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Stansted, September 2017 (UK) We were returning from visiting friends in Munich and had landed at Stansted Airport. It was 11 pm, and, as always, at this time, it was busy. Planes from all over Europe were landing just before the night flight ban came into effect. Like us, most of the holidaymakers or weekend travellers returning to London at this time were tired and just wanted to get home and rest. There was a lot of pushing and shoving in the queue for the bus, but it was light-hearted rather than aggressive. National Express Airport Express Bus stop In front of us in the queue, two Irish men in their early 40s made everyone laugh with their jokes. They must have been drinking on board or before boarding at the airport and were now in a good mood and a bit tipsy. They joked and laughed and turned their attention to two young English women gallantly courting them. They helped them with their luggage as they boarded the bus, settled down next to them and tried to get a little kiss as a reward for their help. The two women were quite taken with it and giggled. They seemed to enjoy the harmless flirtation and were having fun. The four of them sat down on the seats in front of us and continued chatting and laughing as the bus pulled away from Stansted Airport. The journey to our stop at Golders Green in north London would only take about an hour at this time of day, so we were relaxed about the charm offensive of the two men and the giggling reactions of the two young women. We braced ourselves for an entertaining and diverting ride. But things turned out differently. A few minutes after the bus had pulled onto the M11 motorway, the older of the two Irishmen (I seem to remember that his friend called him Paddy, from Patrick) received a phone call. Paddy laughed, grinned at the girls and blew them a kiss as he took the call. But then his expression changed abruptly. His face turned ashen, and he shouted into the receiver, "What, can you say that again?" And after a few seconds, "Oh no! Is he dead? He's dead, isn't he? Oh my God, oh my God!" On the bus, all attention was now on him. All conversations fell silent. Everyone wanted to know what had happened. But for the time being, all one could hear from the shocked man was unintelligible mumbling on the phone. Finally, Paddy hung up and desperately called many people one after the other, hoping to find out more. One of the two women on the other side of the aisle, who only a few minutes before had had all his amorous attention, tried to calm him down by touching his arm and shoulder. He angrily pushed her arm away with a brusque " f**k off!" and went back to trying to figure out what had happened. The rest of us were now also really interested in finding out what terrible blow of fate had turned the cheerfully cheeky man into a stunned, frightened and shocked person. "Oh, my God! Oh my God!" was all we could hear from him. Over the next hour of our journey and quite a few phone calls later, we were able to get a rough picture of the event that had so shaken our fellow traveller. As it appeared, Paddy's younger brother had had an accident with a friend on the way home after a Sunday meeting with friends. The friend had been driving. The brother had been seriously injured and taken to a nearby hospital, where some friends and family members were waiting for further news from the doctors who operated on him. So any phone call could reveal whether his little brother was still alive. The passengers held their breath, felt for him and hoped the young man would survive. We could all understand the fear, panic and helplessness that this man was going through at that moment. He kept stammering between calls, "Oh my God!" or pleading with St Mary for help in intermittent prayers. He sobbed loudly and cried again and again, "It's all my fault! Oh my God, it's all my fault!" Witnessing this nightmare without being able to help was hard to bear. The two women next to him were silent and did not even dare to look at him to not upset him again. Everyone on the bus was very sympathetic. No one spoke or laughed. There was a sombre atmosphere on this National Express Airport bus to London. I'm sure some of us wondered, as we did, what the guilt was that Paddy kept talking about. We were glad when we finally arrived at our stop in Golders Green. But the first to rise from his seat was Paddy. He rushed forward but not to get off. Instead, he had spotted among the passengers in the front row a Catholic priest in a soutane, frock and collar, who had fallen asleep peacefully in his seat during the journey. Paddy shook the poor man awake, knelt in front of him and asked for his blessing and forgiveness of his sins. The frightened priest agreed but inquired why. The anguished man only wept inconsolably and murmured between sobs, "It is all my fault, for I have sinned. God has punished me for my sins by taking my little brother away from me. That's why he had this accident and will die - because of me." How terrible! What kind of attitude to life was that, and what guilt did you have to live with when you were convinced that you could be guilty of the death of a loved one through a sinful lifestyle?! At the moment of this absolute emotional low, the desperate Irish man's friend suddenly held up his phone and shouted: "He will live! They just said he's going to pull through!" And through the tears, hope, relief, and the smile returned to the man's face. Finally, as more and more passengers pushed for the exit, Paddy gave way, and we too could leave the bus. On the way home and for a long time afterwards, this scene ran through my mind. I could still hear his desperate loud lament: "It is all my fault, for I have sinned!" (LL) National Express Airport Express

(DE) Berlin, June 1978 It's easy to smile at the old joke about two committed young scouts who take their duty to do a good deed every day too seriously and drag an older woman across the street without realising that she doesn't even want to cross the road. Well, overzealous people like to overshoot the mark. "That couldn't happen to me!" I thought to myself, One evening, however, I was proved wrong. I wanted to do something good, but the good deed turned out differently than I thought. On a warm summer night in June 1978, I was out and about in Berlin-Kreuzberg with a friend from university at around 1 a.m. We had just come out of a pub after a convivial evening and were pushing our bikes to the next intersection to talk a bit more. After that, we would go our separate ways. Then, we saw an older woman slumped on the pavement at the Oranienplatz. She looked as if she had just collapsed. We rushed to her to help her and call an ambulance if necessary. The old woman grabbed her heart and wailed, "Oh, my heart! Oh, my heart!" When we tried to call the ambulance, she resisted vehemently. She lived just around the corner, and once she was home, everything would be fine, so she said. She asked us if we could bring her home. But, of course, it was just around the corner. And who would want to leave a frail, poor woman sitting alone on the street at night? So we set off. We hooked her from both sides and pushed our bikes with the other free hand. The address she gave us, Waldemarstraße, was only five minutes away. We would make it! But our progress was slow because the old woman had to stop and catch her breath again and again and moan: "Oh, my heart! Oh, my heart!" We felt a little uneasy. We would have preferred to call an ambulance, but she insisted she was okay. She just wanted to go home. Finally, after a long 20 minutes, we arrived at her apartment block. "Side wing, third floor," the old woman mumbled. All right, we had dragged her this far. We couldn't leave this frail older woman standing at the front door. Of course, we had to finish our task. Fortunately, The front door was open, so we slowly dragged her to the side wing. However, when we started lifting the older woman up the stairs, we realised it was not so easy after all. Her legs had no strength, and the woman was much heavier than we had thought. We tried pushing and pulling and slowly climbed one step after another—a very sweaty activity. In the narrow stairwell, we noticed that the good woman smelled quite strongly of alcohol and urine. Well, who knows what kind of sad life she has! So we pulled and pushed on. What else could we have done at that point? But eventually, we got stuck. No chance! Nothing worked any more! We were at a loss for what to do. Then I remembered that the pub on the corner was still open. Maybe I could get help from there! No sooner said than done. I left the old woman in the care of my friend and ran to the pub. There, I looked around for possible helpers. They had to be strong and willing to undertake this unusual task. Eventually, I found two young men who agreed to leave their beers behind for a short time under the supervision of their friends and help me get this helpless old woman home. "No problem, lass, we'll get that sorted!" Good-natured and optimistic, they followed me into the stairwell. The old woman greeted them with her oh-my-heart-oh-my-heart wail, which promptly spurred the two helpful men on, and they set to work. But even for these two strong lads, it was not so easy. The woman was hefty and hard to move. So, four of us pushed and pulled, step by step, with short breathers in between. The old, frail woman felt heavier than a 100 kg potato sack. One of the guys had put his shoulder under her rear end to have better leverage to push. As we pushed and pulled again, and he heaved with his shoulder, a long fart escaped the old woman loudly. The young man at her rear almost made the woman fall backwards in shock. We struggled to stop her from falling down the stairs. The narrow stairwell soon filled with a terrible stench. Although we hardly dared to take a deep breath, we giggled to ourselves at this absurd situation. At the same time, we tried to be quiet so as not to wake the neighbours. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, we reached the third floor. We breathed a sigh of relief. However, the old woman had another difficulty in store for us. She had no key, she muttered somewhat incomprehensibly. While we were still puzzling over what to do, she tried to reassure us: "They'll let me in, won't they?" That was definitely anything but reassuring. She never mentioned that she lived in the flat with other people. And why was it questionable whether they would let her in? Something was very wrong here! We better kept a low profile from now on. We leaned the frail old woman against the wall, rang the doorbell and quickly ran down to the second floor to watch from our hiding place what would happen now. And really, after a while, we heard noises from inside the flat. A key turned in the lock, and the door was opened a crack. A Turkish woman in a nightgown came out and whined, "No, not again!" But then, resignedly, she pulled the old woman into the flat and closed the door behind her. The four of us looked at each other in dismay. Oh my goodness! What had we done here? Presumably, the old woman had lived in this flat before, which had now been rented to a Turkish family. Maybe the old woman was homeless or in a nursing home from which she sometimes escaped. Whatever the case, she obviously managed to persuade gullible helpers now and then to drag her back to her old home. After all, who would want to leave a frail old woman sitting alone on the street at night? We certainly had to recover from this shock before going home. So, the four of us went back to the pub a bit dazed, irritated, annoyed, with a guilty conscience towards the Turkish family, but also amused. Over a cold beer, we slowly regained our composure and were amazed at the ruthlessness the frail old woman had carried out this action. (LL)

21st October until 5th November 2023 For a long time, we wanted to see Vietnam. Dave had been in 1992, shortly after Vietnam was opened to tourists. Lisa has never been. Finally, we decided on an organised tour by Explore called "Inside Vietnam". We have travelled with the Explore travel company several times before. They are usually well-organised, and so far, we had mostly luck with our fellow travellers. The tour of 15 days is packed with sights and activities, and we will be very busy. We plan to write in this blog about some of our many experiences, and we hope we will have time to do so. If not, don't despair; we will continue and finish the travel blog once we are back home. Below is a map of Vietnam (in red) with the surrounding countries, such as China, Laos, Cambodia and Thailand. Exploring Vietnam: We will start in Hanoi and travel via Halong, Hue and Danang to Hoi An. From there, we will go to Ho Chi Minh City (formerly Saigon), where we will visit the Mekong Delta and the Cu Chi Tunnels, among others. There is a lot to see. But more about that once we are there. Trip Overview: Inside Vietnam Our tour "Inside Vietnam", organised by the tour operator "Explore", offers a varied programme with a variety of activities. It promises trips to spectacular landscapes. We will learn about Vietnam's ancient and modern history and rich culture, as well as its colonial influences. And, of course, Vietnamese food is a theme, as well as meetings with Vietnamese people. We will also visit many memorials or sites of the Vietnam War. Visiting sites associated with the Vietnam War has become a profitable part of the Vietnamese tourism industry. Some call it "dark tourism" and argue that it is voyeuristic and inappropriate for tourists to visit war sites where tragedies took place and for local businesses to make money from it. So the question is: why do people want to visit these sites? More so, why do we want to see these sites? For our generation, the Vietnam War is a special war. It was the first war the US lost, which dramatically changed the perception of America as a superpower. It was also the first war in which the media exposed wartime atrocities and government lies, fundamentally shifting public opinion not only about the war. Out of the confrontation with the horrors and futility of the Vietnam War emerged the anti-war movement of the youth of the time, or rather, the peace movement. "Make Love, not war!" was the anti-war slogan. It is, therefore, fair to say that the Vietnam War and the protests against it have shaped our generation. We want to visit these memorials and war sites to understand what happened in Vietnam at that time. We expect a respectful and informative tour that deals with contemporary history and is not oriented towards sensationalism. Our interest is to use the knowledge and insights about the past also for the assessment or understanding of current events. Some background information on Vietnam The long shape of Vietnam is determined by its natural borders. To the east is the South China Sea, and to the northwest and west are the mountains that separate the country from its neighbours, Laos and Cambodia. Vietnam's long shape is often referred to as the "bamboo with two rice bowls", whereby the two fertile lowland regions, the Red River Delta in the North and the Mekong Delta in the South, are the rice bowls and the thin area in between is the stick of bamboo carrying the two rice bowls. This refers to how goods such as food or water are traditionally carried. Vietnam's Fight for Independence Our guidebook states: "The Chinese, the French, the Japanese and later even the mightiest power on earth, the USA – all staked claims of various kinds on the small nation in Southeast Asia. And all their exertions ultimately ended in defeat and enforced retreat." This means, throughout its history, Vietnam was fighting for its independence from the Chinese, the French, the Japanese and later the US. I wanted to know more about Vietnam's challenging history beyond the infamous Vietnam War. Without wishing to go into too much detail, I summarise here some key issues I found for those interested. In the early 19th Century, Vietnam faced claims to power from two foreign rivals, China and France. In the mid-19th Century, France occupied all of Indochina (Cambodia, Laos and Vietnam). Vietnam was split into three parts: the Colony of Cochichina in the South, the Annamprotectorate in the Centra and Tonkin in the North. In the 20th Century, an anti-colonial movement began, initiated by the educated upper class, whose sons and daughters went to schools in France. During the Second World War, the Japanese occupied the country from 1940 but still tolerated the French administration. Japan finally, in 1945, granted independence to Vietnam. The Japanese disarmed the French colonial army and put Nguyen Emperor Bao Dai in charge to rule under their supervision. At the same time, Ho Chi Minh called for an armed revolt for Vietnam's independence. On 02 September 1945, he proclaimed the nation's independence. The Democratic Republic of Vietnam was born. BaoDai had to surrender, and for the first time, Vietnam held democratic elections in January 1946. The First Indochina War Even though France had officially recognised the independence of Vietnam, they occupied Saigon and Hanoi shortly afterwards. In November 1946, the First Indochina War between France and Vietnam began, which should last several years. Ho Chi Minh's Government was forced underground, and in 1948, the former emperor, Bao Dai, was reinstated by the French as regent of the formally independent state of Vietnam. This basically colonial conflict was heavily overshadowed by the Cold War: China and Russia supported the North with weapons and recognised its Government as legitimate. The Western states sided with France and its marionette leader, Bao Dai. The French army was unsuccessful; in the decisive Battle of Dien Bien Phu in 1954, the Vietnamese People's Army defeated the French troops. At the "Geneva Conference" in Paris in April 1954, the different sides of the war, as well as the neighbouring countries Laos and Cambodia and the four world powers (the US, the Soviet Union, China and Great Britain) met to determine the future of the country. The decision was taken to have a provisional demarcation line at Dang Ha to divide the country up provisionally until an all-Vietnam election planned for July 1956. But Dong Ha became a permanent border for the next 21 years. In the North, under Ho Chi Minh, the communists ruled their separate part of the country from the capital, Hanoi. The urban and rural family businesses were put under state control. Those in power cleansed the North of the country, and alleged traitors were denunciated and executed. As a result, about 1 Million North Vietnamese fled to the South. In addition, the rigorously enforced land reform in 1955/56 increased the insecurity among the population and led to uprisings in the North. In the South, Saigon was proclaimed the Capital of the pro-West Republic of South Vietnam in 1955. The anti-communist and Catholic Ngo Dinh Diem became head of state. He cancelled the planned All-Vietnamese elections in 1956 and declared himself President. South Vietnam and the US never signed the Geneva Conference agreement. The French Army left South Vietnam in 1956. From the mid-50s, the US sent military help and advisors to South Vietnam to resolve the conflict between North and South in favour of the pro-Western South. Meanwhile, the South Vietnamese Government transformed into a dictatorship that targeted Buddhists, other religious groups and political dissidents with ruthless violence. In 1963, Buddhist monks publicly self-immolated, and South Vietnamese students demonstrated in the streets. More information. https://timesofindia.indiatimes.com/videos/news/burning-monk-vietnamese-monk-who-immolated-himself-against-ngo-dinh-diem/videoshow/69729654.cms The Vietnam War (the Second Indochina War) The Vietcong (Vietnamese Communists) was a guerrilla organisation in the South and had been part of the resistance since 1956. The South Vietnamese opposition, politically persecuted and driven underground, founded the National Liberation Front (NFL, with support from the Communists in Hanoi. From the early 60s onwards, the US sent increasing numbers of military advisors to South Vietnam as they feared that a Communist victory in Vietnam would cause a domino effect in the neighbouring countries. In 1963, after several failed attempted coups, the military removed Ngo Dinh Diem as President, supported by the CIA and President John F. Kennedy. The so-called Gulf of Tonkin Incident is considered the official cause of the Vietnam War, the Second Indochina War. In August 1964, the US destroyer "Maddox" engaged in a gun battle with two torpedo boats off the North Vietnam coast. Later investigations revealed that the Maddox had been involved in a secret manoeuvre with the South Vietnamese navy. US President Johnson used this incident as a pretext for sending reinforcement troops to South Vietnam and ordering the bombing of North Vietnam, with the approval of Congress. The Americans never officially declared war on North Vietnam. The task force "Operation Rolling Thunder" was the starting point for the US entry into North Vietnam. In March 1965, 25,000 Soldiers went on land in the area of Da Nang. In the following years, their number rose to half a million. The US military aimed to drive with their state-of-the-art weaponry the Communist soldiers out of South Vietnam and defeat the North. Yet, the Vietcong used guerilla tactics against US troops, partly supported by the rural population. The South Vietnam government had lost the sympathy of many farmers due to their repressive governance. To disrupt the support of the Vietcong by the South Vietnamese rural population, many of them were relocated to the cities or fortified villages. The South Vietnamese underground fighters (called Charlie by the Americans) inflicted losses on the American soldiers through landmines, tiger traps, surprise attacks and acts of sabotage. The tunnels of Cu Chi helped the Vietcong to become virtually invisible. These tunnels are today open to the public. During the day, the US troops seemed to prevail, but during the night, the Vietcong fought back and was able to strike severe blows. However, a victory by the Communist guerillas was not possible because of the superiority of the Americans, South Vietnamese and soldiers from other allied nations. To end this military stand-off, the US Army Chief of Staff, General Westmoreland, even called for the use of nuclear weapons. Instead, he ordered Agent Orange, a chemical pesticide containing dioxins, to spread widely over vast areas. The favourite target of these defoliation operations was the so-called Ho Chi Minh Trail, a 16,000km long heavily branched network of trails that partly crossed over to Laos and Cambodia. The US forces also dropped napalm and conventional bombs on these paths to disrupt the military supply from the North to the South. A turning point of the war was the Tet Offensive. On 31 January 1968, the Vietnamese New Year's Day, called Tet, despite the agreed ceasefire, the fighters of Ho Chin Minh and the Vietcong attacked the positions of the American and South Vietnamese forces. Although the Tet Offensive was not a success, as the Vietcong and Ho Chi Minh's fighters suffered severe losses, public opinion in the US on the Vietnam War changed. The news reports proved that the American war propaganda about the near end of the war was all but lies, and the pictures came as a shock. The anti-war movement in America and Western Europe grew exponentially. In the same year, President Johnson announced official peace negotiations that began in May 1968 in Paris; despite the ceasefire, a condition for the talks, only lasted a short while. The End of the War Despite the peace talks and secret negotiations, the war continued for several years with heavy bombings of Hanoi. On the 27th of January 1973, the opponents signed the Paris Peace Accords that ended the war and guaranteed the withdrawal of the US forces. However, a national reconciliation was far away. After the US military troops withdrew, the North Vietnamese Government pushed for victory over the South. In early 1975, they launched a large-scale attack. Thousands of South Vietnamese soldiers fled when the North Vietnamese troops closed on Saigon. President Nguyen stepped down and fled to Great Britain. On the 30th of April 1975, the North Vietnamese and Communist troops marched into Saigon and conquered the presidential palace with no resistance offered by the South Vietnamese troops. The Republic of South Vietnam surrendered unconditionally. The outcome of the war was horrendous. The whole country was bombed to the ground; its infrastructure was destroyed. Hundreds of thousands were injured or disabled. 10 Million homeless refugees and former soldiers strayed around the devastated country. Much of the country's wildlife and its forests were destroyed through the use of 80 million litres of defoliant by the US military. Numerous deformities of newborns in Vietnam can be traced back to the excessive contamination by Agent Orange. Dioxins have a long-term effect on the food chain, and years after the war ended, they are cited as the cause of multiple cancers. Reunification The first Vietnamese elections took place in April 1976 and were won by the Communists. North and South were reunited when, on 2 July 1976, the Socialist Republic of Vietnam (SRV) was founded, with Hanoi as the capital. Ho Chi Minh, who had died in 1969, did not live to see this victory. The reunification was accompanied by a rigorous takeover, restructuring and cleanup of the capitalist South. The country's economy and agriculture were nationalised. Intellectuals and political opponents were persecuted and put in so-called re-education camps. Religious freedom was seriously restricted. The changes were severe and led to the largest flood of refugees at these times. About 2 million people, mainly ethnic Chinese well-to-do business people, for whom there was no place in a communist system, fled Vietnam between 1975 and 1990, mainly as boat people across the China Sea. In foreign political terms, Vietnam's Government moved closer towards the Soviet Union, to the displeasure of the Chinese allies, who stopped their aid in 1978. Present-day Vietnam The country found itself after the war in a difficult situation. Its infrastructure and industry were destroyed; the region had suffered natural catastrophes, huge military costs, inflation and China's decision to stop the aid, all exacerbated by an international embargo, the flight of educated parts of the population and increasing corruption. No wonder the collapse of the Vietnamese economy was imminent. Profound reforms were inevitable. At the Sixth National Party Congress in 1986, far-reaching economic reforms were enacted. The political rulers opted for decentralisation and market economics. However, a consistent implementation did not take place. After another famine in the North at the beginning of 1988, the Government abolished the agricultural cooperatives for good. Farmers were allowed to lease land and sell their goods independently. During the 1990s, a new political generation came to power, replacing the old Communist regime with a "renovation of thinking". Finally, the new constitution of 1992 guaranteed the right to private property. On February 3, 1994, President Bill Clinton ordered the lifting of the US trade embargo on Vietnam. Three years later, in 1997, the Vietnamese Government agreed to pay the debts of the South Vietnamese Government of about $140 million to be allowed to trade with the US. Following this, trade volumes boomed between the two countries. Also, in 1997, Clinton appointed former POW and US Congressman Pete Peterson as the first US Ambassador to Vietnam since 1975. President of the United States, Bill Clinton, made a historic visit to Vietnam in November 2000. He was the first US leader ever to visit Hanoi officially and the first to visit Vietnam since US troops withdrew from the country in 1975. [ Since the substantial economic reforms and the lifting of the US embargo, the country's economy has flourished with a double-figure growth rate. The country turned away from strongly supported heavy industry and again embraced the typical Vietnamese agricultural industries. Vietnam is now one of the biggest exporters of rice worldwide. The country successfully attracted foreign capital because of its enormous oil deposits, liberal laws, and a highly motivated workforce with low wages. In recent years, the economy has shifted from a mainly agricultural focus to a service economy, whereby tourism plays an increasingly significant role. Sources: https://www.britannica.com/event/Vietnam-War https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Vietnam_War https://www.history.com/topics/vietnam-war/vietnam-war-history Vietnam. Marco Polo Handbuch. Marco Polo Travel Publishing Ltd. 2019. Here, you can test your knowledge about the Vietnam War: https://www.britannica.com/quiz/pop-quiz-19-things-to-know-about-the-vietnam-war Media coverage changed the war In no other war, the uncensored media coverage had such an impact, entirely different from what the American military strategists had planned. For example, reports about the My Lai Massacre on 16 March 1968 changed public opinion for good. In a 90-minute search and destroy operation, US soldiers killed 504 villagers: elderly, women and children. More information is here . https://www.britannica.com/event/My-Lai-Massacre The pictures of Trang Bang in 1972 had an even more powerful impact on the world's public opinion. Some may remember the photos that showed a naked girl crying as she ran from her village destroyed by napalm bombs. This photo became an icon of the anti-war movement. More information here. https://www.vanityfair.com/news/2015/04/vietnam-war-napalm-girl-photo-today Tim Page was one of the most famous and fearless photographers during the Vietnam War. His exciting book 'Page After Page' where he told his story about his time in Vietnam, has been made into a mini-series called Frankie's House: https://www.imdb.com/title/tt0104294/ https://www.theguardian.com/media/gallery/2022/aug/24/tim-page-the-vietnam-war-photographers-career-in-pictures https://www.theguardian.com/world/2022/sep/01/tim-page-obituary Dave was in contact with Tim Page before his first trip to Vietnam in 1992, and Tim gave him some information and recommendations on what to see and visit. Among them were the contact details of a Vietnamese photographer, Mr Hoang Van Cuong, who, in 1992, owned a bar in Saigon called the Cyclo Bar. He was a photographer during the Vietnam War. After the departure of the Americans and the fall of the South, he remained behind with his wife and family. He went into hiding to escape the victorious North Vietnamese as they took over Saigon and persecuted every potential political dissident and certainly those who had worked for the Americans. Hoang Van Cuong survived by becoming a farmer in the Mekong Delta. After nine years, he was captured and sent to the forced labour camps, euphemistically known as 're-education camps'. In 1989, after spending five years in this camp, he was released. Finally, after fourteen years, he was reunited with his wife and family. Fortunately, he had been able to hide the negatives of the photographs that he had taken during the Vietnam War with members of his extended family. These photographs were on show in 1992 in a little gallery on top of his bar. He sold them for US $20 each to supplement his meagre income from his bar. All the famous war photographers at the time visited him, came to his bar and pinned their business cards on the wall of his gallery to offer their former colleague much-needed support. During his visit in 1992, Dave bought two of his photographs, and they are still hanging on the walls of our living room in our flat in London. Dave was there just before Christmas and was told that a week before, Carol Thatcher, the daughter of former Prime Minister Margret Thatcher, was also there and had bought ten of Mr Cuong's photos as Christmas presents for her friends back home. So, when we are in Saigon, we will definitely try and find the Cyclo Bar and hope to see Mr Hoang Van Cuong. Here is a link to the remarkable story of Mr Hoang Van Cuong. https://vivujourneys.com/product/local-legend-mr-hoang-van-cuong-vietnam/ And here we go: Our tour begins In the following, for each day of our tour, we will post the itinerary of our programme outlined by the tour company we are travelling with, Explore!, followed by our personal tales and impressions. Enjoy the trip with us. Day 1: Saturday, 21 October 2023 - Departure The Flight from Heathrow to Saigon, Ho Chi Minh City, was easy peasy. 13 hours flying for a bit more than 10,000 km. We were quite surprised about Vietnam Airlines because the reviews we read were pretty poor. The usually dead boring introduction to the security procedure was funny and caught our attention: They showed a video with flight attendants dancing traditional Vietnamese dances while explaining not to smoke, how to fasten your seatbelt or how to put your oxygen mask or safety vest on. The food was Vietnamese and very good; even so, we had to get used to having chicken noodle soup for breakfast. The alternative, hash brownies, bacon, scrambled eggs and bland bread, seemed not so exciting. The crew were generous with the wine and beer, and you were not lectured after one glass that alcohol is bad for you when flying, as we experienced all too often with British Airways, Virgin Airlines and American Airlines, while we could see that first and business class had an endless stream of Champagne and wine, in real glasses. What a surprise! With all our meals, we head real knives and forks and glasses, unknown for years, travelling in cattle class on other airlines. The selection of movies was interesting, too. You could only choose between Asian and Hollywood busters. I opted for three Vietnamese films (as I could not sleep) that had won many awards, and I was not disappointed. In particular, I liked a film called “The Scent of Green Papaya” about a young Vietnamese girl from the countryside working as a maid in a family in a town. A good introduction to a country that I had never visited before. Day 2: Sunday, 22 October 2023 - Join the tour in Hanoi Arrive in Vietnam's capital, famous for its rich culture, bustling life and colonial influences on their centuries-old architecture. Little lakes dotted around the city are encased by busy streets and secret alleyways waiting to be explored. From Ho Chin Minh City, we had to continue our journey to Hanoi (another 2-hour flight), where we met the rest of the group to start our tour. We are a group of 13, mostly at a similar age as we, from 60 onwards, and as it turned out, with similar interests. We are starting our tour in Hanoi, The "City between the Rivers", as the Vietnamese call their capital. Hanoi is also considered one of the most beautiful cities in Asia, with French charm and typical Vietnamese chaos, we are told. We will see. Although Saigon played a vital role in colonial history and the wars of the last two centuries, Hanoi, located in the Red River Delta and the nearby mountains, is, with its over 4000 years of history, referred to as the cradle of Vietnam. Like no other place in Vietnam, we are told, the various eras characterise Hanoi's atmosphere. Kings, Confucius, colonial rulers, the military, and, more recently, capitalists made their mark on the city's landscape. It houses hundreds of temples and pagodas, many museums, colonial-era facades and modern highrise department stores. There is so much to see, but we have little time. We can only get a glimpse of the sights in the city. Day 3: Monday, 23 October 2023 - Discover the sights of Hanoi, including the Old Quarter This morning, we have a tour of the main sights of Hanoi. Architecturally styled like a French provincial town with tree-lined boulevards and substantial low-built houses, the city is wonderfully nostalgic. Among the interesting sights are the charming One-Pillar Pagoda, the Confucius Temple and the Presidential Palace. Ho Chi Minh himself, a spartan-living and scholarly man, chose not to live in the Presidential Palace; he preferred instead a simple teak stilt house specially built for him on the grounds. This afternoon, we walk through the narrow lanes of the fascinating Old Quarter, where the streets are named after various crafts or specialities: Paper Street, Silk Street, Basket Street and so on. The shops have very narrow frontages but are quite deep; they are known locally as tube shops. On the pavements, food sellers sell noodles, snacks and stir-fries from shoulder panniers. The smell of food mixes with the smell of incense from small temples dotted around. Hanoi is super interesting. There is so much to see and so much to do. First of all, the food is very tasty. Our tour leader, Lan, always finds little restaurants and places for us to eat. On the first evening, he brought a big Coca-Cola bottle full of homemade rice wine made by his father. Very tasty, too, and it certainly loosened everyone up in the group. Our tour leader tells us lots of stories about the Vietnamese way of life. I was very surprised about the small, tall houses all over Hanoi. He explained that the houses and grounds are very expensive. That’s the reason why most of the houses are only 3 meters wide but have several floors above. The houses are also called tube houses because although they are only 3 meters wide, they go far back, sometimes up to 60 meters, including perhaps a workshop, accommodation, courtyards, etc. Each house has a shop on the ground floor where the family sells something. This is another reason for the houses being small because the tax for the businesses is based on the size of the shop front. As the houses are so small, the goods are displayed on the pavement, and selling occurs there too. So it is difficult moving around on pavements, and often you have to go onto the busy streets, risking being run over by the masses of motorbikes. There are many tiny restaurants where people sit on little chairs or stools. We also learnt that only a few people in Vietnam seem to have fridges. Therefore, they go shopping for food a few times a day. In Hanoi, no such thing as a big supermarket exists, but people buy in little shops on the street. That explains why we see so many food stores on the pavement offering vegetables, rice noodles, fish, seafood or meat. The shopkeepers get a delivery of food and prepare it on the pavement for sale. For example, at a butcher’s shop, half a pig was delivered in the morning (on a motorbike), and the female shop owner cut it into pieces for her customers to buy. Business was good, and by midday, the half-pig was gone. No need for a fridge. The roads are full of motorbikes, scooters, bicycles and cars. I am very impressed with the size of the load the motorbikes and bicycles can carry and how they manoeuvre through the traffic. We visit the Ho Chi Minh Mausoleum - but only from the outside, as it is closed to visitors on Mondays. Ho Chi Minh was embalmed here - but against his express wishes. He wanted his ashes divided into three parts and kept in three ceramic urns - the three parts were to represent the north, the centre and the south of the country. Opposite the Mausoleum is the National Assembly building, where Ho Chi Minh read out the Declaration of Independence on 2 September 1945. Not far from here is the former Presidential Palace, built from 1900 to 1908 as the residence of the Governor General. Ho Chi Minh did not want to live in the ostentatious building but had a more modest house built by the lake. In summer, when it was too hot, he moved into a small hut on stilts next door. Of course, we also visit sights such as the One Pillar Pagoda and the Temple of Literature, which was the intellectual and spiritual centre of the kingdom for centuries. Photos left to right: Ho Chi Minh Mausoleum, Presidential Palace and Literature Temple. After watching the most important sites, such as the Ho Chi Minh Mausoleum and the Literature Museum, we explore the French Quarter. Here are many beautiful grand houses built by the French, which now mostly serve as Government buildings or where ambassadors live and embassies are housed. We see many mobile flower stalls where young beautiful women can buy or rent flowers for beautiful photographs, either taken by one of the many professional photographers or a friend or family member. Shortly before 11 a.m., we have to go into a narrow road and sit in a coffee shop. We are excited as we are waiting for the train from Saigon (called the Reunification Express) to come through this very narrow road. This, we were promised, is a special experience. Some of us are sitting on a balcony, and some are downstairs near the tracks, ready with our cameras. Dave has been able to find a special place from where he has the perfect view, but the locals shout at him to go back to the house wall. They even bring out a tiny chair for him to sit on but still warn him to take his leg in because the train would be coming close. And we can already hear him coming long before we see him. But then we can see him. A huge tall train is coming at high speed towards us. We press our bodies against the wall. Dave quickly brings in his knees as the long train approaches and passes by so close - it’s almost claustrophobic. But very exciting. Here is Dave's video clip of the impressive Reunification Express: Afterwards, we have lunch at the cafe, where we watched the train from. It’s all well organised and businesslike. The train passes through about four times a day. The rest of the day and night, the railway track is empty, and families use it to put the dinner table out for the whole family and enjoy their meal. Luckily they know the timetable so they can relax. We then walk for hours around the Old Quarter. This is a traditional old town with interesting architecture and many shops and markets. There are streets dedicated to selling silk, jewellery, baskets, shoes, soaps, paper, tin products, bamboo goods, food etc. It is fascinating wandering around the streets and taking in the sights and smells. Later on, we go on a rickshaw tour around the old town. The rickshaws are like bicycles, powered by men with strong legs. This is a lazy way of getting to know the city, but after many kilometres of walking, we enjoy being lazy. Some of us even nod off. At five pm, we have tickets booked for the water puppet show. Masses of people visit these shows, which are offered five times a day. A group of musicians and singers present traditional songs that accompany tales of traditional life in Vietnam about water buffalos, dragons, fishermen, rice farmers, etc. It’s lots of fun when the dragons spy water and the fish fly around and out of water. The puppets are handled behind a screen by a group of people who are standing up to their hips in the water. They move the puppets across the water with long bamboo poles and strings. Very impressive. I can only hope the water is warm or they have Neoprene suits on. We had another delicious dinner in a small restaurant. Our guide selects places where the Vietnamese people go. They usually look unassuming, and we would possibly not choose to go there. We have not yet seen a tourist restaurant from the inside. Good so! Yummy! Day 4: Tuesday, 24 October 2023 - Free time in Hanoi, then drive to Halong Bay We have some free time in Hanoi this morning, perhaps to visit some of the many museums or Ho Chi Minh's austere mausoleum, which resembles Lenin's in Moscow. Afterwards, we drive out towards the iconic Halong Bay in the Gulf of Tonkin. Thousands of jagged limestone islands rise out of the jade-green waters like the hairy scales of a submerged dragon. In fact, Halong means: 'Where the dragon descends to the sea'. As legend has it, the rugged seascape was created by the pounding tail of a dragon as he ran from the mountains into the sea, carving the islands in his wake. Hanoi Hilton - the infamous Hanoi Prison (Maison Centrale) This morning is free for exploring. We are going to the Hanoi Hilton. This is not a luxurious Hotel, but the infamous local Prison Hoa Lo in Hanoi, sarcastically called Hanoi Hilton by the American prisoners of war who, mostly pilots and flight technicians, were captured and detained when their planes were shot down. The most famous of them was John McCain, who later became a Democratic Senator but recently died. Donald Trump famously said of John McCain he was a loser because he was caught. McCain was captured and tortured and kept in this prison for five years until his release and that of all American prisoners of war after the Paris Peace Accords was signed on 27th January 1973. The prison was originally built in 1896 by the French Colonisers. It was one of the largest and fortified prisons in Indochina at that time. It was handed over to the Vietnamese authorities in 1954 when the French left. A large part of the prison museum is dedicated to the history and poor and appalling conditions under which the French kept dissenting Vietnamese inmates in the first half of the 20th Century. The American pilots prisoners of war are returned to the US. Another part is devoted to the American Vietnam War and the life of American prisoners in Hoa Lo Prison from 1964 to 1973. The exhibition is eager to show how well the Vietnamese treated the captivated American soldiers. The photos show they were given good food and allowed to exercise and play basketball and baseball, celebrate Christmas and receive food parcels from their families. This is somehow contradicted by reports from American soldiers of torture and interrogation we read before coming to Vietnam. The prisoners were also shown films to educate them about the Vietnam country and the people they had been fighting against. When the prisoners were finally released, they were given new clothes and a bag full of presents. All is there to see in the many photos. What impressed me most was the part in the exhibition on the reconciliation process between the two countries, the US and Vietnam, after the war. Photos document the visits of US Presidents and diplomats and the efforts of reconciliation on the side of the US to make good for some of the damage they had done to the country, for example, through the use of Agent Orange. Also, many American soldiers had come back to visit the prison, reflect on their part in the war and beg forgiveness. The visit was certainly worthwhile and thought-provoking. The US Ambassador in Vietnam, Peterson, and Senator McCain visit Hoa Lo Prison. More information on https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hỏa_Lò_Prison And https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Hanoi_Hilton_(film) In the afternoon, we made our way by bus to Ha Long, at the seaside. On the way, we stopped at a rice and vegetable plot, watching how the farm workers work the land. In the evening, we went out for dinner. This time, our tour guide, determined to show us as many typical Vietnamese dishes as possible, ordered a hot pot for ten people. This is a big metal bowl with soup on a little gas cooker placed in the middle of our huge table. Then, all sorts of ingredients were placed around the hot pot: slices of beef and pork, various sorts of vegetables, tofu, and scampi, which were still alive and tried to jump off the plate. Our guide manned the hot pot and poured into the soup one plate full of goodies after the other. Each took a few minutes to boil; then he dished them out on our plates to eat. Very delicious! It was just a bit awkward watching when he threw the living scampi into the pot, and some tried to jump out to escape the boiling broth. Still, I have to say they tasted really good. Hot pot with live scampi Day 5: Wednesday, 25 October 2023 - Cruise Halong Bay; from Hanoi overnight train to Hué This morning, we enjoy the romantic scenery of Halong Bay on a cruise amongst the islands. We'll have the chance to stop at a grotto beneath towering cliffs and perhaps visit a beach. It is interesting to see the curious assortment of tourist boats, traditional junks and wooden sampans gliding through the waters. We enjoy a seafood lunch on board the boat before returning to a hotel in Hanoi to freshen up before boarding the Reunification Express to Hué. In the morning, we went on a boat cruise around Halong Bay. We were stunned by the beautiful bay, where over 1900 little islands stick out of the water. They all have different shapes and are called according to their form, such as chicken island, pig island, and turtle island. On one of the islands, Ti-Top, we stopped and walked up to a viewing point at the top from where we had a fascinating view. Afterwards, we visited a huge cave called Hang Sung Sat and admired the many impressive stalactites. This UNESCO World Heritage Site, Ha Long Bay, is one of the most popular tourist destinations in Vietnam, attracting millions of visitors each year. In recent years, the number of tourists visiting Halong Bay has increased dramatically, making it one of the most visited attractions in the country. The Bay is particularly popular with tourists from nearby China. While in 2010, 1.6 million visitors came to Ha Long Bay, in 2022, the total number of visitors has been about 11.5 million. - Sadly, with all the negative side effects. Along the beach and all over the town, many high-rise hotels and apartment blocks were built that, in our view, spoil the view of the beautiful bay. It was time to get back to Hanoi, but we stopped shortly at a pearl farm and learned how pearls are grown inside oysters by means of a kind of artificial insemination. Interesting. They also had a big shop with many beautiful pearl necklaces, rings and earrings on show. Unfortunately, a bit too pricy for us. Then, we quickly had