We were on the main route across the Sahara, but this next section was largely roadless, and there were at most several vehicles a week. Jacques drove out of town at almost 100km an hour, and nearly left the gravel road on the first turn. He had already lost six weeks waiting for a replacement axle. It looked like he might now easily roll the car. I pulled out my small English/French dictionary and tried to translate “more haste, less speed.”

Jacques drove on into the afternoon at a barely moderated speed, braking sharply for the occasional sharp dips, then accelerating again. After an hour we were flagged down by the Italian junkies and several others, standing by two Land Rovers. They had broken down in the desert and the two drivers had hitched a ride back into town on a passing truck to get spare parts. They had been left two days earlier, and were almost out of food and water! Jacques filled up all their bottles from a jerrycan, and I gave them a couple of my bottled waters, a couple of baguettes, some dates and tins of sardines. We didn’t stay long. Jacques took off at speed and we tore along the gravel track for another hour, until a great hole appeared ahead of us. Jacques jammed hard on the breaks, and the roof rack slid down over the bonnet. We careened to a halt, running over the roof rack. “Dégueulasse!” said Jacques. I was to hear this word a lot from Jacques, and learned its meaning in context of one cock-up after another.

We got out and found that several of the fuel and water containers were punctured and draining into the desert. “Dégueulasse!” again. Fortunately, Jacques had a spare roof rack (!) and so he set about assembling it. I have the vivid memory of bedding down in my sleeping bag in the completely flat gravelly desert, and watching the sun sink in the west as a full moon rose in the east. As I fell asleep, Jacques began the assembly, following IKEA like instructions. Attache un a deux. I woke as the sun rose and the full moon sank into the west and Jacques was finishing up the roof rack: attache trente quatre a trente cinq. I took it for granted that Jacques had spent the whole night building the new roof rack. We put it on together, reloaded the remaining fuel and water and tore off again.

Desert Reg, with hills behind

Soon the rough track ended, and we were driving across a gravel plain following a couple of sets of tire tracks. The tracks were made by overloaded ten ton trucks, and were far too deep for us to drive in. But we drove easily alongside the truck tracks, sometimes making our own ruts and sometimes staying up on the hard surface. This is the desert pavement (known as reg) that covers much of the Sahara. Jacques continued to drive at a great speed, occasionally crashing into small hollows he hadn’t time to brake for. As we drove, suddenly the ground would be harder, and there were no tracks to follow. As we were driving so fast, we were instantly in a trackless wilderness. We would drive until we came out of the hardpan, then swing right and left looking for the truck tracks. Sometimes we found them quickly, sometimes they were not to be seen. As the desert was flat and featureless, and we were speeding across it and sweeping from side to side, when we got lost it was very hard to know which side of the tracks we were on. We might easily have strayed a mile or more off track.

Occasionally we got bogged down in soft sand, and had to dig out. As there were only several vehicles a week on this trans-boundary section of the route, and often they convoyed, it was possible to not see another vehicle for a week. Worse, if we got a couple of miles off the track, and then broke down, we wouldn’t necessarily be able to hail a passing vehicle as they’d be too far away. There were too many tales of lone vehicles getting into trouble, and in the previous winter an American couple with their two children had broken down and they had all died. The advice was strongly against travelling in a single vehicle.

Sometimes Jacques would have an idea which way to go, when we lost the tracks, sometimes he depended on me. All this done at a mad rush. We had troubling minutes as we swept back and forth across the desert looking for the route. When I had absolutely no idea which way to go, which happened several times, I would say, “A gauche,” keep left, on basic political principle. Fortunately with this technique we always found the tire tracks again. But, driving so fast over the rocky ground, we were getting a lot of punctures, and had to stop several times to change tires. Each time we stopped we also used up a lot of water refilling the radiator, which boiled dry in no time. Jacques had three spare tires, and soon we had used two. Then we had to use the third and so no longer had a spare. It is hard to keep track of distance in a largely featureless desert, but the mileometer said we should be at the border. The one piece of information I had was that when you see the border flag, don’t drive straight at it, as there is a sand trap right in front of the border post. After a harrowing hour, with no spare tire and a growing fear that we had missed the border, a kilometre or two in front of us was the flag. “A gauche!” I said, but we were already in the sand trap, and so Jacques applied his universal answer to all problems, and gunned the engine. We began to slither and we were quickly losing momentum. Jacques gunned the engine again, and we slithered on until we found solid ground and picked up speed. Phew. We pulled into the border post, a most lonely looking affair of a few adobe buildings, a barrier and a giant flagpole. This place was so isolated that, rarest of situations, the border police were very happy to see us and welcoming. Fortunately, the post had a tire repair service, but no spare petrol, so we would need to get more somehow.

After we had completed formalities, filled our water containers from the well, and waited an hour or two to get three punctures repaired, we set off into Niger. This was the most isolated 500 km of our journey, with the next several hundred kilometres again roadless, and Jacques planned on doing it in two days. We went through a section where there was nothing growing, and no features of interest, just a great expanse of flat gravel desert. I amused myself by looking for an entirely featureless place, but was unable to find it. The closest I got was a place where there was no tree or shrub or other feature on the vast plain, and an entirely flat horizon for 340 degrees. Then, far off, three low rises covered 20 degrees of the horizon. Here we got another puncture. When we had replaced the tire, it was dark and we spent another night out.

The next morning, the car wouldn’t start. I watched as Jacques took the lid off the carburettor and cleaned out several table spoons of sand that had gotten inside. When he put the carburettor back together and turned the key, the engine coughed. After a few tries it burst into life and we took off again, to a morning spent stopping to replace punctured tires and refilling the radiator between short bursts of speeding. Suddenly, a tiny village loomed out of a desert haze. There was a well with a small settlement around it called Tegguidda-n-Tessoum. We pulled up and stopped at a low mud wall near the well. Goats, and camels were herded up to water at the troughs, which were filled by buckets from the well. The map said the well was ‘salines/salty’, and Jacques didn’t want to bother to fill the water containers. We were using a lot of water refilling the radiator several times a day, and we were drinking a lot too. I managed to get across in my poor French, that if we don’t need the water it wont matter that it’s salty. And, if we do need it, we wont worry that it’s salty. After filling up the couple of empty jerrycans and returning to the car, we found that another tire had gone flat. We had again run out of spares.

Astonishingly, within an hour a large truck pulled up, and Jacques hitched a ride to Agadez. He took the four flat tires, and two empty containers for petrol. I stayed behind to look after the car and our stuff.

Three days at Tegguidda-n-Tessoum, salt mine and watering hole.

As Jacques drove off, I was surrounded by a great sense of silence. I walked around the small settlement, the only one for a hundred kilometres. The village was a dozen simple adobe houses in small compounds, with three foot high walls that, ignoring simple geometry, wandered far off a straight line as they rose and fell. There were some bleached bones and a sardine can or two stuck along the top of the walls.

At the well, herds were watered in the morning and evening by pulling a goatskin bucket up from the deep well and pouring it into a series of troughs. Sometimes a camel was used to pull up the bucket, sometimes a donkey. Herds of goats, donkeys and camels were watered in a cacophony of bleating, and lowing. After the herds were watered, they were led away and a great silence fell. Beside the village was a salt mine where several men washed the sand to produce discs of sandy salt. Over the next days, several herds arrived and watered. One morning, I woke to an eerie sound and getting up saw a large herd of donkeys being watered in the dawn mist. A camel caravan arrived bringing food (millet, beans, maize, cheese and dried vegetables) and other goods to trade for the salt, which was only used for animals as it was a yellow colour and 50% sand.

This is a detailed description of the Tuareg salt trade, with excellent pictures

http://www.bradshawfoundation.com/africa/tuareg_salt_caravans/index.php

As the days passed, I lived through a combination of awe inspiring sights and sounds and lethargic boredom- the essence of low-bagging travel. There was a small shop in the settlement, in the front room of a house. There were just a dozen or so things on sale: biscuits, combs, batteries…

After three days, a VW bus arrived but neither of the Germans spoke English.

“Friend, Agadez” the driver said, and gave me the four repaired tires and two jerry cans full of petrol. OK, I thought, he’s left it to me to drive the car to Agadez. It would be the first time I’d hitch-hiked with my own car!

I put one spare on the car, and loaded up the other three spares, and the jerry cans of water and petrol, and went to say good bye to my hosts in the village. When I came back to the car, the Germans were nowhere to be seen, as I drove off into the afternoon. After about 25 kilometres, I saw a woman walking alone across the desert towards me. I stopped and asked her in my poor French where she was going, but she didn’t understand, and replied in another language. She had a small bag on her shoulder and a metal teapot of water balanced on her head. I thought, she couldn’t be going far, there must be a settlement nearby, so I turned around, and offered her a ride, expecting to soon see a nomad camp. We drove for a while, and I tried to understand where she was going. In 45 minutes, I had driven all the way back to Tegguidda-n-Tessoum.

I stopped 500 m from the village and dropped her off- as I didn’t want to get caught up in further goodbyes. There was a tremendous whistling and hollering, but I ignored the noise, turned around and drove back into the desert. After an hour or so, the engine spluttered to a halt. It was now late afternoon, and I got out and propped open the hood. The radiator was boiling over, so I carefully took off the cap, dodging the fountain of boiling water, and after a number of blowbacks, got most of a jerry can into the radiator. The car still wouldn’t start.

The only thing I knew about was watching Jacques clean the carburettor. I got out the tool box and found a wrench to take off the nut on the carburettor and remove the cap. It was full of sand. I fiddled with a teaspoon and managed to remove most of it. Putting the carb back together I dropped a nut into the engine. It pinged, and fell through into the sand below. It was now almost dark. I looked under the car, but decided that if I looked for the nut in the dark, I’d bury it for ever in the sand. I rolled out my sleeping bag and got in. As I fell asleep, I had a short panic. If there was a sandstorm, or even a strong wind in the night, I might have real trouble finding the small nut when I got up.

I hoped I wasn’t saying “Dégueulasse!” myself in the morning

Next Onwards to Agadez, if the car starts.

Rajas, Palaces and Tiger Hunting

The guest palace in Bobbili

Tiger, Tiger, Burning Bright

15 minutes

At the end of 1963, I had got as far as Calcutta, hitch-hiking from London. Exploring the city, I was walking down narrow winding streets when I saw an imposing Victorian building tucked in behind a wrought iron fence. The gate was open, and I went into the short driveway. Shrubbery filled the narrow space between street and tall gothic windows. The front door was wide open, so I poked my head in to have a look. A large hall with a high ceiling was filled with trophies of numerous animals: rhino, buffalo, antelope of all kinds, a lion or two. I was fascinated and went in to see better. Walking towards the great wooden staircase, I saw to my left a long, high-ceilinged side room, where numerous tiger heads snarled from the panelled walls. I explored further. Each tiger was labelled: My First Tiger, My Second Tiger, My Third Tiger… My Tenth Tiger, My Twentieth Tiger, My Thirtieth Tiger…. God, this man had killed a lot. A large photograph showed the maharaja on Shikar with the Governor General of India. A team of elephants stood in a forest clearing, each with several people on top. I continued along the line of tiger heads. Other photographs showed rows of elephants, hunting camps, a line of fine cars bristling with nabobs and sahibs on shikar. Soon, I found: My Hundredth Tiger, My Two Hundredth Tiger, My Three Hundredth Tiger. Damn and blast, he was the perpetrator of mass murder. The last one was My Three Hundred and Thirty Seventh Tiger. A holocaust of tigers.

As I gazed in wonder, and shock, at the extent of the killing, a servant arrived, dressed in a white suit with a small red turban, and asked me politely to leave. I wandered out from this vast mausoleum of wealth and carnage into the bustling streets of Calcutta. Streets filled with people many barely able to eat.

Another Great Hunter

An unwanted block.

