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The European

I met a man so allegorically Dutch that I deliberately engaged him in what I hoped would be allegorically Dutch conversation. He was a tall man with military moustaches, deep-blue eyes and a proper burgher's paunch, but he did not talk about Rembrandt, tulips, dykes, the German occupation, Queen Beatrix, the new season's herrings, Admiral de Ruyter or what was playing at the Concertgebouw that evening. No. He talked about unemployment, too many Asian immigrants, keeping his weight down and his hopes, earlier in life, of being a professional footballer. He was a citizen of the Netherlands, but I have met him all over western Europe, and that's what he always talks about.

Hero of the Soviet Union

The most dramatic as well as the most diligent conductor in the world is to be seen in action at the Theatre of Opera and Ballet in Odessa. He is an elderly man, but passionate. All around him as he works peculiar things are happening. Behind, in the half-empty auditorium, a constant buzz of homely conversation underlies the score, and three ill-shaven Levantines in the second row seem to be in the throes of opium dreams, squirming and sighing in their seats. In front, the stage is alive with minor mishaps–trap-doors mysteriously closing and opening, fans being dropped, iron accessories clattering, while the cast of
La Traviata
smile resolutely across the footlights with a treasury of gold teeth.

The conductor is unperturbed. Majestically he sails through the confusions of the evening, impervious to them all, sometimes grunting emotionally, sometimes joining in an aria in a powerful baritone, throwing his fine head back, bending double, conspiratorially withdrawing, pugnaciously advancing, with infinite variations of facial expression and frequent hissed injunctions to the woodwind. Nobody in the socialist bloc fulfils a norm more devotedly.

The choice

‘Are you a man or a woman?' asked the Fijian taxi driver as he drove me from the airport.

‘I am a respectable, rich, middle-aged English widow,' I replied.

‘Good,' he said, ‘just what I want,' and put his hand upon my knee.

A Gypsy kiss

In the evening the entire population of Tirana seemed to emerge for the twilight passeggiata, strolling up and down the main avenue, sitting on the edges of fountains, milling around funfairs, wandering haphazardly across highways. I loved the louche insouciance of it all, the immense hum over everything, the quirks and surprises. Once I felt a small dry kiss on my arm, and turned to find a Gypsy child irresistibly importuning me for cash.

Understanding the truth

What would happen, I asked a fundamentalist predicant of the Dutch Reformed Church in South Africa, if an African walked into one of his services?

‘I would have him removed. My church is for Europeans, and it would be wrong to allow a native to worship there. God divided the races for His own purposes, and it is not for us to doubt His wisdom.'

‘Or if a Chinaman turned up one day, or an Eskimo?'

‘No, my church is not for Asiatics. I would send them away. But now you must not misunderstand me,' he added earnestly, tapping his knee with his forefinger. ‘I don't say they shouldn't have a service at all. If there was no other church for them to attend I would hold a service myself, not
inside my church, of course, but in a field if necessary. I feel this very strongly: that no man, whatever his colour, whatever his race, wheresoever he cometh from, should be deprived of the opportunity of worshipping Him who is the creator of us all.'

As I left the house the predicant clasped my arm, rather in the Rotarian manner, and pointed across the street outside, where an elderly black woman was hobbling out of a shop, screaming something in a searing treble over her shoulder. She crossed the pavement, closed one nostril with her finger and emptied her nose noisily into the gutter. Then, wiping her nose with her skirt, she turned round, still screeching, and disappeared indoors.

‘You see?' said the predicant. ‘My dear friend, we are not unkindly, but you must live among them to understand the Truth.'

Social status in the people's dictatorship

Mrs Wang had invited me to lunch at her Shanghai apartment, but it gave me no culture shock. True, we ate eggs in aspic, a kind of pickled small turnip and strips of a glutinous substance which suggested to me jellified seawater, and Mrs Wang evoked for me her hysterectomy by acupuncture (‘When they slit me open, oh, it hurt very bad, but after it was very
strange
feeling, very
strange
…')–nevertheless her home seemed to me the bourgeois home par excellence. It had the statutory upright piano, a picture of two kittens playing with a ball of wool, a bookshelf of paperbacks and a daily help. It had a daughter who had come over to help cook
lunch, and a husband away at the office who sent his regards. ‘We are very lucky,' said kind Mrs Wang. ‘We have a certain social status.'