to rush back to Hanoi to catch our night train to Hue. Day 6: Thursday, 26 October 2023 - In Hué; boat along Perfume River to Thien Mu Pagoda We arrive in Hué, one of the great cultural and religious centres of Vietnam, a quietly impressive place. The Perfume River divides the city in two and has been the inspiration for poets and painters for many centuries. This afternoon, we will take a trip by boat along the Perfume River from Hué to the Thien Mu Pagoda. This serene temple is the oldest in Hué and also the symbol of the city. We arrived in Hue at 10.30 in the morning after a 13 ½ hour train journey. The journey was okay. We had cabins with bunk beds for four people. Blankets and pillows were provided, but I was glad about my own thin silk sleeping bag as you never know how freshly washed these blankets were. I was surprised that I could sleep at all. The constant rattling of the old train seemed to have lulled me into sleep. Luckily, some of the boys in our group managed to get a few beers, which they shared with the group and which also helped send us to sleep. Each train carriage had two toilets. However, one needed to get used to operating the flush as the handle had gone and instead, a metal pin had to be pulled, switched and pressed to operate the flush. It required skill and patience, and I got it after a while, but not many passengers could be bothered. As a result, soon the smell was overwhelming. Beside each toilet was also a niche with a sink with soap and a towel to freshen up. In the morning, trolleys came through that offered breakfast, stale bread with undefined sauces. We preferred to nibble on our rice crackers, which we had brought with us and enjoyed sipping a hot cup of tea and slowly waking up, looking forward to our next adventure. Hue, the Imperial City, now a UNESCO World Heritage Site, was once the capital of Vietnam between 1802 and 1945, ruled by the Nguyen Dynasty until Ho Chi Minh’s communist government took over and set up the capital in Hanoi. Hue is a gold mine for those interested in the cultural history of Vietnam. Hue Imperial City comprises the Forbidden Purple City, royal tombs, pagodas, temples, royal quarters, a library and a museum. Fortunately, many of its tombs, pagodas and castles survived the violent wars. Once we arrived in Hue, we took one of the dragon boats that go along the Perfume River. Through lovely scenery, the boat brought us to the famous Thien Mu Pagoda, the oldest pagoda in Hue, built in 1601. It is surrounded by a wonderfully maintained garden with many flowers and plants. The Pagoda also is known because it became a hotbed of anti-government protests against President Ngo Dinh Diem’s hard rule against Buddhists. A devoted Catholic, Ngo favoured Catholics and discriminated against Buddhists, for example, in public service, in the army and when distributing government aid. In the summer of 1963, the army killed nine Buddhists. Protests were held across the country, and the Thien Mu Pagoda became a major meeting place for the Buddhist movement and was often a place of protests. The Thien Mu Pagoda was the home monastery of Buddhist monk Tich Quang Duc, who shocked the world when he set himself on fire in Saigon in 1963 in protest against the persecution of Buddhists by the South Vietnamese government. In the garden of the Pagoda, the vehicle that drove Thich Quang Duc to Saigon in June 1963 is kept along with a picture of the burning monk (see photos above). For lunch, our tour guide had planned a special treat for us. For centuries, the Royal Family employed their special cooks who prepared the most amazing dishes for them. Our tour guide organised for us to have lunch cooked by a family that had for generations cooked for the royal family. We entered the citadel to get to their home. And a royal meal it was indeed. This was the best meal we had in Vietnam and perhaps the best ever. Our royal lunch consists of spring rolls, marigolds , rice, tofu, fried fish, green papaya salad , pineapple and m any more delicacies. Besides our hosts, the royal chefs. In the evening, Dave and I walked through Hue in search of a specific bar, which Dave had found on the internet, the DMZ Bar, for Demilitarised Zone. The bar was founded in 1994 as a place for war veterans and war-curious travellers to meet and take tours to the demilitarised zone that divided North and South Vietnam during the war. The DMZ was located just north of Hue and was a place of many battles. We found the bar, had a drink there, and Dave bought a T-shirt with a map of the DMZ on the back. We had a lovely talk with one of the waiters, a young student of journalism. (In Vietnam, many restaurants and shops employ students to work as there are no government grants, and the young people have to find work to maintain themselves through their studies.) He shyly approached us, whether we wouldn’t mind talking to him. He wanted to practice his English. He had many questions about our travels, our experiences and our life experiences. We also discussed the importance of good journalism and the professional ethics of a journalist. We explain our opinion that a journalist must have a backbone and report truthfully. He agrees but admits that this is not always possible in a country like Vietnam. Day 7: Friday, 27 October 2023 - In Hué, visit the Imperial Citadel; free afternoon This morning, we appreciate Hué's fascinating history with a visit to the Imperial Citadel. Located on the left bank is the river; this palace was built by the Nguyen dynasty, Vietnam's ruling emperors from the early 1800s to 1945. The Citadel has formal moats and impressive ramparts that were constructed by 20,000 men and was a copy of the Forbidden City in Beijing. Although most of the inner part of the city was totally destroyed during the month-long Tet Offensive in 1968, the vast outer walls and the west wing remain an eloquent reminder of the palace's former glory. The remainder of the day is free perhaps to explore some of the outlying Tombs of the Emperors . We spend the morning exploring the Citadel and strolling about the grounds and gardens of the palace. Unfortunately, the palace is being renovated, so we are unable to see the inside of the palace. More information on the h istory of this interesting place is here to find: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Imperial_City_of_Hue In the afternoon, after an opulent lunch at a monastery (veggies only), we visited a village where they produce incense sticks. We learn how to make them and can practice making sticks with cinnamon, lemongrass, and jasmine smells. At the incense workshop, I learned how to make incense sticks. Dave has a rest between the many colourful, lovely-smelling sticks. The rest of the group continued afterwards to explore some of the Tombs of the Emperor further afield. We gave this a miss and decided to go back to Hue to explore the city, enjoy a cup of coffee in one of the many nice cafes and watch the world go by. Day 8: Saturday, 28 October 2023 - Scenic drive via Danang to Hoi An We enjoy a scenic drive across the spectacular Col des Nuages, otherwise known as the Hai Van Pass, observing rural scenes of thatched, wooden houses and lime-green rice paddies as well as enjoying panoramic sea views. Pausing in Danang, once the centre of the Kingdom of Champa (2nd century AD - 1720), we visit the Cham Museum, home to a fine collection of Cham sculptures. Our next stop is at the nearby five peaks of the Marble Mountains, said to represent the five elements of water, wood, fire, gold and earth. Naturally formed grottoes have been transformed into heavily carved Buddhist sanctuaries. A short distance from the mountains, we find the white sands of My Khe Beach (nicknamed China Beach by American troops)- an ideal spot for a brief rest. Finally, we reach our destination - the UNESCO World Heritage town of Hoi An. Today is a day of travelling. So we simply sit back and relax and enjoy the beautiful landscape passing by on our way to Da Nang. We are mightily surprised by the beauty of the area and the flash greens surrounding us, knowing full well that 50 years ago, during the American war, this all had been destroyed by Agent Orange and other chemical weapons. Amazing how nature recuperates itself. Drive towards Da Nang Bay Once we arrived in Da Nang Bay, we walked along China Beach and visited the Cham sculptures in the famous Cham Museum. After that, we drove on to explore the Marble Mountains and some beautiful pagodas and temples. Exhibition of Cham sculptures in the Cham Museum in Da Nang The China Beach and the Marble Mountains Day 9: Sunday, 29 October 2023 - Free day to explore Hoi An; optional visit to My Lai The historic merchant town of Hoi An had become one of the busiest international trading ports of Southeast Asia by the 17th and 18th centuries. First colonised by the Portuguese in the 16th Century, it still retains its medieval charm today, with many of its old buildings superbly preserved. The day is free to explore at leisure. You may choose to visit the Japanese Bridge or some of the Chinese temples and meeting halls in the Old Town. There are many shops, bars and restaurants in this charming town, and it is a great place to buy souvenirs, have clothing tailored, or simply watch the world go by in a riverside café. You may wish to take an optional excursion out to the site of the My Lai village massacre memorial. The massacre was a significant turning point in the American War, and the horrific story is told through a very emotive exhibition of photography. Another option would be to take a fishing trip out to the Thu Bon River Delta, where we learn how to fish using a traditional cast net. Travelling out by boat, we meet local fishermen and try our hand at cast net fishing as well as trying the bamboo winches used to haul in the huge drop nets from the river. We also have a chance to go out in a Vietnamese 'basket boat' - a circular boat constructed from bamboo that takes a little practice to row! Hoi An is a lovely town, now a UNESCO World Heritage Site . There is so much to see and so much to do. Most of the group decided to go out by boat along the river, learn how to make baskets boats, how to fish and also go for a bicycle ride. We took the op portunity to visit the village of My Lai, and together with another couple, the four of us undertook the five-hour return trip by minibus to visit the site of the massacre. When we reach My Lai, we are the only visitors apart from a small group of Scandinavian tourists. Inside the reception is a small photo exhibition giving information on the massacre. Some photos are well-known around the world. We can also see models of the village and its houses before and after they were destroyed. Accounts of some US soldiers are also on display of how they tried to interfere to stop the atrocities committed by their fellow soldiers. A video explains the development of the museum, which was set up by one of the survivors decades after the massacre. He is shown in one of the pictures below with an umbrella against the background of graves. The video also presents eyewitnesses and survivors as they visit the museum and tell their experiences. There is a touching and tense scene in the film when a former US soldier revisits My Lai years after and is confronted with the atrocities he and his fellow soldiers have committed. In a nearby temple, the names of the 504 people who were killed that day are written on a huge plaque. Outside, we can see the ruins where the houses once stood, and small plaques give the names and ages of those killed in this family. One house has been restored to demonstrate how the families in this village lived. The entrance to an artillery shelter can be seen. A big tree has a plaque saying that it had survived and witnessed everything that was going on. My Lai Massacre: The name of My Lai is probably familiar to many, even those with only a basic knowledge of the Vietnam War. The village has tragically become infamous through the brutal action of the US Army on 16 March 1968, going down in history as the My Lai Massacre. Here is a link to more information on the My Lai Massacre by Britannica . https://www.britannica.com/event/My-Lai-Massacre Dave's comments on My Lai: My Lai was the place, and 16th March 1968 was the date of what would forever become known as the infamous My Lai massacre, where U.S. soldiers killed 504 civilians. The victims included men, women, children and infants. Some of the women were gang-raped, and their bodies mutilated. It became the largest publicized massacre of civilians by U.S. forces in the 20th century. Twenty-six soldiers were charged with criminal offences, but only Lieutenant Willian Calley, a platoon leader, was convicted. He was found guilty of murdering 22 villagers and was originally given a life sentence. He served only three-and-a-half years under house arrest after U.S. President Richard Nixon commuted his sentence. I visited the My Lai memorial site 31 years ago, and it was a deeply disturbing experience as it was on my second visit. Certain elements of the memorial site have changed over the years. The museum had grown bigger, as did the trees and shrubs within the memorial site. The drainage ditch is still there, and what remains of the homesteads. The small plaques giving the names and ages of the victims who were killed remain. As we drove away, I felt a feeling of sadness, for there were only a handful of other people visiting the site, and I was expecting there to be a lot more visitors. The Vietnam War, called the American War by the Vietnamese, came to an abrupt end on 30th April 1975. That was when North Vietnamese tanks rolled through the gates of the Presidential Palace in Saigon, effectively ending the Vietnam War. That was 48 years ago, and our generation remembers that war vividly as it was on the T.V. news most nights. The younger generation can read all about the Vietnam/American War in history books. Today’s generation can watch the latest conflicts and wars in real time on 24-hour T.V. news channels and social media. Alas, our generation is also becoming part of history. To lift up our sombre mood after this experience, on our return, we stroll through the beautiful town of Hoi An. We walk along the river, admiring the traditional houses, the temples and the many lanterns and balloons which give the town a romantic atmosphere, particularly at night. Day 10: Monday, 30 October 2023 - Visit ancient My Son; free afternoon in Hoi An A further day is spent based in this lovely historic town. This morning, we take an excursion to the holiest and most evocative of Vietnam's Cham sites, My Son. The Chams were dynastic lords who rejected the authority of China in 2AD and established their own kingdom. Although they benefited from strong sea links with the rest of Southeast Asia, the kingdom's interior could not supply sufficient food for a strong military force. For 1,000 years, they managed to stave off attacks by the Vietnamese and Chinese before being overcome by the Vietnamese in the 15th Century. The track that leads to the site is slow and bumpy through wooded hills, but the site is certainly impressive, with several groupings of Cham temples to be visited. Nowhere are the fine masonry skills of the Chams more evident than at My Son, despite the fact that much of the site was bombed in the 1960s. The afternoon is free to enjoy Hoi An further. A cookery class at one of Hoi An's restaurants is a popular choice, as is the lantern-making workshop where you can learn how to make the ubiquitous lanterns in Hoi An. The beach is only a short drive by taxi alternative . Alternatively , a boat trip on the river as the late afternoon sun lights up the riverfront is a treat. Today is my birthday!! And a special one, too. 70 years young. I can't believe it. Age is just a number, and I don't feel anywhere near that. (yet!) Anyway, we wanted to celebrate this special occasion in style by going to Vietnam. And here we are. We decide to have a leisurely morning. We drop out of the scheduled trip to explore the Vietnam Cham temples, an hour's drive outside of Hoi An. Instead, we want to explore more sites of beautiful Hoi An. Unfortunately, it is raining, but that does not bother us. The hotel gives us big umbrellas, and off we go. The rain is warm anyway. This time, we want to discover Hoi An by day. We walk along the river, admire the traditional houses and visit some temples. Hoi An was once an important Southeast Asian trading port from the 15th-19th centuries. Miraculously, the city was spared the bombings during the American war, and the old charming yellow-painted houses and buildings have been preserved. We observe some tourists and locals as they get on with whatever they are doing. When we stroll through the market, the rainwater is dripping from the makeshift tarpaulins to cover the stalls. The market traders and their customers go about their business undaunted. But we have enough of the rainwater dripping on our necks, and to escape the rain, we visit a few of the many clothes shops. In Hoi An, you see someone with a sewing machine in almost every house. The town is known for its skilled tailors who offer to make clothes for you within a day. I decide against it as time is tight but buy myself a birthday present, a nice thin top that does not take up too much space in my luggage. We also visit some museums, such as the cultural and folklore museums. I was particularly interested in the Museum of Traditional Medicine. Traditional Medicine in Vietnam has a long-standing history. It is influenced by traditional Chinese medicine but differs as it uses primarily herbs and plants, either fresh or dried, and does not use complex concoctions like Chinese medicine, so we are told. The museum is housed in a typical old Hoi An building with traditional architecture. The rooms of the front building are reconstructed as the traditional medicine shop in Hoi An, including the areas with cabinets for herbal medicine, the place for pulse diagnosis and the waiting area for the patients. The courtyard is a place for drying herbs and preserving medicines. In the rear building, some methods of processing herbal medicines are presented. The rooms on the upper floor display and introduce traditional Vietnamese medicine, tools, equipment and information. The museum is interesting, and I could have spent some more time there, but now it's time to go home. The rest of the group will be back soon, and the tour leader has asked Dave to make sure that we are back in the hotel by 12 midday. I wonder why? At 12.30 we get a phone call saying they would be late for another half hour. Finally, they arrive, and I am presented with a birthday song, a card, flowers and a lovely cake and congratulated on my special day. Most of the group had already wished me happy birthday at breakfast, but there can never be enough gratulations and good wishes. I dish out the cake to all of us, and it tastes delicious. I am happy with my birthday celebration. Only later, I was told that there was a bit of a hiccup. Not my birthday cake! Apparently, our tour leader mixed up the birthdays. He sang Happy Birthday, dear James , on the bus, but no one joined in the singing because it was not James's birthday, but mine. Shortly before coming back, he told one group member they had to stop by a bakery to pick up the cake he had ordered for James for his birthday. My birthday cake His jaw dropped when he noticed he had ordered a birthday cake for the wrong person and with the wrong name on it. My birthday cake did not have a name, but I did wonder why some in the group had red fingers. Some had carefully scraped away James's name. To make up for it, the guide wanted to go and find a bunch of flowers for me. That explains the delay. What a lovely story. I will never forget this birthday. It was a running joke throughout the rest of the tour. Cooking class The birthday celebrations continue. Later in the afternoon, we have a cooking class, and the host greets us with a round of delicious homemade rice wine to toast to my health. How nice! Thank you! Eleven of our group have opted for this cooking class run by the famous Chef Hung Nguyen and his team. And now we are ready to learn how to cook some very tasty Vietnamese dishes. Each person has a stove in front of them. The ingredients for each dish are measured and prepared. The Masterchef explains the ingredients and shows us how to prepare and cook the dish. Afterwards, it is our turn, and he and his assistants supervise, meaning they help us to cook the dish. It is enjoyable, but no matter how hard we try, the dish never looks as good as when the professional chefs do it. Still, it tastes very nice. We start by learning how to cook a Vietnamese fried rice pancake, then grilled fish in banana leaf, and after that, green papaya salad with chicken and vegetable spring rolls. After preparing each dish, we eat it immediately at our table. This way, we are not kept too hungry, having to wait until the end of the cooking session. At the end of the cooking class, Chef Hung handed us a little booklet with the recipes for the dishes we learned to cook. This was a great experience, and we certainly will try to cook this at home. We thank our chef and his assistants and make our way through the ongoing heavy rain. The plan was to finish the day with a round of birthday drinks in a nice bar, but given the heavy rain and the many deep poodles of rainwater, we decide to postpone the drinks to another day and make our way home. Despite the umbrellas, we arrive at the hotel wet through and hope everything will dry out until we have to move on the next morning. Day 11: Tuesday, 31 October 2023 - Fly to Ho Chi Minh City; drive to Mekong Delta After a short drive to Danang Airport, we fly to Ho Chi Minh City, from where we drive further south to Ben Tre in the Mekong Delta. Surrounded by lush and fertile land, the area is home to small villages and swaying coconut palms. We take a local ferry to a nearby village, which we explore by trishaw. Later, we board sampans, which are small Chinese wooden boats, and cruise along the narrow canals that shoot off the main vein of the Mekong River. After lunch at a local house, we have some free time to explore the area further. Finally, we return to Ben Tre by boat, where we spend the night in a local homestay with shared facilities and dorm-style accommodation. At 5 o'clock, we receive a wake-up call from the hotel reception. We are already awake as we must be packed and ready in the lobby at 5.15 am. Our bus brings us to the Da Nang Airport, one hour away, to catch our early flight to Ho Chi Minh City. While waiting at the airport, we unwrap our packed breakfast given by the hotel. However, used to their usually excellent and abundant breakfast, we are somehow disappointed when we only find stale bread, a boiled egg and a banana. Never mind. The delicious hot tea from one of the coffee shops and a few leftover rice crackers make up for it. At Ho Chi Minh Airport, our bus brings us to the Mekong Delta. The journey takes 2 ½ hours. The Mekong Delta is the region in southwestern Vietnam where the long Mekong River that originates in Tibet flows into the South China Sea. It does so through a network of many distributary channels or rivers, small and large, forming many small and bigger islands. The Mekong Delta is an essential source of agriculture and aquaculture for the country, but the size of the land area covered by water depends on the season. Many islands and agricultural sites are flooded by increasing floods resulting from rising sea levels due to climate change. Plans are underway in many areas to erect a system of dykes to help stem the floods. Our destination is the district of Ben Tre. On the riverbank, we enter a long boat and travel down the Mekong River, passing by many small islands and waterways until we come to a small island called Xa Tam Hiep. Here will be our homestay for this night. We cruise around the island, and my heart sinks. It looks pretty desolate. The tide regularly makes the river swell, and many parts of the island are under water. To help the constant flooding, here also a dam is currently being built on parts of the island. There are cranes and machinery everywhere. The island is isolated, and so are the islanders. There is a ferry service to the mainland a few times a day, but the last one is at 5.30 pm. In an emergency, arranging transport may be tricky, particularly when it rains heavily. We are going by boat down the Mekong River. Constant flooding on the islands, photo re. The school is on another, bigger island, and pupils must take the ferry to get to school. On these small islands, there are few work opportunities. Some families grow vegetables, or bananas or coconuts. No wonder many islanders leave the Mekong Delta for the bigger cities for work. Only recently, some families developed business ideas, like homestay for the few tourists that pass by for a day or two, like the family we are staying with. Another family markets jelly they make from green leaves they grow in their garden. We watched the process of making and tasted the result sweetened with sugar syrup. Not bad. It's called Green Grass Jelly and is supposed to be very healthy, cleansing the body. Green Jelly production, made from green leaves We learn that the islanders also make the best use of the plentiful coconuts that grow on the island. In a manufacturing plant, we watched the extraction of various products from coconuts. For example, the water from the green coconut is used for drinking, and the flesh from the ripe coconut is used for extracting coconut milk and making coconut bake (a mass of soya beans with coconut flesh steamed in banana leaves for 20 minutes. The shell is used for ornaments and handicrafts or for burning on the cooking stove. Small shell pieces are put into the fishing nets to ensure the fish swim and eat in a freshly cleansed environment before being caught. The ash of shells burnt in a giant oven can be used as fertiliser or marketed for medicinal purposes. Amazing, nothing is wasted. Coconut production: nothing is wasted Transport on the island Given the desolate situation we found when first approaching the small island, we are surprised when we arrive at our homestay. The house is a big wooden family home surrounded by a big garden on the river bank. Here, we could rest and enjoy the river view and the sunset by sitting on easy chairs on the bank of the river. The itinerary promised a dormitory-style homestay, and we expected to sleep either in bunk beds or, as we did once in the North of Thailand, all of us sleeping on the floor of a room above the pigs and other pets of the village and having to wash in rainwater from a barrel. Not this time! We had lovely modern equipped single and double rooms with big beds and access to a small patio which housed the washing basin, an outdoor shower and a toilet. Toilets and showers were separated from the room with a clear glass front. So one could have a full few of the other person having a shower or sitting on the toilet unless you preferred to use a curtain to ensure more privacy. Before we crawl to bed under our mosquito nets at night, we find two little frogs on the floor who have somehow made their way into our room. David heroically grabs them and returns them to the garden where they belong. Our lovely homestay The family feeds us fantastic meals. At lunchtime, we have a big fried fish, Tilapia. We are shown how to eat this fish: wrapping bits of fish with herbs, salads, and other ingredients into rice paper. As usual, this is followed by various dishes, including vegetable soup, rice, and veggies and finished with a selection of fresh fruit. Before the evening meal, we are invited to another cooking class in the family's kitchen. We learned to prepare spring rolls for our dinner, a different type than those we made in Hoi An. I find a few big glass jars in the corner of the kitchen with fruit or vegetables or flowers soaked in rice wine. We are given a taster of one of them. It is hibiscus flowers soaked for three months in rice wine. It looks like red wine and tastes good. One could get used to it. Dave finally gets his red 333 beer, which he had sought during our whole trip. He is disappointed as it does not taste as well as he remembered it from 31 years ago. Our local tour guide, the son of our host family, confirmed that the ingredients for this beer had changed some years ago, and it was no longer as tasty. At least this confirmed that Dave's memory might have been correct. The rest of the evening meal consists, as usual, of at least another six delicious dishes, including sweet vegetable soup, chicken with lemongrass, and a few vegetables and rice. Yummy. Once again, delicious food and drinks After that, we rest and digest on the veranda, listen to the noises of the wildlife in the garden and watch the stars. The loud karaoke noise we heard early evening from the next-door neighbour had stopped long ago. The agreement in the community is to keep the noise down from 6.30 pm onwards to avoid disturbing the neighbours. I am impressed. Day 12: Wednesday, 01 November 2023 - Mekong Delta cruise, then drive to Ho Chi Minh City. We spend the morning exploring the canals of the Mekong Delta, meeting some hard-working locals, perhaps with time to see coconut processing and trading. We also have options to walk or cycle along the canal to explore further. Later on, we drive back to Ho Chi Minh City. Next morning, we have freshly baked French-style baguette, Omelett real coffee and green tea, banana bread and some sticky jelly-type cakes for breakfast. Although convinced we would not be hungry again after the opulent dinner, we grab it with great appetite. Afterwards, it is time to go. We say thank you and goodbye to our welcoming hosts and local guide and wish them all the best for their homestay business. We then go for another boat ride to explore the coconut production line and finally go back by boat to the mainland, where our bus waits to take us back to Ho Chi Minh City. From the bus, I admire the innovations of the many motorcyclists on the highways and in the city to carry their heavy loads. Apart from us, there are several other Explore! Tours in Vietnam at the same time. Sometimes, we encounter them. For example, in the Mekong Delta, we met a tour group which we called the 'Foodies'. Their tour is dedicated to exploring Vietnamese food. They go to the markets in various Vietnamese regions, buy the typical food and then learn how to cook it. It sounds like an exciting tour; perhaps we should have done that. Next time? But sometimes, they must get up very early in the morning to go to the markets to get fresh produce. On the train to Hue and Hoi An, we came across some people on an Explore! Cycling tour. This also sounds interesting, as it means travelling at a different speed and enjoying more of the landscape. However, pedalling wildly in this heat may not be so much fun. Dave's additional comments on Saigon December 1992 was my last time in Vietnam, and almost 31 years is a long time. Back then, Vietnam had only recently opened its border, and the group I was travelling with was one of the first tourist groups allowed in. You could travel to Vietnam after the Vietnam War ended in 1976, but there were few tourists as the tourism infrastructure was almost non-existent back then. It took another ten years, from 1986 to the early 90s, for tourism to become a significant part of Vietnam’s economy. Few tourists were coming to Vietnam, but in the early 1990s, all that changed when the Government changed the visa entry requirements, which made the arrival process easier for international visitors. That was when everything changed: the country opened up to the world, and the evolution of the tourism infrastructure took off. Only 1,351,000 foreign tourists visited Vietnam in 1995. But from then on, the visitor numbers were rising fast, reaching more th an 18 Million vi sitors in 2019. Unfortunately, through the impact of the COVID-19 pandemic and its worldwide related travel restrictions, Vietnam's tourist numbers, as that of every other country, dropped sharply but are rising again. In 2022, almost 3.7 Million visitors came to Vietnam. Tourists coming to Vietnam spend around US$117 per day, so tourism is a major generator of income. My first impression of Saigon was how big it had become. The cyclists of 1992 had been replaced by motorcycles and scooters, and traffic congestion is a significant problem, especially during the morning and evening rush hours. Red traffic lights are frequently ignored. Shop owners rent pavement spaces outside their shops so people can park their scooters or motorcycles. Traffic congestion is so bad that scooters and motorcyclists use the pavements as shortcuts to avoid the stationary traffic queues at junctions. I once saw a car driving along the pavement, but of course, that’s against the law! Crossing any road was a nightmare until you adopted the Vietnamese way. You simply walk out into the traffic, and the cars, scooters and motorcyclists drive around you magically. Try that anywhere else; you’d be hooted at and frequently cursed. The famous Rex Hotel is still there. We sat in the rooftop garden bar, situated on the 5th floor and ordered two ‘Five O’Clock Follies’. This drink is history-laden, as the cocktail list informs: “ During the war, the U.S. Military held daily press briefings in the Rex Hotel bar. These affairs grew increasingly raucous as the gap between the war’s grim reality and official military accounts widened. Reporters nicknamed the briefings ‘The Five O’Clock Follies’, an afternoon ritual in which journalists, military officers, diplomats and spies could all enjoy a few cocktails, take in the sunset and watch the returning bombers. These days, the bombers are gone, but the stunning sunsets remain, and nowadays, the ‘Five O’Clock Follies’ come in Collins glasses, with ice, plenty of vodka, rum and Midori. ” The Rex is now surrounded by skyscrapers, which block out the view of the sunset and the airport, which is just under 5 miles/8 km away. We visit the Rex rooftop bar and cheer with one of these Five O'Clock Follies cocktails to all the famous people who stayed here, among them the infamous Graham Greene, a spy turned novelist. Day 13: Thursday, 02 November 2023 - In Ho Chi Minh City, explore Old Saigon and discover the 'Secret Weapons Bunker.' This morning, we walk around the central sights of Old Saigon, now District 1 of Ho Chi Minh City. We see the Notre Dame Cathedral, the GPO building, and some of the old French Colonial hotels such as The Rex. We then drive to the Independence Palace (renamed the Reunification Hall) and the graphic War Remnants Museum. This afternoon, we will experience a different side of Ho Chi Minh City, away from the major sights, where we take a walk through Old Saigon's back alleys. We make our way to District 3 and turn off the main thoroughfare and into the maze of narrow streets of this bustling district. Our walk takes us past ramshackle shopfronts, through local markets selling anything from colourful fruit to bootleg DVDs, and past houses, churches and schools, all squeezed into the small buildings that line the narrow alleys. It's a fascinating inter-connected community here that is a stones-throw from the city centre, yet feels a far cry from the modern buildings and throngs of tourists. We stop at a local stall for a traditional Vietnamese coffee (brewed coffee served sweet with condensed milk) where we can also sample 'Banh Mi' - a Vietnamese take on the humble French baguette - freshly baked and packed with a combo of traditional and more exotic, aromatic ingredients. The walk ends in the so-called 'secret weapons' bunker'. A small, unassuming 'tube house' nestled in a quiet neighbourhood hides a trap door in the floor, concealing a basement stocked full of rifles, grenades and ammunition. The bunker played a key role in the TET Offensive of 1968; it was the base from which the Viet Cong's "Team 5" launched their assault, and its location was only revealed after the end of the war. We have some time to explore the house and bunker, filled with decommissioned weapons and photographs, news clippings and memorabilia from wartime. We are on our feet early in the morning as we have a packed programme. So much to see, so much to do. So little time. We walk around Old Saigon's sites (now Ho Chi Minh City). We cannot see or visit the Notre Dame Cathedral, as it is currently under wraps because of essential renovation. But the opposite building, The Old Post Office , is open, and we admire the original red telephone boxes and feel as if we have gone back in time. From a massive picture on the wall, Ho Chi Minh watches people buying stamps, postcards and posting letters. While the rest of the group looks around the post office tourist shop for souvenirs, we hurridly search and find the nearby infamous old US American Embassy , which was the scene of several significant events during the Vietnam War, most notably the Viet Cong attack during the Tet Offensive that turned American public opinion against the war and the helicopter evacuations during the fall of Saigon on the 29th/30th April 1975 after which the embassy closed permanently. The building is still there, but it is no longer the embassy but the US American Consulate General. The new US Embassy is located in the capital, Hanoi. After that, we visit the Independence Palace , now also called the Reunification Palace, which was the residence and workplace of the President of the Republic of Vietnam (South Vietnam). On the 30th of April, a North Vietnamese Army tank crashed through the gate, Viet Cong declared the liberation of the South of Vietnam, effectively ending the Vietnam War or, as the Vietnamese say, the American War. Nowadays, the Palace is a museum where visitors can see the former President's office, the cabinet room, and his private chambers. In the basement, the former war room, communications rooms with ancient computers, and the shelter bedroom for the President are on display. On the roof of the building is a viewing platform over Ho Chi Minh City. At the side of it is a Viet Cong helicopter parked on the heliport in memory of the liberation day. A picture of the Viet Cong fighter pilot who bombed the Palace on this day is proudly displayed on the wall. Next, we visit the War Remnants Museum. Formerly, it was called the Museum of American Atrocities of War and Aggression. In 1995, in a more conciliatory move, it became the War Remnants Museum. It displays captured tanks, helicopters, fighter jets, ammunition and other relics of the Vietnam War. Several photo exhibitions inform on some of the atrocities committed by the American Army from a Vietnamese Communist Republic point of view. For example, American soldiers are seen mistreating and killing local Vietnamese people and disrespecting their corpses; jets are seen spraying Agent Orange and other chemical defoliant sprays as well as Napalm over the fields and villages; photos depict massacres, such as that of the village My Lai that we had visited. Thanks to one particular US Army photographer, Ronald Haeberle, the atrocities during this massacre on the 16th March 1968 became known to the American and worldwide public. He kept a second private camera and accomplished getting these horrific pictures published a year later in his home town's local newspaper on 20th November 1969 and 5th December 1969 in LIFE magazine. Once known to the public, his pictures contributed to a change in public opinion on the Vietnam War and fuelled massive protests worldwide against this war. One corner of the exhibition room is dedicated to the many war photographers who lost their lives in the line of duty during the Vietnam War. This special exhibition has been put together only recently by a group of photographers in honour of their colleagues, instigated by Tim Page. One whole floor is devoted to the effects and aftereffects of the use of Agent Orange and other chemical defoliant spray and Napalm. The display of the atrocities is terrible to see, and the atmosphere amongst the visitors is gloomy, but seeing the photos of the victims of these dangerous chemicals is stomach-turning. Severely deformed children born years and even decades after the war, both in Vietnam and the US, of the GIs who had handled these chemicals … I turn the camera off. I can't bear photographing voyeuristically such horror. Back on the bus, the group is in a sombre mood, and we find it hard to understand what human beings are capable of doing to other human beings. However, on reflection, we learn from history that we don't learn from history, as we can see in the current ongoing conflict in the Middle East. We still have another stop on our Ho Chi Minh sightseeing tour. We get to know part of the defence measures by the Viet Cong against the American Soldiers. We visit a so-called 'secret weapon's bunker'. Long after the war, it became public knowledge (and a site for tourists) that some of the unassuming houses in quiet neighbourhoods had in their basements concealed bunkers where they stocked rifles, grenades and ammunition for the Viet Cong. We have the opportunity to visit such a house, explore the bunker and get an insight into this kind of warfare by the Viet Cong. Additional information - The War Remnants Museum https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/War_Remnants_Museum https://www.lonelyplanet.com/vietnam/ho-chi-minh-city/attractions/war-remnants-museum/a/poi-sig/403144/357884 - The Dangers of Agent Orange and its Impacts on Vietnam On August 10, 1961, the US Army began chemical warfare in Vietnam. For ten years, from 1961 to 1971, the US army sprayed 80 million litres of toxic chemicals, 61% of which was Agent Orange, on one-quarter of Vietnam's southern region. Agent Orange caused great harm to people and the natural environment in Vietnam. Ecosystems have been damaged and cannot be restored. Generations of Vietnamese people have suffered physical and mental anguish due to Agent Orange. The Vietnamese Government has made overcoming the consequences of Agent Orange an urgent, long-term issue. There are three major Dioxin hot spots in Vietnam, including the Da Nang Air Base in Central Vietnam, Bien Hoa Airbase in Bien Hoa City (25 km from Ho Chi Minh City), and Phu Cat Airbase in Qui Nhơn in Southern Vietnam. The Vietnam Red Cross estimates that three million Vietnamese have been affected by dioxin, including at least 150,000 children born after the war with severe congenital disabilities, referring to the toxic chemical in Agent Orange. Hundreds of thousands of US soldiers were also exposed. Here is an article by a researcher in 2016 into the ongoing harm of unexploded bombs and chemical weapons from the Vietnam War. The Vietnam War is over, but the bombs remain. https://vietnaminsider.vn/the-vietnam-war-is-over-the-bombs-remain/ ------ Starting to say goodbye This is our last evening together as a group because eight people will continue their Explore tour tomorrow afternoon by exploring Cambodia for another week. After the visit to the CuChi Tunnels, the bus will drive them to the Cambodian border. So we have to commence saying goodbye. It was a good group; we blended well, had similar interests, exciting chats, and lots of fun. We will certainly miss them. Over the next two days, only the five of us will be left, which will feel very strange. After a lovely dinner, our tour guide shows us the nightlife of Ho Chi Minh City. Walking along Bar Street, we admire the many clubs and restaurants with women, boys and ladyboys dancing outside to attract visitors. Wow! We are mightily impressed, but it is too loud for us ‘old folks’. So we escape to a quiet corner where we can sit outside a bar, enjoying a drink and watching the world go by. Day 14: Friday, 03 November 2023 - From Ho Chi Minh City, visit Cu Chi Tunnels This morning, we take a short drive out of the city to the infamous Cu Chi Tunnels, which formed an incredible underground command base for 10,000 Viet Cong troops and were a major part of the 1968 Tet Offensive. The site is a fascinating insight into the resourcefulness of the Vietnamese. There is the opportunity to crawl through a small specially adapted section of the tunnels should you wish to sample the claustrophobic conditions in which the Viet Cong lived. Returning to Ho Chi Minh City, the remainder of the afternoon is free. Dave’s comments Cu Chi tunnels. It takes us a couple of hours in our coach to drive from our hotel in Saigon to the Cu Chi tunnel complex, a distance of only 30 km. The roads are congested with rush hour traffic streaming into the centre, just as they were 31 years ago, the only difference being that today the roads are better. The Cu Chi tunnels were started in the 1940s, and it took over 2½ decades to build a dense network of tunnels. They were mainly used for communication between villages during the war against the French. In 1941, Ho Chi Minh and other communist leaders created the Việt Minh. The years between 1940 and 1946 saw the rise of the communist-led Việt Minh insurgents, whose objective was independence from France. Whilst the Viet Minh were primarily a political organisation to drum up support for Vietnamese independence, the Viet Cong were exclusively a military force operating in the South. The name Viet Cong comes from the phrase "cong san Viet Nam," meaning Vietnamese communist. In the 1960s, the Viet Cong repaired and extended the Cu Chi tunnels and used them as a means for infiltrating intelligence agents and sabotage teams into the heart of Saigon. At its height, this area had over 200km of tunnels, some reaching the Cambodian border. To give you an idea of the tunnel complex, it took one man one day to advance a tunnel one cubic metre. The Viet Cong lived in these tunnels; they had to do to survive the bombardment above. Deep within the tunnels were hospitals and complex command centres, kitchens, a hospital, and workshops to make weapons and repair shoes; everything needed to survive for months underground. These tunnels were booby-trapped with simple but deadly metal spikes and poisoned bamboo spears to kill and maim the American GIs, who were known as the tunnel rats, for they crawled through the tunnel complex hunting down the Viet Cong. The Viet Cong won its first military victory against South Vietnamese forces in January 1963. On 8th March 1965, 3,500 United States Marines came ashore at Da Nang as the first wave of US combat troops into South Vietnam, adding to the 25,000 US military advisers already in place. This was the start of the Vietnam War, or as the Vietnamese would have it, the American War. In the 1970s, the Americans said that the 420 sq km of the Cu Chi district was 'the most bombed, shelled, gassed defoliated and generally devastated area in the history of warfare'. Much of this area was sprayed with Agent Orange – the most toxic substance known to man – which turned the jungle into a barren wilderness. I checked my notes from my previous visit. " The soil is poor, and nothing seems to grow properly. This poor growth is reflected in the washed-out colours of the sparse eucalyptus groves that have since been replanted ." What a difference 31 years makes! Now, the eucalyptus groves are lush, green and dense. The tall surrounding trees produce a thick canopy above, offering shade from the intense sun. The Cu Chi tunnel site has become a victim of its success. As we turned off the main road, we entered a vast parking area, which reminded me of a motorway service station – and just as busy. People were getting into and out of coaches and crowds milling about; gift shops everywhere, and a large toilet area. Lan, our guide, ushered us together, and we set off to tour the site. We followed a trail of tourist groups of every nationality, first into an underground area showing poor-quality videos on wide-screen televisions. We were then led around the site, whilst in the distance was the constant sound of gunfire. The tour's highlight was a crawl through a few hundred metres of tunnel that had been enlarged for the tourists. The tunnel had also been sanitised because the last time, the air was stale as I crawled through clouds of dust kicked up by the person in front. There were also bats flying out of the cross-tunnel passages. This time, some of our group didn't go because of their size or claustrophobia. We crawled through the tunnel on all fours and exited up a ladder. In the distance, there was a shooting range where tourists, for a price, could fire round after round of Vietnam war-era weaponry. Next to the shooting range was a huge cafeteria. Afterwards, we made our way back to the car park. Here it was, where we said goodbye to some of our fellow travellers as they were being driven to the nearby Cambodian border to meet their Cambodian guide for the next part of their adventure. The rest of us were transferred to a smaller coach and taken back to our hotel in Saigon. More information on the Cu Chi Tunnels: https://www.history.com/topics/vietnam-war/cu-chi-tunnels https://www.tnktravel.com/blogs/vietnam-blogs/7-amazing-factors-of-cu-chi-tunnels/ https://listverse.com/2017/05/14/top-10-ingenious-features-of-the-cu-chi-tunnels/?utm_source=email&utm_medium=Social&utm_campaign=SocialWarfare Day 15: Saturday, 04 November 2023 - Tour ends in Ho Chi Minh City The trip ends after breakfast at our hotel in Ho Chi Minh City. We use the last few hours to explore Saigon City and the river and take the lift to the viewing platform of the Saigon Skydeck. Now, it's almost time to go home. In retrospect Did we like the tour? Did we like Vietnam? Definitely! The tour was very well organised. It was packed with varying and exciting activities. We have seen and learned a lot in a very short time. Sometimes it was a rollercoaster of a programme, but we loved it. Dave and I are experienced individual travellers, well used to planning and organising our trips to our own liking and at our own speed. However, sometimes, it is good to sit back, relax, and let someone else do the planning and organising. We were a bit anxious that the tight schedule would not leave enough space for exploring the country on your own, according to your own interests - but there was enough flexibility to fit in all of our interests. We were also apprehensive that the group might be full of moaning minnies who constantly complain and annoy everyone or bellyache about everything. We were lucky here, too. We had a great group, good-humoured and ready for adventures. We simply got on well with each other. It is no coincidence that we sought to visit areas related to the Vietnam War. I guess this is typical for politically thinking people from our generation. In our youth, we marched against the Vietnam War and became part of the anti-war movement. We were brought up with images and photographs about the atrocities of the War. We watched excellent anti-war films such as Platoon, Apocalypse Now, Good Morning Vietnam and The Quiet American. We came well prepared and well informed (about the War) to Vietnam, eager to learn even more about it by visiting the sites. And it is good for Vietnam to keep up the memories and remind future generations of the atrocities. As the Vietnamese say, we forgive, but we don't forget. What we also learned is that Vietnam has moved on. The War was almost 50 years, at least two generations ago, their (great) grandparent's time. The younger people are no longer interested in talking about the War. They have their own interests and issues to deal with. Unfortunately, time was too short for us to get an in-depth understanding of what dreams, worries, cultural or economic development the Vietnamese population is now going through. But we can see and feel the country's vibrant atmosphere and enormous progress. Vietnam has a very young population. According to the 2019 Census, 21% of the population (20.4 million) are young people aged 10-24. This explains the willingness for economic progress and development. Looking at the many high-rising buildings and the many production lines of products sold to Western countries, it is easy to forget that Vietnam is a communist country. We free and individualistic thinking Westerners may not understand or approve of many things, such as the one-party system or state control in many areas of life. However, Vietnam has proven that it is going its own way. The best examples of this are the redistribution of agricultural farmland into private ownership in the '90s, the embracing of business and trade with other countries, as well as the increasing tourism, which has helped turn the country's economy around. Vietnam people are tolerant of other countries and cultures, so we are told. What they want in return is for other countries to be tolerant towards them, meaning accepting that they are doing things in a different way, the Vietnamese way. We can fully understand and endorse that. We've come to the end of our Vietnam adventure. We wonder what will come next. Lisa and Dave