Tiger Hunting in India

An interesting, but long, tale of an American general tiger hunting in India in 1924 with the the maharaja of Surguja, the top tiger hunter in India at the time with 250 kills. Perhaps it was his palace I’d stumbled upon.

https://www.nationalgeographic.com/news/2014/8/140803-tiger-hunt-1924-india-maharaja-safari/

Last ride to Bobbili

After Calcutta, I met up again with Geoff, at the Gurdwara in Bhubaneswar. We’d run into each other several times in Sikh Gurdwaras where travellers are given a mat and provided food twice a day. But after a few more days travelling together we decided to go our separate ways. So, leaving Geoff waiting by the roadside, I’d set off walking down the highway alone. Half an hour later, a 5 door Toyota 4×4 pulled to a stop. The front passenger got out, put his driver into the luggage area in the back and took over driving. I sat next to him in the front passengers seat. As we drove off he said, “Your friend is a funny man, he told me not to stop for you!”

I looked over my shoulder, and saw Geoff in the back seat, squeezed in uncomfortably next to a mountain of luggage. The new driver, told us he was the MP for Bobbili, returning to his constituency. He was an animated and interesting conversationalist and after an enjoyable hour or so, he asked if we minded him popping in to see his sugar cane crop. “Last year I won the All India sugar cane competition” he claimed. “My cane was 22 feet high!” This year he hoped to beat last years crop and win again. I had seen quite a lot of sugar cane growing, and it was usually six or at the most eight feet tall.

“That must be the world record,” I said.

“No, the Cuban’s have the world record,” he said, “24 feet.”

I took this with a pinch of salt. Half an hour later, we drove through iron gates and past a barn full of modern farm equipment into a large field, where a dozen field workers were beginning to harvest sugar cane which towered far above our heads.

He spoke for ten minutes to his farm manager, who had come up to the vehicle. As we left, he told us that he was very happy, this year his sugar cane was 23 feet tall, and one field was still growing.

We returned to the main road and he asked us if we would like to visit him in Bobbili. Finding that it was 50 miles off the main road, I said it might be difficult getting back hitch-hiking.

“Don’t worry, I will give you money for your bus fare back to the main road.”

As we drove he asked us what we would like for dinner. I said I’d be happy with anything. He listed off an amazing feast of a dozen dishes! When we arrived in Bobbili, there was a market on the main street. He drove rudely through the crowd, actually pushing people out of the way with his jeep. He said. “They don’t understand, they are stupid.” I could see that the people were aware of our vehicle, but weren’t moving out of the way due to a sullen dislike of the driver, or at least of his rude behaviour.

It was now dark, and we pulled up to a set of great wrought iron gates, which were opened by two uniformed, turbaned servants, and drove up to a vast building. “This is almost palatial,” I said.

Standing on the steps, was a tall man in silk robes and a large turban, with a vast jewel set in the front (OK, the jewel is just possibly a false memory), accompanied by a woman in an exquisite sari and surrounded by several younger women in silk saris, and retainers holding parasols. Our host got out and a servant let the driver out of the back. He took over the wheel, turned the vehicle around and left the gates. “Who is he?” I asked the driver. “He is the Camaraja (the eldest son of a raja) of Bobbili.” We drove for five minutes to a large dark building where he dropped us off. Here we waited for ten minutes until several servants came, opening the large doors and showing us into a vast dusty entrance hall. We were taken upstairs to a long room, with a dozen single beds in a line, and shown the next room with a dozen commodes lined along one wall and a dozen basins along the other. Lamps were lit and and a large table brought into the room. We sat amazed, sitting in our own guest palace. After an hour six servants carried in an astonishing feast. A whole roast chicken, chicken curry, lamb cutlets, lamb curry, fish curry, omlette, bhindi bhaji, aloo sag, dal, biriani, chapatis and fresh mangoes. The twelve dishes listed by the Camaraja. It was one of the best meals I’d ever eaten.

We slept well, and in the morning, getting up a little late, we were served a breakfast of Roast chicken, chicken curry, lamb cutlets, lamb curry, omlette, bhindi bhaji, aloo sag, dal, biriani, chapatis and fresh mangoes. This was exactly the same meal as the night before minus one dish. After a pleasant meander around Bobbili, we returned to find lunch had been brought. Roast chicken, chicken curry, lamb curry, omlette, bhindi bhaji, aloo sag, dal, biriani, chapatis and fresh mangoes. Geoff and I discussed this odd situation. We decided that the servants had only got instructions once as to what to serve, and were reducing the list by one dish each meal. This suggested we were good for a few days yet. So, we enjoyed the next couple of days, relaxing, washing our clothes, writing postcards and exploring the town. In our wanderings, we met a retired government official who told us that we were on the road to the vast Bastar forest, with its tribal peoples, the Muria. The Muria were famous for the Gotel, a place where all the single people lived until marriage, and where they sang and danced. We wanted to go visit, but there were tales that the Bastar forest was also home to numerous man-eating tigers, and especially of one that had already eaten 250 people!

On the third day after a lunch now reduced to chicken curry, omlette, dal and chapati, we were walking a little ways out of town and saw another palace a ways from the road. Walking closer, we were called over and there sitting on the verandah was our host the Camaraja. He was entertaining a fellow Camaraja from a neighbouring princely state as guest in his new guest palace. He enquired how we were doing, and we thanked him profusely for his hospitality, and mentioned our readiness to leave on the bus. He said he’d send his agent over that night after dinner. Geoff and I had a discussion on what dish would be removed at the next meal: we thought the omlette.

As we ate our dinner of chicken curry, dal and chapati, the Camaraja’s agent arrived and gave us each an envelope with 20 rupees, courtesy of the Camaraja. And so, next day after a breakfast of chicken curry and chapati we set off, not back to the main road, but onwards to brave the man-eater and visit the Muria of the Basta forest.

[Apologies for the formatting problems- hard to find time to fix it on Christmas Day]

Next: Hiding from the man-eater of Basta!

The International Academy of Hosiery Studies (Hackney)

Conference 2020

The Lost Sock: Approaching a New Paradigm

Call for papers

15 minutes

The International Academy of Hosiery Studies (Hackney) takes great pleasure in inviting members and associates to its first conference: Reconstructing the Paradigm; the existential recuperation of the gestalt of the uncovered foot.

There will be an exhaustive series of talks and papers on numerous aspects of hosiery, and specifically its unexplained absence. All our work will explore this profoundly topical subject from an historical, cultural, philosophical, post-modernist, Marxist, and literary perspective.
The loss of a sock is both a profound moment, and a mundane interlude. For some it may even be a transcendental experience.

Papers will explore imagined foot coverings, by engaging with stories of remembered socks. Indigenous elders will share tales of long house and campfire. The lost sock will be explored as catalyst for conflicts in an unredeemed consensus. What can this simple foot covering say about the cultures that made it necessary? Has this slight foot artefact surreptitiously subsumed the discourse? Taken over the gestalt?

We will look at historical contexts and cultural responses to sock loss: from the existential challenge of notions of performative contrition to unexplained euphoria in rainforest sock loss rituals. What can we discover about meaning and purpose from contemplating this universal condition? Is it a sock lost or a sock retained? A half pair full or a half pair empty? Contributions of papers are solicited from the academic community, the arts, individuals and other interested parties. Papers will be selected by a panel of potential experts.

Note: Due to the Coronavirus pandemic, the prestigious biennial conference of the IASS (Hackney) will this year be carried out by Zoom.

Academic papers need be from 2,999-3,000 words, and contain exhaustive citations. However, anecdotal presentations, multi-media, live music, film, poetry and the plastic arts are also solicited, without size limit. Papers and video pieces are particularly sought from performance artists.

A list of the papers reviewed by the selection committee includes:

Postmodernist studies

A pair of socks: The violence of a hetero-authoritarian construct

Lady Godiva: A history of protest against male domination of the female foot

Whose sock in my sleeping bag? A critical rereading of On The Road

Sock loss in a time of coronavirus

Socks in the city: Understanding television’s most popular series

[More papers urgently sought]

Mathematics

Euclid’s breakthrough on the triangle- The incompatibility of three sided constructs and paired footwear

The topology of lost sock coordinates; the x, y, p conundrum

Philosophy

Can a sock be ever truly lost?

Descartes “I have two socks therefore I am”: The limits of a philosophy based on the merely temporarily possible

Historical research

Sock pairing in the Tudor court

The Opium Wars from the perspective of 21st century Hosiery Studies

The Texas book depository and the missing sock

The Odyssey from the perspective of more recent research into Aegean sock cults

Sock loss studies and the Domesday book

Lenin’s lost sock: a psycho-analytical examination of the Bolshevik revolution

The Stalin Effect: Purges in the Soviet Sock Academy 1931-35

Social studies

Losing a loved one: Sock loss within post modernist theory, a re-evaluation

Suburban isolation as a metaphor for separated hosiery

Line drying techniques and their influence on rates of sock loss

The sock as a symbol of place

Changing attitudes to sexuality: The status of the male sock versus the female sock

Stockings: Are they socks? A feminist perspective

A charity to reunite separated socks- a forlorn hope?

Comparative Hosiery

Ghost socks- The diminished role of the god of lost socks in sandal wearing cultures

Did Jesus wear socks?

St Francis of Assisi: a life determined by early experiences of sock deprivation?

The Apocrypha and lost references to the covered foot

Attitudes to unpaired socks in New Guinea Cargo Cults

Hosiery and the Protestant revolt

Socks in the 18th century Welsh chapel

Brain sciences

Lost socks, poignant memories and delaying the onset of dementia

Psychology

Socks in the mind: Missing footwear, memory and nostalgia

Children with a single sock: How early experiences of sock deprivation may affect development

Sock loss anger: Performative influences on life expectancy

Education

Understanding sock loss- a key stage in childhood development

Sock loss studies – has it a place in the national curriculum?

Has the growth of Hosiery Studies aggravated educational inequalities?

Parenthood

With no siblings to blame, do single children lack emotional outlets for sock loss?

Information Technology

The Sock’s Odyssey: The sock matching game storming the on-line world

The search for a sock matching app: can social media reunite our hosiery?

Reuniting tagged socks: Is the world’s computational capacity up to the task?

Universal sock tagging and privacy: A price worth paying?

Department of Language, Literature and Linguistics

Poetic images of the covered foot in early Arab literature

Lady Chatterley’s Lover- images of part-covered feet in the unexpurgated edition

Captain Ahab and the role of hosiery in the tale of the white whale

Pirate literature: The peg leg as a symbol of unmatched hosiery

Absence: Sock loss and mourning: an existential perspective

The singled stockinged foot: Depiction of the half dressed female foot as a indicator of imminent sexual activity in Victorian art

Daffodils as a symbol for a foot covering- reassessing Wordsworth’s work

Biological sciences

Do socks mate for life?

Examples of foot covering in the Bonobo of the Congolese rainforest

Sock loss rates on the Beagle: A neglected aspect of Darwin’s breakthrough on evolution

Business studies

When Marks met Spencer: Combining differing attitudes to hosiery into a twentieth century icon

When Pri joined Mark: Offshoring and the disdain for socks as a symbol of certitude

Coronavirus

Can unpaired socks replace face masks?

Social Distancing as a catalyst for divergent hosiery?

Lock-down, laundrette closures and libertarian attitudes: considerations for a review of external factors on median sock loss rate theory

Politics

Donald Trump: Has he lost his sock?

Were losses on the NY Sock Exchange the reason Donald Trump lost the presidency?

Brexit

EU hosiery policies in the run up to the referendum

We also expect papers by fellows of IAHS

Architecture

Dr Jonathon Spoon PhD: Designing Space for Loss: Architecture’s failure to remove hidden spaces destined to shelter lost socks

Transportation

Anorak: London Transport Lost Property: Fluctuations in rates of sock loss, and their historical implications

Ranching

Dr Bill Pillman, rancher: Reducing sock loss and increasing profitability on marginal ranch land

Conspiracy theories

Dr Hu Yu Luk: Did coronavirus start in the Wuhan sock market?