Baleful eyes

No infidel is allowed to enter the most celebrated shrine of Kerbala, the holy city of the Shias in Iraq, but I knocked at the door of a neighbouring house and asked if I might climb to its roof to see into its courtyard. The owner of the house was all smiles, but it turned out to be a simple inn, catering for pilgrims from Iraq, and as I walked up its narrow winding staircase I found myself passing a series of sparsely furnished rooms–a bed and a prayer mat and a hard cold floor. In each of these doorless cells there was a pilgrim, and as I climbed my way up those steep steps each turned his baleful eyes in my direction. I shall never forget the detestation that overcame the faces of those merciless old men when they observed an infidel on the stairs, nor the relief with which at last I escaped the gamut of their loathing and emerged upon the roof, with the golden dome of the mosque in front of me and the wide sunlit courtyard, crowded with robed pilgrims, spread before me like a chessboard.

Passing the nut

I was trekking alone between Namche Bazaar and Thangboche, in the Nepali Himalaya. I was walking fast, in pleasant heathland country, and presently I saw far ahead of
me another solitary figure, moving in the same direction. It was a robust Sherpa woman, wearing long aprons and a high embroidered hat. Despite her hampering skirts she, too, was making good time, striding firmly along the track, but gradually I overhauled her until, in a narrow bend of the path, I was able to overtake her.

She had given no sign that she knew of my presence, never turning round or looking over her shoulder, just ploughing steadily on like a colourful battleship. As I passed her, however, her left hand suddenly shot into mine. For a moment we touched. Neither of us spoke, and I was too surprised to stop, but I felt some small hard object pass from her hand into mine.

I looked down to see what it was, passed so strangely from traveller to traveller, and found it was a small brown nut. When I turned round to thank her for it, she grinned and nodded and waved me on; so I pushed ahead up the hill, cracking its shell between my teeth.

The master glass-blower

Here stands the master glass-blower of Murano, in the Venetian lagoon. He stands grandly assured beside his furnace, watched by a wondering tour group, with a couple of respectful apprentices to hand him his implements, and his long pipe in his hand like a wand. With a flourish he raises it to his lips, and with a gentle blow produces a small round bubble of glass. A twist, a chip, another delicate breath, and there appears the embryo of an ornament. A twiddle of the pipe follows, a slice with an iron rod, a dollop of molten
glass, a swift plunge into the fire, a gulp or two, a flourish in the air, a sudden snap of iron shears–and abruptly the glass-blower lays down his work with a gesture of artistic exhaustion, leaving the apprentice boys around him silent with respect, and the tourists, sweating in the heat, clustered awestruck about a huge glass harlequin, beady eyed and multicoloured, whose long spindly legs, swollen stomach, drunken grin and dissipated attitude breathe a spirit of unsurpassable vulgarity.

An official of the glass factory shouts through the window to a pair of husbands who have evaded the tour, and are sitting comfortably on the quay outside. ‘Gentlemen! Gentlemen!' he calls reprovingly. ‘Sirs! Your charming ladies are awaiting you in the vestibule. All the prices are marked!'

Awful, really

A hand touched my shoulder as I stood watching a crowd of masked and black-robed women crowding around a water hole in the Omani village of Ibri. ‘You shouldn't stand about here, you know,' a voice said in English, ‘you might catch something. The sanitation is ever so bad!' It was an Omani Christian convert, product of a mission school somewhere, whom I had met earlier that day.

He invited me to visit his nearby house. It stood behind a heavy gate, for there was ever such bad robbers in Ibri, he said, and as we entered I saw, half hidden in a dim and smoky recess, four or five black-shrouded figures almost motionless, and soundless but for a few moaning noises. I did not like to ask what was happening in there, but as we
climbed the stairs my companion remarked casually, hitching up his shroud: ‘That's my wife. She's got something wrong with her inside, so a few friends came in to look after her.'

We sat pleasantly in an upstairs room, watching the passers-by from a window and eating some rather stringy pomegranates. Yes, he sighed, Ibri was a funny place. The people was very funny. ‘It's awful, really,' concluded the apostate, removing a pip from between his two front teeth.