(UK) My father, born in 1912, was raised in a small coal-mining village in the South Wales Valleys. The pit provided a “job for life” for nearly all working men at that time, but not my dad, who loved mechanics, especially motorcars and bikes. Thus, he left his boyhood village to work for Morris Motors in Cowley, Oxfordshire. He lived in a tent. My mum, born in 1915, who lived in a neighbouring Welsh village, moved to Oxford in her Twenties. She met him there in a pub and joined him after he found a more suitable mode of accommodation! Later, they moved to Croydon as dad worked in the “Ford Dagenham” factory in East London. They got married in Croydon. My mother holds me in her arms in front of our cottage. Straight after the war, they decided to move to Devon. Dad went first. He found a garage to rent and a remote cottage on Crown Land for fourteen shillings a week. It was our family home for the next fifteen years. My sister was born there in 1947, and I followed in 1950. But before that, my father arrived home with a beautiful Welsh Collie pup named Gyp - loyal, intelligent … mum’s dog. Memories of my childhood home in Devon. My childhood home, Middlecombe Cottage, sat between Upper and Lower Combe Farm, an old gamekeeper's cottage long neglected and vacated when my father stumbled across it. It offered an escape from grimy, bombed-out post-war Croydon. The Ford factory in Dagenham was duly swapped for a village garage. My childhood home, Middlecombe Cottage My mother cried when she saw the dilapidated and unloved cottage - what was he thinking of? Not her, obviously. She stalked off to Exmouth to get some shopping, and my father cleaned the old range in her absence to ease her shock when she saw the state of the place! And she felt better after a cup of tea. Together, they whitewashed the walls inside and out, scrubbed the floorboards upstairs and the stone floors downstairs and added a lean-to, which housed a copper boiler, a mangle and an inside toilet. Modernised a little, but still primitive even then. Walkers stopped to admire Snow White's cottage with pink roses trailing around the garden gate. The brook that ran alongside the cottage was full of watercress and wild iris. My memories are of swallows nesting in the thatch, barn owls swooping in and out of the roof space, bats at dusk, and the lone blackbird singing at the top of the apple tree to mark the end of the day; hedgerows packed with primroses, violets, miniature daffodils, foxgloves and snowdrops, bluebell woods, windfall apples in abundance, blackberries heavy with juice, mushrooms in fairy rings, cuckoos and lambs in spring, robins in winter. We fished for sticklebacks in ice-cold flowing water, played in haybarns and made dens in woods. Our old Welsh collie stood guard over us, neither needing nor wanting affection, whilst our semi-feral cats brought headless rabbits to lay at my mother’s feet - "good boy" she would say, turning a paler shade of white. I remember random things - my grandparents visiting in summer, which meant day trips to Brixham, Torquay, Paignton Zoo, the Christmas pantomime in Exeter, and queueing to see the ‘Ten Commandments’, eating a knickerbocker glory in a milk bar, the outdoor saltwater swimming pool in Exmouth, palm trees along the promenade; the floods of 1959, Myxomatosis in wild rabbits, a hornet’s nest under the eaves, being scared riding home on my bike in the dark until I saw Gyp’s eyes reflected in my headlamp and I knew I was safe; real candles on the Christmas tree, apples sitting on newspaper under our beds, coconut matting that never wore out, smocked dresses, liberty bodices and saving our church collection money for the chewing gum machine. I recall, too, the smell of green soap, roast dinners, apple pie and scones on Sunday, honeysuckle on a warm day, cow pats on a hot day, steamed pudding on a cold day. We were happy and healthy, but we secretly envied the children in the village who played out on the street and had a bathroom, hot water from a tap and could run to the shop. A five-minute walk to school for them, an hour for us in all winds and weathers - a disparity that became an excuse to tease us. Dripping wet clothes, chapped legs, frozen hands, muddy boots. No cars stood at the school gate; there were no lifts to be given, and a visitor to our home was a rare event. We were too isolated for children to come and play. We caught glimpses of televisions as we dawdled past windows, telephones ringing, and electric lights turned on and off at the flick of a switch. If you had asked us, we would have swapped, at least for a couple of days a week. I think mum often felt that way too - hanging washing out at six in the morning, followed by those unforgiving flat irons that could burn your best clothes in an instant. She was always cooking, bottling, and pickling to keep up with the vast amounts of fruit and vegetables that thrived in the rich red soil and along with a variety of flowers, a small but steady income was made at the garden gate. That is, if the foxhunt didn't run amok through our lovingly tended garden, for the cottage and land belonged to the Crown. No apologies from the gentry on horseback, fox or no fox. No fox, we hoped just to spoil their fun. In the evenings, mum would sit on the front step, a cup of tea in her hand, Gyp by her side and listen to the blackbird, a quiet, contented moment, and then she would dutifully darn socks to death and knit beige cardigans because "beige went with everything". My sister and I would sit on the stairs and strain our ears to pick up the lines of The Navy Lark and Hancock's Half Hour. Mum laughing, needles clicking. We wished she could find time to play with us, just to sit with us with love, but her life was work, and work her life. One day, she was scrubbing the kitchen floor and thought, "If only I could earn ten bob a week" - a series of physically demanding jobs followed. My father, too, worked all hours in the garage and around the cottage - DIY and gardening, infinitum. This was a version of “the good life” on the back of hard graft. Back to the Welsh Roots It turned out, according to mum, that the richer people are, the less likely they are to pay their bills. The garage suffered and eventually went bankrupt. A shared Welsh heritage drew mum and dad back to their roots - this time to Swansea. The Ford Motor factory had been taken over by Prestcold Refrigerators, where dad secured a job at a managerial level. We lived in a 3rd-floor flat overlooking the sea - Mum hated it for a long time. She found it hard to settle in a flat after the cottage; as much as it was bloody hard work for her, it was a huge wrench to leave it. In particular, she hated the washing line, which was a pulley between a small back window and a rock face opposite - it hurt her back when she leaned out of the window. She wasn’t too happy about the four flights of stairs either! We all found it difficult to adjust in our own different ways. But to my sister and I, it was just an adventure - electricity, hot water, a bathroom, a school bus, neighbours and friends! We never returned to Devon. A postcard from the 1920s showing the Osborne Hotel in the Langland and Rotherslade Bay in the middle, and our flat is to the far right. We left Devon when I was ten, and I have never felt the urge to return to country life - for me, it's nice to visit, but not to live there. Memories are enough. (JH)

Travelling can be very romantic, awakening a thirst for adventure and holiday feelings. Nowadays, you buy a ticket online at home and are on your way. You arrive at your destination on time, as planned, relatively relaxed and safe. How nice! Or rather: "How nice it would be!" In all the decades I have frequently flown within Europe and to other continents, this expectation of a traveller has usually been fulfilled. And if there were any problems, the airline or travel provider felt responsible for helping the passengers. Today, as I recently learnt on my return flight from Berlin to London, you can expect neither safety nor care. It was a bitter experience and not the only one of its kind. Deutsche Bahn - beware of the unexpected! It all started in Berlin on the way to Berlin-Brandenburg Airport (BER). On the advice of my Berlin friends, I opted for the regional train as the fastest and most reliable means of public transport to BER on the outskirts of Berlin. The problem-free journey was already over at Zoo station. The platform information board informed travellers that there could be longer delays at Zoo station and between Ostkreuz and Frankfurter Allee stations due to signal faults. A difficult-to-understand loudspeaker announcement confirmed this information every two minutes. I had no idea where the voice on the loudspeaker had its office or where I could have asked someone at the station for more detailed information. I didn't want to waste time looking for information. The phrase "could" was vague, but I didn't want to risk getting stranded somewhere in the middle of the route and only being able to wave goodbye to my flight. So a quick decision had to be made. On my last visit to Berlin, I travelled to the airport by underground and bus, much to the amazement of my Berlin friends, because the underground stops at many stations and therefore makes slow progress. The bus frequency from the Rudow terminus to the airport is pretty poor. If you're unlucky, you must wait a long time for a connection. Nevertheless, the underground seemed to be the safest form of public transport in this situation, transporting hundreds of thousands of passengers daily without breaking down. Once I was in Rudow and no bus turned up, I could always take a taxi. Now, of course, my local knowledge from decades of living in Berlin and regular visits to the city came in handy.  I packed my trolley and raced off: first down into the basement to the U9 underground line to Berliner Straße, then changed to the U7 to the Rudow terminus. No problem for someone who knows the area and doesn't have to search long for tracks, routes, and directions! The connections worked, and I got a seat despite the rush hour. The journey passed quickly, and when I came back out of the underground and onto the street after 45 minutes, an airport bus was just pulling up, and I reached it with some legwork. We reached the airport within 15 minutes. The whole journey took an hour. That's how long the regional train would have taken. I was proud of myself and took my successful problem-solving strategy as a good omen for the rest of my journey home to London. But I was wrong. Berlin Brandenburg Airport - a service desolation It was 7 pm. My flight was due to depart at 9 pm. So I had plenty of time. The newly built Berlin Brandenburg Airport has nothing in common with the convenience or the touch of luxury of other airports such as London Heathrow, New York, or even Munich. This airport has never really been able to shed the desolate image of the old East Berlin Schönefeld Airport. It feels more like a railway station: functional, a fast transit area for passengers with only the bare essentials. There are no cosy cafés or seating areas that invite you to relax and make the wait more bearable. But I wasn't planning to stay here for long anyway. However, I would have liked to buy a snack for the journey or a souvenir for my husband, David. However, the only supermarket was more of a kiosk and had nothing worthwhile to offer. Too bad, David, no German sausages this time! So I went straight to the security checkpoint with my hand luggage. The machine promptly recognised my boarding pass on my mobile phone, and the barrier opened in "open sesame" style. I walked through and joined the queue of waiting passengers at the security checkpoint. Security staff and passengers - a relationship reduced to functionality The staff were well organised, and we moved quickly. In front of me, a very busy man kept talking loudly on his mobile phone. He didn't stop talking as he packed his suitcase, watch, keys, change, laptop, jacket, liquids, etc., into the designated boxes on the conveyor belt with the help of a security officer. Even when he stood in the scanner and was patted down by another security guard, he continued his conversation undeterred. Unbelievably rude! I commented to the security officer while he was helping me with my hand luggage. He shrugged his shoulders and said I was the first person to speak to him today. Excuse me? Yes, most passengers wouldn't even glance at him and were far too busy with themselves. This shocked me, and I also felt guilty for often not making eye contact with the security staff. I resolved to be more attentive in future and exchange a few friendly words with them. I started to wonder. Is this lack of communication and interaction, even rudeness, down to us travellers? Are we focused on ourselves and our journey and snootily or indifferently ignore the people who provide services along the way? Do we no longer see the staff who usher us through long queues as people but as technical cogs in the airport operation? That would be pretty shameful. On the other hand, I have often experienced that I didn't feel like a human being during the security process before departure. Security officers and passport control officers frequently have an aura of aloofness or display authoritarian behaviour. Is it the boredom of watching the long queue of travellers pass by day in, day out and doing a monotonous job? Or envy? Or insecurity and pressure? The job requires extreme concentration to avoid any potential security risks. Every passenger must be seen as a possible risk. Is the rigid behaviour and barked instructions, as well as the detachment of the security officers, supposed to have an intimidating effect like the authority of the officials?  I remember with horror an experience at New Orleans airport when our luggage was thrown onto the conveyor belt for scanning, and my husband David tried to help the security officer. Still, the officer reacted extremely nervously, pointed a machine gun at David and called for backup. On the other hand, how good it feels when security officers smile, say a friendly word, or make a funny remark. It loosens up the intimidating atmosphere and makes it more people-friendly. When the man at the scanner at Munich airport wished me bon appétit after the grilled chicken legs that my mum had packed for me appeared on his screen, it lifted the mood immensely. Yes, even when an extremely precarious incident at Hamburg airport was resolved, the security staff and I were able to laugh heartily about the mistake. The scanner at the security checkpoint had raised the alarm because it suspected explosives in my hand luggage. Armed riot police rushed over and inspected the hand luggage under the strictest security precautions. The suspicious object was shrink-wrapped sausages that I had bought as a souvenir for my husband at the Edeka supermarket at the airport. Fortunately, we were all able to see the joke after this scene. Both parties probably suffer from the crowds. The security staff have to process the endless queues of passengers every day. The passengers are annoyed by the exhausting queuing in a crowd of strangers and just want to get through the checks and then be left in peace. This is indeed not a pleasant aspect of travelling.    After the security check, I didn't find anything inviting in the duty-free area of BER either, so I went straight to the border control and finally to my boarding gate to wait for the boarding instructions. I still had an hour to spare. Lack of Information at the airport You wouldn't believe how many information channels one has to keep open when flying from Berlin to London. My husband David and I are very well versed in this area, so I was sometimes better informed by him sitting at his computer at home in London than by British Airways via mobile phone app or the BER airport staff. And woe betide anyone who doesn't have an internet-enabled mobile phone or doesn't know how to use it! This evening, the situation was as follows: Time passed, the specified time for boarding passed, and nothing happened. David informed me at 8.30 pm that, according to the Heathrow departure list, my plane was half an hour late. Interesting. We passengers on the ground in Berlin were not informed of this. Shortly before 9 pm, a loudspeaker told us that the arrival of the aircraft from London, on which we would be flying back, would be delayed by around 20 minutes due to thunderstorms over Europe. As soon as it had landed and been cleared, we could board. Okay, so at least we knew and waited patiently. Time passed. No further information was forthcoming. Dave texted at 8.37 pm to say that he had fired up the barbecue and was grilling chicken legs that would be waiting for me at home. Nice. I was looking forward to it. I also learnt from David that our plane had already landed and that it wouldn't be long before we would leave. My British Airways app informed me by mobile phone at 9.10 pm that our flight would depart at 9.20 pm with a slight delay. Shortly afterwards, we were called to board. By 9.30 pm, I was strapped into seat 29b, in the penultimate row with little legroom where the budget passengers were accommodated. I was looking forward to departure and the chicken drumsticks that awaited me. The flight was packed to the last seat, and my trolley was in the overhead compartment in row 24, so I made a mental note not to forget it when I disembarked. Today, I wanted to treat myself to a small bottle of sparkling wine, as my visit to Berlin was great. However, after studying the BA menu, I decided against it. I didn't want to pay £8 for a 200ml sip of bubbly. I thought the price was outrageous. I could have that cheaper at home in no time. I texted Dave to put a bottle of red wine in the fridge because, in the current heatwave, our attic flat was about 32 degrees, and that was definitely too warm for red wine. I could see through the small window that it had started to rain. A friend wrote to tell me that her open-air concert in Berlin had been cancelled due to heavy rain. Fortunately, we were sitting on the plane in the dry.  Aircraft traffic jam on the runway Shortly before 10 pm (an hour late), we took off. We taxied to the runway and joined the queue of waiting aircraft, ready to take off - and waited. Then, the flight captain informed us that the Berlin airport authorities had stopped the ground staff from working for safety reasons due to the heavy thunderstorms. But, as soon as it was possible, they would resume handling the aircraft. Okay? As far as we could see from our window, it was only drizzling, and only a few flashes of lightning could be seen in the distance. Perhaps this safety measure was a little over the top, but the experts would know what they were doing. And so we continued to wait. After a while (I still had Internet), I checked the tube connection home from Heathrow Airport, given the increasing delay. The quickest was the new Elizabeth Line, which ran until just after midnight. The last tube from Tottenham Court Road Station, where I had to change to get home on the Northern Line, left at 12.34 am. That could be tight. If not, I would have to take the night bus home. Dave sent me the relevant night bus connections on my mobile phone. It would take me about 2 ½-3 hours to get home, and I wouldn't be home before 3.30 am. Dave had better put the chicken in the fridge. A taxi was too expensive for me. It probably cost over £100, which was money better spent elsewhere. Dave suggested I stay at Heathrow Airport and try to find a bench to sleep on, as the first tube would leave at 5.09 am. That would be safer than getting into a dodgy mini-cab. Good idea. I could go along with that. It certainly wouldn't be comfortable, but I could do it once. In the meantime, the plane was getting hotter and hotter because the air conditioning doesn't work when the aircraft is stationary. The flight attendants, who didn't have any more information than we did, handed out water and pretzels to cool us down and appease us. Then, an unsettling thought occurred to me: the night flight ban in London! We Londoners are glad no flights are allowed between midnight and 6 am. However, landing at Heathrow would no longer be possible if we couldn't take off in the next 10 minutes. Dave, who was in London, obviously had the same idea because he had done some research and sent me the relevant information. In 1962, the UK government imposed restrictions on night flights at Heathrow, stating that no aircraft could land or take off between 11.30 pm and 6.00 am. This rule is still in place today, but with the addition, the rule can be extended in exceptional circumstances. I reassured myself and my seat neighbour, who had shown a keen interest in my WhatsApp exchange with Dave the whole time. I was convinced that the airport authorities would make an exception, as British Airways was the national airline and would undoubtedly have priority when landing, I argued. This thought reassured my seatmate and me somewhat until I remembered that a friend had recently been stuck in London because her flight was delayed and Berlin airport closed at midnight. My online search confirmed a night flight ban in Berlin from midnight to 5 am with a flexibility of 30 minutes. It was now just before midnight. I firmly believed that the airport authority would follow common sense and be flexible enough to keep the airport open until all the waiting planes departed. Airport closure - what now? But my firm belief moved neither mountains nor our plane into the air! The captain told us we couldn't take off because the airport had closed. There were 20 aircraft ahead of us in the queue, which would now have to be processed back before us. He hoped that he would be able to reach ground staff who would let us out of the aircraft and unload our luggage. He would inform us as soon as he had more information. What now? Wait! And hope! But for what? The passengers around us became nervous and restless. Many complained and voiced their displeasure loudly. The captain told us that the Italian football team that had played in Berlin in the Europa Cup was also stuck in the queue on the plane in front of us. Later, I heard that the FC Bayern Munich team had also been stranded at BER that evening. How reassuring. So, we were not alone in this predicament.  Finally, we passengers received an email from British Airways informing us that the flight had been delayed and could no longer take off today. Well, that was no longer news. However, British Airways would cover reasonable hotel costs, up to £20 for food and drink and up to £25 for telephone costs. We would receive another email the following day telling us the new departure time of our flight. So now it was official that we were stranded. At first, I didn't know what to make of it. But I quickly concluded that this was probably the better option. I wasn't too keen on the prospect of taking a 2½ - 3-hour journey on three different night buses in London or spending a sleepless night on one of the cold and hard metal benches at Heathrow Airport. But now I was faced with the problem of finding a bed for the night from the aircraft. British Airways offered no assistance in this regard. At this time of night, I couldn't possibly wake my friends, with whom I had spent the last three nights, from their sleep. A hotel near the airport was the best option. This would also have the advantage that I would be quickly accommodated tonight and ready for departure at BER on short notice the next morning. Around me, widespread horror gradually set in as everyone realised the implications of this news. Some people went into hyperactivity; others were paralysed or collapsed. Two rows in front of us, a woman had a severe asthma attack and a stewardess attended to her. My seat neighbour to my right was booking a hotel near the airport on his mobile phone. Good idea! I should do that straight away. I asked him for the name of his hotel and set about booking there too. Unfortunately, only the booking details for the next day or night appeared on my display. The app didn't offer the option to book for the current night. I wouldn't find out the reason until later.  My neighbour to my left was luckier, and she quickly booked a room for both of us in another hotel, paid with her credit card and received the booking confirmation. Wonderful! We were saved! We had a place to sleep. We were relieved. Shortly afterwards, I received a WhatsApp message from a friend in Berlin enquiring whether I had landed safely in London. I wrote to her about our situation. She was shocked and offered to get in the car immediately and pick me up. I thanked her, saying it wasn't necessary as we had just booked a hotel at the airport, which would be paid for by BA. I later regretted this careless cancellation. But then, I didn't know how the night would turn out. I informed David of the latest developments and told him he could eat the chicken himself or put it in the fridge. He could go to sleep with peace of mind. I would contact him in the morning and keep him up to date. He was reassured and thought that was the best option.  Stranded in the chaos at BER airport However, there were still a lot of planes ahead of us, and it was foreseeable that it would take a while before the ground staff released us from the overheated aircraft. There were 180 passengers on our plane, and with 20 jets, at least 3,600 passengers were to be processed and their luggage to be unloaded. (Good thing I only had hand luggage!) Our plane was at the very back of the queue. These masses were later all in front of us at the border control as we had to re-enter Germany from no man's land; this was unavoidable. Many passengers didn't understand the logic because, in their opinion, they hadn't left Germany yet and were grumbling under their breath, arguing amongst themselves and quarrelling with the passport control officers. Small children were screaming. Hundreds of people sat on the ground, tired and at a loss as to what to do. Some were crying, and others looked exhausted, angry, and disappointed. I felt particularly sorry for the families with children who now had to look for somewhere to stay. No sign of British Airways or the Berlin airport staff could have given us help and support. We were entirely on our own. At passport control, the effects of Brexit became clear once again. As a German citizen, I could simply go to one of the almost empty electronic checkpoints reserved for EU citizens, while most people had to join the long queue for non-EU citizens. I waited on the other side too, but for my neighbour, as we had a joint hotel booking. I could have loyally stayed with her and used her passport control desk, but I wanted to enjoy one benefit of Brexit for once and not wait in a crowd of frustrated people for a while. She suggested that I go ahead to the hotel, but I thought it was better to get through this situation together. I waited and tried to remember her face, as we hardly knew each other. Finally, after 45 minutes, she emerged as one of the last passengers. We recognised each other immediately and, relieved that we only had hand luggage, pushed past the crowds of people waiting for their suitcases on the conveyor belt at baggage reclaim. We, on the other hand, eagerly joined the taxi queue. There was almost a brawl when a few people tried to jump the queue. The nerves were on edge. (Not) a bed for the night? The hotel was nearby, and after a 15-minute drive, we arrived at 1.30 am. We joined the long queue that stretched out into the street. Hundreds of stranded people were ahead of us. But we were relaxed and looking forward to our hotel bed because, luckily, we had our hotel booking and confirmation. But then we heard a rumour that all room bookings made after midnight were null and void. The hotel was full. People had been turned away. Excuse me? I couldn't believe it. Determined, I walked past the long queue to enquire at reception in person. What I was told shook my confidence in the reliability of digitalisation: Booking.com had made a mistake. The portal should not have accepted bookings for that night after midnight. The booking had, therefore, been accepted for the next night. The hotel was full. He could not help us. We would have to contact Booking.com directly to get our money refunded. But that was the least of our worries at this point. Where were we supposed to go at this time of night? Everyone who had booked after midnight was turned away and had to look for another hotel. That was most of them. We had booked at 00:07. So it affected us too. I tried to negotiate with the stressed man at reception. I asked if there wasn't a spare cupboard somewhere that he could let us use. Unfortunately, no. Hundreds of people surrounded the poor man, many with children, who urgently sought somewhere to stay. He was utterly overwhelmed and felt the concentrated anger and disappointment. We sat in the hotel lobby and tried to find a hotel for the two of us. My neighbour and new friend called the hotel where she had spent the previous night but to no avail. They were fully booked. Then we searched the Internet. But you could only book online and therefore only for the next night because you can't explain to a programme that you are stranded at the airport after midnight and now have no accommodation for that night. You can only explain that to a person, and you will need a telephone number. However, most hotels could only be booked via online booking agencies, and we couldn't find a telephone number on the hotels' websites either. If telephone numbers were given, they were 0801 numbers from call centres in the USA. They would have been just as helpful in solving the acute problem as the online agencies. That is, not at all! Gradually, a paralysing tiredness set in and suppressed the rising panic. I just wanted to lay my tired head down somewhere and was about to make myself comfortable in the lobby and sleep, hoping not to be kicked out before 5 am. One phone number - one person - one solution! At the Hilton, a real person finally answers. But then I thought about which hotel names I knew. I lived in Berlin for 20 years and never stayed in a hotel. Even on my frequent visits, I stayed with friends. But I couldn't help but think of the name of some classic, well-known hotel! Hilton! Surely Berlin had a Hilton Hotel? I googled Hilton - and lo and behold, I found a phone number. A real person on the phone said that two rooms were still available and promised to hold them for us for the next 45 minutes. Wonderful! All tiredness was gone. We rushed onto the street, and an Uber taxi took us to the city centre. At 03:30, we checked into the Hilton Hotel on Mohrenstrasse. Shortly afterwards, at 04:00, I sat contentedly in my freshly made-up bed in my hotel room, having showered with the Hilton's fragrant shower gel and used their wonderfully scented body lotion, and savoured my mini bottle of red wine, which I had bought earlier from a vending machine in the lobby as a nightcap to calm my nerves. I set the alarm for 06:30 to check whether an email from British Airways with the new flight details had arrived and fell into a deep sleep. I received an email at 06:30 announcing the new departure time at 14:55, which meant I could turn over and go back to sleep. Breakfast in the Hilton - a moment of relaxation in the chaos. At 10 am, I met my new friend and fellow sufferer for breakfast. With a view of the historic building of the German Cathedral on Gendarmenmarkt, we enjoyed a sumptuous breakfast and even treated ourselves to a glass of sparkling wine to celebrate this extraordinary experience. That's how you can endure it! We were reconciled to the situation. I made myself another sandwich to take with me. An emergency supply - just in case! We took a taxi back to BER airport at noon and were pleased that we would soon be home.  Back at the airport - chaos and a lack of crisis management The airport was full of stranded people from the previous day, many lying on the floor, surrounded by their luggage. Children were either running around or crying. Many passengers had not found a hotel for the night and, therefore, had to spend the night sleeping on the floor at the airport. Even those lucky enough to have spent the night in a hotel bed were now again faced with confusion and uncertainty. Our flight did not appear at all on the electronic departure board. We began to doubt whether the information in the British Airways email was correct. However, no one from the airline or BER was here to inform us about the next steps. Some passengers had had a new boarding pass issued at the check-in counter but afterwards realised that yesterday's date had been given. They queued up again at the check-in counter to correct this mistake and get a boarding pass with today's date.  Others returned from security disappointed. They had been turned away because they had tried to check in with their boarding passes from the previous day. We were at a loss. None of these efforts had cleared the way to the gate. Had we been booked on a ghost flight that would never come? Or had we simply been forgotten? I saw no point in joining the long queue at the check-in desk and suggested that we go together to the less busy business class desk and put some pressure on there. Seven people, prepared and determined not to be turned away, marched towards the counter. This made an impression. The friendly gentleman at the counter explained that using yesterday's boarding passes was correct. He had just passed the relevant instructions to the security staff by telephone. They should now let us through without any problems. We wanted to believe him but remained sceptical. And promptly, our boarding pass didn't work at the security gate. But one of the officers took us aside, " I see, you're the stranded people from yesterday!" checked our boarding passes and passports and let us through. Phew! It takes understanding people to solve specific problems! This hurdle had already been cleared. Next, we went through security and then on to our gate. It was supposed to be the same as yesterday, C17. Indeed, at gate 17, London Heathrow was on the display board, with our flight number and the departure time of 2.55 pm. We sat there and waited. Our small group had grown in the meantime. We increasingly recognised yesterday's fellow sufferers, and they joined us. Our departure time of 2:55 pm had long since passed when someone happened to see information flash up on the display board. Our flight was leaving in 10 minutes from another gate. Nobody had told us. Full of panic, we ran with our hand luggage. I quickly gulped down my far too hot tea, as I didn't have a hand free to hold the cup, and dashed off. We didn't want to miss our flight under any circumstances. When we arrived at gate C12, out of breath, more familiar faces from the previous day were waiting. The information board correctly displayed the flight number, departure time 2:55 pm, and destination, London Heathrow, but there was no sign of any British Airways aircraft or BER staff.  We sat in an ever-growing group and waited for what would come. The mood fluctuated between hope, despair, anger, hysteria and gallows humour. We didn't even dare go to the toilet for fear of missing important information or our flight. Finally, a young lady from the ground staff at Berlin Airport arrived. Our hopes for information were bitterly disappointed as she knew nothing about our flight. Instead, she asked us for the information we had received from British Airways by email so that she could pass it on to other passengers. We hadn't received any communication from British Airways since the 6.30 am email and the BA app was silent. It was complete chaos. The departure board informed us of three British Airways flights from Berlin to London Heathrow that afternoon. But there was no mention of our flight. Many flights are delayed but ours is not even listed. Have we been forgotten? Had we been forgotten? Long after our scheduled departure time had passed, the BA app finally popped up on my mobile phone and informed me that our flight would be leaving at 17:00. However, there was no sign on the ground that this was reliable information. Dave contacted me from London to ask if he should take the sea bass out of the freezer for a BBQ that evening. After our experience yesterday, I was cautious and suggested we do the BBQ with fish the following day and leave the fish in the freezer. We finally got some information: our flight was due to leave at 6:00 pm. At 6:15 pm, we finally boarded the plane, fastened our seatbelts, and the aircraft joined the queue of waiting planes to the runway. The captain informed us that yesterday's crew had exceeded their working hours due to the waiting time and had stood down. He and his crew had received a call at 7 am this morning that they were to fly to Berlin as passengers on an aircraft and fly our plane back. They had just arrived at BER airport and immediately took over the aircraft. As we had already drunk the water and eaten the pretzels yesterday, there were no more supplies. But we would be leaving soon and would be home soon. That wasn't a problem for us. We were grateful to the captain. At last, there was someone who signalled that he was looking after us. At last, someone was talking to us, and we finally found out what was happening. And I was okay because I still had my bread roll from the Hilton Hotel. And sure enough, at 7:30 pm, our plane took off. We cheered and clapped. The passengers talked animatedly about how they had got on. New friendships had been forged. I was also glad I had found my young seat neighbour, and she was happy to have my support. The adventure had been more bearable as we could support and distract each other as a team of two. The flight attendants, endeavouring to calm the passengers' tempers, now offered various drinks free of charge. So now I could have my glass of champagne after all. I found that I deserved it. Shortly after 8 pm, we landed at Heathrow after a 1 ½ hour flight (1 hour time difference). At 10 pm, I was sitting at home with Dave on our roof terrace, celebrating my return with a glass of wine and enjoying the chicken drumsticks that Dave had saved for me from the day before. (LL.)  How does such chaos come about, and why is it not managed by those responsible? This experience stayed with me for a long time. Why did it all happen, and why couldn't it be better organised? Thunderstorms are nothing new. What was so special about this thunderstorm, which I hadn't experienced as being so severe? Were the health and safety regulations too rigid, was the bureaucracy at Berlin Airport too strict or the staff too inflexible? Were the flight communications between London and Berlin or European air traffic control in Brussels overwhelmed by a thunderstorm? Was it impossible to act in a crisis in the age of digitalisation? Obviously, computers can only solve standard problems. It would have taken competent people to manage the crisis situation. Entitlement to cost compensation instead of help and support The rights of passengers if a flight is cancelled or delayed are explicitly posted at every flight counter. They are also available on the Internet. Passengers are informed under which circumstances they are entitled to compensation or reimbursement, under which conditions they can book a replacement flight, and where they can find a form to get any costs incurred reimbursed. 'We will do everything we can to help get your travel plans back on track'  is what you can read on the British Airways website. This is all very laudable, but it doesn't work in the end. My BA app offered me no help, not even information on what I could have done at that moment in that place to handle the crisis well. Passenger rights after a crisis are all well and good, but concrete support and helpful actions are needed in a crisis. As a customer, I expect airlines and airports to be prepared for these crises, which are not exactly unique and extremely rare. There should be crisis plans and people in charge who implement these plans and offer support to stranded passengers. Instead, it seems that airlines and airports expect every passenger travelling by air to draw up their own contingency plans and carry them along; that every passenger knows where they can turn to, beyond the airline and airport company, and where they can obtain information. Because their contract partners do not really feel obliged to do so.   But basic information should be made available, such as lists of hotels near the airport with telephone numbers, information about local shops and shops at the airport or nearby that are open to provide basic supplies for passengers in the event of a crisis, e.g. drinking water, food, nappies and food for babies, medicines, etc. In my opinion, publicising passengers' rights seems to be a minimal mandatory exercise, as is often the case with several health and safety regulations. The main thing is that a sign has been put up saying that the floor is wet and there is a risk of slipping. If someone does slip and break a leg, it's their problem. The organisation is not at fault! The organisation cannot be held legally liable for not fulfilling its duty of care. However, the customer or passer-by must be shown a safe way to avoid danger. And the person stranded at an airport must also be offered an option for the excessively long waiting time, as in our case. Not my problem It seems that nobody took responsibility for this situation and tried to solve the problem, neither the ground staff at Berlin Airport, British Airways, Booking.com, nor the airport hotel we had booked with. Nobody felt responsible. The receptionist at the overcrowded hotel who turned us away didn't see it as his problem. He shrugged his shoulders. Sorry. It certainly wasn't the first time someone had to book a hotel in the middle of the night. The system could not respond and accept a booking for the night after midnight. Many of the big hotels advertise 24-hour reception. So why can't you phone these hotels to explain the emergency situation to someone and either get a bed for the night or at least help find one?  It looked to me like British Airways had made it easy for themselves. In their email, they informed the passengers of the delay and offered to pay for any reasonable costs incurred. That's it! Duty fulfilled! The airline no longer felt responsible for solving the problem; that was the responsibility of the passengers. They should take care themselves of by finding a hotel or somewhere to sleep. This was not a problem for the locals, who went home and slept in their own beds. But the majority of the passengers were tourists or visitors. They were strangers in Berlin, had no home there and didn't know how to organise accommodation quickly at this time of night. They were left alone with their despair and panic by their contractual partner, British Airways. There was no crisis intervention by airline representatives or BER staff; at least, I didn't see anyone. Those whose job was to organise a new flight for the next day failed hopelessly and acted unprofessionally. The email from British Airways at 6:30 pm informed us of the new departure time at 2:55 pm. But, as we later learnt from the pilot, the captain and his crew had only been told at 7 am (1/2 hour after the email to all passengers) that they were to fly from London to Berlin as passengers and fly the plane and passengers back to Heathrow. They only arrived at Berlin airport shortly before 6 pm. It should already have been evident in the morning that a departure time of 2:55 pm could not be adhered to. Why wasn't a crew informed during the night when the take-off had to be postponed to the next day, or at least a later and realistic departure time scheduled? Were we passengers to be kept waiting or kept busy? If it had been evident earlier that the flight could not take off until the evening, some passengers would have had the opportunity to book alternative flights to keep their urgent appointments. Like the woman in the row behind me, for example, who was desperate because she was stuck at Berlin airport all day with her daughter and couldn't get to London in time to attend the official farewell of her retiring husband. Another woman missed a long-planned hospital appointment. Others, like my seat neighbour on the right, could not meet their work commitments, had to notify colleagues, delegate tasks, postpone appointments and worry about their jobs, to name a few cases. A contract is a contract British Airways and the airport are responsible for the passengers. Purchasing a flight ticket creates a contract to which both parties are bound. The tickets are expensive enough and include airport duty. But nobody at the airport felt responsible or made any effort to help. The young woman at the boarding gate, a ground staff employee at Berlin Airport, was unaware of the situation. So she did the obvious thing for her: she asked the passengers about their knowledge so that she could pass it on to other passengers. That was probably the maximum she could do on her own initiative. Otherwise, she was perhaps waiting for instructions from higher up. It seemed to me that she was not even annoyed about her lack of knowledge of the situation and the fact that she could not help the passengers. I wonder whether this was her failing or whether she resigned herself to the fact that such situations are part of her everyday working life. Because there's nothing you can do anyway? Because that's just the way it is? Because nobody knows who is responsible for what anymore? Because even as a staff member you can no longer avoid the digital communication channels? Because you can't get any sensible answers beyond standard questions? Empathy replaced by indifference I am an experienced traveller and am not easily flustered. I'm used to solving problems and usually take challenges in my stride. But what about those passengers who are not so experienced? I have seen many desperate and panicked people during these hours. What about those who don't have an internet-enabled mobile phone or a BA app? Who can't be informed of the new flight time via email? What about people with mobility problems or children travelling alone? How can you leave vulnerable and needy people to their own devices in a crisis and expect them to manage somehow and sleep at the airport if necessary? Where is the pride of the employees who want to handle passengers, their customers, competently and safely and get them from A to B? It is a strange development in which interpersonal relationships seem lost. Empathy seems to have been replaced by indifference; an indifference to the fears and concerns of passengers and an indifference to the inability of airlines and airports to adequately manage a crisis and solve problems.  In the age of digitalisation, are we so used to the computer taking care of everything? Is no one aware that software programs can optimise standard processes but that the problem-solving skills of competent and experienced people are needed for exceptional cases? Can no one imagine that a sympathetic contact person is extremely helpful and comforting in a crisis? Or are we so convinced of the infallibility of computer-aided organisation that we have handed over responsibility for solving problems to this seemingly higher intelligence? And suppose this higher intelligence has no solution. In that case, we humans feel incapable of finding a solution, do not want to exceed our competencies and pass the responsibility and blame for the failure unapologetically on to the technology. We are not to blame, we are not responsible, and we are not sorry. Well, the romance of travelling is truly gone. PS I got my money back for the hotel from British Airways. But I didn't get any compensation because the reason for the delay was a thunderstorm - a natural event (an act of God) for which no one can be held responsible. (LL.)   Lufthansa at Munich Airport treated its passengers stranded on two flights on 3 to 4 August 2024 due to 'technical irregularities' and 'operational reasons' similarly rigorously. The airline announced that the Munich hotels were fully booked due to the tens of thousands of fans who had come to Munich for the Adele concerts. Passengers reported in the Süddeutsche Zeitung that the service desks were closed after this announcement to passengers. Luggage was not returned to stranded passengers for the weekend while they waited. New departure times were not communicated, but - at least - blankets were distributed to passengers. No further comment is necessary. Source: https://www.sueddeutsche.de/muenchen/muenchen-lufthansa-fluege-ausgefallen-hotels-adele-lux.BjuTYccNKfjKyT1fdaTGGW