The London Sock Orchestra will perform a specially commissioned piece Requiem for Socks of Yesteryear

Simon Waters FMOSC, Conference Lead; Emeritus Professor of Hosiery Studies

IAHS (H)

Merchandise

https://shop.bfi.org.uk/national-film-theatre-socks.html

https://www.redbubble.com/shop/film+socks

Partners for Life

15 minutes

I once said to a long standing climbing partner, ‘We’ve spent some of the best days of our lives together’, he looked at me with surprise, paused for a few moments and then replied, ‘You’re right we have!’ A climbing partner shares some of our greatest moments: the excitement, the fun and the sheer fear of a day on the rocks or a week-long climbing expedition. Together, you decide what’s possible, and set off into the vertical unknown with complete dependency on each other. I have had some brilliant climbing partners who I’ve climbed with for many years. I have also climbed with complete strangers and novices. But bosom buddy or new found partner, you have each others lives in your hands for the duration of the climb.

One almost infallible rule is that you don’t climb twice with an unsafe or irritating partner. However this is somewhat contradicted by the second rule: if there is nobody else to climb with you climb with almost anybody. Even when on a climbing trip with a regular partner, you sometimes need to climb with a stranger, if for example you have agreed to take some beginners out for the day. You also have to find a new partner if you want to climb on a rest day, or if a hung-over partner needs sleep. One reason to enjoy the company of a novice (if they show common sense and basic skill), or some-one who climbs less well than you, is that you get to do all the leading, which is the ultimate thrill and satisfaction. Also, you are entirely in control of the adventure and can enjoy full responsibility; not only for yourself, but also for your partner. Each climber is responsible not only for their own safety (and enjoyment) but for their partner’s as well. In particular, the better climber is responsible for the safety of the their less experienced partner.

I usually climb with partners at or near my level of experience. This means having to accept that I will follow half the pitches. If I lead the most difficult (crux) pitch on a multi-pitch climb I feel I’ve really done it. If I follow a route, a rope stretching above me for safety, I don’t feel as great a sense of satisfaction, or even that I’ve really done the route. On the other hand, if I don’t get the crux pitch on a long multi-pitch climb, on a fine mountain, in perfect (or dubious) weather, with stunning scenery on perfect rock, I am man enough to handle it.

I also enjoy a day’s top roping, if for example I’m in a new area and learning the rock, or trying stuff that’s way too hard for me to lead. It’s also sensible to top-rope when you are coming back to climbing after a break, or climbing with a novice who isn’t safe to leave alone and out of sight at the bottom of a climb. Or for that matter, just for a relaxing day on the rock. However, a really good day’s climbing involves a combination of a great partner, fabulous rock, a new challenge, hard climbing, a particularly interesting route or routes, a high level of adventurousness, and surmounting a real challenge. The quality of the experience depends on a combination of these factors. The more there are the better the climb. Getting to lead the crux is the icing on the cake. Though a bland partner would not take the edge off a brilliant and hard new route, an irritating partner might.

Climbing in the mountains in uncertain weather is both common and a great cause of doubt about the outcome, and about the safety and advisability of the venture. Learning to effectively deal with variable weather conditions is a key part of mountaineering and a large part of the thrill. Then there is also the adrenaline factor. I did not do a massive amount of mountaineering, because in dodgy weather on dubious rock far from the road and with a question of whether the route can be done by dark, and doubts about the descent, the adrenaline demands are massive, and almost continuous. I remember once climbing in the Cascades in Washington State with Bill. We were doing the second ascent of a route that Bill had done the first ascent on. After two days hiking in and then ten hours of approach and serious, steep climbing without a break, Bill arrived at the belay, hanging five hundred feet up a vertical face, and speedily took the remaining gear off my harness, then took off in barely two minutes. ‘Bill, we haven’t stopped all day’, I moaned as he left. ‘Welcome to alpine climbing’, said Bill succinctly. When I have successfully completed one hard, isolated, mountain rock route, my adrenaline reserves are pretty much depleted. Following that 14 hour push, then cooking in the dark until 10pm, Bill wanted to do another climb the following day. I needed at least a full day off, and in fact was more than satisfied and happy to return to a restaurant meal and a few beers the next night. My adrenaline had more or less run out.

With roadside or easily accessible rock climbing, the calls on adrenaline are limited to the harder pitches. Each burst of fear and excitement is followed by the relaxation of sitting overlooking the view and bringing up your partner. In fact, probably the greatest pleasure in climbing is sitting on a ledge, feet hanging over the edge, enjoying the relief of having survived. This is made especially poignant if your partner struggles to follow you on the pitch, and even more so if they fall onto the rope. In fact a little understood rule for a good partner is the importance of flailing, and better falling, on a pitch that has challenged the leader. Climbing a hard pitch is in some ways harder for the second climber. Knowing you have a rope above you makes it much harder to apply the complete focus necessary for success when you are at your limit. Worse, attempting a really difficult pitch as the second usually follows a long period of stress and discomfort, encouraging the leader and preparing to hold a fall. It also includes a crick in the neck. While you battle ineffectually, the leader has the satisfaction of a rest, legs over the edge, watching you flail up something they’ve already done. However, one satisfaction in fighting up a ferocious pitch as second is you can fulfil your duty to your partner by making it look even harder than it is. Here a slip onto the rope is a sign of good style, rather than the contrary, as it reinforces the self satisfaction of the leader and removes any lingering doubts they might have as to their performance. This is an essential if the leader fell, but also a sign of generosity if the leader didn’t fall. Falling twice is rather pushing the requirements of a supportive partner. An inability to complete the pitch and plaintive cries for a ‘tight rope’, and worse yet ‘hold me,’ and demands for a strong pull up on the rope, are generally considered to be overdoing it.

Roadside cragging allows you to experiment with harder climbs, as the cost of failure is so much less. A slip on a crag may lead to scrapes and bruises, and nobody wants to get injured. But if you do have an injury help is near at hand. Even a sprained ankle hours from the top of a long route, with a difficult descent to camp and a full day from the road is a major disaster. A good partner knows both when and how to encourage you to outdo yourself, and also when to counsel restraint, and caution. A good partner is also generous with praise and liberal with commiseration. As explained above there are times when it is more satisfying that your partner fails on a key move, however there are far more times where it is essential they succeed.

Like most climbers, I have usually wanted to do the crux of a great climb. I have had partners who have had very different approaches to choosing who does the crux. Some are very competitive, some less anxious to do the crux, and some are generous in offering it to their partner. My long time partner Graham used to hide a rock in one hand and let me chose. ‘Let the rock decide’ he would say. Whoever got the rock got the first pitch, and that would decide who got the crux. But given that climbers ebb and flow in their courage and conviction, there are many times when the choice of who gets the crux is simple- it’s who wants it.

I have had excellent, much appreciated partners that I only climbed with. We usually had a few beers or a meal after a climb but rarely met otherwise. Other partners were already, or became, good friends, and I enjoyed their company both on longer climbing trips and away from climbing. Having a careful and attentive partner can mean much more than whether the day is enjoyable. Twice I’ve been climbing on a multi-pitch climb and belayed on a tiny ledge when my partner unclipped themselves without realising it. If they had now leaned back, they would have fallen to their death. I instantly leaned across and clipped them back in. The first words of one of these two were not ‘Thank you!’, or ‘Oh my God!, but ‘Don’t ever tell anyone!’ I never have. But I still remember the moment, and the person vividly. Who the other person was I’ve since forgotten!

I am sure that someone has done the same for me, quickly clipping me back in, and saving my life,but oddly I can’t remember when or where! This strikes me as instructive in a number of ways. We quickly forget the danger, fear and pain of climbing, but remember the pleasure and entertaining incidents. In fact, I am sure that a selective memory is a precondition of becoming a climber. The number of times when I’ve said, ‘If I get out of this alive, I’m quitting climbing’ is reasonably large. But, once the feet are on the ground, or bum on ledge, the ecstasy of surviving, the rush of surplus adrenaline, no longer needed for survival but infusing the brain with satisfaction instead, feeds further desire. A good example of this instant turn around can be seen on the crag most days. A climber struggles up a pitch, they get into difficulty and lose their self control. A rash of bloody curses rains down, fear and frustration hover over the scene like vultures above the flailing climber. A fall seems inevitable, but somehow the climber hangs on, makes the move and reaches safety. The next words are classic, as the climber sits, legs dangling over the edge to bring up their partner. ‘Great pitch! I really enjoyed that!’ rings across the crag. This is so common as to be commonplace, and shows that the forgetfulness bug is a general condition of the climbing fraternity.

A final note on the climbing partner. Who would willingly go climbing again with a second who shouted up ‘Come off it, you were miserable on that pitch!’ A collective amnesia about failure, and happy memories of success and pleasure, a safe approach, as well as a desire to go for a pint afterwards. These are the basic requirements for a good partner.

Yukon Adventure

The Alaska highway and the Klondike

20 minutes

Hitch-hiking up the Alaska Highway through northern British Columbia in 1975 with my girlfriend Lake, we indulged in wonderful Deaf Smith County peanut butter sandwiches and handfuls of sprouts that we grew in bottles as we travelled. Hitch-hiking was easy. Though there wasn’t much traffic, most people with room would stop. We had the occasional meal at the infrequent cafes. The food was pricey, perhaps twice the price of the food in Alberta, but the portions were twice as big, and the food was wonderful. We would split a vast bowl of home-made soup with a great chunk of home-made bread and butter, followed by a massive slice of delicious home-made pie and ice cream. I’d been working in Edmonton for much of the summer, so I had not had much summer fun. But, I had not saved much from my 8 weeks work and Lake had less, and so we were quite broke. We stayed by the road in my $5 emergency tube tent –which was simply an eight foot long plastic tube, open at both ends, that I strung between two trees with a piece of parachute cord. Where we found fire pits, we started a warming fire, which also drove some smoke into the tent, and cut the insect attacks.

A typical healthy meal in the Klondike

I had bought a fishing rod in Edmonton, and caught a delicious rainbow trout in a lake in the Rockies, my first fish, a great meal for two. (It was 15 ¼ inches long, I still remember!) My plan was to feed us fish for the rest of the trip, but even though I stopped every day and fished, I never had any luck. I’d talk to other fishermen, all along the Alaska highway, and learn what was the best lure for the local conditions, then continue on. I’d stop and buy another lure (they were on sale at every shop, cafe or gas station). Again, I’d catch nothing, because I always had the best lure for the previous spot, never for where I was.

It was early September when we got to Whitehorse, capital of the Yukon Territory, and it was already getting chill for camping. We went shopping for warm clothes, as we intended to continue up to Dawson city and see the Klondike, site of the infamous Yukon gold rush. We went into an old-fashioned hardware come outdoor supply store and asked if they had any Long-Johns. They produced some thin cotton ones at an enormous price. I told the woman serving us that we were camping, and planning on going north to Dawson city. I described our limited supply of warm clothing and asked if they had any woollen Long-Johns and she said they hadn’t had any wool ones in for years.

“They’re so much warmer,” I said. “Not the mixed fibre ones, but the thick woollen one’s everybody wore thirty years ago.”

“Wait a minute”, she said turning to her husband, “John, what happened to that box of woollen Long-Johns we had in the attic?”

Her husband went off to look, and came back with a dust covered box, which on opening was filled with the classic, old fashioned, extra thick, yellowed wool, neck to ankle underclothes, with a row of buttons down the front. There was a thick dust line down the top piece.

“They’ve been up there for over twenty years,” he said, “what made you think of them now?”

Perhaps it was pity for us poor, and clearly under prepared, hitch hikers with our cotton clothing, and ambitious plans to camp. We picked out a pair each and asked how much. They were marked with a price from thirty years earlier as they’d been old stock when they were put away. But they honoured the original price, so they cost less than a quarter of the almost useless cotton Long-Johns. When I put them on the next morning, they itched horribly, but the weather had turned colder, and they felt delightfully warm in the cutting wind. They were the warmest clothing I’d ever owned and after a few days I hardly notice the itch, at least not most of the time.