Changing the guard

Every other morning they change the guard outside the Presidential Palace in Santiago. An enormous military band plays, and the two guard companies, equipped with high boots, swords and resplendent spurs, march and counter-march with an almost ominous certainty. This is no toy-soldier parade. It feels all too real, as though the participating soldiery, dropping to firing positions by the flick of a command, might easily exterminate each other by numbers. It ends happily, though, for when the ceremony is over the two young subalterns of the guard, marvellously slim and elegant, salute each other with brisk respect, shake hands like brothers and stride off together into the palace. There is a moment or two of silence and then the band strikes up a waltz, and even the undemonstrative Chileans, standing woodenly all about, tap an occasional tight-laced toe.

Looking after the place

I was once driving through the Transvaal when I noticed a small obelisk on a hillock beside the road. I stopped, and found beside it an old Afrikaner farmer, crouched in what seemed to be silent meditation. He wore an unbuttoned waterproof jacket. A linen hat slouched around his ears and a mass of curly hair lay down his neck and oozed over his collar. He turned to look at me, and I found myself gazing into the bluest and clearest and hardest pair of eyes I had ever seen. The face that smiled at me was round and sun-burnt, engraved with innumerable deep lines, but the body was stringy as gristle. ‘Who's the memorial to?' I asked him as we shook hands. ‘One of our great Boer generals,' he replied, and added simply: ‘I'm his son, I look after the place.'

Thus I met, almost as in a reincarnation, one of the legendary Boer farmers of tradition. He gave me a packet of biltong, prepared by his wife (‘the most beautiful woman in Africa'), and we sat in the back of his car and drank some lukewarm coffee out of a Thermos flask. He suffered from no false modesty (‘I'm always giving, it's one of my failings') and he held violent and generally unshakeable opinions. Why, only a few days before he had sent a telegram to the Commonwealth Conference in London, warning the assembled leaders that communism, Catholicism and Jewry were secretly allied in a campaign to overthrow Western civilization. ‘But they're blind, you know,
blind
. Churchill was just the same. I sent him a cable in 1942–it cost me £7–to warn him that Russia was anti-Christ, but he disregarded it. He never answered it at all. I suppose he read it?' said that old Boer, screwing up the Thermos flask. ‘What do you think?'

So we chatted pleasantly, and he told me that if I ever came that way again I was welcome to stay at his farm and eat his biltong and disagree with his arguments for as long as I liked. It was a pleasure, said he, to meet a visitor from Britain, and that reminded him: had I seen the incontrovertible evidence at Bloemfontein concerning the ground glass and the porridge in British concentration camps during the Boer War?

Alien visitors

One evening I heard music in the street, and looking out of my window I saw two strange figures passing. One was a young man in a tall brown hat, blowing on a shepherd's flute. The other was attached by complex apparatus to a variety of apparently home-made instruments–bagpipes, drums, cymbals, a triangle I think–and in order to beat the biggest drum he had to move in an abrupt but creaky shuffle. Slowly and sporadically these engaging characters pottered down the pavement below me, tootling and drumming as they went. In Trieste that day they were like visitors from another, less inhibited world.

You're welcome

Here is an exchange I heard during an anti-American protest demonstration at Ottawa:

 

Police inspector: Are you a part of this demonstration,
which is forbidden as you know to go any closer to the American embassy?

Protestor: No, sir, we are just Canadian citizens exercising our right of free movement.

Inspector: Why are you carrying that placard, then?

Protestor: Oh, that's simply an expression of my own personal views, as a Canadian citizen.

Inspector: I see. All right, go ahead, then.

Protestor: Thank you, sir.

Inspector: You're welcome.

I was in a stingy mood

In the ill-lit pedestrian tunnel that goes under the Elbe at Dresden I heard ahead of me the strains of a Viennese waltz, played by a pair of Gypsy violinists. I was in a stingy mood, and resolved to give them nothing. As it happened there was nobody else in the tunnel at that moment, and as I passed the musicians, still eloquently playing, I felt their eyes thoughtfully following me. I was decidedly self-conscious, knowing very well that I ought to put something in the open violin case at their feet, and as I walked towards the daylight my resolution wavered. ‘You should be ashamed of yourself,' I said to myself, so when I emerged into the open I dug a few coins out of my purse and re-entered the tunnel. Melodies from the Vienna woods were still sounding in its twilight, and the Gypsies were not in the least surprised to see me back. They had read me like a book, and were expecting me. I put my coins in their violin case, and they both bowed courteously, without a smile. I bowed back in admiration.