Dear Readers, We could not update our travel blog during our travels because of technical issues and the internet. Now we are back home and have updated and completed our blog in a new document called part 2.  https://www.rememberrelatereflect.com/en/post/epic-trip-to-australia-part-2 As so often, we want to escape the wet and miserable winter in the UK and the annoyingly overly soppy Christmas festivities, seek the sun and the heat, and stay away from the madness of the world. This year, we decided on a faraway destination neither of us has ever been to before: Australia. We have given ourselves two months off to go on what we like to think of as an epic trip to the other side of the world. The plan is to leave on Christmas Eve and fly to Australia via Hong Kong. We will spend three days in Hong Kong. We then continue to Melbourne, where we will spend a further three days and celebrate the coming of the year 2025. On New Year's Day, we fly to Tasmania, where we will pick up our motorhome and set off to explore the island's beautiful nature, wildlife, and extraordinary history. (After all, many of the convicts sent from Britain in the 19th century to serve their sentences in Australia ended up here.) After that, we will fly back to Melbourne, pick up another campervan, and explore some of the State of Victoria's National Parks as we travel along the famous Great Ocean Road. We will then drive to New South Wales and the Blue Mountains before finishing in Sydney, where we will stay for our final three days. From there, we fly home via Hong Kong. This is our rough plan, which I am sure we, or circumstances, will change. We shall wait and see where we end up and what we experience. Time will tell. If you want, you can join us on our adventure by visiting this travel blog from time to time. Hopefully, you will enjoy our blog as, hopefully, we enjoy our travels. We read many books to plan and organise our adventure. However, we must have an open mind and, more importantly, be flexible to not miss out on unplanned opportunities and adventures that we may come across. Notice to our readers: In order to safe luggage space we decided to take our iPads with us, rather than the bigger laptops. Unfortunately, the editing on our iPads isn’t fully compatible with the software of the blog. Therefore, to fully edit and upload the amount of pictures that we would love to show you, our readers, we will have to wait until we are back in London. Then you will be able to appreciate literally the fuller pictures of our travels. We apologise for this little hiccup but do our best with the photos we can upload. If we cant’t get a decent internet for the rest of our trip, then we won't be able to upload any more texts and photos while we're on the road. Don't worry, we'll catch up on that as soon as we're back in London. Tasmania travel 1.-31. January 2025 3.6 South Tasmania 24th to the 31st January 2025 Sorry guys for the delay in posting. But we were the last 6 days without internet in the South East of Australia. More about this later. Now back to our last days in Tasmania. After a week on the east coast we continued our journey south to complete the circle of our Tasmanian trip. We passed by Maria Island, which is very popular with tourists because of its expressive landscape and wildlife and would have been well worth visiting. However, we can’t stop everywhere - and our time is running out. Our next stop was Port Arthur. Port Arthur is a historic site located on the Tasman Peninsula in Tasmania. It is  renowned for its significance as a 19th-century penal settlement. Established in 1830, it served as a convict colony for hardened criminals and is now a UNESCO World Heritage-listed site, offering insights into Australia's colonial history. Visitors can explore the haunting ruins, including the penitentiary, guard tower, and church, as well as take guided tours to learn about the lives of convicts and the harsh conditions they endured. Port Arthur is a poignant reminder of Australia's convict past and a major tourist destination for those interested in the history of forced migration of convicts by the British Empire. Port Arthur Convict Colony About 12.500 convicts served their sentences here between 1830 and 1877. Exhibits at the visitor centre highlight that Port Arthur was more than just a prison. It was home to convicts, military and civilians and their families. The militaries and civilian officers were tasked with security and administration of the settlement. The convicts worked in many industries and produced goods and services for local use and to be taken to Hobart to be sold. For example, convicts worked in wood workshops, making everything from broom handles to renowned boat building. In particular, the boat building at Port Arthur became a successful industry because of the low salaries the convicts received and their boat building skills. Other workshops included shoemakers and blacksmiths. The site contained more than 30 historic buildings, many of them now ruins. Some were nicely renovated with beautiful gardens. These were mostly the sites where the military and civilian officers and their families had lived. Of the penitentiary only the outside walls remained, parts of the house was destroyed by a fire, others by neglect. Still one can see amongst the ruins the tiny cells where the convicts were held. A 20 minute cruise showed visitors around the peninsula, giving them the opportunity to see Port Arthur from the sea but also to see the “Isle of Death”,  the cemetery where convicts and soldiers and civilian workers were buried. Between 1833 and 1877 around 1199 people were buried at this settlement’s cemetery. The convicts did usually not get a gravestone. Another island is “Point Puer”. This was the boys’ prison. It operated from 1834 - 1849 and was the first juvenile reformatory in the whole British Empire. The new idea was to separate young offenders from the older convicts, to protect them from criminal influence of the older and hardened convicts. Most of the boys were aged between 14 and 17, the youngest were just 9 years old. One needs to know that at that time the legal age for prosecution was seven. Point Puer was known for its strict discipline and harsh punishment. Many of the boys also received an education and some were given the opportunity of trade training, i.e. as wood worker, shoemaker or blacksmith. The Penitentiary The hospital, of which only the outer walls were left, had two wings, housing six wards, a provision store, a kitchen with baking oven, a morgue and a waste collection room. Convicts and soldiers were treated on separate wards, while civilians and their families were usually treated at home. A plaque about Dr. Thomas Coke Brownell describes well the work of the physician at that time. “When Dr. Brownell returned to Port Arthur for his second round of medical service in 1840, his family had grown to 11. He and Elizabeth, at that stage had nine children. This stint lasted 15 months and he described it as ‘arduous and extensive’. With more than 1000 convicts at Port Arthur, the doctor was also medically responsible for the 600 boys at Point Puer, 340 convicts working the Coal Mine, not to mention the military personnel, civilian officers and their families. In 1842, he recorded having treated over 13,000 cases.” In more recent time the historical site became infamous for the ‘Port Arthur Massacre’, which refers to a tragic mass shooting that occurred on April 28–29, 1996, on the very site. It was one of the deadliest mass shootings in modern Australian history and a pivotal event that led to major reforms in Australia’s gun laws. A 28-year-old man, Martin Bryant, armed with semi-automatic rifles, opened fire at the Port Arthur historic site, killing 35 people and injuring 23 others. The attack spanned two days, with Bryant fleeing the scene and later taking hostages at a nearby guesthouse before being captured. The massacre prompted the Australian government, led by Prime Minister John Howard, to enact strict ‘National Firearms Legislation’ (the 1996 National Firearms Agreement). This included, a ban on semi-automatic and automatic weapons. Mandatory buybacks of prohibited firearms and uniform licensing and registration requirements nationwide. The reforms greatly reduced gun-related violence in Australia and are often cited globally as a model for effective gun control.  A memorial garden has been created at the Port Arthur site to remember its victims. We walked around the site for about four hours. Then we were exhausted. The experience was bleak, not helped by the cold and windy weather and dark clouds that contributed to an atmosphere of misery in this place. We needed a break and something to cheer us up. The best way to do this, was to visit the Tasmanian devils and kangaroos in the nearby Tasmanian Unzoo. ———— What is an Unzoo? The concept of an "Unzoo," pioneered in 2005 by zoo designers John Cole and Ray Mendez, reimagines traditional zoos by prioritising animal dignity and natural habitats over human-centric entertainment. Unlike conventional zoos with cages and enclosures, Unzoos remove or conceal barriers, allowing animals—both resident and wild—to roam freely in immersive environments while visitors engage in ethical, educational encounters with wildlife. The first intentional Unzoo, launched in 2007 on Tasmania’s Tasman Peninsula by Cole and the Hamilton family, focuses on conserving endangered Tasmanian devils and serves as a global model for blending conservation, ecotourism, and habitat restoration. By emphasising animal autonomy, natural coexistence, and transformative visitor experiences, the Unzoo challenges traditional zoo ethics, advocating for a future where humans collaborate with nature rather than confine it. ————- The Tasmanian Unzoo was very relaxed. They used this vast land of wild forest where these animals live and make it a pleasant and safe environment for the animals. Instead of organised tours for visitors you simply join one of their rangers in their work and they share their knowledge of working with these wild animals. We were lucky. We joined Dominique in his work around the place and he had a lot of experience, in particular of working with Tasmanian devils and their behaviour. We learnt, that Tasmanian Devils are almost blind and if they are frightened, they retreat into a dark safe place, in this case a round metal container. Our visit coincided with their mating season. That meant that the male devils are tense and aggressive. Dominique teased one of the devils by holding his booted foot close to him, and the devil, thinking this could be a rival male devil, started to bite the boot. This happened to Dominique although he has known this little devil since he was a baby and feeds him everyday, but, as said before, the mating season changes attitudes. A Tasmanian Devil Wombat Pademelon We then went over to the kangaroos and pademelons. They were lazily dozing in the grass or eating carrots. One of the females had a little one in her pouch, but all we could see was one leg sticking out. All the time we were there, the little one did not show its face. Then we learnt how to feed the birds. Dominique rang a bell indicating to the birds that it was dinner time. He poured a handful of bird seeds into our palms and we had not to wait long until the first green rosellas came and sat on our palms, picking the seeds out of our hands. Dominique also tried to attract the yellow bellied sea eagles by trapping a big tuna fishtail into a tree trunk. Only seagulls came, but the fishtail was too heavy for them to carry away. Dominique told us, that the tide was out, making the local small penguins easily visible. The sea eagles would then fly down and pick the penguins up with their claws, as they love to feed on them as they are full of proteins. Emu Dominique was originally from Seattle. He came to Tasmania 24 years ago and started working with a variety of wild animals, he loved the animals so much that he stayed. During COVID he was trapped on the East Coast at a Tasmanian Devil Conservation Centre. That’s were he learnt most of his knowledge about the Tassie devils. He has found his dream job working in the Unzoo and is devoted to this life working with and looking after these wild animals. And his enthusiasm rubbed off onto us. Whilst listening to him we lost track of time and before we knew it, it was closing time. We thanked him, wished him well for the future, then drove back to our camp. Hobart and the South On Sunday 26th January, we drove towards Hobart and the surrounding area. We only had five days left in Tasmania and wanted to see as much as possible. There are no campsites in the city of Hobart, so we stayed at a small campsite in the village of Snug, a 30 minute drive south of Hobart, the Snug Beach and Caravan Park. From there we could either go by local bus to Hobart or make use of their park and ride scheme into the capital. At the same time, we were well placed to explore the beautiful southern peninsulas. Snug is located opposite Bruny Island. We had originally planned to visit this island, which is well known for it spectacular scenery and gourmet local produce. It is separated from the main island of Tasmania by a channel, the D’Entre Casteaux, and can be reached only by ferry. It is home to a small population of people who prefer to live with nature, near beaches and forests. Bruny Island is divided into North and South and interconnected by a narrow passage of road surrounded by the sea. We were looking forward to this visit and were deeply disappointed when we were told by Apollo, our camper van rental company, that using a ferry with our camper van was forbidden. At least, now we could use the opportunity to drive along the costal road and see a glimpse of Bruny Island. At one of our photo stops, we met a friendly farmer. He told us that there was no need to go to Bruny Island as this stretch of land we were travelling on would be the same beautiful landscape. The only difference was that Bruny Island was full of tourists and expensive shops. He encouraged us to follow the coastal road all along and assured us it was all paved road and suitable for our camper van, and to enjoy the views of the channel but also visit the nice little villages and towns. After our friendly chat we thanked him for his recommendations. And that’s what we did. We greatly enjoyed our trip along the coast and drove through apple orchards, lovely fishing villages, drove along the river Huon and golden fields with rolls of hay that had just been harvested. We stopped for a welcome coffee break in a wonderful village, called Cygnet. The cafe we stopped at even had its own apple and pear orchard in the back garden which we were encouraged to walk through. In Franklin, one of the fishing villages, we spoke to a friendly guy called John, who was from Victoria. The reason he was in Franklin was that he and his friends took part in the bi-annual small boat race from Franklin to Hobart, along the river Huon. Everyone was very excited. Some had come from as far away as Perth to take part in this event. John told us, he originally came from Devon, in England. His parents came to Australia in the 1960s on the £10 Pom Ticket from England. He was 10 years old, and had a free passage to Australia as children travelled for free. In the 1960s, the 10 pound Pom tickets were a way for British citizens to travel to Australia for a reduced fare, instead of £110 (in comparison, an average annual salary in Britain in the 60s was £350). The scheme was part of the Assisted Passage Migration Scheme, which ran from 1945-1982, and was intended to increase Australia’s population with skilled workers for its growing economy. People taking part in the scheme were expected to stay at least a few years in Australia. Between 1945 and 1972, over a million migrants came to Australia under this scheme. It was most popular in 1969, when over 800.000 migrants came over. Some migrants returned home after a few years and were called by the Australians the “whinging poms”. The next day, Monday, 27th January was a national holiday (on Sunday 26th had been Australia Day). So it was free to park anywhere in the city of Hobart and we took advantage of this and took the camper into town. Hobart, the capital of Tasmania, is a historic city nestled at the base of Mount Wellington (Kunanyi), offering stunning natural landscapes and outdoor activities like hiking and mountain biking. Known for its colonial architecture and waterfront charm, it features the iconic Salamanca Square, with its many galleries, cafes, restaurants and shops in historic sandstone warehouses. There is a lot to see and do in Hobart. We strolled along the waterfront and the Salamanca Warehouses and the historic houses of Battery Point. Then we visited the MONA (Museum of Old and New Art). To reach the museum you take a scenic 25-minutes ferry ride from Brook Street Pier (the ferry itself features a pink cow carpet and a wine bar). The museum is Australia’s most provocative private museum. Founded by eccentric millionaire David Walsh in 2011, it blends ancient artefacts with avant-garde contemporary art, focusing on themes like sex, death, and existentialism. The museum is built on the cliffside beside the Derwent River and its subterranean, bunker-like structure is as striking as its contents. MONA ditches traditional labels in favour of its downloadable "O" app, which offers cryptic commentary. Known for bold installations (such a digestion machine or vulva casts), it hosts edgy festivals and has transformed Hobart into a global arts hub. A rebellious mix of art, architecture, and irreverence, MONA defies museum norms and has become a must-visit destination and transformed Hobart into a global arts destination, boosting Tasmania’s tourism and economy. We wandered around its many floors, found some of the art excellent, most weird, some questionable. Whether you love it or hate it, MONA is a must-visit museum for its audacity, innovation and refusal to play by the rules. We then took the opportunity of the glorious sunshine and good views and drove up the torturous road to reach the viewing platforms at the very top of Mount Wellington. Mount Wellington towers over Hobart, and is an iconic natural landmark and a must-visit destination. Its elevation is 1,271m and offers panoramic views of Hobart, the Derwent River, and Southern Tasmania. Its indigenous name is Kunanyi (Palawa kano language), reflecting its deep cultural significance to the Tasmanian Aboriginal people. View of Hobart from the viewing areas of Mount Wellington The drive with the camper van to the top was 20 km and took 45 minutes. It was at times a bit hairy because the road was narrow, steep and very curvy. And also the people coming down meeting the people coming up had its moments. It was beautiful at the top, but then we had the same nail-biting drive down again. We were very lucky with the weather, because on the next day, 28th January, it was cold, windy and cloudy. In the morning the temperature was 14C, but felt like 8C. We went back to Hobart, this time making use of Hobart’s park and ride scheme. We booked ourselves on one of the Hop-on-Hop-off City Loop double decker buses to explore the city’s sites. Very few people braved sitting on the open top deck because of the wind and the occasional showers, most of us huddled below deck, trying to keep warm. Although we got off on a few occasions to visit a particular site, like the Cascade Brewery or the Female Factory, it was a lazy, but enjoyable, way to get to know the key sites of Hobart. When we drove back to our campsite, we could see a bushfire in the mountains behind our campsite. Smoke from the bushfire was so dense, it blocked out the sunlight and the high wind blew the smoke over our campsite. Many fire engines passed along the main road heading to the source of the fire. Helicopters and seaplanes were constantly flying above us, bringing water to douse the flames. The fire continued burning all night and into the next day. It is the height of the summer in Tasmania and for the last few days everybody was told that the Government had banned fires, such as BBQs, because of the danger of bushfires. Bushfires - a constant threat In the remaining days we checked out the places that we wanted to visit, such as the animal sanctuary Bonorong in Brighton. At other times we just drove around, taking in the wonderful sites of the peninsulas south of Hobart, travelling along roads that hugged the shoreline. Now, on our last night, we have to clean the camper van, pack our bags as tomorrow we have to return the camper van to the rental company and fly back to Melbourne. In the last month we got accustomed to our life in the camper van. There are a few mistakes which you only make once, for example, hitting the shower button in the tiny bathroom while sitting on the toilet and getting drenched, or opening the camper door early in the morning without switching the alarm button off and waking up the whole campsite by the alarm. We also frequently hit our head on the upper shelfs until Dave stuck tea towels on them and fixed them with sticky tape. That helped a bit. It takes time to get accustomed to the small space in the cabin and one needs to carefully coordinate moving around. Otherwise, we loved it. It is great to have your own space and the freedom of the open road. We look forward to the next part of our holiday, the day after tomorrow, when we pick up our next camper van in Melbourne. Bye bye Tasmania. We drove 3800km in Tasmania in a month. Tasmania is a small island (as big as Ireland) and has a spectacular range of climates from rain forest to arid bushland, from mountain tops to wonderful golden beaches and deep-blue coves. On a sad note, Tasmania is the roadkill capital of the world. And because of this, certain species of wildlife are in danger of becoming extinct. That why it is important to support conservation projects as it is they, and not the Government, who do the vital work and most people who work in these conservation centres are volunteers and give their time freely. 3.5 East Coast. 17th to 24th January 2025 On Friday 17th January in the morning we undertook the long journey from Longford to the East Coast. Instead of the shorter route via the A3, which only takes about two hours, we took the scenic route via Lilydale, where we visited a lavender farm, tasted lavender tea and learnt how lavender is grown and their oil extracted. Then we passed by Scottsdale and did a detour to the Legerwood Memorial Carvings. This consists of a few trees whose branches were carved into people in memory of those local Tasmanians that fought and were killed in WWI. Earlier, in Scottsdale town we found a smaller carved tree in memory of local Tasmanians who have fought and died in the Vietnam war. In other places before too, we came across war memorials that honoured those Tasmanians that died in wars, be it the WWI, WWII, Korean War, Vietnam war, Golf War I and II. We wondered why people from remote Tasmania were involved, and lost so many of its people, in so many wars throughout the world. Was it their loyalty to the British Empire? The road was long and twisty, the landscape beautiful, varying from verdant forests and lush green pastures up in the mountains to arid dusty straw-coloured plains. Photographing does not do it justice, so we gave up. We passed by the town of Derby, that is nowadays a paradise for mountain bikers, as is the whole area. As time was running we skipped visiting the Pyengana Dairy, famous for green hills and its cheese making, as well as the St Colombia Waterfalls and the Pub in the Paddock where they feed local beer to their pigs. Perhaps we will find time to come back later. Now its time to visit the East Cost. We planned to stay for a week in this area. The East Coast of Tasmania with its classic seaside towns and peaceful hinterland villages has been a holiday destination for Tasmanians and mainland Australians for generations. It stretches from the Iarapuna area in the North (which includes Bay of Fires) to Orford in the South and is renowned for its excluded beaches, breathtaking national parks, fresh seafood and cellar doors (wine yards) with sweeping views. The East Coast counts various National Parks to its area, including the Freycinet National Park in the South, best known for its Wineglass Bay. We stayed for four nights at the St Helens Holiday Park. St Helens is the largest town on the east coast. It’s considered a great base for exploring the north east’s natural beauty and is just a few kilometres away from the beautiful Binalong Bay and the Bay of Fires. We arrived at our next campsite in St. Helens, at the Big4 St. Helens Holiday Park by mid afternoon. Once we’d checked-in and settled (meaning marking our spot by putting our chairs and table out) we set off again to explore the area nearby and perhaps find some fish to cook for tonight. Unfortunately, the crayfish shack is already closed and we continued driving in glorious sunshine beside Georges Bay onto a peninsula which leads to St. Helens Pt. There we admired the blue sea and met some brave Tasmanian families with children swimming and splashing in the cold water. The air was fresh too, about 18 degrees and very windy. Tasmanians are obviously used to. They laughed when we asked if they don’t feel cold, just a bit. We drove back home via a supermarket where we were able to get some local squid for tonight’s dinner. Yummy. Yummy squid! 18th January 2025 The next morning it was overcast but later the sun came out. First we went back to the  Bay of Fires Lobster fish shack where you can buy fish and seafood straight from the boat. We bought a whole lobster (for 54 AUD) and a big slab of Gummy shark fish that should last us for the next few day’s dinners. Altogether it cost us 75 AUD (£37.50), a feast of three dinners for both of us. Freshly caught, cooked and ready to eat! Yummy! There is a lot what one can do to explore Tasmania’s most colourful coastline: Cruising along the Bay of Fires or go on any of the many organised walking tours offered, including a four day/ three night guided walk through the bush. If you come in the right season, you can jump on a game fishing charter for deep sea adventures hunting marlin, albacore tuna and yellowfin tuna. Divers can explore underwater caves and colourful sea life. The area has also excellent mountain biking tracks, with a series of trails, including an epic 42 km wilderness trail from the mountain to the sea. We decided to do our own thing. We drove along the Binalong Bay with its great views of the Bay of Fires, which is known for its extraordinary, clear blue seas, brilliant white beaches, and the striking orange lichen covered boulders. The Bay of Fires, set between Eddystone Point in the North and Binalong Bay in the South, has stunning views and secluded beaches. Binalong Bay was busy with tourists and there were many cars on the road but hardly any parking spaces to get to the beaches. So we drove along the Bay of Fires, on twisty roads through forest and bush and stopped at various viewing points; we strolled along deserted beaches, we clambered onto rocky, lichen-covered headlands, stopped to take photographs and took in the wonderful landscape, that changed at every twist in the road. How did Bay of Fires get its name? Historians came up with various versions to this question. Some say, the bay was given its name in 1773 by captain Tobias Furneaux in the ship Adventure, who saw the fires of aboriginal people burning on the beaches. Others say, the name came from the orange lichen-covered rocks that glow bright in the sunshine. On the next day in the afternoon, we drove along St. George’s Bay and decided to walk to the other side of the peninsula to Beer Barrel Beach, 45 minutes each way. What we thought was an easy stroll along the beach led us through rough bushy landscape away from the beach. I was pretty scared that we would come across snakes, as we were told that all snakes in Tasmania are poisonous, but bravely walked behind Dave, stamping my feet to scare any snakes away. After more than 20 minutes walking along a small path through jungle and bush, we decided it was better to walk back and instead find a walk along the beach in the sunshine. Luckily we did not find any snakes. Walking through thick bush. Back on the waterfront, we met a woman on a jetty, fishing with her dog at her side. She had already caught two baby squids. We got chatting. She was local and used to go fishing with her Mum, who’d just recently passed away. So she continued fishing in memory of her. She told us that a few years ago she had to go to Melbourne, and as her mother did not feel well, she took her with her to get examined by a doctor in Melbourne. For months, she’d been complaining about pain but the doctors in Tasmania did not find anything wrong. In Melbourne, she was quickly diagnosed with terminal cancer, there was nothing they could do anymore for her. The daughter was angry and bitterly disappointed by the Tasmanian health care system and warned us, to be careful, not to get ill or have an accident here in Tasmania, as the health care was really bad. When we drove back we had an interesting encounter of a different type. Here is Dave’s report about it: As I drove back to the campsite I passed a police car waiting to come out of a side street. He followed me for many kilometres and kept his distance and when I slowed down, so did he. I could only assume, he’d already decided that he wanted to nick me and would follow me until I did something wrong. And when I did, then he could officially stop me and check my papers. We came to the end of the road and I turned right onto the main road. As soon as I did, he switched on his blue lights, drove up close behind and I stopped. He got out of his car and said to me “You can’t stop here, mate” and I said “But you wanted me to stop.” He said ”Drive on to a car park one kilometer ahead”. So I did. The reason for the stop? He said, I had pulled out dangerously in front of a car and made him brake so hard, he almost had to stop. That’s not what happened, but as a Brit you cannot argue with an Australian policeman. My licence was taken and checked and I was breathalyzed. Then I had to wait whilst the results came back. The test came back negative and I was given a caution. He said: “Don’t forget, you are in a camper van and they are longer than cars.” “Thank you, officer”. And - our camper van is the same size as a Ford Transit. I think, I’ll cover the Britz Camper Van rental decals from the sides and the back of our camper van. In other words, these rental camper vans stand out like a sore thumb as they are often driven by people that are not used to drive camper vans. So police treat them as an easy target, and just wait for the opportunity to pounce if somebody, who is not used to driving such a vehicle, makes a mistake, or they had been visiting a winery or distillery for tasting. Thanks God we had not taken up any of the many offers of wine and whiskey tasting. Our next stop along the East Coast was Coles Bay, a tiny seaside community, next to the granite peaks of the Hazards mountain range. The town is an ideal place for exploring the nearby Freycinet National Park and its abundant wildlife, including Tasmanian pademelons and wallabies (little kangaroo types), and echidnas (hedgehog like but bigger creatures). We stayed at the Iluka on Freycinet Holiday Park for 3 nights. Again, there is lots to do and see at Coles Bay and the Freycinet National Park. Coles Bay is the Gateway to the Freycinet Peninsula, which offers pristine beaches, coastal and mountain walks and native wildlife. Tours offer fishing, boating and rock climbing activities and the famous Wineglass Bay Cruise. It cruises for five hours along the spectacular coastline of Freycinet National Park, from Coles to Wineglass Bay and secluded beaches on the other side of the Freycinet National Park, that can only be reached by water, helicopter or a full day bush walk. The cruise was tempting as it promises spectacular views of the National Park and especially the Wineglass Bay and also of its remarkable wildlife, such as dolphins and whales, sea eagles and cormorants. However, the last few days were extremely windy and reports of people having been seasick on the cruise were putting us off. However, the humpback whales and dolphins have already started their migration north a few weeks ago, so there was even less chance of spotting and photographing wildlife. So we decided to save ourselves 300 AUD (£150) each for seats on the upper deck (with nibbles and drinks) and put it to better use, i.e. eating the widely praised local seafood. Instead, we explored the Freycinet National Park on foot. We walked to the Wine Glass Lookout Point and took photos of the stunning views of the bay and the surrounding mountains.  During the next few days, we also walked some of the other walks in the National Park and to secluded but reachable beaches, for example on Honeymoon Bay and Muirs Beach and to the Cape Tourville Lighthouse. View of Wineglass Bay at the Freycinet National Park Muirs Beach Walk to the Wineglass Bay Viewing Point Walk in the Freycinet National Park Wineglass Bay At the Cape Tourville Lighthouse we met a delightful couple from Belgium, Sita and Class, both nurses in the Emergency Department in their home town. They had finished the day before a tough climb up the Amos Mountain. In parts they had to climb on their hands and knees at it was scary and dangerous coming down the mountain as they did not have good walking shoes. They were lucky they made it down without too many scratches on their hands and knees. They’d decided to take a year out to tour around Australia. They started in October last year in Perth, where they bought a Nissan Patrol and modified it  to their own specifications, with a kitchen and fridge and a clam tent on top where they sleep. We had a long chat about life and travel on the road and wished them well for the rest of their trip. Once they were gone and all the other cars had left the car park too, a little Kangaroo appeared between the bushes eating grass and was not in the slightest bothered by us taking photographs. (But it sneezed twice into Dave’s face). Bless you!! We greatly enjoyed the stunning landscape, despite the heavy gusty wind and a temperature of 17C during the day at sunshine, which cooled down at night to 12C. And this is their summer!! Thankfully our camper van has central heating which Dave usually switches on at 6 am. We felt for our poor neighbours sleeping under canvas. When reading the tourist guides, the amount of tours throughout Tasmania to explore the local winery’s and whiskey distilleries and breweries is enormous; tour guides proud themselves of the gourmet cuisine in exclusive restaurants, promising a larger than life gastronomic experience. Especially, in the holiday paradise along the East Coast. However, that’s not what we found. Well, we did not do the wineries and distilleries or breweries as we were driving (and good thing we hadn’t when we were stopped by the police). The few gourmet restaurants we found were remote and rather expensive, even more expensive than London prices. That would okay if we were only for a week in Tasmania, which is what most tourists here do; but we are travelling for two months and have to budget. Other restaurants we found, were mostly mediocre and not worth their money. Anyway, we are both very good cooks and love cooking in our little camper van. So we were looking forward to buying fresh seafood and preparing it ourselves. But even that is a problem. We were so much looking forward to the East Coast having read the mouth watering reports of the abundance of fresh seafood you can find there. Unfortunately, that’s not what we found along this coast. There were very few, if at all, places to buy fresh fish, be it at fish shacks on the bays or in the shops, apart from the big supermarkets in big towns. For example, the only fish we found in the two general stores in Coles Bay was frozen fish fingers. Most of the fish caught in these areas either go directly abroad or to mainland Australia, or to the local fancy gourmet restaurants. Luckily, in the Coles Bay area, we found a place, 15 km outside of town, Freycinet Marina Farm, a small simple restaurant, which also sold seafood to take away for reasonable prices. We shared a platter of 12 fresh oysters to eat in their lovely place, and also bought 12 juicy king prawns and a bowl of scallops, which they carefully packed for us so we could take home and  cook for our dinner later. What did all this come to? 80 AUD (£40).  For that price you couldn’t even get two plates of breaded king prawns at the Lobster Shack Restaurant in Bicheno, where presumably the batter was so thick, that when you removed it, you were left with only shrimps left to eat. When we’d passed by the Lobster Shack Restaurant one afternoon to check it out, the place was full of tourists eating and drinking big plates full of breaded prawns, lobsters, oysters and fish and chips. We enjoyed our home cooked seafood and fish dishes and always find, the Luger-Lowe Restaurant is the best!! 3.4. Launceston Area and Tamar Valley 14-17 January 2025 14th January 2025 From Stanley we drove along the North coast on the A2 Bass Hwy. We stopped shortly in Devonport at the “Strait off the boat” fishmonger to stock up again on gummy (shark fish) and tiger prawns for tonight’s dinner and, after a delicious lunch with fish bites and fries, (in England we call this fish and chips) continued to Launceston though the Tamar Valley, the famous wine growing area. It took us until mid afternoon to arrive at our Caravan Park in Longford, which is a 20 minute drive south of Launceston. Our camping place was close to the river and there was a bench beside the river, a lovely spot, where we would sit and relax watching the river flowing past. A peaceful place on the river Once we settled in, we drove out again to explore Launceston, which is the second largest city in Tasmania after Hobart, and the third oldest in whole Australia, dating back to 1806. It presents itself as a cultural hub with its museums and art galleries. Launceston is also proud of its thriving food and drink scene, with its many restaurants and pubs, showcasing the wines from the nearby Tamar Valley Wine Region and the local craft beer. The city has been named the UNESCO City of Gastronomy.  We drove into town trying to find a petrol station before we run out of diesel and a place to park, which both became a difficult task because of the heavy rush-hour traffic and the confusing one way street system. Finally, we were successful and could even leave our van at the petrol station while exploring the town. We walked towards the river Tamar passing by the Queen Victoria Museum and Art Gallery (QVMAG) and the Royal Park. The town felt very busy, hot and windy and we decided, as there was so much more to see in this area, to concentrate on smaller towns and historical places. 15th January 2025 The next day we drove to Ross, a small town about a 50 minute drive from our base in Longford. We were interested to learn more about the history of this place. Like most of Tasmania, Ross was built on the back of convict labour. An example is the beautiful sandstone Ross Bridge  dating back to 1836, Tasmania’s second oldest bridge. The bridge is adorned with 186 enigmatic carvings that include people, animals and other motifs. The work was deemed of such high quality that the two convict stone masons, James Colbert and Daniel Herbert, overseeing the work, gained their freedom for their efforts. Ross Bridge built by convicts A plaque reports on the history of Ross and the building of the bridge. At the time of 1821, the town was little more than an inn by a crude bridge crossing over the Macquarie River. The area had been under military guard since 1812 to protect travellers and local settlers from attacks from bushrangers. With time, more settlers moved into town and more facilities and improvements were needed. So, a convict work gang was established to labour on the construction of public buildings, including the Ross Bridge. After the building work was completed in Ross the convict work gang of 40 men were moved to other areas for work, and the building where they lived was converted into the Female House of Correction and Hiring Depot . This new institution was designed to perform three main functions. As a “lying-in hospital” for pregnant convicts, with a nursery for newborn infants; as a “house of correction” for convicts on probation and for convicts who had committed offences while in the colony; as a “hiring depot”. Convict women would be hired out to landowners in the Ross and Campbell Town area for domestic service. The Ross Female Factory operated only or seven years, from March 1848 until the last convicts left in January 1855. More information here: Commonly called ”Female Factories”, the correct title for such establishments for female convicts was “House of Correction” as the name implies these establishments were a means of improving the habits of women. The methods used to reform convicted women changed over time. Prior to 1820, flogging and the iron collar had been used as punishment, but were replaced by solitary confinement and classification. Women were separated into three classifications, crime, second class and assignment class. This class system allowed the authorities to keep more hardened criminals separate from the minor offenders, and those awaiting assignment. Crime class women worked at the washtub or a similar hard labor; second class women worked at the lighter tasks of spinning, weaving or sewing; whilst the assignment class was charged with cooking and cleaning and were available for assignments to settlers in the surrounding area. After a female convict had served her six months probation period in crime class, she was made a pass-holder, meaning that she could leave the factory to work within the community, usually as a servant in one form or another. Farm servants, housemates, kitchen mates, nursemaids, or laundresses. Women who were not assigned, remained working in the factory. When a woman had served about 2/3 of her sentence and had not committed any more offences, she was eligible for a ticket of leave, which gave her greater freedom of employment. If a woman with a ticket of leave continued on the path of good behaviour, she could apply for a conditional pardon, which would remove the restrictions of her movement throughout the colony. This could be followed by an absolute pardon which was the final stage before a woman regained her freedom. The Ross Female Factory was designed to cater for up to 25 inmates. The first women arrived at the station in March 1848. Most of the female convicts at Ross were in the late teens or early 20s. The common reason for the transportation from England to Van Diemen's Land was stealing. Many prisoners were transported for a first or second offence and it was quite common for an offender to receive a seven year sentence for petty theft, such as stealing a handful of potatoes or onions at the time of the great hunger in Ireland and very poor living conditions in England. Female convicts with families were forced in all but few cases to leave their children in England, with relatives or in the hands of charitable institutions. Once transported to the penal colonies, very few convicts ever saw the native land again. Many female convicts were either pregnant while committing their crime and came over whilst pregnant, others became pregnant in the colony. Some may have been forced into sex, others volunteered sexual favours for protection. Getting pregnant while in the female factory was considered a crime punished by extension of their time in prison. The Ross Female Factory was similar to that in Brixton, London at that time. There were up to 40 children in the nurseries at the Ross Female Factory at any one time. The children spent day and night in the same room with only the nurses for company. After weaning,  there was little contact between mothers and babies. The mother had to serve a six months sentence in the crime class section as punishment for the immoral act of becoming pregnant out of wedlock. Despite poor living conditions, only 62 children died in the six years that the factory was operational. Of the 62 deaths recorded between 1848 and 1854, many were attributed to diseases of malnutrition or poor diet. 15 cases were ascribed to diarrhoea, of which six cases occurred during a four week period in 1852. Severe malnutrition, and feebleness were also common causes of infant death, as were congenital syphilis, catarrh, and lung related disease. However, the loss of a child due to these diseases was not only suffered by the convict women at these stations as staff of the factory also lost children. Source: Summary of information displayed at the Ross Female Factory exhibition and publications by the Female Factories Research Centre in Hobart. Little is left of the Ross Female Factory except for the recently renovated house that was used by the overseers and their families. The house now hosts an exhibition to tell the story of the female convicts. Ross was not the only place were female convicts were held in prison. Female factories were also in Launceston, Hobart and other places around the country. The Female Convict Research Centre in Hobart has also painstakingly researched the female convicts’ history and collected testimonies and evidence from descendants of some of these women to provide an insight into their life as convicts in the female factories in Van Diemen’s Land. Before coming to Tasmania, I became aware of their publications. For more information contact https://femaleconvicts.org.au 16th January 2025 The next day we visited the Tamar Valley, the beautiful area along the river Tamar, best known for their many vineyards growing wine that thrives in a cool climate. As we were overwhelmed with the amount of information on things to do in this area, we consulted a visitor centre in Exeter. We were very lucky as we meet a lovely older lady that enthusiastically recommended us some highlights to visit in the area. We diligently followed her advice and were not disappointed. First we visited one of the many vineyards that offer wine tasting, or as they call it “they open their cellar” which she recommended as it was very close to the Highway and on our way. (She did not tell us that her daughter was working there - also a very nice young lady). We strolled around the vineyard and admired their sun flooded terrace with a view over their vineyards. As it was mid morning and we were travelling in our camper, we declined their wine tasting offer and moved on to other places called Beaconsfield and George Town to explore more of Tasmanian’s history there. Here are a few of Dave’s observations of these places. Beaconsfield is a former gold mining town in the Tamar Valley. In March 1879 the governor of the town renamed it Beaconsfield, after the British prime minister Benjamin Disraeli, Earl of Beaconsfield. Before then, the town was known as Brandy Creek and was probably deemed an unsuitable name because it suggested intemperance. It became Tasmania's richest settlement when gold fever took hold in 1887. In 2006 the town made headlines when the mine collapsed and two miners were trapped underground. Of the 17 people who were in the mine at the time, 14 escaped immediately following the collapse. One miner, Larry Knight, was killed while the remaining two, Brant Webb and Todd Russell were found alive on the sixth day by miners Pat Ball and Steve Saltmarsh. Webb and Russell were rescued on the 9th of May 2006, two weeks after being trapped nearly one kilometre below the surface. A model of the working conditions in the mine displayed at the Beaconsfield Mine and Heritage Centre The mine closed many years ago, and beside it is now the Beaconsfield Mine And Heritage Centre.  