From Whitehorse we left the Alaska highway, which continues more west than north, and took the Klondike highway for 500km as it heads more directly north, generally following the Yukon river. Again the food in the occasional cafes was excellent, and the portions vast. Many of the people we met were genuine characters, and they were interested in us and our adventure. Many told us of their own first summer in the Yukon, even if it had been many years earlier.

Dawson City is a very small town with perhaps a few hundred summer residents and many thousands of summer visitors, but it has a tiny winter population. The tourist season was almost over, but the museum was open as was an ice cream parlour and a good cafe. An actor dressed as a sour dough played the poet Robert Service, who had written during the Klondike gold rush. He came out from the old post office several times a day and entertained the tourists with stories from the gold rush and recited his brilliant poems, such as The Funeral of Sam Mc Ghee.

There are strange things done in the midnight sun By the men who moil for gold; The Arctic trails have their secret tales That would make your blood run cold;

The Northern Lights have seen queer sights, But the queerest they ever did see Was that night on the marge of Lake Le barge I cremated Sam McGee.

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/45081/the-cremation-of-sam-mcgee

Dawson creek had had a population of 30,000 during the height of the Klondike gold rush in 1897/8, but had soon declined dramatically, when gold was discovered in Alaska. Here we met a young miner from a camp near town who boasted that he made the best sandwiches in the world from the camp food, and invited us back to try them. He drove us the 40 miles to a modern mine further down the river. He fed us for 36 hours on the most fabulous sandwiches, each one six inches thick and containing a most delicious and varied mix of meats and salads, and bought us numerous beers in the camp bar. While he was at work during the day, we walked the few miles down to Forty Mile on the Yukon river, where a half dozen uninhabited log cabins ranged along the river bank. Here we met an American couple who had spent the summer travelling down the Yukon on a rubber raft from Whitehorse and had planned to continue into Alaska. But the woman was pregnant and they were abandoning their journey. The raft was about twelve feet long, and covered in multiple patches. It had two paddles: one a rough handmade job, as they’d lost a paddle en-route. I bought the raft and their less transportable supplies for $20.

We returned to Dawson City and bought several bicycle patch kits, and supplies for ten days. We were warned that it was dangerous to be out on the river, as moose hunting season started the next day. This was worrying, but all we could do was buy bright orange vests, and hope for the best. Hitching back to Forty mile we spent the night in one of the row of abandoned cabins by the river. Two cabins down from us, two hunters got noisily drunk, then one of them started shooting round after round across the river from his cabin window. This went on and on, and we spent the several hours cowering under our window sill, the gun blasting away. It was a horrible feeling, realising that any fool could show up with a gun, and seemingly endless ammunition, and shoot at random. Next day, we heard the two hunters, badly hung over, arguing loudly. Then they packed up to leave. The shooter had used up all their ammunition and completely ruined their hunting trip. This was a frightening warning of the danger of being on the river during the Moose hunting season.

After the mad shooter had left, we loaded up the raft and put out onto the vast, brown, fast moving river. As we pushed off into the current in the much patched rubber raft, I had the strange and unpleasant sensation of my stomach dropping into the bottom of the boat. We were poised on two inflated pontoons. If one of the two pontoons burst, our clothing and supplies would be dumped into the river and we’d have to swim and push the raft to an unknown shore with dubious chances of a quick rescue. The Yukon flowed really fast, with a frightening power, but at least there was no need to paddle as we moved along at a terrific pace.

We were heading into the vast north, which was both exciting and terrifying. There were just two settlements until we reached the arctic circle. We had some kind of a map, but no real idea where we were on it once we had travelled for an hour. The banks were covered with trees, as we moved through what seemed like an endless forest. We carried on until the late afternoon, then paddled for the densely treed shoreline looking for a campsite. I strung our eight foot plastic tube between two trees and we made a fire and cooked dinner. The black flies and mosquitoes were voracious, and after an evening of fending them off, we retired into the tube, with absolutely no protection against the mosquitoes which whined in our ears all night. Lake was particularly troubled by bites.

Our limited larder required that I use my new fishing rod and provide us with at least some of our dinners. However, I didn’t catch a single fish in spite of a daily hour or more casting from the bank and many hours trolling as we swept down river. In fact the only things I hooked were the trees behind me, frequently, my shirt at least once, and most horrifyingly, just below my eyelid. I was alone when that happened, and had to make my way a hundred yards back along the densely treed shoreline to the camp, to get Lake to unhook me. On one of these fruitless excursions along the shore, I met a moose at very close quarters on the densely wooded river bank.

After a couple of days, we thought we would cross the border. Lake was laying naked in the warm September sun, and I wanted to cross the border naked too, so I stripped off my shorts. and we carried on into the late afternoon. I was expecting some kind of sign on the shore at the border, but as the sun dropped it got suddenly cold and we needed to put on clothes, so we stopped and camped. Next morning, immediately after putting in the water, we turned a bend and there was Eagle, Alaska. So, we had not only crossed the border the previous afternoon naked, we had crossed the US border naked and unawares! Or is that naked and unbeknownst.

Eagle Alaska is tiny. We pulled in to the shore and asked a passer by where we could register and were told to go to the post office, but it was closed. We went for a walk around the small community until a man cycled up to us rather frantically with his shirt hanging out below his uniform and asked if we were the tourists who had just arrived. He took us back to the post office, which doubled as the immigration office, and stamped my passport. He asked me how long I wanted to stay and I asked for a month as the winter was on the way. He said, “are you sure you don’t want three months?” For some reason I refused and settled for a month. Lake was for abandoning the river trip at this point and carrying on by road, but I was set on continuing to Circle Alaska and crossing the Arctic circle. We had pie, ice cream and coffee in the cafe, and after some persuasion, Lake agreed to continue down the river.

We spent days of idyllic travel, floating on the great river, with no effort. Sometimes we had beautiful vistas of low hills with their deciduous trees turned bright yellow.

Fall colours on the yukon river

The days were consistently sunny and we snacked, lazed and read as we moved along silently, but swiftly. But the nights were a hellish torment from the mosquitoes and blackflies in our open tent. I had a scare when I went for a dump. Getting up afterwards, I had no idea which way the river was. I imagined getting hopelessly lost and panicked for a moment. Calming down, I carefully marked my place and took three short sorties, returning to the spot, then trying another direction until I saw the river through the trees and felt my heart stop pounding.

A day or two later, we saw a hunting camp by the riverside and paddled over. Three middle aged American moose hunters were sitting around a camp fire and we shot the breeze for a while, until one asked me if I’d like a beer. I sure would. It was a beer I’d never tried, called Hamm’s, and I was sure it was the best beer I’d ever drunk. With a little patience, I kept the conversation going long enough to get offered another beer and then we were on our way.

By now, Lake was really having problems with the blackflies and mosquitoes, and her arms were swelling up. We had to make it to Circle, and get away from them. However, there was a bit of a problem. Before Circle the river divided into numerous braids. We had to make sure that we kept to the left and didn’t get on a channel that bypassed the town. As we had just one good paddle and the raft was hard to steer, this was going to be hard. We carried on for several days, and started to worry we had missed the town. The evenings were more and more painful, being bitten on top of swollen arms and necks. And our supplies were almost out. If we missed Circle, the next stop was many days later at Fort Yukon. After a worrying day or two, we saw a settlement. We paddled frantically and made it to shore before we were swept past.

Unfortunately, Circle is misnamed, and is south of the arctic circle. It was one of my ambitions to cross the arctic circle, and to do it by boat would be a coup. So I was for stocking up again and carrying on, but this was met with very determined opposition, and so we disembarked after ten days on the river, bundled up the trusty raft, and hitched a ride in a pickup truck, to Fairbanks, Alaska.

The first thing I bought at the corner store was a 6 pack of Hamms. For some reason, it wasn’t as good as I remembered.

Refuse the Cruise

Protesting Cruise Missile Testing in the Canadian North

20 minutes

In the winter of 1984 Jim Bohlen, one of the founders of Greenpeace and then Greenpeace Canada anti-nuclear campaigner; Kevin McKeown, Greenpeace Canada action coordinator; and two others chained themselves to the only entrance to the Cold Lake air force base 150 miles NE of Edmonton, Alberta to protest the testing of US cruise missiles. In 1985 Jim was back again with Kevin, who was coordinating a group of Greenpeace protesters on a road on the missile’s flightpath. Above their heads, suspended a hundred feet in the air by helium balloons, they flew a thirty metre wide net, with the slogan “Refuse the Cruise.” They’d named the net the “Cruise-catcher,” as it pretended it was going to catch the cruise missile as it flew past. Though the winter weather was bitter, a number of TV news crews had come to film the protest. Incredibly, after all the cameras had taken their shots of the protest, the cruise missile flew directly over the cruise catcher, but far higher than planned. Apparently, the military weren’t ready to risk a confrontation with Greenpeace’s high tech defence! None of the TV crews present got this on film as they were so astonished that they just stood and stared in disbelief.

In the mid 1980s, the United States military was permitted to conduct six cruise missile tests each year in northern Canada, whose terrain resembles Siberia. Each winter from 1984, cruise missiles were launched from a US B52 Bomber over Canada’s Beaufort sea and travelled down the Mackenzie River valley, closely following the terrain at just metres above the tree tops to avoid detection. After 1500 miles, they landed at the Primrose Lake test site in the Cold Lake airbase,

Cruise missiles added to the number of nuclear warheads, and encouraged the Russians to develop their own equivalent system. More missiles in turn increased the number of opportunities of a nuclear accident; and made it possible for there to be a ‘limited’ nuclear war. Canada is a non-nuclear weapons nation, and there was wide opposition across the country to cruise testing, but the bitter cold, isolation and short notice before tests meant it was almost impossible, apart from a small local peace group, for people to protest at the base.

Not long before the planned cruise testing cycle in the winter of 1986/87, Jim Bohlen, asked me if I could coordinate an occupation of the test site in time to stop the next missile test. The test would take place sometime in mid January and the temperatures might drop below -40c. We would only have 48 hours warning, so we had to be ready to go at a moments notice. Jim had already found two people to agree to invade the base: Luanne Roth, Greenpeace Vancouver director, and Arne Hansen a Greenpeace volunteer and ardent peacenik. Kevin would be there again to help us get into the base. We were unable to find a fourth person in the time available, so we were limited to a team of three. On the other hand, we needed to have two teams, to increase our chances of getting past the guards and occupying the landing zone, so that they would have to abort the test. It is not safe to travel alone in winter, as a minor accident, or simple carelessness could prove fatal in the bitter temperatures. Hypothermia and frostbite come quickly at extreme temperatures. It is far safer to have a buddy, checking your face for frostbite, looking out for signs of hypothermia, and able to look after you if you become incoherent, or incapacitated.

I had taken two winter survival courses, been on a multi-day dog sled trip in Quebec and camped out by the roadside when hitch-hiking in Quebec in the winter. But apart from hitch hiking, when I slept alone near a road, I had always winter camped with others. I was well aware that it was an absolute rule not to go out in extreme cold alone, and I would not have accepted this risk for any other reason than to do a Greenpeace action. But as we needed to have two teams, somebody would have to go in alone. I couldn’t let anyone else do this, so as the coordinator, and the most experienced in cold weather camping, it had to be me.

I found the best equipment available in Vancouver and bought three very expensive down sleeping bags, three very warm down jackets, mittens, hats, socks, felt lined boots, bivvy sacs, snowshoes and other necessary equipment. The snow shoes were a modern design, with aluminium frames and wide webbing. They were lighter and smaller than the wooden ones I had used previously elsewhere in Canada, and were easier to use as they weren’t so cumbersome. Luanne and I drove up to one of the ski hills outside Vancouver one Sunday and practised with the snowshoes. They were relatively easy to use, though still tricky on a steep slope. Thankfully the terrain in Alberta would be flat.