The centre is a collection of experiences that allow you to enjoy and appreciate the history of the town and the Tamar Valley. It’s a place where you can lose yourself in history, play with treasures from the past, be entertained by interactive displays and live a different story around every corner, with buttons to press, levers to pull and tunnels to crawl through.There’s also a fascinating exhibition devoted to the rescue of the two miners. We had a good natter to Tony, originally from Birmingham, with his fantastic bushy silvery beard, who worked there as a volunteer. Tony from Birmingham works at volunteer at the Beaconsfield Mine and Heritage Centre We spent almost two hours wandering around the museum and the mine itself. The museum was such an interesting place and was also a treasure trove of memorabilia from yesteryear. In the background we could here songs sung by George Formby and Vera Lynn to accompany this particular period of history of the museum. The cost of entry to this most interesting museum? 15 AUD, including oldsters discount. Bass and Flinders Maritime Museum  is situated in Georg Town, on the eastern side of the Tamar River. The entry fee was a discounted 10AUD. We were the only people in this small maritime museum. One of the two assistants must’ve taken a shine to us, because she gave us a guided tour and in particular around the replica ‘Norfolk’, which proudly takes pride of place in the museum. This is a replica of the original Norfolk which took years of dedication and donations to build. On the 200 year anniversary, in 1998, a group of dedicated sailors, movers and shakers re-enacted the voyage that Bass and Flinders undertook in 1798 in this very sloop, which defined Van Diemen’s Land as an island separate from mainland Australia. The inside of the Norfolk is so small and seemed to be all sharp edges and corners. I can only imagine how it must’ve felt like to have been inside during stormy weather. How could such a small boat survive the roaring 40s of the Northwest Corner? No wonder they needed surgeons on such voyages! A replica of the Norfolk Fraternising with the Crew Who were Bass and Flinders? George Bass was born in 1771 in Aswarby, Lincolnshire, England. He graduated as a surgeon at the age of 18 years (after a two year apprenticeship) and joined the navy. Matthew Flinders was born in 1774 in Donington, Lincolnshire, England. He served as a midshipman in HMS Providence with William Bligh, (best known for the Mutiny of HMS Bounty in 1789, when the ship was under his command). Flinders and Bass will always be remembered as the first circumnavigators of Tasmania, then known as Van Damien’s Land, proving the existence of the strait and, as a consequence, that Van Damien’s Land was indeed an island, separate from what is now known as Australia. Flinders himself was one of the greatest maritime explorers the world has ever known, particularly as he was not yet 30 years of age. The stretch of water between Australia and Tasmania was named after George Bass, after he and Matthew Flinders sailed across it while circumnavigating Van Diemen’s Land, now named Tasmania, in the 25 ton sloop ‘Norfolk’ in 1798-99. At Flinders recommendation, the governor of New South Wales, John Hunter, in 1800 named the stretch of water between the mainland and Van Diemen’s Land, Bass’s Straits. In 1798 it became known as Bass Strait. Bass Highway is also named after him. ———— After our dip into Tasmania’s history, we returned happily to our campsite where we sat on our riverside bench drinking cold beer in the sinking sun with ducks as companions, the only wildlife on offer on this campsite. 3.3. The North and North-West Coast Friday, 10th January 2025: Our next destination is Stanley, from there we want to explore the North and North-West area. Glad to be on the road again! Whilst we have started our journey by flying into Hobart in the south of Tasmania from Melbourne, many people start from Devonport in the north, having crossed Bass Strait on the ferry boat Spirit of Tasmania from mainland Australia. We bypassed Devonport and drove along the coastal Bass Highway, stocking up at a Woolworth supermarket in Burnie, a port town overlooking the Bass Strait. Then we continued to Stanley, where we had booked our next campsite, the Stanley Caravan Park. We are booked in for 4 nights  as there is much to see and explore in the area. The first thing we noted was that it was very windy. I refused to come out of the camper because the cold wind was so strong. In the afternoon, however, the wind calmed down and we went for a walk to explore. The campsite is located directly on the beach, so we strolled along it, visited the local lobster shop/restaurant to see what they had on offer and at what prices. Then we walked up the hill into town. Like many places in Tasmania, the North and North-West have an impressive history, which is worthwhile researching. More about that later. Stanley is the original headquarters of the famous Van Diemen’s Land Company. It retained its historic village atmosphere with its magnificent Georgian and Victorian cottages and beautiful long beaches. Stanley boasts the world’s freshest air and the cleanest water. It is settled beside, what the local people call, the Nut, a big volcanic flat-topped mountain, which is almost surrounded by sea and rises 152 metres from Bass Strait. We walked passed Stanley’s many well preserved colourful cottages. For example, Lyons Cottage, a colonial-style house, built in the mid 19th century as accommodation for the Darwin Cable Company management staff and their families. The cottage was the birthplace and childhood home of Joseph Lyons, a former premier of Tasmania (1923-1928) and Tasmania’s first prime minister of Australia (1932-1939), who became one of Australia’s most popular prime ministers. We were walking on hallowed ground. Lyons Cottage, birthplace of Joseph Lyons, Former Premier of Tasmania Afterwards, we admired some of the lovely cafes, pubs, the post office and several shops before it was time to go back to the campsite. Enjoying the beautiful houses in Stanley We just managed to finish our dinner, when the wind sprung up once again and continued all night. I woke up at 1am because something was intermittently knocking against the camper van. I tried to figure out where the noise came from. Dave was asleep and I did not want to disturb him. I tried to sleep but with the banging noise there was no chance. Finally, at 3am Dave also woke, wondering what that noise was. He then climbed out of the van to check but could not find anything loose. We went back and, depending on the wind direction, the banging noise continued. Perhaps it was the air conditioning unit on the roof? But how should we get up there in a howling gale the middle of the night without a ladder? Dave hung his head out of the van to watch and listen. Then he noticed that the cover above the plug where the electricity cable was connected was flapping in the wind. We could not disconnect the electricity cable, so what else could we do to fix this? Armed with some tea towels and plastic bags and string Dave went out again into the storm to try to fix it. It worked. We could get back to sleep. But now, in addition to the howling wind, we also heard the local wildlife, like wombats, barking. Finally, we both fell into a deep sleep. Saturday, 11th January 2025 The next morning was a household day. Making use of the campsite’s facilities, we washed and tried our clothes. At the washroom we had a chat with our neighbour, Gail. She was from Victoria and when she retired she bought a camper van and since then travels and continues to travel around Australia, mostly on her own, but sometimes one of her grown-up daughters joins her for a few days or a week. One of them has just visited her but went back yesterday to Melbourne as she had to go back to work. That’s why Gail was washing a few duvet covers. She is a feisty lady, down to earth and not easily scared by anything. I bet that’s the attitude you need when travelling on your own through the Australian outback with a camper van. After our chat and whilst the washing was drying we wrote our diaries in our camper and had lunch - inside as the wind continued to howl. In the afternoon, we walked out of town to visit Highfield House. This is an estate that had been built at the early 1800 for the manager and his family. Also on the estate was the barracks for the convicts.  The house had been lovingly renovated and had great views over the bay, the Nut and of Stanley itself. Nowadays, it is a museum shedding light onto the dark history of the life’s of convicts and the indigenous people of this area. Of the convicts’ barracks only a few ruins remain. After a long steep 45 minutes uphill walk, we arrived at the estate, but were told that the house was closed today as they were hosting a wedding. What a shame, we had walked all that way for nothing. Hopefully, we can find time to come back again. We walked around the area to get a glimpse of the barracks, but were put off by the many flies that appeared from nowhere. Our rucksacks were full with hundreds of flies. In panic, I noticed that about 40 of them had descended on my wounded knee. Disgusted I waved them away. Nasty flies everywhere Dave tried to make a picture of a very old tree and tried to pull away a bush that was in the way of his intended intended. Suddenly, he shouted out and kept up. He had not noticed the electric fence that prevents people from entering the estate and the sheep from escaping. He got an electric shock and won’t be doing that again. Beautiful ancient tree We watched the happy wedding couple being photographed with a stunning backdrop of the bay and the Nut, and then we made our way back to the campground. We enjoyed a refreshing beer sitting at our table in the sunshine, guarded from the wind by a tall hedge. The plan was to prepare our meal early and continue writing up our diaries in the camper afterwards. However, Gail, our neighbour, joined us with a big glass of Scotch in her hand. We started chatting. Two hours later, and rather cold, we hurried inside the van, quickly prepared our dinner. Then it was time to go for a walk along the beach promenade just after sunset, to get a glimpse of the little penguins, that we were told clamber up the rocks out of the sea and strut along the beach promenade at dusk. The night before we missed them. This evening we were determined to wait until we finally saw them. A little later we saw two little penguins, about 30cm tall, waddling along, not disturbed in the least by people watching them. Unfortunately, it was dark and they were difficult to photograph. Yet we managed to get a few pictures of the little fellows. After a long wait a little penguin poses for Dave Sunday, 12th January 2025 Today we wanted to do the famous Tarkine Drive into the Wilderness of the Northwest of Tasmania. But before we got started, I noticed that I could not close one of the drawers were the pots and pans are kept. Without them safely stored away, we could not move the camper. Dave’s screwdriver toolkit came into action and he took out all the three drawers and fixed the loosened screws, then put the drawers back again. Problem fixed. That’s the problem with rented vans. Those renting them don’t care, neither do those who are suppose to maintain them. If it was ours, we (Dave) would have kept it spotless and well maintained. After the camper was ready to do, we drove the short distance to Smithton, where the Tarkine Drive starts. It is a drive through the dramatic and breathtaking wilderness of Tasmania’s Tarkine region, the greatest expanse of cool temperate rainforest in Australia and the second largest in the world. The tourist information promised us that “we would experience unique fauna and flora, globally significant rainforests, wild river landscapes and dramatic coastlines. This scenic drive is full of walks, lookouts, sites and picnic spots for you to explore.” Some people spend a few days and stay in remote campsites, others do day trips to different areas, or, like we, do the run in one day, which will take about 4-6 hours. The tourist map we were given showed 22 sites worth exploring and we looked forward to this. Yet soon we become aware of the short-comings of travelling with a camper van in Tasmania. Most of the sites are off road and remote and can only be reached via an unpaved road for which a 4x4 vehicle is needed. Here is the difference between tourists from other parts of the world and Tasmanians. Tasmanians, and many Australians too, prefer the big 4x4 pickup trucks with twin-axled caravans in tow, rather then the lower ground clearance of camper vans like ours. And, as we could see clearly, that’s what you need if you want to explore such interesting remote areas. Okay, we have to make do with what we’ve got and could only visit the more easily accessible sites, such as the Julius River picnic place, where we stopped and went for a lovely walk into the rainforest alongside a stream. Walk along the Julius River into the rainforest We enjoyed driving along the road, admiring the huge trees and the stunning rainforest landscape as we passed by. There were very few vehicles on the road and hardly any wildlife to see, apart from a large kangaroo that jumped in front of our van into the road. Luckily, Dave reacted quickly and we did not hit it. To add to our frustration, we couldn’t even make it to the Edge of the World, which is the most western part of Tasmania with its supposedly exhilarating views of the Western Tarkine coastline, as it was not accessible to our van with its low ground clearance. Never mind, a short distance later we managed to drive along a road that lead to some private houses and enjoyed the view from there. It is stunning, but not really beautiful, as the sea is very rough in this part of the world because of the constant heavy wind and storms. The beach and the rocks were rugged and littered with huge logs and other debris. Obviously, there must have been a storm at sea, no doubt as a result of the famous roaring 40s. (See Dave’s text below). The Tarkine Drive ends at Marrawah and we overcame our misgivings of not having seen more of this stunning wilderness, sat on the veranda of the Marrawah Inn drinking the best cappuccino and English breakfast tea that we had had for a long time. The Marrawah Inn - the best capuchino Apart from that one kangaroo and the occasional roadkill, we had not seen any wildlife, although many signs on the road remind drivers to be aware of the Tasmanian Devils that spring out of the forest onto the road between dusk and dawn. On the way back we went into Woolworths in Smithtons to buy some lemons for our tasty fish dinner tonight. A woman heard me complaining to Dave about the high prices of the little lemons on offer. She agreed and offered to give us a few lemons from her lemon tree in her garden. Perplexed I agreed and she gave me her home address, which was not very far from the supermarket. After we finished our shopping, we passed by and there she was waiting for us with four lovely fresh lemons straight from her tree. We thanked her, wished her and her husband well and drove off. When we returned to our campsite, Gail was gone and instead we were surrounded by three new neighbours with huge 4x4 pickup trucks and tall caravans. They took over the place we felt we had no space at all in our little van. Luckily, we had the better view of the beach. Our new neighbours were from Victoria and Melbourne and presumably had come over on the Spirit of Tasmania ferry. I shudder to think what that might have cost them. Monday 13th January 2025: This day we went up to the Nut, a big volcanic mountain with a history. The Nut’s story is that over 13 million years ago, lava shot through the Earths’s surface, cooled and formed basalt. It had been given several names over time, but the name The Nut has stuck. The Nut - a volcánic flat-topped mountain One can take the chairlift or climb up the steep hill. Once on the top, a windswept plateau of hardy shrubs, there is a circular walk of 2.5km with lookouts and stunning views of 360 degrees of Stanley, the neighbouring area and the surrounding ocean. It was worthwhile getting up to the top. We walked around enjoying the views and searching for wildlife. A few wombats appeared shortly, but hid away in the dark shades of the bushes. Great views from one of the many Nut lookouts There are also signs informing that short tailed shearwater birds migrate to the Nut each year and breed a single chick in the burrows that are all around us. After laying her egg, the mum spends two weeks feeding at sea while dad incubates the egg. When she returns they take turns to incubate for a total of 53 days. The chick hatches around the third week of January. Both parents fish during the day and return at night to feed their chick by regurgitation. The chick gets big and fat and after a few weeks the parents leave and the chick has to fight for survival by itself. Now it has to learn to fly and by doing so, uses up half of its body fat; once it can fly it has to learn how to hunt for food. Learning by doing, interesting parenting concept. Afterwards, we drove to Woolnorth, the most north-western part of Tarkine, a very remote area, known for its windy and grim climate and the history of the Aborigines. Because of the wind they are now many wind turbines on Cape Grim making full use of the roaring 40s. We came as far as Woolnorth, then the rough road was unsuitable for our camper to continue. We then wanted to enquire about tours in the area at the Woolnorth visitor centre, but were informed that they only offer one tour per day and that’s in the morning, and that had passed already. Unfortunately, today was our last day. Even so, we used the opportunity to learn more about the history of this area in their remote unmanned information centre. Aspects of Tasmania’s rich history: Beside its beautiful and impressive landscape, Tasmania also has an interesting, often dark, history, with regards to colonialism, the treatment of the indigenous people and the use of convict labour to help build the infrastructure of the infant country. Everywhere in the country one is being made aware of its history. We try to collect and include some information in our blog, but our time, space and knowledge is limited. In the rough and windy North-West at Woolnorth and Cape Grim, we came across some information on the roaring wind and its effect on the landscape and its people, whose content is summarised below. The roaring 40s wind that hits the hilly coast line at Woolnorth: Constant westerly winds sweep around the earth's high southerly latitudes. Sometimes they whisper - more often they roar. Since the days of tall masted square-riggers, sailors have called these winds the roaring 40’s. The hilly coastline of Woolnorth in northern Tasmania is the first land the winds have touched since they whistled past the crags of Cape Horn, in southern Chile, 20,000 km away. Once, their restless energy, filled white sails and drove the great grain ships western. Today these wonderful winds spin the slender turbine blades of Hydro Tasmania’s Woolnorth wind farm. In 1642 the Dutch explorer, Abel Tasman, claimed the land for the Netherlands (he never set foot on the island) and named the land ‘Van Diemen’s Land’ after the governor of the Dutch East Indies, Anthony van Diemen.The island was part of the colony of New South Wales from 1803, but became a separate colony in 1825. In 1824 eleven influential English bankers, politicians and businessmen formed the Van Diemen’s Land Company, aiming to benefit from government land grants and the ready availability of labour, by establishing a fine wool industry in Britain's far-flung colony. In 1825, King George IV, granted the newly formed company 25,000 acres of land (later extended to 350,000 acres) under a Royal Charter that has survived to this present day. Seeing the opportunity to open up and settle new regions, Governor George Arthur insisted that the VDL Company select land ‘beyond the ramparts of the unknown’ in the far northwest.They selected 20,000 acres at Circular Head and another 100,000 acres at Woolnorth on the far northwestern tip of the island. It was still not enough for the large flocks of fine wool sheep they planned to establish. Time was running out. The first shipload of indentured servants and livestock were already on the high seas, and the decision had to be made. With no other choice available, Circular Head (now called the Nut) was picked as the site of the VDL Co’s first settlement. The sheep sent to graze at Hampshire Hills and Surrey Hills found only poor quality native grass lands. Bitter cold and predatory thylacines, Tasmanian tigers, were common in this area during the second half of the 19th century and the early 1900s and they attacked the sheep. Woolnorth employed a full time trapper to eradicate them. Of the 5500 sheep taken there, only a few hundred survived. It was a financial disaster for VDL Co.  One interesting fact from those bygone days. Van Diemen’s Land didn’t have gorse bushes. Modern day Tasmanian has Gorse bushed in abundance. Why - because the sheep they brought over from England had gorse seeds in their woollen coats. The British Government transported about 76,000 convicts to Van Diemen’s Land between 1804 and 1853. The island was a penal colony for English convicts and the name came to evoke the brutality of convict transportation and ethnic conflict with the Aboriginal people. Later, the name was changed to Tasmania, to shake off the association with its dark history. Source: Information at Visitor Centre Woolnorth. After an informative day we enjoy the sunset over Sawyer Bay Tuesday, 14 January 2025 Our days in Stanley were over and we were heading to our next stop in the midlands, the area of Launceston. Still, before we left the North-West behind, we visited the Highfield Estate one more time to get some more information on the history of what was then known as Van Diemen’s Land. Highfield House was very influential in the development of the area, the use of convicts to establish the Estate and the treatment of Aboriginal people. More details below. Highfield House with stunning views of the Nut with an intriging story The Story of Highfield The story of Highfield is one of colonial expansion, commercial opportunism and cultural arrogance. It is also about extraordinary human endeavour and courage in the face of the unknown. Highfield was established in 1827 as the headquarters of the Van Diemen’s Land Company (VDL) and became a government house in this part of the colony. The company was established in Britain as a financial venture into fine wool production, which had become a lucrative business in the colony. Hopeful of receiving a large fertile land grant near Port Sorrel, the company was optimistic. However, by the time their agents arrived in the colony, the growing settlement had taken up the easily available land and only land much further west was all that was on offer. Early expeditions had found little to praise in the windy and rough far North-West. Edward Curr is the central character of the Highfield story. In 1826, at 27 years of age, he was made the Chief Agent for the Company and Magistrate of the North-West, which gave him a lot of power. He was called the Potentate of the North because the Company’s extensive holdings were perceived as a powerful and privileged colony within a colony. Expectations and views of the country In the following years, the Van Diemen’s Company employed many settlers that came out here for a number of years as contractors to help establish the Colony, earn a lot of money and gain prestige. Many of them were bitterly disappointed upon arrival. Instead of comfortable houses as they had been used to in England, here they had to live in tents, wooden huts amongst the surrounding mountains. Some were sent to a less cultivated settlement and all were displeased. Even more so, when they found out they were not paid in English currency. The country was dismissed as ugly by many of the early settlers, and the forests were considered as gloomy, monotonous, and melancholy. The Convicts The convicts were essential to the success of the company. Many of the convicts were highly skilled builders and were responsible for the construction of Highfield and its surrounding buildings. Irrespective of their skills, the convicts were not paid for their labours, but worked under a system that was basically slavery. Curr praised the work of his convicts. However, he has also been accused by some historians of being brutal. Curr employed a flogger and the flogging raid under his authority was double that of the rest of the Colony. Curr was described as a man who controlled his convicts and indentured servants with an iron hand, authorising twice as much punishment as anyone else in the colony at the time. Most recently, some historians have argued that his near absolute power enabled him to turn a blind eye or possibly even sanction violence towards the Tasmanian Aboriginal people. Some even accuse him of genocide. The convict barracks were built in 1834 and housed 40 convicts, who helped to build Highfield Estate. This number rose to 80 before convict transportation ceased in 1853. The Tasmanian Aborigines The Tasmanian Aboriginal  people, the indigenous people of Tasmania, have preserved the culture of a millennia through storytelling. What is known has been handed down for generations through stories, myths and memories. It has also been pieced together from the observations in the journals and diaries of European explorers, visitors and settlers, and in the official recordings of the colonial authorities. For tens of thousands of years, this once heavily wooded terrain with its abundance of food, had been home to aboriginal people. Less than 10 years before Highfield House was built, few white people had set foot on this land. In the 19th Century, the far Northwest became a haven for aborigines who had been pushed out of the settled area. However, between 1824 and 1831, the aboriginal population was all but destroyed. Some say they died mostly from disease, others believe that many had been murdered in what had become known as the black war. Of the thousands that were estimated to be living on the island when white men arrived, only 200 were exiled to the islands in Bass Strait by the colonial government in 1834. Some historians believe that Edward Curr and the men under his authority played a significant role in the Aboriginal demise. Source: Exhibition Highfield House We found much more interesting information at the exhibition in Highfield House which, of course, we cannot include in our blog. They include the life stories of convicts and aboriginal people working here as well as comments and tales by visitors to the house. All carefully written up in ledgers to preserve the rich history of the early development of this part of Van Diemen’s Land. 3.2. Gowrie Park and Cradle Mountains Dave’s Part : 07 January 2025 Another 5C night and it is freezing cold in our camper van. Even beneath our own duvets. In the morning at 06:30 I switch on our heating. We write our diaries while drinking cups of tea and coffee and just after 08:00 go for a shower in the communal block. We have to leave the site by 10:00. We say good bye to our nosy neighbours, unplug and drive off. Our next site is Gowrie Park Caravan. On the way we stop at Woolworths to get more corn on the cob husks, chicken breasts and a writing pad for Lisa. We stop in Sheffield and have a walk about. Nice town. We meet a man walking his Lama on the Main Street. We drive to Gowrie Park. It is a small site but has all the facilities including WiFi. Mole Creek was nearby, where Trowunna Wildlife Park is situated. It’s (allegedly) the worlds largest and longest running Tasmanian Devil breeding programme. It closed at 17:00, so we decided to drive there. We arrived at 16:00, which gave us an hour inside. Quoting from their website.   Trowunna is a privately owned wildlife sanctuary where native Tasmanian fauna and flora thrive. Trowunna started caring for Tasmania’s native animals in 1979 and it continues to be at the forefront of conservation and education in the state. The Sanctuary is currently involved in five separate conservation breeding programs that will ensure the survival of these threatened and endangered species. The Sanctuary has 70 acres of natural habitat to wander around and enjoy with free ranging Kangaroos and waterfowl to hand feed along the way. We have wildlife interactions to suit everyone! Our free, daily interactive tours are family friendly and are included in the price of your entry fee. If something more in-depth is your thing, then maybe our 1-2 hour VIP tours or a 4-hour Trowunna experience would be more suitable. Trowunna has been at the heart of Tasmanian wildlife conservation and education since 1979. The Sanctuary was instrumental in the establishment of the Save The Devil program and the training of keepers from around the world necessary for the devils care. We were very impressed by our visit, and the people we met, who looked after the animals, were 100% dedicated to the welfare of these animals. Two Tasmanian Devils faced each other off, their faces close. They opened their mouths wide, displaying huge fangs and then gave the most blood-curdling screams. We thought they were fighting, but the keepers said the were merely talking to each other. If that was the case, then I’d hate to be close-by when the fought! I was most impressed too by the kangaroos. One in particular posed for me, together with her baby in her pouch, who I swear popped it’s head out and gave me smile too! Yesss!!!! Tasmanian Devil Kangaroo mum with baby We drove back and had a cold beer outside and later dined on our delicious Fajitas sitting outside at our table in the sunshine, looking up at the surrounding peaks. We enjoyed a bottle of wine and then went to bed. 08 January 2025 Another chilly night and we breakfasted in the campervan. We drove to Cradle mountain information centre info park. The road was very hilly and twisty and it took us 45 minutes. We paid our entrance fee of 35 AUD each, no discount for oldsters. However, the passes are valid for 72 hours. We took the 20 minute shuttle bus ride to the end and got off at Dove Lake. Cradle Mountain-Lake Saint Clair National Park is a rugged 1262 square-km area of mountains, river gorges, lakes, tarns and wild alpine moorland and are part of the World Heritage-listed Tasmanian Wilderness. You're in an alpine region here, where weather can change rapidly. Within an hour you can experience burning sun, high winds, heavy rain and snow, so you must wear appropriate clothing. We had gusty winds and it was very hot, so we carried extra water and a waterproofs in our rucksacks, just in case and of course Factor 50+ suncream. We took the popular three-hour Dove Lake circuit, as did many others. This undulating 6.5km track wove its way through rainforests, small lakeside beaches and all beneath the towering peaks of Cradle Mountain itself. Cradle Mountain Visitors are well catered in this well organised park and many of the shorter trails are covered with all-weather boardwalks that course through the landscape. There’s also a convenient hop-on hop-off shuttle bus service to take you around the various parts, Ranger Station, Snake Hill, Ronny Creek and Dove Lake and is the easiest way to explore the best of the parks shorter walks. For the more adventurous, there are several longer walks, something like eight or nine hours and are more suited to Alpine walkers and there are many mountain refuges for those who wish to spent the night in the mountains. Dove Lake with Cradle Mountain Tasmanian Aborigines were in this area 35,000 years ago, but there are few signs of their indigenous heritage. There’s an abundance of wildlife in the mountains. The endangered Tasmanian Devil, spotted tailed quoll. Wombats are everyone’s favourites and we saw several around Ronny Creek. They’re gentle creatures, unlike the scary Tasmanian Devils. Afterwards we took the bus back to the Visitors Centre, walked to our camper van in the car park and then another 45-minute drive home along the steep twisty mountain roads. Twisty roads towards Cradle Mountain We worked on our photos, diary and blog, before having a well deserved cold beer and later cooking dinner, the other half of our fajitas and tortillas, but before our sumptuous meal, we had our first course: micro-waved corn on the cob husk. We switch on the heater as it is going to be another cold night. My knee was sore after the walk. 09 January 2025 Problems uploading photos from iPhones to iPad. The same problems uploading text and photos onto the blog. It’s a late start because of the technical problems and then we need to drive to Sheffield to buy a new kettle as the old one kept blowing the main fuse. We contacted Apollo road support department about the kettle and they said we can spend up to 20 AUD for buying a new kettle. In the whole of the town of Sheffield they only have one kettle, and that cost us 26 AUD. We can discuss these 6 AUD with the help desk later. From Sheffield we drove directed to Cradle Mountain because, as I said before our passes are valid for 72 hours. This time we took a shorter 2 hours walk, which took us a lot longer because we were constantly stopping to take photographs.  Lisa fell and landed in wombat shit. An hour later she fell again and gushed her knee. Not her day. We got back to Gowrie Park at 19:30. Lisa showered and then we fixed her knee and then we cooked mainly vegetable for dinner from the Aussies who gave us what they had left over as they were going back to Sidney in the evening. First they had to drop off the camper van in Launceston and from there it was only a 1 1/2 hours flight. For them this was classed a long weekend. The evening was calm and warm and pleasant and we sat outside at our table drinking a bottle of wine, watching the setting sun, which is 21:45. We went back into the van, watched a few music videos, and went to bed, again with the heater on. The next day we moved on. Our next campsite was Stanley. ———- Lisa’s part: 7th January 2025: Our next site was Gowrie Caravan Park in the Gowrie Park Wilderness Village. It’s only about 1 1/2 hours drive away into the mountains. We had enough time until checking in to the new place, so we took it easy. We stopped in Sheffield, a small town that had nothing in common with the industrial city in the UK of the same name. It is a sleepy town with great charm. Someone must have had a sense for history and community here, so I thought at first, as many of the walls were painted with historic cultural events, such as thanksgiving day for the community, or individual influential citizens, such as the blacksmith, or a policeman who directed a mountain rescue when 21 students were caught in a sudden and terrible blizzard up in the Cradle Mountains in 1971. Then I learnt that since the mid 1980s the town holds an annual mural painting competition that invites all artists to participate and to submit paintings for a given historical theme. From the submissions, nine artists are selected that will come to Sheffield in November for a week to transform their designs onto full-sized murals. Great idea. Wall Painting in Sheffield We strolled through the streets and admired the murals and the old fashioned wooden houses with their verandas and porches. The local shops didn’t stock anything of interest to us, so we drove onwards to the caravan park. Again, the campsite was not aware of our reservation, even so we had booked and fully paid via Camps Australia - and I had proof of it. But, again, it wasn’t a problem. The ever so friendly owner said she would take it up with the Camps Australia agency. They seemed to work on different systems, and communication between the campsites and agencies seemed not to work well. She said, she would discuss this with her fellow park site owners at their next meeting, as it was a problem for all of them. This was a lovely small campsite with a clean kitchen, bathroom and toilet and wifi facilities in the communal area. After we took over and marked our assigned site with our table and chairs, we drove out again to make the best of the afternoon as time was running. We went to the Trowunna Wildlife Park in Mole Creek, about 30 minutes drive away. This wildlife rescue and rehabilitation sanctuary takes on insured or orphaned wild animals and cares for them. We had just missed feeding time at 15:00, but that didn’t matter as usually many curious tourists want to see the animals. Now many of them had moved on and we had the place almost for ourselves. Guided by the friendly guy at reception we went straight to the area of the famous Tasmanian Devils. Some were hiding from the sun in their little huts or behind bushes, others came out playing or even splashing in a little water filled trough that served them for drinking and bathing. Tasmanian Devils look cute, they have little red ears (hence the name Devils). Some of them were fighting and screaming loudly at each other, which seems to be their form of communication and to make a stand. They were difficult to photograph as they didn’t want to pose and constantly moved about. Still, we were able to get a few decent shots. Little Tasmanian Devil We then moved on to the Kangaroos. They are dozy little fellows. They sit in a group and stare at you, with both hands in front of them and hardly move. When they moved, they hopped away with their short front feet and long back legs. Funny looking creatures. One of them had recently had a young one, that was still sitting in her pouch. Sometimes you could see the head hanging out, the next moment a foot or hand. No prams needed here. Hello my name is Dave, and what is yours? We also saw a little wombat; they look a bit like teddy bears. Once he saw us standing there together with a group of Argentinian tourists, he walked away into his little hut and we saw him putting a little blanket over his head. He obviously wanted to be left in peace and was in no mood to pose for tourists. Fair enough. Then, unfortunately, time was up. The sanctuary closed at 17:00. We contemplated coming back another day, but there was so much more to see and to do in this area and we only had 3 days. At the campsite we cooked chicken, added vegetables and some of the frozen corn on the cob and made some fajitas. We had found a fajitas kit in the supermarket. This is a quick way to make a very tasty meal: Fry chicken in a pan, add vegetables, and the spicy tomato sauce provided with the packet, warm up the provided tortillas and wrap the chicken in it. Ready and very yummy. 8th January 2025: The next morning was glorious sunshine and blue sky. We drove to the Cradle Mountains Visitor Centre, the entry to Tasmania’s iconic national park in the heart of the Tasmanian Wilderness World Heritage Area. The Cradle Mountain is Tasmania’s most visited natural attraction, located in the northern part of the Cradle Mountain-Lake St. Clair National Park. From the Visitor Centre, shuttle busses are running every 10 minutes to various parts of the Cradle Mountain area where one can take a range of walks from easy, moderate to difficult, 30 minutes to 6 hours; something for everyone’s abilities and liking. Also, the famous Overland Track starts here. We decided on a 6.5 km circular walk around the Dove Lake with an excellent view of the iconic Cradle Mountain in the background. We hoped Dave’s knee would sustains 3 hours of bush walking without too much of climbing. So far, his knee has held up very well, but we should not overdo it.  Dove Lake on Cradle Mountain The walk leads around a deep blue lake and runs partly on boardwalks, passes by little bays and beaches and lookout points. After about 45 minutes we left the crowds of people behind, who prefer to congregate near the beaches. The area was beautiful with the mountains in the background. We moved along well maintained boardwalks over marshy and boggy grounds. They are covered with chicken wire to prevent slipping in wintery wet and icy conditions. We were impressed and took lots of photos. The weather was perfect, sunshine, blue sky, but a cool wind kept the temperature cool at about 20 degrees. We took our time to enjoy our surroundings, then we headed back via shuttle bus to the visitor centre and then drove back to the campsite. Boardwalk across marshy ad boggy grounds Back at the campsite we tried, again, to upload text and photos onto the blog, but this was a difficult and lengthy process. Because of the bad wifi signal, uploading one photo took about 15 minutes and lots of patience. In between the website frequently froze and I needed to wait again… Once again I noticed how spoilt we have become. We have all the technology at home on our big computers and a fast internet connection. Everything works quickly and efficiently at home, alas, not here. We continued the next morning and managed to upload and finalise our latest blog entry. 9th January 2025: Then we went back to the Cradle Mountains, as our tickets were valid for 72 hours. Today Dave’s knee was playing up and we wanted to take it easy. We decided on an easy two hour walk from Dove Lake via Lake Lilla back to the Cradle Mountain Visitor Centre. We were delighted at the beautiful landscape we encountered on this path, with the added bonus of far less people walking here. Of course, it would have been great to ascend to the top of Cradle Mountain to enjoy the view from the top. Although we are quite fit, we decided this 6 hour steep walk was a little too difficult for us, considering our age, Dave’s knee and the fact that we had to come down again. We were better off taking more moderate walks, and indeed we greatly enjoyed them. Enjoying the beautiful scenery Whilst we were walking, I spotted a bus on the horizon, wondering what it was doing in the area, and promptly stumbled over a step on the boardwalk, which I had not seen as I was concentrating on the bus. I tried to hold my balance, but then felt that sinking feeling as I fell backwards into the ditch and landed between the soft bushes, still holding my camera high so that it did not get damaged - never mind my body, that can heal - until Dave came and rescued the camera. I scrambled out of the bushes back onto the boardwalk. I was lucky that I did not land in the wet and soggy part of the marshy ground, but Dave noticed that my backside was covered in Wombat poo. Oh dear. Dave tried to clean it off as best he could and told me to look where I was going. Yes, I did, but there was this bus… Never mind! The camera was okay, that was the main thing. We continued our walk. This time, I had my eyes focussing more on my feet and tried to train myself to stop walking when I saw something interesting in the distance. This is Wombat land, as we could see on the piles of poo on the boardwalk and, as I had so recently experienced, on the marshy ground. We tried to see any of the little wombats, either in the trees or on the ground, but without success. Only towards the end of our walk, we passed a group of people staring down the boardwalk trying to see a little wombat beneath and photograph it. The lovely creature looked like a teddy bear and was not disturbed at all by the people staring at him but stoically continued eating grass. It was most annoying, however, that the people nearest to the wombat, hogged their places and did not make space for others to have a good look as well. What inconsiderate people! Dave jumped down from the boardwalk, which nobody else dared, and got a good photograph of him this way. We moved on. Let me in peace, I am hungry I was still muttering about the selfishness of some people, when someone in front of me shouted that they was a wombat in the field. I looked up, walked towards her, but got my heel caught on the chicken wire, tried to balance but fell on my knees, still holding the camera up to keep it safe. Then I looked at the damage on my knee. The sharp chicken wire had gashed my right knee. There was blood running down my leg. What a fool I had been, once again. At least the camera was okay. The knee would heal. Dave washed the dirty wound and the blood off with water from my water bottle. Then I dried it with a tissue and held it tight to stop the blood and limped towards the nearby shuttle bus stop as I saw a bus coming, which took us back to the visitor centre. It looked worse than it was. Back in the van, we cleaned the wound with alcohol wipes and put the biggest plaster on it that we could find in our first aid kit. That’s it. Falling twice on one day. That’s a bit much and avoidable. I felt stupid and I really must be more careful next time. Back at the campsite, I cooked dinner. For some reason, the fridge must have stopped working and all the frozen vegetables which we had bought in Miena, had thawed. So I made a big stew, and although Dave likes eating vegetables, he always likes some kind of meat with it. Luckily, in the supermarket I had found Cabanos sausages and used this to spice up the stew. Very yummy and a very happy Dave. We ate outside, enjoying the evening sunshine and gazing up at the surrounding mountains. One thing with campsites is that you always meet people. We met quite a few, some are reserved and keep themselves to themselves; others are chatty, and quite a few overbearing. If you don’t want to socialise, then you better stay in your camper because people walk passed and start a conversation, sometimes its a short greeting, sometimes it can take hours. On this campsite, while we were breakfasting in the sunshine, a couple from Sydney came over with a box of goodies and asked whether we wanted some of them as they were flying back in the evening. We greatly accepted, as they contained exactly what we needed to stock up anyway, such as, olive oil spray, garlic paste, toilet rolls, bin liners, peanut butter spread, carrots, chocolate peanuts. All much appreciated. They were nice people, about 30 years old and both were teachers. Next to us was a couple from France. She, originally from Niger, now living in Strasbourg with her two grown-up children. He was working in New Caledonia, a small island in the South Pacific off the coast of Eastern Australia. He had a six year contract and was halfway through it. They try to meet twice a year, once in France and once they make holiday somewhere in the South Pacific. We got to know her quite well and chatted about life and politics and put the world to rights. A very nice lady, she invited us to visit her in Strasbourg. He was a nice chap too but rather shy and did not speak good English. On the other side of our camper was a German couple. They rented a campsite BBQ kit (20 AUD), which is a plastic container full of logs with a metal bucket to be used either as BBQ basket or sit around when it got cold. They used it to sit around the burning logs to keep warm and were looking at a screen, Life TV as they laughingly told us. He had a drone and was watching remotely a platypus in a nearby lake on the camera of their drone. Then a beep informed them that the battery was low and the drone automatically returned to the place where it started from. This couple, from Stuttgart, were travelling through Australia for 2 months with a big camper van. They were only in Tasmania for 2 weeks. They were going back to mainland Australia in two days time. The next day we moved on to the North of Tasmania to a small town called Stanley and the remote area of the Northwest. 3.1. On New Year’s Day,  we have arrived safely in Tasmania. We stayed at a travel lodge near the Airports, close by to Apollo where we picked up the Camper van the next morning. Here is an excerpt from Dave’s diary of the following days, Jan 2-5, followed by some impressions of mine. There might be some repetitions, but we don’t have the time to fully sync our writings. Dave: 02 January 2025 We breakfasted at 08:30 and left at 09:00 by hotel taxi to our campervan pick up location within the airport complex. We joined a queue of people waiting to pickup their campervans. When we reached the head of the queue our checkin guy told us they were so busy that there was no time to show us around our vehicle and to download their app as all the information was on the app. Our first camping site is Wayatinah Lakeside Caravan Park. I drive and our first stop is to a supermarket in New Norfolk. No need to refuel as we start off with a full tank. 30 minutes later we’re in parking spot number 17. Dave is happy driving our camper van We spend the rest of the afternoon sorting and placing our gear and shopping inside our campervan. We had thought about getting a bigger campervan, as we thought this one might be a bit too small, but we managed to fit everything inside. Even if we had wanted to upgrade we could only do so after mid January as they were all fully booked out until then. We put our corn-on-the-cob starter in the microwave, delicious and cooked our chicken drumsticks in the frying pan and they were equally delicious. We ate outside at our picnic table and chairs, but as soon as the sun dropped down behind the surrounding trees, it started to get chilly, so we went inside and finished our drinks in the comfort of or campervan. Our first meal cooked in the camper 03 January 2025 We woke at 08:00 and we were feeling cold. What must it be like for those on the site sleeping in tents? The temperature dropped to around 4C last night, thank goodness we asked for a second duvet. I worked out the controls of our air conditioning unit and changed the setting over to heating. We felt warm once again. After breakfasting on bread and beans, we went to explore our campsite to find the places, such as where to empty our toilet and waste water. We were admiring a very expensive looking camper that looks the business, which is owned by the people who own the site. He was standing nearby and told us that in the winter season last year they travelled up to Northern Australia and covered 12,000 kms and spent 4,000 AUD on fuel, about £2,000. No half measures for these Tasmanians! He also pointed out where we could empty our toilet cassette and to run our wastewater hose into the trees in front of our campervan. We needed more water and they don’t sell it on our campsite. When we drove from Hobart we passed signs pointing to a small farm down a dirt track that sold chicken and duck eggs, honey and veggies. We disconnected our power cable to our campervan and drove back there to see what they had on offer, maybe they sold water too. The place looked rather rundown and when we parked up we were  met by the owner, Paul, whose was originally from Dortmund. His wife was somewhere inside one of the many ramshackle buildings dotted around the place. We had a long conversation with him and he showed us his two Scottish cows, goats, four alpacas, plus a new born and his many geese, ducks and chickens. He worked part-time in a nearby animal rescue centre and was a conservationist. He’s well known and people bring him their unwanted, or sick animals as he’ll look after them until they die naturally. He told us he lives off the land, has no contact with the outside world, nor had a TV, computer or smartphone. One afternoon he took his wife for an ice-cream treat. When they entered the shop a boy of about 12 years old was robbing the shop and threatening the owner with a knife. He walked up to the boy, thumped him in the face and took the knife of him. He lifted him off the ground by his throat and told him if he ever caught him doing that again he’d kill him. No messing about with this guy! However, he didn’t have water, but we did buy 12 eggs off of him before we drove back. Lisa made an omelette, and out of the 12 eggs and 6 were bad. I told Lisa to drive back and complain! For dinner we cooked our Fajita’s with the the two remaining chicken drumsticks that we cooked last night and they were delicious. The weather was perfect and we sat outside eating our Fajitas and drinking our tins of Tasmanian beer until the sun dropped behind the trees and when it did we washed up and retired inside our campervan to drink our bottle of wine and catchup on the news. I checked the weather forecast to see the nighttime temperature in Belsize Park. It would be -3C, so I remotely switched on our central heating system for a few hours. Life is good, 04 January 2025 Another 5C overnight temperature last night and this time, instead of sleeping across the width of our campervan, we slept lengthways and that seemed to work better, although the fridge was rather noisy during the night, until I turned the thermostat up a little inside the fridge. Yummy breakfast in the van while outside it is still cold. After breakfast we went for a short walk through the trees beside the lake and got bitten by mosquitoes. We still needed water, so we disconnected the power cable, switched off the gas bottle and drove back to Ouse, the small town where we stopped to buy water on the way here. We took the opportunity to input the addresses of the next few campsites we’d be staying at into our TomTom on the way back and as we drove back clouds appeared. The campers in the pitch next to us said that it would rain tomorrow, as that’s what usually happens after a few warm days. Tomorrow we’re driving off to Quamby Corner in the central highlands, which is a two hour drive away. The campers next to us are 6 families. They know each other for years and meet at this site every year. They’re seated on chairs in a big circle, drinking beer and wine in the grassy area In front of their tents. All their kids are their too and they’re having a karaoke session between cycling around the ground. They invite us over and we sit with them for a while drinking our wine and chewing over the fat and it was surprising to see how many of the men were from England and had married Tasmanian women. Too personal to ask under what circumstances. 05 January 2025 We left our Wayatinah campsite, but before I needed to empty our toilet cassette in their dump station and to drain our dirty water tank. I emptied our waste water tank and then drained the toilet cassette, but had difficulty afterwards sliding it back in. I finally managed it but Lisa complained of the smell and of the millions of flies now in our campervan and toilet/shower unit. When I looked inside the toilet, the slider that closes the toilet after ‘an event’ hadn’t close and that was the problem. All I could do was to take the cassette out, to wash the outside of it and once dry put it inside our toilet/shower unit because we needed to get to our next campsite, Quamby Corner Caravan Park, situated in Quamby Brook in the Golden Valley. We tapped in the address into our TomTom and set off northwards along the A10 and then branch off right onto the B11. For some reason our TomTom told us to turn around when possible. We checked our map and could see there was a road, so we followed our map. We reach the B11 and continue along the A10, as we want to see the famous Derwent Bridge. However, there’s nothing much to see, so we continue to Lake St Clair. There’s a famous Overland Trekking route that starts at Cradle Mountain and takes 5 days and 6 nights to trek down to the end of the trail in Cynthia Bay in Lake St Claire. This is were we make a toilet stop at the visitors/information centre at end of this trail, where I try once again to fix the faulty cassette without success. We continue back the way we’d just driven and turn left onto the B11. After 3 km, the sealed road turns into a gravel road. Ahead I could see a sealed road, so I continued and after a further 3km it was back to the gravel road. When we picked up the campervan we had strict instructions that the campervan must not drive on unsealed roads. However, we could drive for short distances, up to 12 km, on unsealed road in order to  reach a campsite. If we did drive on unsealed roads we’d be uninsured and besides all their campers had a trackers, so they could easily track our journey. We have no alternative but to turn around and drive back. The only other road available to us meant driving south, passing our Wayatinah campsite and continuing all the way down to Hamilton. From there turned left onto the B110 to Bothwell, then left onto the A5 to our Quamby Corner Caravan Park in Quamby Brook, via Miena and the Great Lake. This was a 250 km detour and took almost 3 hours. This was Sunday and there was a store in Miena, where we wanted to buy food and drink for tonight. As we were approaching Miena, the clouds were getting darker. Instead of a  biggish town there were only a few houses dotted on both sides of the road before we turned left and followed the signs to the main store and gas station. We parked up and went into the store expecting a good selection of fresh fruit and veg and we were disappointed, they had none of it, nor did they have a loaf of break or a bottle of water. We come away with a bag of frozen sweetcorn, peas and a two packets of frozen lasagne. They have a selection of tins and a small tin of tuna cost. 4 AUD, about £2 - seems they can charge what they want as there appears to be no competition. What they do have are chips and sausages to take away, which they cooked in the back room and there was a queue waiting to buy them. Nearby was a hotel and bar, so we went to see if they sell alcohol. We entered and here were a couple of people in the bar sitting with their pints watching television. We asked the barman if he sells alcohol to take away. Yes, he’d be happy to sell us a bottle of red wine. What would be the price? Between 65-80 AUD (£32 to £40). No thanks, we’d rather drink our beer. We needed to refuel and as I was refuelling it started to rain, thankfully the gas station was covered. We drove off and shortly after it stoped raining and the clouds gave way to a blue sky. We arrived at Quamby Corner caravan park at 17:30 anxious that we might be too late. The lady, who greeted us in the farm house, couldn’t find our booking, even though we had paid the 50% deposit. No worries there were places and after we paid the final 50% we’re given our plot number. We parked and placed our table and chairs on the grass beside in the warm wonderful sunshine. There’s a big Woolworths supermarket in Deloraine that’s open until 21:00, so we immediately drove there to restock our supplies. It was a 20-minute drive away and when we get there its a very nice a largish tourists town. It has a car park big enough for our van. We bought our supplies, they even had sweetcorn husks too. After that we drove across town to a bottle store and what a great selection they had too and it’s run by a great guy from Bali. We drove back and we prepared dinner, a starter of fresh sweetcorn husks in the microwave followed by and ten tiger prawns with sourdough bread. Lisa’s still feeling shitty and suffering from a heavy cold. I was tired too as I’ve been driving for 7.5 hrs and by 22:00 we’re both fast asleep. A well deserved rest after 3.5 hours of driving Lisa: In order to get used to our Camper van in a relaxed manner, we booked ourselves into a quiet campsite, Wayatinah Caravan Park, on a lovely lake, the Wayatinah Lagoon. I had insisted that we should rent the smallest Camper (5.50m long and 2m wide) as I also wanted to drive it on the narrow and curvy roads of Tasmania. When we saw it at pick up, we got worried, not only if we were able to fit everything in, but also if we were able to get along in such a confined space of 6 square meters of living space inclusive kitchen and toilet, table and seats converted into a bed at night, during the next month without getting on each others throat. Amazing how much space there is in this tiny camper There is room in the smallest hut. It took careful planning to fit everything into the over head luggage and under seat compartments and we were surprised how much space there actually was. One has to be very tidy and immediately put away things and remember where you put it. We also had to learn how to switch on electricity, lock onto water supply, how to pack things and lock all compartments so that not everything would bounced about when driving, how to disconnect everything before driving off etc. It definitely was a steep learning curve. As Dave mentioned, at pickup there was no time for introduction, and we were given an app to download. However, with a very infrequent internet connection in the mountains and none in the remote areas, such an app is more or less useless. Experience is what is asked for. Experienced campers amongst our readers will only laugh at the challenges we are facing. But we are learning fast. Everything is packed away and works. Now its time to relax. Dave writing up his diary. On our last evening in Wayatinah, we were invited to sit with our neighbours around a log fire. They were a group of over 20 people, including lots of children. They were Tasmanians, long-time friends, who for the last 10 years, spent four days over the first weekend in the New Year together camping in Wayatinah. The had great fun together, grilling Marshmallows on the campfire  after dinner and the evening finished with a kind of Karoke for the kids. The next morning they would pack up their tents and go home, as on Monday they had to go back to work. This reminded me of our Regensburger friends, who every year spend a long weekend together in a hut in the Bavarian Mountains having a great time. A few times we were able to join them and had great fun. After three nights, on Sunday, the 5th January, once we had stocked up and learnt the basics, we were ready to go and made our way to the next campsite, the Quamby Corner Caravan Park. This is only a short drive away, 1hour 45 minutes. We had an easy day ahead of us. - So we thought. Before leaving the campsite we thought we better empty the toilet canister, for the first time. We still have to learn how to do that without splattering the stinking brew on to our shoes and socks. We were relieved when the toilet canister slotted in again. Well done, so we thought. Only later, we were wondering about the awful smell in our camper. We investigated and realised that although the compartment was slotted in correctly, the leaver that closed the toilet when slotted in to prevent the smell getting into the van was broken. Dave tried and tried to see whether he could repair it, without success. In the meantime we had a swarm of flies flying around us and inside the van. We had no other option than to take the whole unit out, close it, to prevent the smell getting out, and put it inside the shower unit, out of our way. The emergency phone number of our rental company did not respond, either because it was a Sunday, or as we later found out because with our UK phones we needed to dial the AUS phone code. Anyway, the smell was in check, on the next campsite we had hot showers and toilets available. We were not in a situation of crisis. We continued our drive and wondered why our TomTom navigator constantly wanted to send us back on a different road that would be a much longer way. However, the google map on my smartphone had sent us the shortest way. We decided to believe Google map and continued. We went for a little detour over the Derwent bridge to visit the lovely Lake St. Clair. It is here where the famous Overland Track, a 65 km hike, six nights, five days through beautiful mountain landscape, rainforests and alpine moors, from near the Cradle Mountain ends. We saw quite a few people with big rucksacks who looked pretty exhausted. No one smiled. I wonder why. We had decided to give this walk a miss as we had our camper van. A short rest at the beautiful Lake St. Clair. We then continued our journey. However, after about 10 minutes, our trip went off the good A10 road and we entered B11, which was an unpaved dirt road. We remembered that one of the rules and regulations that we were told at pick up, was, never drive the vehicle on unpaved, unsealed roads, although a maximum of 12 km were allowed to get to a remote campsite. The reason given as, that the weather in Tasmania was so unpredictable that strong rain or snow would make unpaved roads dangerous and unsafe to pass. If we did that, our insurance would be invalid. We were also informed that the van had a tracker. Now we understood what our TomTom had wanted to warn us about. What should be done? I suggested that perhaps it was  only for a few miles and then we would get onto a paved road again. We tried but after 10 minutes of rough road we turned the van around. That was crazy. Why were we not told which roads were unpaved roads? None of the maps distinguished between paved and unpaved roads. Now the only alternative we had, was going back and try the other road A 10, passing our last nights campsite and almost back to where we had picked up our camper van in Hobart and then take the A 5 towards North. This was a detour of more than 3 hours. We were furious. What a waste of our time. But it was our own fault, we should have trusted our TomTom. So we went all the way back and then up joining the A5. Now we got worried whether we soon would run out of diesel as there are very few petrol stations in Tasmania. We found one and stopped for refuelling. There was only a machine and it asked me how many litres of diesel I wanted to purchase. How should I know? We just wanted to fill up. I had no idea how many litres we needed to fill up. If I purchased too few I had to purchase again and again; if I purchased too many we overpaid. We decided we better buy our Diesel at a manned petrol station so that we would be able to get help if needed. We continued and whilst Dave drove I studied our van handbook and found out it had a fuel capacity of 80 litres. That was not bad, that would allow us many more km until we ran out of fuel. We also found out from our clever van, that so far we had driven 360 km and had still diesel for another 440 km in the tank. Okay, no panic. On our way we drove through highland landscape and passed yellow gorse growing along the road, herds of sheep and cows. Dave is reminded of driving in Cornwall in the 70s. We arrived in Miena, which is a small hamlet right in the middle of the Central Plateau. It is here were the guidebooks recommend to get basic supplies as there are not many shops in the area. The place was empty, a few shacks, a hotel and a bar. The general store did not have much of supplies. No bread, no vegetable, no meat or chicken, only frozen goods and a few tins. Dave asked whether they had some fish, as there are many lakes in the area. The woman said, yes, many, but you have to go to the lake and catch them yourself. The shop owners were not allowed to sell fish as all fish in the country belong to the King. At least we were able to fill up with diesel. While I waited for Dave to fill up the car, I had a chat with an elderly lady from Queensland waiting for her french fries. She told me, she (79) was on holiday with her 86 year old sister driving around the Midlands of Tasmania in a rented car and staying in Hotels. They enjoyed the journey very much but travelling was no longer easy as there was so much to learn how to get about, such as using your smart phone for everything. In the meantime, the clouds have turned black, and it had started to rain. The atmosphere was moody. We continued our journey and drove long distances without seeing another car or a house or a village. We passed through dense forest with lots of white dead trees and logs. It looked spooky. Perhaps a fire had destroyed them? The rain stopped and we finally arrived at our destination, the Quamby Corner Caravan Park situated in Quamby Brook in the Golden Valley. After check-in, we hurried off again to get some supplies from Woolworths in Delorraine, a nice little town about 20 minutes drive away. We were relieved to be out of the remote area, amongst friendly people and able to stock up with supplies. Finally, we arrived at the Quamby Corner Caravan Park The next morning, after we enjoyed the hot showers at the campsite and had a lovely breakfast in the sunshine, we called the road assistance team and explained our problem. They sent us to a repair shop in Deloraine to get the toilet problem fixed. We happily drove there, only to find out that the shop was still closed until 13th January because the owner is on holiday. Good for him, bad for us. We phoned again Road Assistance. This time they suggested another repair shop in Devonport, 70 km away, on the coast, but phoned them for us to make sure the shop is open. It was and they expected us. We drove the 70 km, hoping that the journey would all be on paved roads. The mechanic, Jamie. quickly diagnosed the toilet cassette to be broken and sold us a new one for 350 AUD, that is £170. While Dave inserted the cassette, the Jamie brought me the old one to take with me. In panic I looked at him and have nightmares that we have to have this stinky beast in the living room of our camper van for the rest of our Tasmanian journey. I asked the mechanic what I should do with the old cassette, he said nothing but brought a carton, put the cassette into it, and through it in his bin. Problem solved. I was much relieved. The new toilet cassette slotted in but the internal slot which is connected to the leaver on the toilet did not fit. Dave asked Jamie the mechanic to have a look. He only shrugged his shoulders and said there is nothing he could do. For major repairs like that, we needed to bring the van back to Hobart where we had picked it up. Nice. Very helpful. Dave, however, did not give up and inspected closer and found out the leaver needed to be turned around 180 degrees. He did it and it worked. Well done, Dave! We had a fully functioning toilet again. The holiday was saved. At least for now. Who knows what else would come along our way. We took the opportunity that we were on the coast and bought some fresh Tasmanian Gummy fish (a type of shark) and tiger prawns for our dinner tonight and headed back to our campsite for a well deserved cup of tea and rest. We had spent a full day solving our toilet problem. Problem solved. Holiday saved. At present, we don’t have any internet, or only intermittent, and this situation will not improve in the next few weeks. Also, we have not seen any wildlife, apart from lots of roadkill, flies, mosquitos, cows, sheep and a few birds, one of them with blue heads, but they were too quick for us to have a closer look. The Quamby campsite, so we are told by our neighbours, is full of migrant workers. That explains the busy morning activities in the shower room and kitchen. Many, mostly single men, are sleeping in a tent, which is a cheap accommodation, and travel to work where there is need for workforce, mostly seasonal work. That explains the signs we saw when travelling along the road that said: workers wanted. Our neighbours are two friends, Maureen and Jim, who have been on the road for many years. Maureen told me, when she retired at 64, she realised that on her meagre pension as a single woman she would not be able to live and afford the rent. So she bought herself a camper van and started travelling Australia. That was 20 years ago. Now she is 84. She met Jim, along the way. He also has a camper van and from time to time they travel together. Mostly that means, they stay in a campsite for months, sitting all day in front of their vans, relaxing. Jim looks bored and approaches everyone coming new into the camp, like we. They said they are happy here as this area is so beautiful. But when we asked them what they can recommend what we can do and explore in the area, they said they don’t know as they are always in the campsite. I can imagine that must get boring with time. But everyone to themselves. Some long-term campers on the site made their caravans home from home. Quambie Corner to Gowrie Park 7.-9.January 2025 Last night the temperature was down to 7 degrees. It was freezing cold in the van. In the morning we switched the heating on and slowly thawed up. Today we are driving off to Gowrie Park, which is close to the famous and beautiful Cradle Mountain. Gowrie Park is high up in the mountain, I guess it will get even colder at nights. Perhaps it is a good idea to have the heating on during the night? Melbourne 29.12.2024 The flying time to Melbourne is about 9 hours, and Australia is 3 hours in front of Hong Kong. That means we are now 11 hours in front of London, 10 of Munich or Berlin. Unfortunately, the inflight meals left a lot to be desired, the vegetarian version was even worse, so on the return flight I will go back to the standard food, at least that will taste of something other than plastic. Having said that, Dave complained about his rubbery sausage and bacon breakfast. We managed a little sleep despite the surrounding crying babies. We landed at 07:10 and took it easy as we had lots of time to kill until we would check into our hotel. We had applied for e-visas so our passage through passport control was easy. We went to the Skybus desk and booked return tickets into the Southern Cross Skybus terminal. The journey on a double-decker bus was fast and took less than 30 minutes. The check-in time for our hotel was not until 14:00, so at 09:00 we were killing time by sitting in a Movenpick cafe, near the Southern Cross terminal, drinking coffee and tea. I was glad we were inside because even though the sun was shining out of a clear-blue sky, it was chilly in the shade and a cold wind was blowing, so I quickly had to put on my fleece. We thought Australia would be hot in the height of summer. However, even out of the shade we could feel the power of the sun, so the suncream is a must and so is Dave’s hat. We put the time to good use and wrote up our travel blog. Three hours and several cups of tea and coffee later we left and took two trams within the City free Tram zone, to the Ibis Hotel on Thierry Street. Melbourne has an extensive and efficient tram system which in the inner city is free of charge. During the next few days we would often sit in the tram for a free ride around Melbourne to get an overview of the city. It must have been our lucky day as we were allowed to check into our hotel an hour before earlier, and after a bit of chit chat with the receptionist we got an upgrade from a room on the 3rd to one on the 9th floor. The room was pleasant and suited us well as our home for the next three nights. After a short rest we left to explore the nearby famous Queen Victoria Market. Unfortunately, the market was about to close, so we just strode though quickly to get an overview and an impression and promised ourselves to return another day. We hopped on the free city circular tram to explore the city. The tram was full but we did manage to get a seat, although we couldn’t see much. After 15 minutes, however, the tram driver told us that, as it’s Sunday, this tram will terminate at 17:00, in 5 minutes time. We ended up at the Waterfront City Docklands shopping mall, where we went for a mooch about. Most of the shops were full of kiddies toys and catered only for children, which was self evident by the amount of families walking around. We then found an interesting shop with a photo exhibition but the guy was just locking up his photo shop. We had a natter to him about photos and world affairs. He was an interesting guy. He had been working for years in London and when he returned to Australia, he and his partner hosted the famous world press photography exhibition in Melbourne. We then headed back to the city by another tram. We got off at Flinders Street Station and went walkabout into Chinatown to find a restaurant. We found a branch of Tim Ho Wan, the restaurant that was so highly recommended in Hong Kong by the newly wed couple, and went there to eat. It was almost as good but this time we didn’t have one of their expensive bottles of beer. They have a strange custom here. There’s a 10% service charge added to your bill at weekends and an extra 15% added for public holidays. This can get costly. Afterward we headed off back to our hotel and on the way looked out for a supermarket so we could by snacks, beer and wine - and sun creme. We found one but discovered they didn’t sell alcohol. If you want to buy alcohol, you had to go to a bottle shop, which only sells alcohol. This system was explained to us by a very friendly guy who assured us there were plenty of alcohol shops everywhere and they were open all hours. The Australians are very friendly, easy to chat to and we enjoyed their relaxed manner. Nothing seems to be a problem that cannot be solved. We also enjoyed the cosmopolitan culture of Melbourne. We are surprised that so many people from different countries and cultures live here. But of course, Asia is just around the corner. Presumably, many came for work or study and brought their families or are here as tourists. The many Asian restaurants are very popular, and we almost feel transported back to Hong Kong. Back home at the hotel, we finally were so tired that we, despite our jet lag, which had caused us a few sleepless nights so far, had a good night sleep. 30 December 2024 The next morning we had a lazy start to the day and went for brunch in a nearby cafe, which was Japanese as we soon found out. The food was very tasty. Dave had a bowl full of smoked Kaiser meet (smoked pork ribs) with various vegetables in noodle soup, I had vegetable tempura (vegetables in batter, fried) with Avocado creme and salad. The portions were huge, and we both would have been happy with only half of it. We paid a reasonable price of 57 AUD, that is £ 28.50 for the two of us, including tea and coffee. Afterward we walked down Elizabeth Street to digest our food, and to Dave’s delight we found a computer shop and a camera shop next door. We made our way to Bourke Street Mall to Meyr’s department store, where we, together with loads of others, mostly children, pressed our noses against the department store window at displays of animated animals in the jungle. Kaiser Meat with vegetable in noodle soup From there we made our way to AC/DC Lane, which is dedicated to the band, as that’s where they have started out. There was even a concrete figure of Bon Scott, AC/DC’s original singer, bursting through the brickwork. He died from the effects of alcohol poisoning in Camden in 1980, just down the road from where we live. Dave soaks up the atmosphere and pays hommage to AC/DC We were sitting on a bench in AC/DC Lane soaking up the atmosphere and to give our feet a welcome rest, when we were approached by an 80 year old Canadian guy. We had a natter and he told us he had come on a cruise ship from Canada and was visiting his son who lived in Melbourne. He also said that the importance of travelling is not only about seeing the places listed in the guide book but about meeting like-minded people. Now he too was here to see where AC/DC had started out and he pointed out that our generation had it all, the best music, the best of time. We couldn’t agree more and wished him well as he hurried away to catch up with his family who had already moved on. We continued on our walk and paid homage to the classic rock pub called the Cherry bar, which was originally located in AC/DC Lane. However, it was moved to a new site in 2020, a few blocks away from AC/DC Lane. This area around AC/DC Lane, Hosier Lane and Duckboard Street is also well known for having the City’s most eye-popping street art. This may have been so some time ago, but now most of the pictures have faded, the paint peeling off and many of the paintings have been smeared with spray paint and tip pen. Is this a local Banksy on the wall? Around the corner of AC/DC Lane was a painting of Malcolm Young, the recently deceased founding member and lead guitarist of the band. It says, “C’mon Saint Peter, how many bloody more times you gonna make me play Hell’s Bells before you let me through the gates, mate?”. Next we walked to Federation Square, which is the cultural heart of the City to visit the aborigine museum called Koorie Heritage Trust. Unfortunately, we got there at 5pm, just as it was closing. Okay, we’ll return tomorrow. On the bridge leading over the Yarra river we admired the Skyline of Melbourne’s Business District. From here, boats offer river cruises, but we decided to cross the Yarra river and have a stroll on the Southbank Promenade, the waterfront, passing by the many art galleries, bars and restaurants where people sat outside taking in the city skyline. View of Melbourne’s Riverside and Business District We made our way to Melbourne’s famous Skydeck, a viewing platform on the 88th floor. The lift takes 38 seconds to reach the top, travelling at 9 metres a second. It cost 64.73 AUD, around £32, for us both, even with our elders discount. Expensive, yes, but well worth the money. The 360 degree views of the city skyline, the world famous cricket stadium, the docks and the distant hills on the horizon are stupendous. We spent almost two hours on the platform before returning to earth. View of Melbourne’s Skyline from the Skydeck We were told that the next day, New Year’s Eve, the platform was closed because there was a private party. Can you imagine, the view of all the fire works  around Melbourne? We shutter to think how much the entry tickets were for this special VIP New Year’s Eve event. On the way home, we had dinner at a Malaysian restaurant, called Sarawak Kitchen, which was just around the corner of our hotel. Dave had a bowl of roasted pork Sarawak (noodle soup) and I had one with vegetables and soya meat. Both were delicious, but far too much food, we could not finish it. Again we walked home feeling bloated. 31.12.2024 The next morning we were up earlier and went to the ancient Queen Victoria Market for breakfast. The Vic Market with its more than 600 stalls is known as the largest out-door market in the southern hemisphere. The market was busy, full with people doing their shopping or like us just looking. I bought a cheese and ham panini at one of the many stalls, which was big enough for us to share, and we enjoyed it sitting outside in the sunshine. We sat and watched the world go by. We were surprised that Melbourne appeared to be populated by many overweight, obese people, men, women and children. But on the other hand, it was understandable considering the huge portions of food served in restaurants and the amount of places offering delicious calorific food, cakes and sugary drinks. Then we mingled with hundreds of customers and onlookers to explore the market. In the deli hall, the stalls have plenty of gourmet food on display, such as olives, cheeses, dips, sausages ham, wine, truffles oil and kangaroo biltong. I was fascinated by a stall that offers spices and tea from all over the world. I was just about to buy a German herbal tea, when I saw the prices, 6.5 AUD for 10 grams of tea. They also had apple cake spices and mulled wine spices even gingerbread spices (Lebkuchengewuerz) that cost 2.40 AUD for 10 grams. (This was approximate £1.20 or 1.45 Euros). I thought, I better wait until the next time I am in Germany. A Deli Stall inside Queen Victoria Market The vendors are very relaxed and don’t mind us taking pictures and are happy to chat. I spoke to Don, an Italian guy, who came with his brother 15 years ago to Melbourne and owns a stall offering Italian delicatessen. We took some photos of him and his brother and I promised to email them to him, which I did. Next door was a Polish stall, followed by Greek and Turkish food stalls. After that we entered the area of fishmongers and were surprised by the amount and size of the lobsters and oysters on display, beside octopus, squid, salmon and the most amazing exotic fish we had ever seen. Wide eyed we walked also through the meet market which had the biggest steaks we have ever seen. No wonder, people are so well nourished. Every kind of fresh meat, such as beef, pork, lamb, quicken, goose, quail were on display. Mouthwatering Seafood on Display We were sorry to miss the famous Night-market here at Queen Victoria Market with its vibrant atmosphere and a rotating weekly line-up of live music and entertainment. Unfortunately, that’s on Wednesday’s only but we are leaving on Tuesday. After a while, we had enough of food and taking pictures of it and made our way by tram to Flinders Station. This station was built in 1854, and it is Australia’s first train station that ran the distance of 2.5 miles from Flinders Street to Sandridge, which is now known as Port Melbourne. We were surprised to see so many well known names of English cities on the platform departure board. But why not, as so many people originated from England and presumably wanted their home towns to be remembered. Finally we moved over to the culture centre on Federation Square, just across Flinders Street Station and headed to the Koorie Heritage Trust. This time they were open, but sadly did not offer their famous tours over the holiday period. Instead, we visited their very interesting exhibition of Aboriginal art installations and watched some videos of artists explaining the history of their art. Aboriginal Paintings The area around Federation Square was partly cordoned off because of the New Years Eve’s celebrations later with lots of music and fireworks. We heard, this was the place to be to celebrate the incoming New Year. There are many celebrations going on around Melbourne but many of them were already fully booked. Also, the public traffic, like trams and buses, in much of the city centre was to be greatly reduced due to the celebrations. So we decided to spend our New Year’s Eve in Federation Square, at least it was not too far to walk home afterwards in case there we could not get a tram. We wanted to have a drink at the Imperial, the oldest pub in Melbourne, (at Imperial Hotel, 2-8 Bourke St). They offered a New Year’s Eve Rooftop Party, in two sittings, from 19:00 until 01:00, entry fees for sitting one and two, from 150 AUD + booking fee. They had a few tickets left for 198.90 AUD, which also included canapés and drinks, such as beer and wine, life music until 22:00 and then a DJ until 01:00. Sorry mate, we have other plans. There is so much more to see. That means, we have to go there the next day for coffee, our last chance to admire the views from their roof top. So we made our way towards Federation Square, equipped with a nice bottle of wine, as we had no means to keep sparkling wine cold until midnight. The streets and pavements in the centre were full with masses of people having a good time and many of them moving towards Fed Square. The inner centre was cordoned off with lots of security staff around. A loudspeaker frequently informed us that Melbourne Centre is an alcohol free zone. To keep everyone safe, no drinking was allowed in public, only in bars, restaurants or at home. When detected, alcohol would be confiscated and the perpetrators fined heavily. What? Strange customs. We could not believe that. We just wanted to see the fireworks and listen to the music and sipping from our bottle of wine. What should we do now? All the bars would be full and going home only to drink our wine was no option. We wondered off to little side streets. Everywhere we encountered lots of people and lots of security. We came across some light shows and music on other squares and watched them for a while and moved on. Light shows and music to celebrate New Years Eve in Melbourne Inner City In a small side streets we saw one couple leaving a bar and quickly went in. And really they had space for us. There we sat, sipped our  20 AUD glasses of wine and made them last for two hours, whilst our own bottle was resting in the rucksack. We had to drink it afterwards in our hotel room as the following day we were flying out to Tasmania. We were disappointed not to be able to see the firework by the river but we managed to see the funny side of the situation we found ourselves in on another strange New Year’s Eve. Self-explanatory Finally, 1/2 hour before midnight we decided to leave the bar and to walk towards home. There was no way to see any fireworks in the city centre as the high rise buildings were blocking any views. We needed to head towards some open area. We remembered that the neighbours in our hotel, a couple from Indonesia, had told us they would go to Flagstaff Gardens, an area near our hotel on the other side of the Queen Victoria Market. Perhaps we could see some fireworks there? We headed towards the gardens. Masses of people passed us on their way to the Fed Square, all happy and many of them were tipsy. They must have been drinking at home before they came out. Good idea, as alcohol in the tummy could not be confiscated. We also noticed a few heavily drank people staggering around or lying on the streets. A tram passed by full of people, some looked very drunk. Was the alcohol ban because of heavy drinking behaviour of the population, or was the heavy drinking behaviour because of the alcohol ban? Who knows. Time was running and we just managed to get to the Queen Victoria Market car park, not far from Flagstaff Gardens, when people started to count down the seconds to midnight and then the fireworks began. We turned around and from the rooftops of the sky scrapers we could see a wonderful display of fireworks. We found ourselves amongst lots of happy people celebrating and welcoming in the New Year. Another good thing was, we didn’t have far to walk home. Fire works over Flagstaff Gardens, Melbourne Hong Kong Our flight was uneventful apart from a group of Australians who celebrated loudly all night; nobody could sleep but nobody complained. At least we got our revenge when they woke up the next morning with a hangover, looking rather pale. Serves them right. Anyway we arrived quickly and safely at our hotel, the Harbour Grand Kowloon, Hong Kong. Before we left the UK, we did some research to find the cheapest way to get around the transport system of Hong Kong. We bought ourselves Octopus cards from the mass transport system desk in Hong Kong airport. The added bonus was that senior citizens, 65+, travel at half price. What a bargain.    The travel book says that Hong Kong weather can be unpredictable. And they were right. Even though it’s the dry season, the weather was hazy and overcast. Such a pity as our room had a fantastic panoramic view over the bay. At least it was not raining, For our last day, the sun came out just after sunrise and we had blue skies until the sun went down. As our flight was at 19.05, we had a full day to explore of Hong Kong. It felt cold. That means there was no need to unpack my smart summer dresses. They remained in my suitcase for our three days in Melbourne. In the meantime, rather than striding elegantly through Hong Kong in my frocks, I wore my usual multilayered warm, travel clothes. Who cares? As long as they were warm and comfortable. We have always travelled light. Dave’s trolley weighed 14 kilos (mostly cables and chargers), mine was 15 kilos. I had to repack a few times to fit it all in. That means we simply have to regularly wash and wear our clothes. My rucksack weighed 8 kilos, Dave’s 13 kg, The reason that they were so heavy was, that our expensive camera gear, smart phones, iPads, battery packs, headphones etc, needed to be hand luggage. Hong Kong is a vast place. Thanks to our Octopus travel card we explored the area extensively. Our hotel was in Kowloon, opposite Hong Kong island. We took the Hung Hom Ferry from the pier beside our hotel and crossed Victoria Harbour to North Point Ferry Pier. From there we boarded one of the ancient double-decker trams that rattle along the north shore of Hong Kong Island between Kennedy town and Causeway Bay. We passed between the majestic downtown skyscrapers that make the skyscrapers of the City of London look like toy-town. We liked the mix of the old and new and especially the hightech super-modern architecture. We couldn’t stop taking photographs. As some are so tall you need a super-wide lens to do them justice. The mighty Skycrapers of Hong Kong Tired but happy touring by Trancar through Hong Kong The Tramcar System in Hong Kong was established in 1904 Afterwards we explored Hong Kong Island on foot, which is like a rabbit warren of alleyways and side streets. Sometimes it’s impossible to cross some busy roads so they have a system of overhead and underground walkways. Some of the overhead walkways are covered, no doubt due to the heavy monsoon rains. Some of these overground and underground walkways are interconnected with huge shopping malls, often incorporating tube stations. We returned to the mainland, across Victoria Harbour, by the famous ancient Star Ferry and what an impressive view we had of the skyscrapers of the mainland and Hong Kong Island. Once we were back in Kowloon, we took the tube up to Prince Edward Station and walked back down along the busy Nathan Road with its many colourful shops. On the way we explored various markets: The Goldfish Market (where some shops sell little water filled plastic bags of various species of fish), the perfumed Flower Market, the Lady’s Market (where I bought a day rucksack and a little bag for my smartphone) and the Yuen Po Bird Market. Unfortunately for Dave, we couldn’t find any computer or camera markets and shops, unlike, the last time he was here in 1991. Thanks to the internet and online trading this market does no longer exist. We were also told, that many businesses had relocated from Hong Kong to Mainland China. Later on we pottered through the famous Temple Street Night Market with colourful lanterns strung across the market. We were particularly fascinated by the range of street food stalls offering everything from sweet or savoury snacks and local specialities, to various exotic seafood dishes. It all looked delicious but as we have just started our travels and are not yet accustomed to the local food we are still very careful of what and where we eat, especially as we still have more long flights ahead of us. Enjoying the excellent food in Hong Kong We quickly got to know the tube system and were impressed by its efficiency and cleanliness. When entering the tube carriage white and green arrows indicate where people should enter or leave the carriage. The tube map in the carriage lights up the individual stations, indicating in red the next stops, and in orange, where the interchanges are. It is pretty busy, and like the rest of the world, people are fixated by their smartphone screens. Unlike in Bogota or Medellin, Colombia, where young people immediately jumped up to offer oldsters a seat, here nobody gives a damn. We guess they are all so tired from working and besides, we don’t look particularly. Having been used to the streets of London, it made a pleasant surprise to see how clean the streets and pavements were. One day we saw a team of street cleaners hosing down the pavement, with one of them holding a large board to protect the shop windows and the pedestrians from getting drenched. If one wanted to escape the Christmas razzmatazz, like we do, then Hong Kong definitely is the wrong place to be. Christmas decorations and lights of the finest and most kitschy type are displayed everywhere and the tunes of We wish you a merry Christmas and George Michael’s Last Christmas, songs that we just recently sang soulfully with our choir at the Actors Church in Covent Garden, irritate the ears. Masses of people, mostly families with children, are out on the streets, celebrating and admiring the decorations and lights, especially along the harbour frontage. We wanted to see the statue of the famous Bruce Lee which according to our map was somewhere along the Avenue of Stars beside the harbour. It was almost impossible to make our way through a never ending crowd of slow-moving people. Now we know what it is like to be sardines in a tin. However, we discovered the crowds had gathered to watch the daily evening musical laser light show from the top of the skyscrapers on the other side of Victoria harbour. The Lightshow on the Harbour Visiting Bruce Lee We met some very friendly people in Hong Kong. For example, we had coffee in a little restaurant and a young couple approached us. They had only been married for a month and saw us taking photos of each other and they wondered, would they do the same when they were older. We got on really well. They recommended a nice restaurant, which we tried out the next day and the food was excellent. She was a nurse and offered to help us if we had any health problems on our travels in Hong Kong. Nice people and a nice offer, but we wondered, do we really look that old? I hope not. Later, another guy approached us as we were looking on our maps for somewhere for dinner. He led us to one of his favourite restaurants as it was on his way home. His English was good and he told us he had worked in Canada for a while. The food at this place was also excellent and at very reasonable prices. On our last day, the clouds disappeared and the sun came out and with it a little bit of warmth, but not in the shade. We went up Victoria Peak via the Peak Tram, which has been taking tourists to the top since 1888 and is classed as the ultimate Hong Kong experience, to take in the vast panoramic views of Hong Kong and Victoria Harbour and Hong Kong’s distant southern beaches.  We returned via the Peak Tram and walked towards the touristic Lan Kwai Fong area. We came across an interesting small cafe so we decided on a coffee break. I asked the guy sitting next to us whose food looked appealing, what he was eating and we ordered the same. We got chatting, his English was perfect and it turned out that he had recently worked in the financial City of London for a year. He recommended a few interesting places nearby to visit, like the Tai Kwan, the former Central Police Headquarters and Victoria Prison which are now museums. We left together and as he lived nearby he volunteered to drop us off at the famous Central Mid-Levels Elevator, the largest public elevator in the world. It is built on a steep hill, depending on the times of the day, the elevator goes up or comes down. Beside it are stone stairs. It is very convenient for the locals going to and from work. But first we did a tour of the police and prison museums. Then we continued to the elevator itself and took it to the very top level. It is not a continuous elevator but consists of several elevators from the bottom area of Central up to Soho because of the road system. During the morning commute time, the elevators go downhill and then change direction around lunchtime to go uphill. Genius system. Just like most of the outdoor walkways these too are covered to protect against the inclement weather. On the back down we took the stairs and explored the little side streets around mid-level and Soho with its many cafes, restaurants and bars. This is the heart of the business area and many of the Asian financial movers and shakers live in the area. View of the sunrise from our hotel room Admiring the view of Hong Kong’s skyline from the Peak Skyline of Hong Kong Enjoying the sunshine on the Harbour As the weather was so nice we took time out to take even more photographs. Time was running and with a heavy heart we decided to head back to our hotel to collect our luggage and take a taxi to the airport for our night flight to Melbourne. Did we like Hong Kong and would be go back? Most certainly! There is so much to see and do and, although we gave ourselves 3 days, this really wasn’t long enough to explore in-depth. There is far more to see including the surrounding islands including Macau. But now we are looking forward to continue our journey.