When we got the news that the airspace used by the missile was to be closed, Luanne and I flew to Edmonton the same day. A local video crew filmed us crossing a snowy field near the airport before dark. When we later went into the test site, this footage was released to the media. After filming, Kevin drove us through the winter snow to a motel in a small town just far enough away from the base to be incognito. Arne was working that day, so he flew in after dark. The next day, Kevin found a road that skirted the base, and after breakfast he took Luanne and Arne to the edge of the base and they set off through the forest towards the landing zone. I stayed back so that I could do a media piece on the phone with Jim Bohlen, not yet arrived from Vancouver, and so that the occupation teams would come from different directions at different times.

After the media call, Kevin dropped me at another spot on the periphery of the base. As I set off through the trees just after lunch, carrying a large and heavy pack, I found that the snow shoes were not doing their job and I sank a foot or eighteen inches into the powder snow with every step. It was exhausting lifting the snowshoe out of a deep hole, trying to balance against the pull of the giant backpack and then sinking deep into the snow again. I realised belatedly that the snowshoes were small because the snow in BC is wet and heavy, and so holds more weight per square foot. And as I had kept our destination a secret when buying the snowshoes I hadn’t realised that they were not appropriate for Alberta’s powder snow. My mistake might cost us dear. I struggled on through the afternoon, and into the fading light, occasionally stumbling and landing on my side or face-planting in the snow. When I fell, I had to wriggle out of the pack’s shoulder straps and belt, leveraging on the pack to regain my feet. After each fall, I had to get rid of the snow that had fallen down my collar, or forced its way up my sleeves. Then poise uncomfortably on the too-small snow shoes, wrestle the massive back pack onto a knee and then up onto my back. Sometimes this caused another plunge into the snow and the process began again. A fall could cost several minutes and was exhausting, worse, it made me sweat profusely. The feel of cold, clammy sweat against the skin was worrying. I struggled to make sure I didn’t fall, but deadwood under the snow occasionally tripped me or low branches caught the towering backpack. In the hours before dusk, I barely made three miles. I was worried about Luanne and Arne, who would also be suffering with the wrong equipment. I hoped they wouldn’t have to turn back. Not knowing if they would manage made it imperative I carried on, so I continued into the early dark. Once it was dark, it was even harder to avoid tripping or catching the pack on a tree, so after another hour or so, stumbling and falling even more often in the dark, I stopped and set up camp. It was difficult to set up a snow camp at night, in the bitter cold and nervously trying to make sure that my light didn’t give my position away. I had a bivvy sac, and struggled to get a couple of sleeping mats and a down bag inside without letting in any snow. Putting on down booties, and brushing off the snow on my clothes, I wriggled into the bivvy sac, and zipped myself up.

You don’t sleep much at below -20 c, but I was reasonably comfortable as snow is soft, and forms to the body. With a fair bit of toe wriggling, leg flexing and hand thumping I kept from freezing until dawn. I must have dozed off, as I woke at first light to the sound of a helicopter circling close by. The tree cover is not very thick in northern Alberta in the winter, with patches of leafless deciduous trees, and I was worried I’d be spotted. The helicopter stayed circling within a short distance of me for some time. I packed up my kit, a harder job than laying it out. Getting a vast sleeping bag back into its stuff sack with mittens on is tricky, so I took them off for a bit. At -20 or so, hands freeze quickly. Forcing everything into my pack also needed a bit of foot work- which required getting out of one of my snowshoes. After a few falls, and curses, I got everything strapped down and set off. I had another 10 miles to go to the landing spot if I was to disrupt the test. I had to get there by 2, and so I had about 5 hours. This didn’t seem likely, but as long as I could get to the general area of the landing zone, they ought to abort the cruise landing until they knew where we were. The key was to not get caught.

After an hour, I came to a large snow covered clearing. The helicopter had moved off but was still audible, so not very far away. I realised that if I crossed the clearing my tracks would be easily visible from the helicopter, if it did a sweep back. And once tracks are spotted they could drop a team who could easily follow the tracks and I would be caught. I skulked in the trees wondering on my best course. I decided that it would be best if one of the teams did get caught- as it would prove we were there! But it was important both teams weren’t caught, as then (if they knew there were only two) they could safely go ahead with the test. I had a small FM radio and was listening to CBC. Our site invasion was on the hourly news. The military were denying there were any protesters in the test site due to their tight security.

I made a detour of the clearing and was better at keeping on my feet than the day before, but still tripped at times, plunging with the ungainly pack deep into the snow. I considered leaving the pack in order to move faster. But, while I could easily see my oversized footprints snaking through the trees behind me, they might be covered if wind blew snow into my tracks. If I hurt myself, a sprained ankle would be enough, I wouldn’t survive the night without my sleeping bag. I had to keep the cumbersome backpack, like it or not. An hour before the planned landing I realised I was still too far from the landing zone, and the media on my pocket radio were reporting as fact that there were no protesters in the test site. I decided that it would be best if I headed out now to inform the media that I had in fact been occupying the testing area – and that a second group that had left earlier was still there. Heading back was much less tiring, as my tracks were now frozen and held my weight, and I got a boost in energy heading for the warmth. I got out to the road in a couple of hours. Kevin had been making hourly passes at the pickup point, and within ten minutes, he arrived with the van and took me back to the motel. I briefed Jim, who had arrived from Vancouver, and the media team patched me in to do numerous live media calls.

I talked to media outlets across the US, countering the military’s assertion that nobody had been in the test site. I gave them details about what it was like hiking through the snow and camping out at -20, how I’d evaded the military helicopters, that the other team was still in there and that I’d come out to counter the military’s lie and let people know we had been actively disrupting the cruise testing. I tried to always bringing the conversation back to the most important points: that we were there to protest the testing of offensive nuclear weapons in Canada, that cruise missiles were a dangerous provocation and that most Canadians objected to the tests. I heard Jim on the other phone telling the media we three were prepared to sacrifice our lives for our beliefs. I was prepared to risk my life, but absolutely wasn’t prepared to sacrifice it! I was kept busy for several hours, but when night fell, we began to get worried for Arne and Luanne- what if they were in trouble? If they weren’t back by …we set a time we’d have to inform the military and suffer the indignity of a military rescue! Kevin and I went back to the rendezvous point, and waited until the deadline. We had almost given up hope, when two very tired people came out of the woods. They’d travelled a lot further than I had and almost got to the landing zone. But they heard that the missile had landed and so had turned around and, exhausted, struggled to get back to the road that night.

Luanne and Arne joined in the media work, and with Jim and Beverly, our media person, we managed to talk to dozens of media outlets across Canada and the US. The military announced they had carried out a successful test and continued to insist that our claims of penetrating their security were bogus. Jim wanted to claim we’d disrupted the test, forcing them to crash, but was dissuaded from doing so.

Two days later, the military announced that the missile had been crash landed 14 km before the landing zone! But by then this was no longer a big story, just a footnote. By delaying their news the military had cleverly undermined the effectiveness of our action. Jim had had the right instincts. Don’t let the liars stop you claiming success! The fact the cruise had been crash landed into the forest meant that we’d effectively disrupted their test, and potentially damaged the flight recorder and slowed the deployment of the missiles. Most Greenpeace actions stop an activity for hours at best. The purpose is to highlight an issue and show activities that are usually too far away, hidden behind fences or otherwise unseen. This action had not only got extensive coverage across the US and Canada, represented the millions of Canadians opposed to cruise testing, but best of all, we had aborted a multi-million dollar murder-missile test.

I have some footage of TV coverage of this action, I will put it up when I sort a technical problem.

Boris and Bill

Greenpeace and the US/Russia Summit in Vancouver 1993

Video links at end of piece.

There had been real hope that when Bill Clinton met Boris Yeltsin in Vancouver on April 3rd and 4th 1993, their summit would lead to an agreement to end nuclear testing. But as the planning for the meeting progressed, Greenpeace Canada nuclear campaigner Steve Shallhorn learned that a test ban had slipped from being potentially the top of the agenda. It was now not even on the list of topics the two presidents were scheduled to discuss.

In 1993, Greenpeace Canada had no action team in the west, and I was hired on contract when an action coordinator was needed. So Steve called me into the Greenpeace office and told me he wanted to do an action to get ending nuclear testing back on the table when the presidents met. We went together to Canada Place, a vast tent-like structure on Vancouver’s waterfront, where the formal part of the meeting would take place. I had previously scouted this building (out of professional curiosity), and had documented how to climb the great cables that held the roof on. But I knew that there would be no way we would get near the building, never mind onto it, when Boris and Bill were in town. We later learned that security around the meeting sites was to be provided by 2,000 Royal Canadian Mounted Police, as well as the US and Canadian secret services. They guarded all access roads; all manhole covers were sealed and all mailboxes and news stands were removed from the area. Whilst it had never crossed my mind to hide in a sewer, or hang a banner on a mailbox, it was obvious that security would be tight.

It was still two weeks before the meeting, so there was no problem walking around the esplanade which surrounds Canada Place. Steve and I looked for a building overlooking it, from which we could hang a banner that would be visible, at least notionally, to the two presidents. There were a number of office towers, but access to their roofs would be impossible, as they might be seen as possible sniper hideouts. Steve pointed out a tall tower half a mile away in the distance with a giant W on the top. It seemed to be the only option, so I went to see it up close. The tower was on top of the Woodwards department store in the down town east-side. The main building was five or six stories high, with a multi-story rectangular tower that rose another twenty metres above the roof top. On top of this tower was a 25 metre replica of the Eiffel tower, with Woodward’s landmark “W” installed on top of it. The W lit up at night and revolved to advertise what had once been the top department store in Vancouver. The front of the store was on a busy shopping street, but behind the store was a much quieter street, with a multi-story car park from which a three story bridge crossed to Woodwards. From the roof of the car park I could see that we could walk across the roof of the bridge and get onto the store’s fire escape. But from the top of the fire escape to the roof of the store was a twelve foot blank wall. Once on the store’s roof, we still had the problem of accessing the roof tower, which would probably be locked.

I phoned up the store and, posing as a photographer working for a postcard company. The next day I met a charming young woman in the management office, who took me to the roof of the store, where I checked out the possibilities for tourist postcards. I then asked to see the roof of the tower. She took out a bunch of keys and unlocked the tower door. Fortunately, it had a push bar to exit from the inside. Climbing a series of stairways past vast tanks which held central heating oil, we emerged onto the roof of the tank tower, which was perhaps 30 feet square. From here rose the mini Eiffel tower that held the W. The staffer wouldn’t let me climb the tower – something I needed to do to measure the W for a banner, and to see if there was a switch up there to get the W revolving. Consistent with my cover story, I said I’d book a crew and return in a week to do a shoot. I had to return on the day before the action as I planned to hide someone in the tower to let the climbers in and I could hardly leave them there for days. I’d have to hope that the weather was fine the day before the action, as it wouldn’t work asking to go on the roof to take photographs in a heavy rain.

The tanks tower, the mini-Eiffel tower, and the revolving W

After seven years doing actions for Greenpeace, I had been arrested so often I now usually managed other climbers, and stayed out of arrest situations. So I needed two climbers, and one of them would need to be very experienced. Fortuitously, Brian Beard, who had joined me on my first action on the Cambie Street bridge [see previous blog] had just got back in touch. The Greenpeace offices were bugged, and as this action was of concern to Canada’s secret service, I called Brian in Edmonton from my home phone, and asked him if he’d like to come to Vancouver for a few days to go climbing with me the following week. He got the message. The other climber was Dean from the Toronto office, who had had Greenpeace climbing training and done a few actions already. He was calm under pressure and highly competent but this would be a challenge. My plan was complicated, and the banners would be very high and would be susceptible to any wind. The banners were made by a friendly sailmaker, and if you think of how the wind drives a sailing boat, you realise that a banner filled with wind will pull against its attachment with a great deal of force and, as the tower was an open girder structure, it would catch the wind whichever direction it came from. Dean would be safe as long as he was accompanied by an experienced climber. Fortunately I had complete faith in Brian. They arrived just a couple of days before the action and both worked amazingly well together to finalise their equipment, plan the banner deployment, train together and pack the rucksacks.

This had to be a big and dramatic action as we were targetting the US and international news media. I had ordered two large banners so that we could get out our message in both English and Russian.

Both these banners would optimally be visible from the summit meeting at Canada place.