Migration – the most abused word of the 2010s and 2020s (DE) It was 1967 or 1968. As a representative of the ASTA (General Student Committee) of what wa s then the Munich University of Applied Sciences, I attended a conference of the SDS (Socialist German Student Union), to which we both belonged, together with the ASTA chairman. This conference in Frankfurt addressed the challenges of overcoming traditional university structures, the freedom of teaching, and the future problems that capitalism would pose. A predictable development In a discussion paper at the time, I referred to the early capitalist structures of global colonialism and the centuries-long exploitation, plundering, humiliation and enslavement of the peoples of the entire so-called Third World. Nena's anti-war song '99 Luftballons" (balloons) is a parable about the trivial causes that lead to serious developments. This series of articles will analyse this by using examples. In a few decades at the latest, these peoples would rise – they were already awakening in Africa, Asia, and South America, indeed everywhere on earth – and demand what was rightfully theirs. And big business and the capitalist states would build walls and use weapons to protect their stolen goods. I didn't have to be a prophet to make this statement; progressive economists and sociologists had already come to similar conclusions at the time. Just over 20 years later, in the 1990s, the then-Federal Government, under Helmut Kohl, felt compelled to reconsider the wording of Article 16 of the German Constitution, which states, ‘Politically persecuted persons enjoy the right of asylum.’ This was preceded in 1992 by a doubling of asylum applications to 440,000 compared to the previous year. At that time, most asylum seekers were war refugees from the former Eastern Bloc state of Yugoslavia and people from Romania who wanted to escape the sometimes bloody uprisings and internal conflicts. Only 4.3 per cent of them were granted asylum. In 1993, a two-thirds majority of the CDU/CSU, SPD and FDP in the Bundestag, accompanied by large street protests, voted in favour of amending the Basic Law. Article 16a severely restricted the right to asylum through the third-country rule. In order not to completely violate the Geneva Refugee Convention, which Germany had also signed (‘Everyone has the right to seek and enjoy asylum from persecution in other countries.’ Article 14/1), a legal regulation on the right of asylum was passed, known as ‘small asylum’. During this period, the word ‘migration’ became a buzzword. Migration – what a hot topic in the 2020s! Once again! It often seems as if everyone has the only true solution to the supposed global catastrophe of migration in their pocket. Individuals, racists and philanthropists, parties and interest groups, NGOs, even entire states and confederations are arguing about the right way to deal with this modern mass migration, which is actually a human migration. Today, 50 years after my words as a student in the late 1960s, it is clear that the rich, industrialised nations of Europe and North America have largely ignored this vision of a logical, predictable global refugee movement. Politically and economically, the focus remained on exploitation. Now they want to combat the phenomenon of human migration, which they themselves have conjured up, by all possible means, including inhumane and illegal ones, and they are prepared to suspend values such as human rights. Prevention and obstruction of refugee aid North African countries such as Libya, which are known for human rights violations, are being paid to prevent refugees from reaching Europe. Lebanon, itself a country on the brink of collapse, also received millions in the run-up to the 2024 European elections to protect Europe from migrants. Thousands of people die crossing the Mediterranean, partly because the Mediterranean coastal states, contrary to international maritime law, obstruct or even prevent sea rescue operations in such cases and even criminalise sea rescuers. For example, terrible conditions are reported from refugee camps in Greece. Refugees are turned away at Europe's external borders or sent back in so-called illegal push-backs. People froze to death at the border between Poland and Belarus. Human rights, human dignity and humanity, which were once agreed upon, are being ignored and marginalised bit by bit. Although some politicians have come to the revolutionary realisation that the causes of migration must be combatted in the countries of origin, this has not prevented the German government from reducing development aid. Instead of helping, physical, psychological and rhetorical barriers are erected. It is probably largely unknown that over a third of the ‘refugee-related expenditure’ declared in the federal budget is for ‘combating the causes of flight’. These funds are charged to the refugees, rather than being viewed more fairly as compensation for previously neglected, forward-looking investments in their countries of origin. Human rights As a reminder, here are two texts that were agreed upon more than 70 years ago after the horrors of World War II to create a more humane world: UN Declaration of Human Rights 1948: All human beings are born free and equal in dignity and rights. They are endowed with reason and conscience and should act towards one another in a spirit of brotherhood (...) Article 1 of the Basic Law (GG) of the Federal Republic of Germany, 1949: Human dignity is inviolable. Respecting and protecting them is the obligation of all state power. The German people, therefore, declare their commitment to inviolable and inalienable human rights as the foundation of every human community, of peace and justice in the world. Historical background to today's migration Migration in Europe is a self-inflicted phenomenon caused by the great-grandfathers, grandfathers and fathers of those nations that are now complaining the loudest: the former colonial powers. (Link 1: http://planet-wissen.de →Colonialism – Europe's colonies) In the first half of the 20th century, the independence movements in the European colonies ensured that the price-performance ratio was no longer favourable for the colonial rulers. The investments required to maintain power far exceeded the profits that the colonial powers made from exploiting the indigenous population. The colonies were granted supposed political independence without regard for existing historical structures and related ethnic groups. This arbitrariness was one of the causes of later conflicts, expulsions and flight. Political independence was quickly followed by economic dependence. Instead of colonial states, international corporations from the former colonial powers and, since the early 20th century, also from the USA, took over the lucrative production facilities through a more sophisticated form of exploitation, modernised them, and continued to exploit the former colonies. (Link 2: https://www.geo.de/wissen/folgen-des-kolonialismus--wunden--die-nicht-verheilen-30178912.html ). The trade relations between European global players and their former colonies have always been one-sided. Raw materials are extracted or purchased at a low cost in the former colonies. Parts of production are carried out using cheap labour in the former colonies, or low prices are paid for products! Production equipment is sold to the former colonies at very high European prices! That is the business model! In the process, the companies have also helped shape the political landscape and social climate. Local oligarchs, dictators, corrupt politicians, tribal leaders and violent military leaders, often in dual roles, guaranteed the companies freedom of action and were protected by the companies in return. In addition to economic hardship, local armed conflicts, including devastating wars in the so-called Third World, caused additional oppression, displacement, hunger and death. In summary, the proletariat remains impoverished today, while the rich have only become wealthier. Global wealth gap The five wealthiest men in the world doubled their wealth between 2020 and 2025, while nearly five billion people fell into poverty during the same period. Excluding emerging economies such as China, India, Brazil, etc., where a new middle class is slowly emerging but where large sections of the population still live in extreme poverty, around 5 billion people are living in severe economic and social hardship. This contrasts with just under 1 billion people in the G7 countries, who generate around 45% of the total gross national income (known as gross national product until 1999) worldwide. But poverty is by no means unknown in the G7 countries either. (Link 3: www.oxfam.de/ueber-uns/publikationen/bericht-soziale-ungleichheit-2024 ) The 5 billion underprivileged people are not, as is often claimed, less hard-working than those in the G7 countries. These people, if they have work at all, do not go home after an 8-hour working day. They work 12 hours, even up to 16 hours a day, to earn enough not to live, but to survive. This work is done by women, men and children. This is the price that people in the ‘Third World’ pay so that people in rich countries can buy a T-shirt for €2.49! In a nutshell, this means: Our wealth is based on the poverty and exploitation of the Third World. Causes of migration We are the ones responsible for the poverty of the so-called Third World! Shifting this responsibility away is common practice among industrialised countries with their political bodies (parties, governments) and capital (national and global corporations). What could be more understandable than searching for something new, something different, when one's homeland no longer offers the possibility of survival because oppression, persecution (recognised grounds for asylum under Article 16a of the German Constitution), war (only subsidiary protection!!!), lack of prospects, shortages and hunger (not recognised grounds for asylum!!!)... are a daily reality? Since the modification of Article 16 of the German Constitution in 1993, these reasons are no longer grounds for asylum, even though this contradicts the right to human dignity and physical integrity. It is desperation that drives these people to flee! Or do European leaders such as Olaf Scholz, Friedrich Merz, Markus Söder, Georgia Meloni or Keir Starmer believe that people in Tunisia or France would board a dilapidated boat because of the financial support they can expect to receive? Germany currently provides €460 per month in maintenance, Italy gives €40 via a payment card, and the United Kingdom pays £210 to recognised asylum seekers. And for that, all these people are supposed to set off across the Mediterranean or the English Channel in rickety boats, with a high chance of drowning in the sea?! The reason they are putting their lives at risk is: - Slave labour (textile production partly through child labour, e.g. Bangladesh, Cambodia; workers held like prisoners in cobalt and copper mining, e.g. DR Congo, etc.) and oppression by corporations with the help of corrupt politicians (Link 4: https://www.bpb.de/themen/migration-integration/kurzdossiers/265328/die-wahre-fluechtlingskrise-flucht-und-vertreibung-in-afrika ) - Wars , from which arms manufacturers profit (e.g. shares in the arms manufacturer Rheinmetall have risen by over 670% in the last three years as a result of global warfare, the dividend for shareholders rose from €2.00 in 2021 to €5.70 in 2024 and is forecast to reach €8.10 in 2025) - Poverty caused by exploitation and unfair trade agreements dictated by rich countries due to their capital power. - Destruction of livelihoods through overexploitation of nature (deforestation of the Amazon rainforest, Central Africa, Borneo; overfishing in all the world's oceans) and climate change, mainly caused by the industrialised nations of the global North. Billions of people are deprived of even the most basic means of subsistence to which they are entitled under universal human rights. (Link 6: https://www.bpb.de/kurz-knapp/lexika/politiklexikon/17842/menschenrechte/ ). This contrasts with a few million privileged individuals. 0.9% of the world's population owns 43.9% of the world's wealth. (Link 7: https://de.statista.com/infografik/1824/reichtumsverteilung-weltweit/ ). These privileged individuals, the capitalists, elites, and the wealthy, as well as their allies in government, are, of course, well aware of this imbalance and are not without concern about it. To avoid any misunderstanding: they are not concerned about the injustice; they are concerned that the billions of underprivileged people will become aware of the imbalance and realise that they are actually in the majority. There are now two strategies in our time to protect and save the capitalist economic system. Isolation and propaganda as the means of choice To protect against refugees from underprivileged countries, the countries of the Third World, isolation (e.g. illegal border controls and rejections by the German Home Office) is being used. This is, of course, a policy of burying one's head in the sand. Or what are we to think of a resident whose house is surrounded by a burning forest and who believes that closing the shutters will solve the problem? But any other solution could disrupt the system. To save themselves from their own underprivileged citizens in industrialised nations, such as workers, the unemployed, pensioners, etc., they resort to propaganda against refugees. The underprivileged are manipulated and used to declare isolationism as the will of the people. To achieve this, it is necessary to have opinion leaders in the media and, with their help, to beat the propaganda drum loudly. The real causes of grievances are obscured, attention is diverted from solvable economic and political problems, and migrants are made scapegoats. At this point, I would like to address some typical propaganda statements and their questionable truthfulness, and in particular, expose five populist claims that are falling on fertile ground among conservative and right-wing party members and sympathisers, right up to confirmed right-wing extremist nationalist fascists. Propaganda lies 1 to 5: 1. ‘Migration is the mother of all problems,’ Horst Seehofer once said at an internal CSU conference, for example. That is a lie! The truth is: Super-wealth is the father of all problems! The super-rich benefit from numerous tax advantages, resulting in a lower tax burden compared to that of normal earners. Taxation on billionaire fortunes has been significantly reduced since 1996. Tax avoidance through ‘aggressive tax planning’, such as shifting profits to tax havens, is widespread. The top tax rate in Germany for earned income is 42%, while capital gains are generally taxed at a rate of only 25%. The super-rich benefit from low corporate taxes, flat-rate taxation of capital gains, tax exemptions on real estate purchases and other assets, and no social security contributions on high incomes. In Germany, this particularly affects the 249 billionaires counted in 2024. 2. ‘Germany must know who is in the country and be able to decide for itself who is allowed to be here, ’ demanded Christian Lindner (FDP) as a member of the traffic light coalition government (2021 to 2024), according to the Stuttgarter Zeitung. He should have been aware that this simple and comprehensible statement violates applicable law. That is why we must disagree: No, Mr Lindner! The truth is: European and international law have long established that persecuted, disenfranchised and threatened people must be granted protection and all human rights. This populist demand by former Finance Minister Lindner, which is superficially appealing, is explosive, as it calls into question the fundamental rights enshrined in the Constitution, and thus also democracy and European unity. He is lighting the fuse with which nationalists and fascists in Germany and Europe want to weaken further and ultimately destroy the fragile unity of Europe. 3. Migrants are worsening the employment situation for Germans , claimed Sahra Wagenknecht, founder of the ‘Bündnis Sahra Wagenknecht’ (BSW). This claim is based on the assumption that immigrants increase competitive pressure in the labour market, which would lower wage levels. She thus perpetuates a narrative similar to that of politicians from the AfD, FDP, CDU and CSU, who rant about immigration into the German social welfare system, namely that migrants are taking something away from German citizens. The truth is: Most economists view increased immigration as a positive development. The vast majority of refugees are not allowed to work for six months due to a completely incomprehensible law and are therefore dependent on state transfer payments. (Link 8: https://www.bmas.de/DE/Arbeit/Migration-und-Arbeit/Flucht-und-Aysl/Arbeitsmarktzugang-fuer-Gefluechtete/arbeitsmarktzugang-fuer-gefluechtete-art.html ) When they do find work, they are mainly employed in sectors with particularly poor pay and have no control over their wage level (fixed minimum wage). It will not work to recruit skilled workers if Germany shows its ugly side in its refugee policy. Racism is a locational disadvantage. Migrants are much younger than the average population – and those who are young today will generally receive less in old age than they have paid in over their lifetime,’ as labour market researcher Herbert Brüchner explains. This generates additional profit for the community. 4. Migration intensifies competition for affordable housing , much to the detriment of those affected by poverty, claimed presenter Markus Lanz. Rising rents are the result, as Lanz emphasises. The truth is that: Rents do not rise as if by magic. Rather, it is landlords – whether housing cooperatives, private real estate companies or private landlords – who are profiting from the high demand. A particularly glaring example of exploiting the housing shortage to generate profits was seen during the ‘refugee crisis’ of 2015/16: In view of the housing shortage, wealthy individuals bought dilapidated properties (disused barracks, old hotels) and rented them out to the federal government, states and municipalities as initial reception facilities and asylum accommodation at exorbitant prices. Refugees account for only a small part of these accommodation costs – it is the rent sharks who are making a killing at the expense of taxpayers. In 2022, more than 40,000 flats in Berlin and 1.9 million flats throughout Germany were vacant. Nothing is being done about this. That the federal government is lagging far behind in social housing construction, which is also causing shortages. In 2023, it subsidised 49,430 social housing units, compared to a target of 100,000. According to the Social Housing Alliance, there is a shortfall of 910,000 units. 5. Human rights must be subordinated to or even sacrificed for the sake of the strategy of isolation towards refugees , according to arguments put forward by academics in the debate. Constance law professor Daniel Thym is undermining our constitutional state and democracy under the guise of scientific rigour. With his inhumane theories, he also relativises the principles of the constitutional state from a legal perspective, and thus also undermines the inviolability of human rights. Here are some of his statements: In asylum policy, ‘we must also talk about human rights.’ (FAZ) ‘For a change in the system (meaning the treatment of asylum seekers, namely the denial of fundamental rights), we have only one option left: we must apply human rights less strictly.’ (Der Spiegel) Then, revealing his true colours, he says elsewhere: ‘We must be honest with ourselves: we are thoroughly selfish. On a global scale, we are all rich. ... And we don't want to share this wealth with everyone.’ (RND) And he agrees with Hans-Eckard Sommer, President of the Federal Office for Migration and Refugees, who, according to Thym, stands ‘in the “democratic centre” in the sense of the free democratic basic order’ with his demand for the abolition of the fundamental right to asylum. (FAZ) The truth is: Daniel Thym's statements contradict all established legal and moral principles, as do those of Hans-Eckard Sommer. It seems that the Federal Office for Migration and Refugees has put the fox in charge of the henhouse. In Thym's case, his increasingly sharp criticism of prevailing legal practice is of particular interest, as he serves as the local spokesperson for the Research Institute for Social Cohesion (FGZ), which is based at eleven universities and devotes specific attention to its research on the criteria of ‘democratic cohesion’. Three FGZ scholars – Stephan Lessenich, professor of social theory and social research; Sina Arnold, research assistant at the Centre for Research on Anti-Semitism; and Maren Möhring, professor of comparative cultural and social history of modern Europe – disagree with him as follows: “However, a society committed to the principle of democracy cannot apply human rights selectively or only when it suits its interests – otherwise, its cohesion becomes an exclusive event that cannot be secured by legal force alone... Clearly, social majorities are receptive to such ideas of a supposed solution to the crisis. However, those who propagate them should at least refrain from selling them as common sense and a conservative act of recalibrating human dignity. The ‘system change’ should be called what it is: the further tightening of a migration policy that walks over dead bodies." (TAZ, 25 April 2026) Only a few progressive media outlets are critically commenting on such efforts to tighten asylum law further and pursue migration policies that go beyond humanity and the law. The mainstream press tends to remain discreetly silent on the issue. Behind this lies either secret sympathy for the right-wing scene, approval of the current government's policies, or a lack of civil courage. The root of all problems is not migration, but capitalism! As we have seen, all these myths and narratives, lies and half-truths ultimately deliberately obscure the fact that the problems are not caused by refugees and migrants, but by the prevailing capitalist system, i.e. by the beneficiaries and supporters of the system, such as companies and corporations, private profit-oriented landlords, elites such as opinion leaders in the media and in science and academia, and people with political responsibility in the legislative and executive branches. Not to be forgotten are the super-rich, e.g. the 249 billionaires in Germany. In 2024, there were 23 more than in the previous year. They contribute the least to the social fabric of our state, because they can evade fair participation through tax and business actions alone. Who can even imagine what 1 billion actually means? To illustrate this gigantic accumulation of money and possessions and to get an idea of what 1 billion is, here is an example: if someone has 1 million euros, we consider them to be ‘rich’, but 1 billion? For people who already consider themselves rich if they have £1,000 or £10,000 in the bank, their imagination is not sufficient to comprehend these dimensions. Distances are perhaps easier to imagine: 1 million millimetres is 10 km, which is just enough to get you beyond the city limits of Hamburg, for example. 1 billion millimetres is the distance from Hamburg to Vienna, or 1,000 kilometres, or to put it another way: 1,000 kilometres is 1 million metres. 1 billion metres, on the other hand, is 1 million kilometres. That is about 3 times the distance from the Earth to the Moon. Then imagine 1 billion euros! Just to illustrate the dimensions! Reality versus bias and hate speech! Right-wing conservative media outlets, such as the newspapers published by Axel Springer Verlag, explicitly incite hatred against migrants, refugees and, last but not least, the poor, the unemployed and welfare recipients (the owner, Mathias Döpfner, is a multiple billionaire) consider it unworthy of reporting when, for example, on the morning of 1 January 2025, thousands of Muslim youths from the Ahmadiyya Muslim Jamaat volunteer to clean up New Year's Eve rubbish in around 300 locations in Germany. This expression of Muslims' solidarity with Germany was hardly mentioned in the public debate. The attack by a suspected right-wing extremist in Magdeburg was also quickly deemed uninteresting by many media outlets and political parties, unlike it would have been if the perpetrator had had a migrant background. These media outlets pander to the confirmed right-wing extremist spectrum – the AfD and its sympathisers – and pave the way for incitement against migrants, the poor and the underprivileged. In contrast, the millions of examples of successful integration are hardly mentioned. Rejections based on populism? The latest escalation (2025) in the migration debate was caused by the Federal Interior Minister Alexander Dobrindt (CSU) just one week after taking office. Despite legal concerns in Germany and the EU, the Federal Interior Minister ordered increased border controls and rejections at the borders. At this point, it is worth talking not only about morality, humanity and the law, or even about possible savings and cuts in the social sector, schools, kindergartens, social welfare and the cultural sector, which are supposed to serve as financing, but also about a cost-benefit analysis! 1,200 new federal police officers were deployed to the borders. Approximately 12,000 to 13,000 officers are now deployed, most of them in salary grades A7 – A8, which means €3,000 gross (?) per month. This measure therefore costs the state, i.e. the taxpayer, €36 to €39 million per month. And then let’s take a look at the benefits achieved: In the first week of increased controls, Minister Dobrindt proudly announced a 45 per cent increase in rejections. A look at the specific figures: A total of 739 people were rejected in the first week. In the previous week, the figure was 511. With the help of additional staff, 228 more people per week were turned away. Extrapolated over the month, that would be approximately 1,000 people. This required the deployment of an additional 1,200 civil servants for this purpose. Labour costs alone amounted to approximately €3.6 million, not including administrative costs and technical expenses, which can be estimated at least the same amount again. What a great success! Each additional rejection costs the taxpayer at least €3,600 per month, probably even more than double that amount. This money is not an investment that would lead to any solution to problems such as the shortage of skilled workers. There is no constructive approach whatsoever! Now, one might come up with the idea and ask: Yes, but what would these 1,000 people cost us per month if they stayed in the country? The following applies here: No one can make such a cost-benefit calculation because no one knows what potential people have if they are treated constructively, and ways of integrating them are created. Quite apart from ethics and morals. The costs roughly estimated above are primarily an administrative expense imposed by the state. The value of a human being, of humanity, cannot be assessed in monetary terms on an ethical level. It is not permissible to compare or offset any costs. Seeing only a monetary value in human beings is capitalism at its worst. According to the latest final court ruling, rejections may be unlawful and may give rise to a claim for damages (Administrative Court of Berlin 6 L 191/25 of 02.06.2023). Germany needs migration! All those with a phobia of migrants should take note of a comment by Professor Monika Schnitzer, LMU Munich, Chair of the German Council of Economic Experts: As a measure against the shortage of skilled workers, economist Schnitzer proposes more immigration. The new Skilled Workers Act (of 23 June 2023) is already a step in the right direction, but the Federal Republic as a whole is not making as much progress ‘as we could and should’... ‘Germany needs 1.5 million immigrants a year if we want to maintain the number of workers, taking into account the considerable emigration of 400,000 new citizens each year,’ said the economist on 2 July 2023 in the Süddeutsche Zeitung newspaper. Germany urgently needs a culture of welcome, adds Schnitzer, who has headed the German Council of Economic Experts since October 2022. The Skilled Immigration Act passed by the Bundestag needs to be expanded: ‘For example, immigration offices should not deter immigrants, but offer them services,’ she suggests. ‘We should not require foreign skilled workers to be able to speak German for every job. Instead, we should ensure that the employees of the immigration office can speak English.’ She points to the truly urgent issues of our time and implies that the migration debate serves as a distraction for politicians who are responsible to avoid and obscure precisely these unresolved real problems! To address the shortage of skilled workers, Germany needs to invest more in children, for example, Schnitzer continues. ‘It's a sad reflection on our society that one in four fourth-graders cannot read properly,’ she criticises. In addition, companies need to keep older employees happy so that they don't retire early, the economist explains. Schnitzer criticises the lack of investment in infrastructure, the country's lagging behind in digitalisation and its late start on climate protection, among other things. This list of failures could go on and on, including pension and care financing, health insurance reform, etc. – all areas that could be addressed through positive management of migration (language support, early career support, social integration, human recognition, and so much more). Political strategy: right-wing slogans to prevent a shift to the right! While economists, industry, social scientists and the service sector agree that without massive immigration, nothing will really work in our country soon, the majority of German politicians know nothing better than to parrot the extreme right like a broken record: Restrict migration! Restrict migration! What is their motive? They hope to win back voters for the conservative parties who have drifted to the far right. Instead of encouraging Germans to think by confronting them with reality, they are mimicking the xenophobic attitudes of right-wing parties, thereby bringing this ideology into the political mainstream. Finally, here is an example of how irrational the whole debate has become: The state of Lower Saxony sent a delegation of business and political leaders to Colombia from 1 to 5 July 2025 to recruit workers in the fields of nursing, life sciences, electronics, skilled trades, gardening and landscaping. At the same time, the Federal Republic of Germany is planning to deport around 1,600 Colombians who fled the Colombian civil war, most of whom are qualified in the areas described above and learned German here in a very short time. (TAZ vom 24.06.2023) To paraphrase a famous slogan from the migration debate of the 1990s, one feels compelled to exclaim once again: Dear migrants, don't leave us alone with the Germans! Conclusion: The reality is that Germany does not have a migration problem, but rather a humanity problem, and appears incapable of identifying the necessities and addressing their solution. (HeiN)

-Munich 1945 to 1953- (DE) "For God's sake! That can't be! It's gone! Just gone!" I, a mere six-year-old, was standing on Guldeinstraße in the Schwanthalerhöhe district of Munich on a freezing cold winter's day in 1946 and was terribly frightened. The food stamp my grandmother gave me to buy a quarter of a pound of sugar at the supermarket in Astallerstraße had disappeared on the way. Stunned, I stared at my clammy fingers, which had held on to this precious stamp as tightly as they could, and now it had disappeared. What a disaster! Such a tiny part could easily get lost. My grandma and I frantically searched the snow-covered road for the tiny stamp. Our chances of finding it were not good. But we were lucky; we found it in the snow slush. Relieved, we carried the small, completely soaked, but precious scrap of paper home. My grandma ironed it until it was flat and dry so that we could set off again to get hold of some sugar.   This anecdote is typical of the post-war period from 1945 onwards. The supply situation was disastrous, especially for the inhabitants of the cities. There was hardly any production in Germany, and transport routes such as railway tracks, roads and bridges had largely been destroyed by targeted bombing. Even inner-city streets were often barely recognisable under all the rubble. Peanut butter from the black market - pure madness! When all supplies were used up at the end of 1946, the daily requirement of an average adult was rationed to a meagre 1550 kilocalories. In 1947, it was often only 800 to 1000 kilocalories. If there was nothing left, nothing could be distributed. The allocation of food vouchers corresponded to this measure. Too much to die and too little to live on, as the saying goes.  With the introduction of the war economy by the National Socialists, food was rationed from 1939, and food stamps were issued. Even after the war, the occupying powers and the regional German administrations retained this supply system. It was only finally abolished in 1953. Until then, food stamps were issued alongside the DM even after the currency reform in 1948. Like most other families in our neighbourhood, inflation was an almost insurmountable problem for us. My father was not among the 25 per cent unemployed in those first post-war years. He immediately got a job at the post office. But his wages were almost worthless. A pound of butter cost 360 Reichsmarks, a pound of bread 190 RM and a kilo of coffee could cost between 500 and 1100 RM. Who had that kind of money? Very few people could pay these prices, which were charged on the strictly forbidden black market. According to official statistics, the average salary in 1947 was around RM 1,833 monthly. Of course, the unemployed had even less at their disposal. Therefore, other ways of obtaining food had to be found, namely the so-called hoarding trips. This involved the urban population going to the surrounding villages to exchange expendable items such as jewellery, silverware, paintings, etc., for potatoes, eggs or other foodstuffs. Those who had nothing of value had to resort to begging. I don't know whether my parents also went on such trips, for example, to the Stauchbäuerin in Warngau. But I know that my father and I once ran a black-market business together. One day, given the daily shortage, a camera seemed dispensable to my father, so we both made our way to Hackerbrücke. In some of the Reichsbahn railway carriages, one could find Americans with whom the people of Munich could barter. Similar black markets existed all over Munich, for example, at the Viktualienmarkt or Sendlinger Tor.  Many people hoped to obtain cigarettes such as Lucky Strike or Chesterfield from the GIs at Hackerbrücke. The cigarette currency was a very well-functioning means of payment in the post-war period. If you had cigarettes, you could exchange almost anything for them. Cigarettes were definitely more valuable than money or other goods. I can't say whether my father received cigarettes for his camera because, as a little boy of six, I wasn't interested in that. The powdered milk we packed and the food tins were more appealing to me. And if I had known how good peanut butter tasted, my excitement on the way home would have been even greater.  But this delicacy, which, according to the label, was called "peanut butter", was utterly unknown to us. The whole family tasted this strange spread with some suspicion. But what can I say? It was a divine treat! We all ate it, wholly enraptured by the delicious flavour, and even today when I receive peanut butter as a gift from my daughter, I enjoy eating it and reliving my childhood memories. Hunger is the best cook! My life had changed fundamentally in the summer of 1945. I don't know why my parents brought me to live with my grandmother at Guldeinstraße 41 for a few months at that time. But I assume my mother wanted to stay at the Stauchhof with my two-year-old sister until my father made our flat on the third floor at Gollierstraße 36 habitable again.  Guldeinstreet in 2011 Gollierstreet 36 (2011) Typical blocks of flats in Schwanthalerhöhe Also, I was six years old at the end of the war in 1945 and was due to start school in September. As my parents were planning to return to Munich, enrolling me in our neighbourhood school immediately made sense. I went to the Ridler school, although the Bergmannschule would have been closer. But this school had been so severely destroyed during the war that it could not open for the time being.  I can't remember my first day at school, and I don't recall the lessons, the teachers or my class, but I can still clearly picture the blue tubs and containers in which the school meals were delivered. We spooned up mushy pea soup or chewy porridge with a chocolate flavour. Unforgettable! I liked both. After all, hunger is the best cook. But my grandma was definitely a magician in post-war cuisine. From the few ingredients that were available to her due to the food stamps, she made her own delicious "odrahde Wichspfeiferl" (today we call them "Schupfnudeln") with home-made sauerkraut, and home-made broad noodles were also on the menu. These were my favourite dishes. I didn't have to go hungry. I was fortunate at that time.  These post-war years until the currency reform in 1948 have gone down in history as years of cold and hunger in Germany, especially in the cities. However, my family managed to ensure that I didn't feel the general lack of essential supplies as a child. Memories of hunger do not overshadow my memories of this time. But perhaps it's also because of my nature that the glass is always half full rather than half empty for me.  I still remember the warming rooms in the neighbourhood in my childhood because there wasn't enough fuel for the wood and coal stoves. At least we were lucky to live in an undamaged flat. It could get uncomfortably cold there, but we were always better protected. But what could the people do who didn't have a flat, who had only made a makeshift home in the rubble? They could only protect themselves from freezing to death in the warming rooms.  There was also hardly any fuel for public facilities such as schools, so pupils were asked to bring a few coals to school if possible.  In addition, the winter of 1946/47 was the longest and coldest of the 20th century. From November 1946 to March 1947, Germany literally froze over. Even shipping routes became impassable, and stored potatoes, Germany's most important staple food, froze in their crates. The post-war period in Germany, particularly in big cities like Munich, was a terrible time, and many people couldn't survive the hunger and cold.  However, I was lucky that my family was complete and healthy and had not been bombed out. Only my grandfather had been mistreated in the Dachau concentration camp and was only released to die in 1943, and my uncle on my mother's side was killed in the last days of the war. Both my father, whose war injury had not left any long-term damage and who was not a prisoner of war, and my mother soon found a job. He worked as a parcel courier at the post office, and she was a clerk at a retail company. My parents didn't have big salaries, but they had work and, therefore, a certain degree of security. Childhood in the rubble  I can't remember why my father was at home in the Guldeinstraße that afternoon and not at work. But I still clearly remember tripping during the Fangermandl game and hitting my head on a manhole cover. The wound just above the eye in my right eyebrow was bleeding profusely, and I was unsurprisingly upset. At the time, people didn't have any medication or bandages at home, nor was there an emergency telephone number that could have been used to call paramedics or an ambulance. Apart from that, there was no rescue service as we know it today. So my father carried me on his shoulders all the way, more than three kilometres, from Guldeinstraße to the clinic on Nussbaumstraße, where my wound was stitched and bandaged. The scar is still visible today. I was a typical boy of Schwanthalerhöhe! Little Sabine, about four years old, was also running around, playing with the children in our street, and was less lucky than me. She was run over by a lorry in front of us and died instantly. I didn't see the moment of the accident, but I saw Sabine lying under the twin rear tyres of the lorry. She was dead. Nobody could explain how the accident had happened. There were few cars on the road at the time. Maybe that's why she hadn't recognised the lorry as a danger. It was a mystery. All the residents of the neighbourhood, but especially those in Guldeinstraße, where the accident had happened, were in shock for a long time.  Looking back, I only realise today that we children of the post-war period lived quite dangerously. The playgrounds of my entire childhood were backyards, streets, and the surrounding ruins. There were adventures to be had there.  