I also wanted to put Bill and Boris on either side of the W, on the top of the tower, as icing on the cake. Optimally, we could get the W to spin and so address our message directly to each of them. Bill Stop Nuclear Testing; Boris Stop Nuclear Testing (for the Americans) and the same in Russian. I needed to be sure of the W’s size before I ordered the name banners, so I went to the city hall planning department and found the plans. There were numerous sketches of the tower and the mini Eiffel tower, but curiously none of them showed the size of the W. I guestimated it was big enough to fit a 12 foot by 10 foot banner, and ordered two. Steve had asked for the banners in English and Russian. I told him of my idea for Bill and Boris on the W, and he let me get on with it and spend what I needed.

Sketch for lettering Russian banner

Dima Litvinov the Russian campaigner, in town for the summit, gave me the translation of “Stop Nuclear Testing”, which is just “Stop Testing” in Russian. I spent some time fiddling to get it to look good on a vertical banner. I usually did the lettering with the Greenpeace canvassers who finished work at 9 or 10pm. I bought a case of beer and ordered in plenty of good pizzas, and we worked into the early morning, moving desks and taking over the office. As we had four banners, this took several nights.

We had always used an expensive ink to letter the banners. This meant laying out as much banner as we had floor space for between the desks, and waiting for it to dry before moving on to the next section. There was a risk of spillage, so the work had to be done very carefully, and an inked banner slogan could not be changed, as the ink was permanent. Banners were rarely reused, as even if you wanted the same slogan the banner size might not be appropriate for the next site.

So, I had developed a different system, pencilling in the outlines of the words and using black duct tape to fill in the letters. This was quicker, didn’t require waiting for the banner to dry, and meant the slogan could be stripped off or modified so that banners became reusable. This saved thousands of dollars (I was using top quality sail cloth and paying about $2,000 for a large banner), and allowed us to reuse banners with new slogans and do extra actions, even when there was little or no budget.

Now I needed to know if we could get access to the Eiffel tower platform and whether there was a switch for the W. And, I absolutely had to get someone hidden to let the climbers into the locked tank tower.

The weather forecast for the summit meeting was strong winds and heavy rain, so we brought the action forward a day. I was able to book a shoot on the roof of Woodwards two days before the summit opened, and fortunately, it was a clear day. I now needed a camera crew, which I again recruited from the Greenpeace door to door canvas team. Canvassers dress casually, and we needed quite a bit of borrowing to replace patched trousers with more upmarket clothing to make the film crew look passably professional. We also needed a professional camera kit and someone able to use it convincingly. And lastly we needed a volunteer to hide and spend the night in the tanks tower, to open the door from the inside, prop it open and then to drop a rope for the other climbers coming up the fire escape with the kit. Dean volunteered for this dull, cold job, even though he was also going to be hanging the banner.

On April 1st, I returned to the Woodwards roof, with the camera crew. There were four of us, me as director, one of the canvassers playing a photographer carrying an impressive array of borrowed cameras, with Dean and another assistant to help him. The photographer moved around setting up carefully composed photographs. I was hoping the Woodwards employee would leave us on the roof alone, but it was not to be. So, while one of the photographer’s assistants kept them busy, I set off to climb the tower. I wasn’t noticed until I was almost at the top, and pretended not to hear a call to come down, while my assistant assured the staffer I was used to working at heights. I found I could easily get onto the tower platform, and got a better idea of the W’s size from just underneath it, but couldn’t measure it without some dangerous gymnastics. It seemed the 10 x 12 foot banners would work. I also found a red electrical box that appeared to be the switch to start the W, then descended. As the photographer and his assistant finished up their work, I told Dean to quietly leave. We gave him five minutes to find a hiding place behind one of the oil tanks, then said we had finished. The staffer asked where our fourth person was, and I said they had had to leave as they were needed back in the office. We were politely escorted down the tower stairs, past the great oil tanks, and a hiding Dean, down through the building and out. This had been the tricky part. We now had someone on the inside to let us back in.

The news that night was full of the heavy security system in place for the summit. That evening I parked a rental van on the top floor of the parking lot behind the Woodwards building. From the drivers seat, I had a full view of the bridge across to Woodwards, the fire escape, the oil tank tower and the mini Eiffel tower with the W on top. I returned around 2am with Brian and a helper, who took all the gear from the van, hopped the railing, walked across the roof of the bridge and clambered onto Woodward’s fire escape. When they got to the top of the fire escape, to my relief, Dean lowered a rope and they prussiked up to the roof. Watching from my van, I had a nervous time as Dean kept his head over the parapet whilst they climbed. The climbers were hidden in shadow and not easily visible by the occasional pedestrians on the street below, but if they saw Dean on the roof, they might easily raise the alarm. I could not call to ask him to pull his head back from view as a shout might have caused people to look up and see him, so I waited tensely, and hoped to hell no one would look up. When they were both over the top, and out of sight, I relaxed. Then came many cold hours waiting to hear whether they had gotten up the mast and were ready to go.

The overnight wait is always nerve racking. That night the wind was strong and had a real bite and I was cold even sitting in the van. I hoped the climbers were fine and that I hadn’t over complicated their task in my desire to make the banner as spectacular as possible. I knew that Brian was both a safe and very experienced climber. But I was still worried given that he was setting up anchors in the dark, in a place he had not previously seen in daylight, and on a cold and increasingly windy night. If they’d been spotted climbing from the fire escape, or as they climbed the metal tower, they could potentially still be stopped. They were not necessarily able to get out of reach of interference as they set up the anchors on the platform at the top of the Eiffel tower. Their only defence would be that the third person on the roof would lock themselves onto the Eiffel tower’s metal ladder, making it unsafe for security or the police to pass them to get at the climbers.

In the morning I was in radio contact with Brian, and though they were finding the going slow, they were on track to unfurl the banners. We had a dramatic plan. The climbers would pull down the first vertical banner: “Stop Nuclear Testing-Greenpeace”, and then another vertical banner saying “Stop Testing” in Russian. Then the icing on the cake, they would set the W revolving and it would have Bill on one side and Boris on the other, so that as it spun it would say “Bill Stop Nuclear Testing- Greenpeace”/ and “Boris Stop Nuclear Testing -Greenpeace”; and “Boris Stop Testing” [in Russian] and “Bill Stop Testing” [in Russian].

In the morning, the banners unfurled like a dream.

It took a little while, but soon the W began to spin, and I was delighted. All this was filmed by half a dozen TV crews, and we made a big splash on the Canadian and US news as well as various international stations too.

After a couple of hours, with the high winds whipping the banners against the sharp edges of the tower, the bigger English banner began to tear. It didn’t take long to shed badly, and had to be dropped. The wind was cold and quite violent, so in the afternoon, the climbers came down. The store didn’t press charges, so the climbers walked free after a really brilliant job. The bigger the international event, the harder it is to get your voice heard. This meeting was a really top level summit, and yet we managed to get massive coverage on the day and evening before the Presidents arrived. Once you are in the news you are part of the story, and the further protests – following Yeltsin’s boat touring the harbour, were given good coverage too. Also the imagery of the presidents meeting was dull in comparison with Greenpeace’s actions. Most of the other protests were a crowd with banners, or another talking head. Not only did Greenpeace get coverage of our series of actions, and an opportunity to raise the issue, but when the presidents arrived the next day, the first question at the joint press conference was from the New York Times. Their reporter asked Clinton, “What are you doing about Nuclear Testing?”

This action wouldn’t have been possible without the enormous skill and dedication of both Brian Beard, the lead climber, and Dean Mercer, who successfully hid himself to spend a cold night in the tank tower, and then joined in the banner hanging. It’s lucky we did our action the day before the meeting started. When president Yeltsin arrived, he stepped off his Aeroflot jetliner into pouring rain.

Here is some positive media from the Canada’s CBC




Kiro TV (US)
Greenpeace protests at Bill and Boris Vancouver summit 1993. An action gives a Greenpeace spokesperson prime time to get out the Greenpeace message. But also notice how this US station includes the marginal Communist Party of Canada to muddy any positive message

Norway, Let the Last Whales Live!

My First Greenpeace Action

It don’t mean a thing, if it ain’t got that swing-Duke Ellington

15 minutes

Suddenly, there was a great tearing sound and I was swinging wildly through the air. I looked up the single strand of 11mm (less than half an inch) climbing rope that connected me to the Cambie street bridge, to see if it was still attached. I swung out twenty feet over the water, then swooped back towards the bridge support. Looking down I could see the concrete bridge footing about 40 feet below me. If the rope broke now, I’d plummet onto the concrete and get badly hurt. Instead, I swung back out towards the water. Looking up again I realised that the banner strung between my rope and Brian’s had torn where it connected to my rope. Due to the strong wind on the banner, we had been pushed at an angle under the bridge. When the banner tore away, I had swung back in a great arc, and carried on swinging. I was worried about the effect of the swinging on my rope as it went over the edge of the bridge above me. Climbing rope is very good at protecting a climber taking a fall. Because the rope stretches, it absorbs most of the energy of the fall and puts far less shock onto the climber. It can also quickly wear through if it is weighted and rubs over a sharp edge: and we were putting massive extra stresses on the rope. Climbing rope is very strong, and has a two ton breaking strength. But it is in not designed for the forces operating on a 750 square foot banner in a strong wind. As I swung, my life was in the hands of the rope gods.

The banner tore from my rope. Eventually, I stopped swinging wildly

I was hanging off the Cambie street bridge in down-town Vancouver, British Columbia, to bring a message to the Crown Prince of Norway, who was coincidentally the President of the World Wildlife Fund (WWF). The banner read “Norway, Let the Last Whales Live. Greenpeace.” Norway was about to restart killing minke whales and we wanted our message to get to the prince personally, to embarrass Norway into stopping the planned hunt. It was May 1986, and the prince was in Vancouver to open the Norwegian pavilion at Expo 86.

I had been working for Greenpeace in their Vancouver office for just six months. Less than a year earlier, Fernando Periera had been murdered by the French Secret Service when they blew up the Rainbow Warrior in Auckland harbour. This added another level of seriousness to the work, and reminded us all of the risks we took. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sinking_of_the_Rainbow_Warrior

Luanne Roth, the Vancouver Greenpeace director, knew that I spent most weekends at Squamish, Canada’s top rock-climbing area, just an hour north of Vancouver. She asked me if I could hang a banner to protest Norway’s plan to resume killing minke whales. The Norwegian princely personage was going to be taken on a tour of the Expo site by boat. He would pass under the Cambie street bridge, and we would be there to greet him. I agreed and started preparing.

It didn’t occur to me to contact the climbers who carried out the Greenpeace actions from Toronto, and I set about working out how to hang a banner from scratch. The first thing I did was look for a climbing partner and posted a hand written sign on the notice board in the Mountain Equipment Coop (MEC), Vancouver’s vast outdoor equipment store.

“Greenpeace is planning a summer of actions and looking for volunteers. We are particularly looking for climbers to help hang banners and support actions to protect the environment. Please contact Simon Waters at…”

The big task was to work out how to safely hang a banner suspended 40 feet above the water. I practised in a local park, by tying a rope to a tree and slowly walking backwards. The next day, a volunteer played ‘gravity’, holding the rope off the ground and applying a bit of a pull as I slowly backed away from the tree. Over several days, and with the help of several patient volunteers, we practised attaching a banner to my rope, then backing up further to attach the bottom. Then we did the same thing with two ropes, getting another volunteer to play my partner. This was a laborious learning process, but I absolutely didn’t want to cock up my first Greenpeace action.

Kevin McKeown, the canvass coordinator was in overall charge of the action. He had worked on a number of actions already and had managed the deployment of the brilliant Cruise Catcher the previous winter. Kevin took on ordering the banner, getting the slogan written on it, and organising the volunteer helpers on the bridge. Both Kevin and I were working full time as fundraisers, and doing the action preparation in our spare time. We went together to scout the bridge. The plan was we would walk up the bridge pavement, looking like innocuous backpackers, and tie our anchors onto the balustrade. We selected the spot where we would go over the edge, and I took out a measuring tape. We chose where one end of the banner would go, and measured and remeasured the distance to the other end. I marked up our two anchors, the places where we’d attach ourselves to the bridge. It was an act of faith that the bridge balustrade would support the forces working on a 25 by 30 foot banner. There was another problem too. The rope needed to be protected from rubbing against the bridge under the potentially high stress of a large banner as it ran over the edge of the bridge. The sawing back and forth under pressure could quickly cut the rope. We came up with a method of protecting the rope, but this was the one part of our plan that was rather make do. Though I was a climber and protecting the rope over an edge is a climbing problem, the extra stresses on the rope when you added a large banner was of an entirely different order of magnitude. Musing on this, I bought the climbing equipment for the action, including two new ropes. Later, hanging on the rope in a strong wind, I hoped my preparations had been adequate.

Greenpeace is full of stories of semi-magical happenings, and I was very lucky to have one on this first action. I got an answer to my note at the MEC from a brilliant and imperturbable climber, Brian Beard. Over the years, this was the only time I got a response to my notices on the MEC noticeboard, and just when I needed it most. Brian was an excellent climber and far more experienced than me, so I was happy that he agreed that my laboriously thought out plan would work.

On the day of the action, we were parked near the bridge in the Greenpeace canvas car. Brian and I were wearing our harnesses, and all kitted up, with the banner in a backpack. Kevin was coordinating with the media team by radio, and we were waiting to hear that the princely chappie had set out on his boat tour. Somehow, through the radio crackle we heard the police talking about Cambie street bridge on their radios. This caused a bit of a panic. “We have to go NOW” said Kevin. So, instead of walking nonchalantly onto the bridge, we drove, made an illegal stop with a squeal of tires, and jumped out. The support team were inconspicuously lingering on the wide bridge pavement, and did a great job helping us set up. Everything worked out as planned. Brian and I connected our anchors to the marked spots, a support person ran a rope between us, we did a final check and abseiled off the bridge. It is a tricky operation going over the edge and this was the first time I’d abseiled off a structure, as opposed to a cliff edge. I was very lucky to have a solid, experienced, confident companion for my first action. All went smoothly, and twenty feet below the road bed, we pulled the banner across and attached the top, went down another thirty feet and attached the bottom. The wind was strong enough to push us quite a way under the bridge, but we were feeling great…until the banner tore.

As my swinging reduced, I was now over water again. I calculated what I would need to do if the rope broke, and felt fairly confident I could swim to safety, especially with a team of supporters nearby. I just hoped the banner didn’t land on top of me. Now torn, the banner turned into a great flapping sail and Brian detached himself too. Half an hour later, the media underneath the bridge left and I shouted down “Have they gone home yet? Can we come up now?”

We prussiked up the rope and we were greeted by police, who were more bemused than upset. The camera crews hadn’t gone, they’d moved onto the bridge deck to catch our arrival on top. I did a few media pieces, my first for Greenpeace, both in English and appalling French. This was my first time as spokesperson for Greenpeace. Curiously, later that day I was interviewed for TV again about the Greenpeace fundraising bingo! So I was on the news twice that night for two entirely different topics. And, as I had been interviewed in French as well as English, the action was featured on CBC Francais, the beginning of my role as Greenpeace’s west coast francophone spokesperson.

That night, the news reported that the Norwegian Crown Prince’s boat tour of the Expo site was cut short, due to our emergency banner deployment, so he wasn’t taken under the bridge. Non-the-less, the media connected the two events, and the Prince was faced with questions at his press conference that afternoon about how he resolved the conflict of being head of the WWF and the crown prince of a nation about to restart whaling. In fact the main questions were about Norway and whaling, and we were top, or near top of the news on every channel. They used the banner, the banner tearing, and my sound-bites when back on the bridge. We also made the front page of the Vancouver Sun the next day.

We were lucky. Everything worked out, apart from the banner tearing: we got great coverage, there were no arrests and we were both safe and well. I also learned several important lessons. A practical point: make sure the banner will survive the stresses of a strong wind. From then on I managed the purchase of the banners and had them made by a sail-maker. This cost a lot more, but I wasn’t prepared to accept the risk of another near disaster. A tactical point: stick to the topic and get the message out, when you are in front of a camera. You go to a lot of trouble, and at least some risk, to pull off an action. But the action is not what you want to talk about; it is an opportunity to highlight an issue. The banner slogan, displayed in a dramatic situation, is visible for enough time to get your message across, unfiltered by the media. When the climbers talk to the media, they are more likely to make the news than the campaigner standing by with the media. You need to use this opportunity to explain the issue. This was about stopping Norway from killing an endangered whale species.

I also observed from the inside, how an action can highlight an issue, and force the other protagonist to respond to questioning by the media. The crown prince was in Vancouver to do PR work for Norway. Greenpeace changed the topic, and instead used his visit to build resistance to Norway’s whaling plans.

I also learned from watching Kevin’s in his role as overall coordinator- as I just organised the banner hang aspect. Kevin is quick witted and decisive. We worked together many times after this, me generally managing any climbing actions with his help, and Kevin managing water actions with mine. I also learned something from Beverly our media person. She politely told me not to vocalise that we will wrap up once the media have gone!

Due to what I learned on this action I decided the following year not to hang a banner off Vancouver’s Liions Gate bridge, as it is a very windy spot, and the climbers would be a hundred, not forty feet off the water. Instead, we climbed the cable supports. When trying to explain to the judge the safety concerns that led me to do this, he cut me off, called me a liar, and gave me two weeks in jail!

Himalayan Institute of Mountaineering-3

Knots in Manali, and War with Pakistan

15 Minutes

[Following our ascent of a 17,000 foot ridge overlooking Tibet, we return for exams at the Himalayan Institute of Mountaineering, Manali.]

At 17, with my pal Vijay in Hyderabad

We packed up our tents at high camp, leaving three foot high pedestals of snow where our tents had stood, showing us how much the snow had melted in just a week or so. We descended to the tree-line camp. It was now late May, and spring was coming fast at 9,500 ft and the Beas river now showed as a large stream emerging from a tunnel of snow. After ten or twelve days camping on snow, it was time for a wash. I set up my airbed on the snow in front of my tent and had a flannel bath with a pot of hot water skived from the kitchen tent. I then ran barefoot across the snow, and jumped into the Beas, submerging for a second to rinse off the soap, ran back to the tent, and hurriedly redressed.

Back at Manali, we prepared for an interview with the director. We had been taught numerous knots on the course, and Dan Kumar had recently shown us a new knot, which was not in the curriculum. I spent the day before the interview practising the knots and swotting up on the vocabulary. When I went in to meet the director, Dan Kumar and Purshotum were there too. “I have had good reports”, the director said, then after a few questions on techniques and equipment, he asked me to demonstrate some knots. One of them was Dan Kumar’s new knot! I was thankful, I’d learned it too. I told the director, that I was hoping to receive an A, as I wanted to attend an advanced course. “We will have to see what we can do”, he told me. The next day we heard that fourteen of us got an A grade, the highest number on any course ever. With so many succeeding, I’d have to do some lobbying to be invited back.

Back in Hyderabad, Jake received a letter from Mr Govind at the Ministry of Defence Production. “I hear that Simon has done well at the institute”. Unfortunately, the 7th advanced course in August was in a restricted area, over the Rohtang pass, and it was not possible to get me permission. However, I was welcome to go to the 8th advanced course beginning in September. This made me the first non-Indian ever invited to an advance course at the Himalayan Institute of Mountaineering.

With three months until the advanced course, I returned to my decadent neo-colonial lifestyle. I woke late, and went three times a week to sail at the sailing club on the artificial lake which separated Hyderabad from Secunderabad. The sailing was brilliant, in well maintained two person 1920s clinker built Eagles, faster plywood Enterprises, or in four person Moths, useful for taking out a larger party to picnic on the island. It was consistently sunny, but not too hot at 2,000 ft., with usually enough wind for good sailing.

Hyderabad is a fascinating place. It had been a Muslim state under a Nizam, with a Muslim ruling class and a Hindu majority population. The Nizam was reputed to have been the richest man in the world, and owned the diamond mine at Golconda. Some of the world’s great diamonds came from here including the Koh-i-noor diamond, part of the British crown jewels. Outdoing the Arabian sheiks who weighed themselves annually in gold, the Nizam weighed himself each year with diamonds! He had over 100 wives, and many hundreds of children.

Curiously, there was also a Maharaja with a palace in town (I dated his daughter twice, until a jealous rival told her parents about our secret meetings). Due to the Muslim tradition of separating their women folk in purdah, the Hindu’s were also hiding away their daughters. This made any hopes of getting a local girl-friend even less likely. The only girls who were allowed out apart from my two younger sisters were two white-blonde Mormon girls from Utah, who were much sought after by wealthy local young men.

In 1965, things were hotting up between India and Pakistan. When British India was divided, India claimed Hyderabad, in spite of the Nizam opting for Pakistan, on the grounds that the population was majority Hindu. However, they also claimed Kashmir, with its Muslim majority, on the grounds that the Rajah opted for India. This was perhaps due to Kashmir being Nehru’s birthplace. This had led to ongoing conflict between the two new neighbours, and Pakistan had invaded Kashmir that spring.

Apart from sailing, there was not much for me to do. My close friends Kamal, a Muslim and Vijay, a Hindu, were students in their early twenties, but still living at home and on a student budget. I had started working at 15, and saved enough to hitch-hike to India when I was 16. For some reason, though I had occasional use of the car, use of an account to eat and drink at the sailing club, and a very well stocked cellar at home, I never thought to ask for cash, so I was now penniless and stuck at home most of the time. This led to generally idle days and booze filled evenings. I drank my way through fifty cases of 24 Tuborg stubbies in just a few months, with the help of a few friends, and then moved onto VSOP cognac. Jake socialised exclusively with his Indian colleagues, who were interesting, intellectual, and nationalist. Here I first heard discussions on appropriate technology from Jake’s predecessor George McRobie, who returned for a long visit. He later took over the Institute of Appropriate Technology from Schumacher of “Small is Beautiful” fame. There were discussions about development: India didn’t need rockets, nuclear power and private cars (Nehru’s prescription) but a wider availability of bicycles, better ploughs and water pumps to promote development from the bottom up. However, this wasn’t sufficient to keep me fully occupied, and I longed to get back to the mountains.

As the day of departure for Manali drew near, the situation between India and Pakistan grew worse. There was talk of increased travel restrictions, and no-go areas. War hysteria had reached new heights, with groups of vigilantes scouring the streets for spies and saboteurs. This led to the lynching of an innocent young man in Delhi who was singing a just released movie song, which the crowd believed to be in Urdu (the language of Muslims and Pakistan). When I got to Delhi, I heard that all foreigners, including missionaries and nuns who had been there for decades, were being evicted as undesirable foreigners from the whole of Punjab. I hoped that, as Manali was high in the mountains, I might be able to avoid the restrictions: I just had to get there. However, when I got to Delhi station I discovered that all the trains north had been commandeered by the military. I was determined to get to Manali.

After chatting to some friendly troops on the platform, I boarded a troop train with a carriage full of junior officers on their way to the front. As the journey progressed, my companions chased off any inquisitive officials. Once off the train, I still had to pass through a number of checkpoints on the road north, with excitable policemen and soldiers looking for saboteurs and aliens. However, my letter confirming a place at the Himalayan Institute of Mountaineering, and some bravado, got me through each time. When I finally, I got to the institute, the director was stunned by my arrival. “How did you get here?” he asked, “This has been declared a restricted zone. I am very sorry, but I absolutely can’t let you stay here without a permit.” I was obliged to return to Delhi. There, I spent three days going from office to office at various ministries, until I got a permit to go back to Manali and the area where the course would be held. I phoned up the institute in triumph to hear, “I am afraid that the other students have not shown up and the course is cancelled.” I was told that I could return for another course, once the war was over.

I returned dejectedly to Hyderabad. Once there I followed the course of the war, now a series of major tank battles in Punjab, both on Indian and Pakistani radio. There were contradictory reports of daily advances of 10km for more than a week by Indian troops, though they didn’t get to Lahore which I knew to be less than 30km from the frontier. It was fascinating to watch how propaganda works. Most of my friends were certain that the news from their chosen media was correct (Muslims listened to Radio Pakistan, Hindus to All India Radio). Worse than that, apart from our delightfully cynical friend Saluddin, they were also all convinced that their chosen side was in the right, and winning. As the war progressed it seemed less and less likely that I could get on a course before the winter. I had been staying on in India since the end of May, just to attend the advanced course. In October, with no prospect of climbing until at least the spring, I returned to the UK. Far from becoming the best qualified British climber, with a trainers certificate from the Himalayan Institute of Mountaineering, Darjeeling (my goal), I didn’t climb in the mountains again until I discovered the volcanoes of Mexico ten years later. [See earlier blog: of Pulque and Popo]

Here are links to the two Himalayan Institutes of mountaineering- they still have bargain courses!

HIM in Darjeeling https://hmidarjeeling.com/

The HMI in Manali is also still going strong, under another name and management

https://www.tourmyindia.com/states/himachal/mountaineering-institute-manali.html

Bear Hunting, Goat Sausage and Views Over Tibet

The Himalayan Institute of Mountaineering Part 2

20 minutes.

Part 1: A Princess Or An Ice Axe is the first piece on the blog. If you haven’t read it, now is the time. After ten days at the Himalayan Institute of Mountaineering, we set off to continue our training in the mountains.

A view of the Himalayas. See end of piece for an explanation

The day after we’d been issued our climbing and camping kit, we got up early to load an antiquated truck which left with all the gear. Then we waited for a rousing send off from the Director, who arrived after a two hour delay. It was a splendid speech, expressly designed to put us off climbing for life. “Sometimes people get angry and if there is an ice axe in their hand they might use it… Sometimes the instructors do it also… Most of you show no interest in climbing… The best part of climbing is being dirty… Your cooks often show no interest in you. They may be lazy and tired, and the food will probably be dreadful.”

After this rousing pep talk we walked up the Kulu valley past a police checkpoint, where we each had to show a chit from the institute as we were on the road to the Rohtang pass which was a restricted area, on the borders with Tibet. After an hour or so, we turned off onto a dirt track which climbed through the forest. We were beginning to feel the altitude, but my room mate Chopra and I were fit as a sitar. After ten kilometres, we found the lorry, and helped carry kit bags and supplies through the trees to a wooden hut where we would spend the night. We had a dull, damp and chilly afternoon waiting for dinner, and anxious to get into the snow. Outside the woods dripped with rain.

The next morning, about twenty Sherpa porters arrived to carry the food and kitchen camp gear. We students carried all our own kit for the first time, mine about forty pounds as I was carrying Hillary’s boots and a bottle of brandy, on a the four hour trek into melting snow. We post-holed (sank down past our knees) exhaustedly for almost an hour doing the last mile to camp. This was Dundi, at about 9,500, in a large snow covered meadow on the tree line, with the Beas river running through it under the snow. The Sherpas, had already set up a kitchen tent, and delivered a large pile of wood for cooking, and for a big fire outside the cook tent. They wended off down below the snow line for the night. From then on, they made a daily carry of wood to keep the fires going.

We pitched our canvas tents on snow for the first time, blew up air mattresses, rolled out sleeping bags, and sorted our kit. In the latrine, I noticed that in two places I had what looked like bed bugs burrowing into my scrotum and my leg. I told Pete, a Peace Corps volunteer who was also on the course, who let me have some powder. After applying it I discovered that there were two creatures floating around in my clothes too. Unwilling to move up to high camp with these hitch-hikers, I stripped to my underpants and plunged twenty yards through the snow, barefoot, to the river. I stood knee deep in the freezing stream, then plunged under water that came out from the snow just yards away. I was in the water for just seconds, then hobbled back across the snow to my tent and changed into clean clothes. Following my example, three or four of my class mates, perhaps thinking my plunge a part of British culture, or good mountaineering style, went into the water too. But they stood around, in the freezing waters calling for friends to take pictures, (one, while explaining to his tent mate where his camera was to be found, turned a bright purple).

Later, Chopra and I wandered over to the large fire by the kitchen, and spent the afternoon talking to Purshotum and Dan Kumar, our two trainers, and drinking cups of hot chai from the cook tent. Purshotum was a member of the North West Frontier Police, whose role was to patrol India’s mountainous western borders with China and Pakistan. He was as hard as nails, and sat in his shirt sleeves as we covered ourselves in sweaters. That evening we ate the goat that had been slaughtered in the morning. For obvious reasons, they were going to throw away the intestines, but they thought we Brits ate them as we ate ‘sausage’. So, at tea time I was offered the intestines. I ate them, rather reluctantly, with the few others around the fire. I didn’t have the heart to explain that sausages used the intestine skin but we didn’t eat the contents of the intestines. As I was eating my piece, I wondered how far from the end of the intestines it came. Most of our fellow trainees, either slept, or played cards in their tents, missing out on hot chai and great stories around the fire. However, on this occasion, they also missed joining in on the intestines.

Each morning at 6, we were woken with “Chai sahib” from outside the tent. We struggled to get the frozen zip open with freezing fingers and then lay in our sleeping bags drinking the hot sweet tea. From after breakfast until lunch, we went to the slopes above the camp and learned glissading (or boot skiing), leaning on a 4 foot ice-axe, self arrest techniques (how to stop a slide on steep snow with an ice axe), rope work, and walking in crampons. Each afternoon, Chopra and I went back to the fire, where we joined Purshotum and Dan Kumar, ate tasty extras from the cook-tent, and listened to wondrous tales of the mountains. Dan Kumar was a very tough Sherpa. He’d broken various bones and had had numerous adventures. He’d walked out from one trip with a broken leg, and on another carried a trainee down off a summit. He told us this in a quiet unassuming manner. Purshotum told us the best story about him. A recent advanced course had succeeded in putting four of their twelve members on the summit of a 19,000 ft peak, and were boasting to the basic course students camped nearby. Dan Kumar decided he’d had enough, and so he’d taken the entire basic course – all twenty trainees, up the same summit a few days later!

One afternoon, as we sat around the fire, Purshotum spotted a bear in the trees across the valley, half a mile away, and jumped up to chase it. I joined him, and we slithered down through the snow. As we struggled up the far slope Purshotum told me his plan was to beat the bear over the head and have bear meat for dinner! This seemed like a pretty dangerous exercise, but I was committed, as otherwise I’d have had to abandon him to do it alone. We hadn’t gone to get our ice-axes by our tents, and so Purshotum picked up a large bough, and I got one too. We struggled up the slope through deep snow, and saw the bear disappearing behind a large rock. We carried on up, past the rock but (happily) the bear had moved away. After a search through the trees we abandoned the hunt. We glissaded back down the slope, using our boughs for support and mine snapped in two almost immediately, as it was completely rotten. Then Purshotum’s broke too. Thank god we hadn’t hit the bear over the head with them!

After four or five days we moved up into the basin below Beaskund, the source of the Beas river, at about 11,000. Here were well above the tree line, overlooking a range of jagged peaks, which we watched avalanche thunderously each afternoon, from the cook-house fire. Each day the Sherpas still brought bundles of firewood up from below the tree line, so the cook fire and large fire outside the cook tent continued to burn merrily. One afternoon, the director arrived.He sat around the fire withus, and after supper his servant came up and said, “I have put your hot water bottle in your sleeping bag, sahib”. So much for the tough climber!

We carried on acclimatising and improving our snow skills. We were supposed to do some ice training, but because of the late spring, the ice was still covered in snow. We made a trip up to Beaskund itself, the source of the Beas river, at 12,000, but still saw no ice, so we improvised a crevasse rescue on a steep slope. We were now pretty adept in basic snow skills, tying onto a rope, rope management, ice-axe belays, walking in crampons, and camping on snow (though with all meals provided). Many of the trainees had problems keeping warm, as they had not checked their kit as instructed. Some froze in inadequate sleeping bags, some had boots that didn’t fit, or only one pair of socks. They put their wet socks to dry by the camp fire in the afternoon, but often left them unsupervised, and a few burned holes in them. I kept my feet warm in Hillary’s oversized shoes with my three pairs of socks. The shoes let in some snow, in spite of the gaiters, but each afternoon I was able to carefully dry my socks by the roaring fire.

Summit day. We are woken at 2am- the weather has cleared. Climbed into my boots and went down to the kitchen tent. I was issued 1 hard-boiled egg, 1 chocolate bar, 15 biscuits, and 6 toffees. I had taken a tiffen box full of rice, ghobi and ghosh (corned beef and pork luncheon meat mixed) last night as most people hadn’t turned up for dinner through the rain. We set off at 3.30 am but after a few hundred yards, I realised that I had forgotten my symbolic bottle of Remy Martin VSOP cognac, which I’d brought from our well stocked cellar in Hyderabad, to celebrate the summit. I hurried back to my tent and ferreted it out of my kit. By the time I set off the second time, I was quite a ways behind the group. I spent the next hour catching up and over-taking to join the front runners. We stopped at 15,500 (about the height of Mt Blanc, western Europe’s highest peak) for a proper break and a briefing, in the morning light. I pulled out the brandy and offered it around. Most refused, but I insisted it was a tradition to have a snort on the summit bid. Many then accepted the offer and had a bottle capful. This wasn’t conscious sabotage of my fellow trainees, but seeing as many of them had never had a drink before, it probably didn’t help them to have their first drink on a freezing morning at 15,500 ft. I had a couple of capsful and we roped up in pairs and I set off, this time as part of the leading group. We continued up, eventually arriving underneath a steep snow slope. The first pair set off kicking steps, but soon tired, and Chopra led us past them. The snow was soft, and very steep, and it was really heavy going step kicking at 17,000 ft.

When Chopra stopped and leant heavily on his axe, Dan Kumar, told me to take the lead. I kicked steps at almost knee height, but they came down to within a few inches of the lower foot. I carried on up, slowly approaching a ridge line fifty feet above my head. As the ridge approached head height, shoulder height… I nearly fell over backwards. I was looking over to a slope that fell steeply out of sight. Far away in the distance was Tibet, with a vast 23,000 foot peak looming above the others. To my right the slope fell away too, and there was Manali, 11,000 feet below us! I was stunned. Dan Kumar got me to move to my left along the ridge, which sloped gently upwards.

Looking down at Manali and the Kulu valley from 17,000 feet. This is the shot at the top the right way up! (apologies for the coffee stain)

I could see the peak to my left a few hundred yards away along the ridge with the sun shining through a cloudy day (the first sun we’d seen). I could see 50 miles in to Spity and Lahoul. There were 4 or 5 ranges of very impressive mountains running roughly from left to right across my vision – everything ahead was above the snowline, some above 20,000 feet. To the right, I could see more vast mountains and below them, looking wonderfully green, was the Kulu valley from Solong to Manali and past about 10 more miles. I took 3-4 picturess and by then Dan Kumar and Chopra and the prof had overtaken me, and were traversing the ridge. The mist was fast coming up, and soon the visibility was only a couple of miles. We traversed the ridge for fifty feet including twenty feet balanced on top. After perhaps half an hour, most of us were up. Looking further along the ridge we could see that it was heavily corniced and Dan Kumar thought it was at risk of sliding and that the snow conditions (which were unusually bad for the time of the year) were too dangerous. Soon we began to get cold, so at about 11, we set off down; running, jumping, whooping and glissading the 6,000 feet back to camp by noon. We then spent a rather dull early afternoon, hungry, as we’d eaten our limited summit supplies, but later Chopra and I sat at the cook-fire, and drank tea with Purshotum and Dan Kumar, and enjoyed a few chapattis which miraculously appeared from the cook tent.

Next instalment: Can I get on the advanced course? The Indo-Pakistan war and jumping a troop trains going north.