We searched through the ruins and rubble for pieces of brass or copper, for which we got a few pennies from the ironmonger and tugged at the cables, never suspecting what might be lurking under the rubble at the other end. Possibly an unexploded bomb! Well, and of course, we also did some dangerous nonsense. There was a camp nearby made of planks nailed together. We didn't know what it had once been used for. Maybe it was a shooting range because we found a lot of cartridges in it. If we had also found a suitable weapon, an accident would certainly have happened. But as it was, we found another way to ensure it went off. We dug the cartridges we had collected into the ground and set them alight. We were very impressed by our heroic deed.  Parents in our neighbourhood at that time were not overprotective. The adults reminded the children to watch out for this and that, to leave this and that alone, and then left them to their own devices or in the care of their older siblings. Nothing happened to my sister and me. We were lucky or perhaps protected because my working parents hired a domestic help to look after my sister and me before and after school or kindergarten. Sometimes, she would send me to the Bürgerheim pub at Bergmannstraße 33 to buy a single "American cigarette" for 30 pfennigs. She allowed herself this luxury.  The Bürgerheim pub still exists today. In the post-war period, it was an important meeting place for the residents of Schwanthalerhöhe. Not only was a warming centre set up there, but even after the currency reform, cheap food such as lung ragout with potatoes was still available for ration stamps. This is a mixture of innards such as sour lung and pork belly.  Currency reform 1948  Speaking of currency reform. The currency reform on 21 June 1948 put an end to the economic and everyday chaos of inflation, black markets and shortages. The changes were almost immediately visible in the shop windows. Where there had been nothing before, overnight, there suddenly was bread and sausage and fabrics and clothes and the like.  The new currency - Deutsche Mark (DM -1948) The shopkeepers had hoarded goods so they could sell them from the cut-off date for good money. All those who didn't own anything in kind only had the one-time 40 DM allowance per family member. Savings were exchanged for RM 100 at DM 6.50. A huge loss. In the end, savers were among the losers.  On the eve of the currency reform, you could no longer buy anything for Reichsmark, and everyone realised it wasn't worth hoarding the worthless money.  My friends and I have this fact to thank for our very special miracle of the currency reform.   We were about nine years old and already realised that the adults were in a frenzy because the currency reform would finally become a reality. The term meant very little to us, only that there would be different money.  Of course, we didn't realise the significance of such a currency changeover in everyday life, and, to be honest, we didn't care. But what made us euphoric on Saturday, 19 June 1948, was that people gave us money. Just like that. Unbelievable!  On this memorable day, we suddenly owned 20 Reichsmarks. What a wealth! Naturally, we wanted to use it to afford an otherwise unaffordable pleasure. We decided to take the tram to the zoo. That alone was an event in itself. From there, we walked to Lake Hinterbrühl.  77 years later at Hinterbrühler See We imagined how we would pompously and boastfully rent a boat from the local boat lender, Mr Wagner, and pay generously with our own money. Then, like we thought rich people tend to do, we would sail across the lake and simply do nothing. All the way to the boat rental, we talked about what it would be like and how surprised the boat lender would look. We didn't quite understand why Mr Wagner didn't want our money. He waved us off and said that we could keep our worthless money. Our dream of making big payments and cruising around like rich people was over.  But our disappointment was limited because the good man took pity on us and let us travel on his wooden boat for free. In our imagination, we were no longer rich people but wild pirates on the seven seas. There was something about that!  Post-war children and their little happiness  Our wishes were very modest. We children considered ourselves lucky if we had saved up 10 pennies to buy a Stranitze with dried apple peel from the grocery shop "Decker" on the corner of Kazmair and Ganghoferstraße on our way to school.  The term "Stranitze" is no longer known today. These are triangular bags made from newspaper. Today, this type of bag, although no longer made from newspaper, is still used, for example for roasted almonds,  In the late 1940s and early 1950s, wafer crumbs with leftover chocolate were an absolute luxury—one bag for 35 pfennigs. We could only afford that very rarely and only if we pooled our money.  What a lucky coincidence that the large "Limmer" bakery was in the neighbouring house. The bakery was located in the rear building, and we, the children from Gollierstraße, found it very interesting to see how the large sacks of flour were unloaded from the delivery lorries and lifted by a small crane attached to the front of the building.  And we hoped that baker Limmer would appear in the courtyard and ask us if we had already sweated today. We always eagerly answered affirmatively because if we said we had sweated, we were given pretzels. We never asked ourselves what was behind this question. The main thing was that we got a pretzel! The "Pfanni dumpling"  From 1947, the exhibition centre, bordered by Theresienwiese to the east, Ganghoferstraße to the west, Heimeranstraße to the north and Pfeufer and Radlkoferstraße to the south, was once again home to exhibitions of all kinds. Of course, we children would have been very interested to see and taste everything there was to see and taste, but we didn't have the money for the entry fee. I can't remember exactly which food fair it was and what year it was in the 1940s, but we were determined to get inside. There was bound to be something delicious to taste. And we made extensive preparations to ensure that we would succeed.  Before the opening, we loosened some planks from the fencing at a suitable spot in Heimeranstraße so that they only hung from a nail at the top. We could then push them aside if necessary and quickly slip through. Once we were on the site, everything was straightforward. We walked unnoticed to the lighthouse in front of Hall 7 and waited for the inspector to make his rounds at the entrance. We naturally mingled with the visitors, looked at the goods on offer and were magically drawn to the Pfanni stand. Why? There was something to try.  We didn't know then that we were about to enjoy a historic innovation in the food industry and ready-made products - the Pfanni dumpling.  In 1949, Werner Eckart set up the Pfanni factory in the Munich district of Berg am Laim near the Ostbahnhof railway station and added the "Urknödel" (original dumpling) to his range of dried potato products. Pfanni also presented this "Urknödel" to an astonished audience at a food fair or the Munich Central Agricultural Festival in 1949. I can't say for sure. The decades-long triumph of this ready-made product is well known.  We children of the post-war period certainly appreciated that we were allowed to try these little dumplings with tomato sauce at the trade fair stand. It was a real treat!  It was certainly worthwhile for Pfanni to treat us children so generously because we were the customers of the future. In any case, I have enjoyed eating Pfanni dumplings all my life, but with roast pork and not with tomato sauce.  Many years later, while working as a parcel carrier, I got to know the managing director of Pfanni-Werke, Dr Lange, and told him about our illegal visit to the trade fair and the dumpling feast. I am only now honouring his request to write this story down. I first had to learn to type on a typewriter and then on a keyboard. But better late than never!  Neckache Row at the cinema However, we couldn't scam our way into one of the cinemas in Schwanthalerhöhe as we could at the fair, so we kids had to beg our parents for some money. None of us were given regular pocket money.  The Merkur cinema at Gollierstraße 24, which opened in 1927 and closed in 1962, was the most popular. I can still remember the silent film "Goldrausch" (Gold Rush) (1925) with Charlie Chaplin and "Das große Treiben" (The Overlanders) (1946). But of course, we boys were particularly impressed by the westerns starring the American actor Tom Mix (*1880 to +1940).  Tom Mix, the cowboy with style and a big heart, also appeared in German cinemas in the 1920s, and his films were very popular. The cinema-goers of the 20s and us boys of the 40s liked the dramatic and adventurous stories of the Wild West hero, which were humorously told on the screen in black and white and mostly silent.  As children, we always took seats in the so-called "neckache row" in the cinema when we had the 85 pfennigs entrance fee together. These were the cheapest seats in the very front row. We had to bend our heads way back to see the whole screen. After a while, you would get neckache, hence the name "neckache row". In those days, when nobody had a television but at most a radio, going to the cinema was a very welcome form of entertainment. Back then, several cinemas in our neighbourhood were within walking distance. In addition to the "Merkur", we could also go to the "Westend", the "Ganghofer" and the "Eden", as long as we had somehow managed to raise the 85 pfennigs entrance fee.  Swimming in the "Dante"  There was no outdoor pool in our neighbourhood. To go swimming, we children had to go to the "Dantebad" in the Gern district. That was a good four kilometres away, about an hour's walk, and then, tired from swimming and romping around, an hour back again. There was a tram connection, but we saved ourselves the 20 pennies for the tram because otherwise, we wouldn't have had enough money for the entry fee to the Dante.  We only travelled to the Dantebad by car once, which was an adventure. A neighbour, Mr Schindlauer, offered us a lift to the outdoor pool in the back of his Ford lorry with a wood-gas engine. We were thrilled and sat excitedly on the back of the lorry. It was the first car journey of our lives. The day of our first holy communion and our first traveling by car In 1948, on the day of our holy communion, we were allowed to go by car again. My friend Fritzl, who lived in the same house as me, Annerl from the neighbouring house and I were invited by the baker Limmer to celebrate the day by driving with him to Lake Starnberg in his English "Austin Traveller", a kind of estate car. We sat in amazement on the wooden loading area. What an experience! Such a great car and so fast!  But as the journey progressed, Annerl got quieter and quieter and huddled in her corner. She felt sick from the rocking on the rather bumpy road to Starnberg. At that time, there was still no sign of a motorway for miles around. Annerl wasn't feeling well at all and had to vomit. Of course, that wasn't how Mr Limmer had imagined it. But he took it in his stride. But we children all agreed that the trip had been fantastic. Despite Annerl's sickness! The first Wies'n  Yes, we children from Schwanthalerhöhe lived in modest circumstances, but I have fond memories of those years as a school child. Everything was an adventure. Many things were experienced for the first time. After all, we war children had been young children at a time when the world around us was getting darker and poorer. In the post-war period, new doors and paths were opening. And many things were also "for the first time - again!" for the adults.  The first "Wiesn" (Oktoberfest on the Theresienwiese) after the war took place in September 1949. For me and all the other 10-year-olds, it was the first Oktoberfest of our lives because no Oktoberfest had been held from 1939 to 1949. It was a tremendous event.  Business-minded as we were, we pushed the carousel at the Stibor children's carousel for 10 pennies an hour and then jumped on and went for a ride. This ride still ran without a motor. We had to use our own strength to get it going. What luck for us!  We could afford the 20 pfennigs entrance fee for the Devil's Wheel with our money earned. You were allowed to ride for as long as you wanted; of course, we made the most of it. It was great fun. This cult ride is still trendy at the Oktoberfest today.  When we got hungry, we went to the chicken roastery and begged for the chopped- off chicken offcuts we were given to nibble on.  That was our world, and the Theresienwiese, which is so world-famous today because of the Oktoberfest, was part of it. I learnt to ride a bike there, for example. It was an ideal place for it. It was a vast square where nothing was happening most of the time except during the two weeks of the Oktoberfest.   My father had assembled a bike for me from parts of old bikes, and now I was learning how to ride on the Theresienwiese. There was no obstacle in sight, just a vast empty space. Some distance away, an elderly couple strolled unsuspectingly across the area. But as part of my cycling exercises, I rode right between the man's legs from behind. I was utterly baffled about how this could have happened, and the man was understandably very annoyed. He called me a stupid idiot and barked at me unnecessarily, asking if I couldn't have been more careful. If I could have, I would have done so immediately, but I was distracted by balancing and pedalling!  Schwanthalerhöhe or Westend, a working-class neighbourhood Schwanthalerhöhe, also known as Westend, was created at the end of the 19th century. Although initially planned as a residential suburb of Munich, it developed into a densely populated working-class neighbourhood. This was because many industrial companies were established along the railway line, which meant work for the people. The accommodation offered by private landlords to workers and their families in the rear buildings and courtyards was dark, small, damp and unhealthy. Water had to be fetched in the hallway, and there was one toilet for several tenants in the stairwell.  When the workers joined to form co-operatives and built their own apartment blocks, living conditions improved somewhat. The standards of the co-operative flats were basic, but at least they were no longer run-down neighbourhoods. Social tensions repeatedly led to a high crime level, and the Westend and Schwanthalerhöhe neighbourhoods were known as the "broken glass district" and "robbers' quarter".  I don't know whether our neighbourhood also had a bad reputation in the 1940s and early 1950s. Children aren't interested in such things. We weren't aware that there were no villas in our neighbourhood but rather run-down apartment blocks with peeling plaster. And compared to the ruins that existed for quite a while after the end of the war, every block of flats looked lovely.  Of all the possible crimes committed in a "robbers' neighbourhood", I can only remember one. A murder in our street, at Gollierstraße 36!  A woman who lived on the ground floor was found murdered. For the adults who discussed this case heatedly, it was because this married woman went to another man who lived in the neighbourhood whenever her husband wasn't at home. It was a complete mystery to us children why she would be murdered because she was visiting someone. The whole thing was very mysterious!  Nevertheless, we weren't afraid of a murderer in our street. We instinctively believed that this crime had nothing to do with us children.  We soon forgot all about it. It wasn't that exciting after all.  Our family gradually moved away from Schwanthalerhöhe. At the end of the 1940s, we moved with my grandmother to a larger flat at Maistraße 4 in Ludwigsvorstadt. For me, this meant moving to Tumblingerschule. In 1951, my father got us a flat in the post office block at Ruffinistraße 9 in Nymphenburg-Neuhausen. I had to go to a new school again, the Renata School. But I always made friends quickly, and many children lived in our block of flats. So it was no problem to make friends.  In 1953, after the 8th grade, I started my professional life at the age of 14. I did an apprenticeship as a carpenter in Kazmairstraße. So, every morning, I returned to my old home on Schwanthalerhöhe or in the Westend, whatever you want to call it.  What happened to me then is another story. (HB)

(DE) ‘I have mourned my whole life, just as I do now,’ I said spontaneously to a friend who asked me how I was doing after the death of a loved one.  Grief was deeply rooted in my childhood soul. ‘You children never lacked anything,’ my aunt once replied when I talked to her about it. It wasn't something that was missing, but someone – my father. He had died on the Russian front three days before I was born in 1941. The search for my father accompanied me throughout my life. My greatest wish was to find his grave. For a long time, this seemed impossible until we were able to travel to Russia in 2017.       I missed my absent father, especially during my childhood; his loss is the dominant issue of my biography. My 'forester' father, whom I have never seen. We never saw each other.  When he left for the war, my mother was four months pregnant with me. According to my mother, my father said that he would probably never get to meet me. He never came back. At the start of the Russian offensive, he was drafted and sent to the front lines on the Russian Front.  The day before he left, a photo was taken of an early summer meadow. My unhappy mother sits in front of bed sheets fluttering on a clothesline, holding my three-year-old older sister on her lap, next to her, my handsome father. It was early summer 1941, and ominous signs of bad things to come were already evident. Close to my father in a fantasy world About two years later, a photographer took a picture of our reduced family when I was about 18 months old.  My mother sits on a chair, dressed in black and looking pale. She holds a crumpled handkerchief in her closed hand. I am sitting on her lap, without being held, as my sister leans against her knees. All three of us look lost. My father had been a forester. Before he left, he had entrusted his hunting dog to the care of his sister-in-law, my mother's sister. She knew more about dogs and still lived in her parents' house, which had a large, dog-friendly garden. Father's dog lived with us after his death. Since my mother returned to her family of origin with us children after my father's death, the dog can be seen in all my early childhood photos—a living link to my father, the forester. Once, I held up my sandwich so that the dog couldn't take it from me. I was about three years old. I learned little about my father. No one spoke about him. The war years were too eventful. In addition, the head of the family, my maternal grandfather, died in 1944 at not even sixty years of age, presumably of a heart attack. My father was not forgotten. But after my mother remarried when I was five years old, he was rarely mentioned. Therefore, much was left to my imagination. My lack of knowledge about him and my uncertainty are evident in the following incident: Shortly after I started school, we were asked to name our fathers' professions. I probably said hunter. The teacher explained that such a profession did not exist and that I should ask my mother again. I was humiliated; it felt as if I had fallen into an abyss. Had my father never existed? The little I knew about him was that he came from a place called Herzogswalde, a place I imagined to be forested and romantic, partly because his family had sent pheasants they had shot there during the war. Early stories mentioned that my father's family had been generous, well-read, and not overly interested in material things. During my early school days, I fantasised myself into a world of my own that corresponded to my idea of my father's world. It was situated in a remote, isolated forest ranger's lodge.  In the mornings, especially in winter, I would dress my dolls warmly, place them outside the window, and accompany them in my thoughts on their long, lonely way to school. I would bring them back in after my own school day was over. I loved their smell of fresh, cold winter air. Well into my teenage years, I lived a fantasised double life full of sadness. My play became more sophisticated as I grew older. I built tiny, lifelike forest lodges in the woods and in the garden. A pantry was a must, as the forest lodge was so far away from other people. I couldn't and didn't talk about it; it was my own lonely world, locked away inside me, my comfort that I didn't want to share with anyone. Today, I think I had found a clever way of psychologically processing my father's absence. My father's real home in present-day in Poland (1995) However, as an adult woman, I wanted to get to know the reality, so I travelled to Poland with my husband, Fritjof, in 1995. There was no longer a place called Herzogswalde in Poland. All the maps were written in Polish. That was a challenge. Since we knew that the place must be near Opole, we asked the priests of the surrounding parishes about a place that had been called Herzogswalde before the war. Fritjof communicated with the priests in the purest Latin. They found what they were looking for in their church books. This is how we reached our destination – the place where my father had grown up and where his family had lived.  However, the village of Herzogswalde, now known as Wierzbnik in Polish, was a disappointment compared to the romantic ideas I had had as a child.  It was a long, narrow street village with a small, overgrown duck pond. There were no woods nearby, only a desolate plain. Feeling a little lost, we stood in the village and asked passers-by in broken Polish for more precise locations. They directed us to a German woman who had been married to a Pole and was therefore allowed to stay in Poland; of course, she spoke German, Mrs Dzura. She served us our first Eckes Edelkirsch and took us to visit all the families who had known my father's family. Although we came from Germany, all the Polish families were very friendly. Everywhere we went, we learned that the country made a clear distinction between Nazi Germany and our current country, for example, on memorial plaques. With the help of the families we visited, we found my grandfather's grave. It was the first one in a cemetery created from a former football field after the war. My grandfather had refused to leave his house when the Red Army marched in, stayed behind alone in the village and starved to death. He did not want to leave his home, possibly felt too old, and, after the death of his son, was too depressed to find the strength to flee.  I imagine him to be very warm-hearted, especially after reading the letter he wrote to my mother after his son's death. Overcome with tears, I had to stop reading halfway through the letter the first time I read it. Mrs Djura also took us to my father's family home. It stood large and abandoned in the middle of the village. Nothing had been destroyed, and we visited the large inn kitchen and the dance hall. My grandfather had been an innkeeper and village schoolteacher. Old festive banners still hung in the dance hall, as if time had stood still. However, I couldn't imagine my young father in this lively atmosphere.  This trip to Poland had made my image of my father a little more complete. Although our visit had disillusioned me about the village of his origins, it had nevertheless brought me a little closer to my father. My father's death and my birth – an eternal burden on my soul Another aspect of my search for my father, my search for closeness to him, was my feelings of guilt about his death. They weighed on me like lead weights. My mother had linked the two events together; for her, my birth was inextricably linked to his death. An old superstition says: when a child comes, one must go! Both events were too close together.  As a child, I suffered greatly from the question of whether he was in purgatory or in heaven, and whether I could do anything for him. I tried for hours with prayers of indulgence to bring my father from purgatory to heaven, if so, his death and my birth were connected. During a short period in the church year, there was the opportunity to pray for indulgences. Praying for indulgences meant going to church and praying a certain number of ‘Hail Marys’ and the ‘Lord’s Prayer’, then leaving the church and re-entering it to pray again, and so on. Chalk marks on the church wall helped me keep track. In my zeal, I often reached twenty rounds. My evening prayer always included the request: Make my father go to heaven! I was, I believe, quiet and obedient, and I prayed a great deal; I would never have consciously done anything wrong, quite unlike my older sister. She seemed to fear nothing, dared to do considerably stupid things and seemed much freer than I was. She had no guilt on her conscience and was lucky enough to be blonde like our father. It seemed to me that this brought her closer to him. The evening song, ‘Sleep, little child, sleep, two sheep are standing outside, one black and one white, and if the white one is naughty, the black one will come and bite it,’ saddened me greatly. I believed that I was the black and evil one. I would have liked to know if I had any similarities with my father. Unfortunately, my mother refused to answer my question. I laboriously looked at a photo of my father, compared it with earlier photos of myself, and gave myself the somewhat vague answer that my eyes and mouth might resemble his facial features. I had to grow up first to realise this. I was always preoccupied with the question of how I could get closer to him. Would it help me if I found his grave? Visiting my father's grave – disappointment and arrival My father's grave during the war. I was interested in everything related to his death. During the Cold War, it was impossible to locate the grave in the Soviet Union. The place of his death and his grave are about 80 km from Moscow. After his death, his comrades sent my mother a photo of his grave, with a simple birch cross bearing his name. After the war, one of my father's comrades wrote a detailed report about his pioneer battalion. Their mission as pioneers was to clear the way for the advancing troops. My father's death is also mentioned in this report. The Pioneer Batallion 742. Quote and excerpt: "… Explosive charges with time fuses were placed within Nelidowa, repeatedly halting the advance and supply lines and causing losses in terms of human lives and material. On 14 October (1941, author's note), parts of the battalion were deployed to locate and dismantle these charges. When one of these charges detonated, Private …….. was killed, and when a second charge detonated, OGfr.   ……… and Private ………. (my father, author's note) from the 2nd Company were killed" (Friedrich Noblé, ’Das  Pionierbataillon 742 (Army Troops)" [Engineer Battalion 742 (Army Troops)], p. 18). My husband and I travelled to Moscow with one of our nephews in 2017. Representatives of the German War Graves Commission attended to our request. They organised the trip and our stay in Russia. As an introduction to the work of the War Graves Commission, we were given an explanation and demonstration of how the remains of fallen soldiers are recovered. We were invited to attend an exhumation. The location had been determined using old aerial photographs taken during the war of the fresh graves. It was on an industrial site whose owner had given permission for the graves to be opened. I could hardly believe that such thorough and accurate records had been possible and had actually been made in the midst of war. So much death and suffering, and yet, this bureaucratic mapping! In preparation for the exhumation, the hard asphalt surface, similar to a road, had been drilled open days before. We then looked into an earth pit measuring approximately 2 x 6 metres. The soil at the bottom of the pit was carefully dug out with shovels. Then four bodies became visible. They lay side by side as skeletons, only their eight boots still intact on their foot and leg bones. A harrowing sign of their lives before their death. Even today, as I write this, it still takes my breath away! The remains of the deceased were placed in marked plastic bags for later burial in a dignified cemetery. Before that, the personal belongings of the fallen soldiers had been recovered from their uniform pockets, marked and secured for their families. Suddenly, the lives of the dead were before our eyes. There were photos, small animal replicas and a pocket knife. Thoughts ran through my head: Shouldn't the dead remain in their previous resting place, even if it was undignified? Was there such a thing as the commandment of undisturbed rest for the dead? The use of plastic bags also appalled me. On the other hand, there were thousands of dead soldiers to be moved and the strong desire of their relatives to have a place where they could commemorate the dead. For me, a grave for my father would have been a blessing. Thousands of fallen German and Russian Soldiers. Their names can be read on marble slabs. Later, we visited huge burial grounds with thousands of dead Germans and Russians. The burial grounds were large lawns with steles and marble slabs bearing the names of those buried there. All had been born within a decade and a half and died between the ages of twenty and thirty. A Christian and an Orthodox cross for the German and Russian fallen stood on a small hill. A small memorial service was held under the Christian cross. The names of the fallen from the greater Moscow region were read out, and I heard my father's full name publicly for the first time. My heart could hardly bear the excitement and pain. A jeep, chartered especially for us, then drove us to the remote place of his death in Nelidowa. We went for hours along a gravel road through uninhabited moorland with blue lupins and stunted birch trees. The grave I had seen in the photograph as a child had long since disappeared. It had been built over with a garage during the Cold War. There was a Russian cemetery nearby with special grave shapes. Small squares were fenced in, enclosing the grave site and a table with a bench. Would people eat with the dead when they visited them in remembrance? A beautiful thought! Even though we didn't find my father's grave, I now knew what he had seen shortly before his death: vast moorlands with stunted birch trees, sparsely populated and poor. There was a sawmill in the village, and I could smell the fresh wood, feeling close to my father even without finding his grave. I had wanted this for as long as I could remember. I had the feeling that I had arrived.  My search for my father brought me closer to him. In a photo of him, I can now see similarities with him. The longing remains, but my search for clues has brought me a little closer to him. However, the subject of my father remains a dominant figure in my biography. In everything I do, I want to be a good daughter to him. (MoWi)

(DE) At an auction for antiques and old, well-preserved furniture from all eras, I strike up a conversation with a lady. She is completely enthusiastic about all the pieces of furniture without exception and asks me what I think of a dark living room cabinet from the 1950s. Although I have a particular fondness for old furniture, which is why I went to this auction, this bulky piece of furniture is not my cup of tea, which I tell her. ‘Oh,’ says the lady indignantly, ‘you don't like old furniture, you only like modern IKEA furniture.’ She turns away from me, because in her opinion, anyone who does not love all old furniture without exception is an IKEA furniture lover and therefore, due to their taste, definitely no longer an adequate conversation partner for her. Thinking in boxes This experience serves as a parable that mirrors the current zeitgeist of polarisation and exclusivity. People feel more than they think, are more closed off than open, and interpret more than they ask questions. Thinking in boxes is spreading. They believe they can recognise or even sense someone's mindset, that is, their attitude, based on certain characteristics. Categories! Stereotypes! Separation and division into us, the good and knowledgeable ones, and you, the bad or naive and misguided ones! The good ones go into the pot, the bad ones go into the crock. Demarcation and division into us, the good and knowledgeable, and you, the evil or naive and misguided! At the latest, with the waves of the pandemic, this phenomenon was incorporated into our communication strategies, the media, and political debate. Black-and-white thinking, stereotyping, stigmatising those who think differently and having an irreversible, morally justified opinion have become the norm in a creeping process. Anyone who thinks differently is cancelled. There is no longer any healthy debate with other views. Differentiation, balance, forming opinions through exchange, expressing doubts and asking questions to which one does not already know the answer have fallen into disrepute. Today, in 2025, these values and behaviours are dismissed as mere hesitancy, indecision, cowardice or helplessness. It is attitude that matters, and only secondarily, analytical reasoning. Gut feelings dominate and often stifle objective, controversial debates before they have even begun. Phrases that express attitude as a political concept ‘We stand firmly alongside...’ is a typical phrase used by politicians in the 2020s, first uttered at the beginning of the major conflicts of this period, namely the war in Ukraine and the war in the Middle East. An expression of solidarity without ifs and buts and without specifying who ‘we’ refers to. The government of a country? A particular party? The entire population? This phrase asks nothing and explains nothing. It does not promise action and looks neither to the past nor to the future. But this phrase presumptuously determines which side an entire country must stand on, firmly, unwaveringly, regardless of what that side does. This is ‘emotional’, even melodramatic political sentiment, and this kind of politics distances itself more strongly from other or even partially divergent sentiments or opinions. There is a particular missionary zeal in this. In Germany, the war in Ukraine triggered intense emotional turmoil in both politics and among the population when it came to diplomacy or arms deliveries. Arguments? None! Moral pressure not to abandon the Ukrainians? Yes! In return, supporters of peace diplomacy were labelled as Putin's friends, and there was hardly any argumentative debate. Not even a proposal for both weapons and diplomacy could calm the emotions. ‘You can't talk to Putin!’ or ‘You can't trust Putin!’ were responses that merely expressed a feeling. Ultimately, it all culminated in the feeling that you are an empathetic and compassionate person if you advocate for arms deliveries to Ukraine. And that you are an insensitive person if you consider diplomatic negotiations with Russia to be a solution. The more ‘warlike’ citizens and politicians refused to accept that destruction and death must be avoided. The intention to proclaim the truth and bring salvation moves people more than understanding how world events work, the causes and consequences of wars, and keeping an eye on the respective puppet masters. One is almost tempted to call out to people, in the spirit of Kant, to have the courage to use their brains. But it is moral sentiment, expressed in people's attitudes, that prevails. Hence, the secret preference for pathos and heroism, even in Germany, which was believed to be immune to such things after its history. Climate activist Greta Thunberg and Ukrainian President Volodymyr Zelensky are just the latest examples of this. The young activist was also revered in Germany, and people shuddered with delight when the girl accused the world's politicians: ‘How dare you ...!’ Similarly, Volodymyr Zelensky’s dramatic, emotional words, rather than his arguments, earned him standing ovations in the German Bundestag and the European Parliament. The tendency towards pathos has been evident for some time. ‘Je suis Charlie’ made the rounds in 2015 after the Islamist terrorist attack on the French satirical magazine Charlie Hebdo. This kind of solidarity goes even further, is even more intense, even more captivating than simply standing by. The unaffected defiantly merge with the affected. Who is this message aimed at? At the victims, according to the motto ‘You are not alone!’? At the perpetrators, according to the slogan ‘We will not be silenced and there are many of us!’? Who is asking whether the satire in this magazine deserved criticism? Not death, not destruction, but the question of whether satire really can do whatever it wants. Hardly anyone dared to address this issue after the terrorist attack and the worldwide emotional solidarity campaign. In any case, the spirit of this slogan has captured people's hearts and minds and has also appeared on other occasions, such as the killing of George Floyd by US police officers in 2020. Instead of denouncing racism in US society and demanding a dream of equality and justice, as Martin Luther King did, people are trying to express the idea of equality as a human right with this simple slogan. It is emotional and makes one feel good, as if one belongs to the righteous, because one is exhibiting the morally correct attitude. But it is not sustainable, because the movement subsides as soon as a new, similar case arises that is treated with the same individual emotional response. Causes, solution strategies and contexts are hardly discussed. Too complex? Not emotional enough? Too factual and not morally arrogant enough? In any case, both ‘Je suis Charlie’ and ‘I am George Floyd’ ended up on T-shirts and served commercial purposes, which no one protested against. Politics based on sentiment and shock leads us astray. German Foreign Minister Anna-Lena Baerbock (Alliance 90/The Greens) apparently felt that the classic expression of solidarity, stating that Germany stands firmly alongside Israel after the terrorist attack by Hamas on Israel on 7 October 2023, was not sufficiently emotional. She sought to rekindle the dramatic torch of brotherhood, saying, ‘These days, we are all Israelis.’ Many people were taken aback by this unusual statement from a German minister. The fact that the spark did not catch on and sweep the masses may be because this statement has something to do with citizenship, rather than individual victims. Perhaps people also instinctively recognised the absurdity, even the intrusiveness, of this slogan. One can have mixed feelings about the State of Israel, just as one can about any other state. As citizens, Israelis are faceless and nameless, just like all other citizens. The victims of terrorism, however, have faces and names, and we empathise with them first and foremost as human beings and not as citizens. These Israeli victims also do not stand for a particular value, such as freedom of expression, as the editors of Charlie Hebdo claimed for themselves. The Israelis who were killed, tortured, abducted and humiliated certainly had very different backgrounds, views and attitudes. And in the months that followed, neither the German Foreign Minister nor any other politician said, ‘We stand firmly with the Palestinian people in Gaza!’ nor did they claim that we are now all Palestinians. There would have been ten thousand reasons for emotional solidarity with the Palestinian population, and there still would be in 2025. However, there is no official path for political leaders to express concern in this direction. So what is the attitude that makes the Foreign Secretary, for example, emotionally Israeli but not Palestinian? Isn't that a questionable attitude that assigns different values to human lives? This alone makes it clear how ideological politics leads to a dead end and double standards. The gut feeling that underpins ideological and emotional politics is not a reliable foundation for judgement, evaluation, and action, i.e., for politics. To show empathy, express solidarity, and stand against violence and terror, you don't need to change your citizenship, even if only in spirit. Nor is it necessary to adopt the role of a victim, which can often seem intrusive; instead, it is human and appropriate to convey empathy, humanity, grief, and horror. At the same time, every politician and every human being is called upon to use their brain to recognise backgrounds, motives, connections, and so on, and with their help to classify events and find solutions. The foreign minister, born in 1980, is a politician with conviction and concern, as is often found in her party, Alliance 90/The Greens. And she is a child of her time, our time! In today's world, people wear their convictions on their sleeves, even in the form of clichéd expressions of concern. However, those in positions of responsibility in our society, including the media and ultimately society as a whole, remain stuck in the emotional realm. In that case, it becomes increasingly difficult, if not impossible, to act according to rational criteria. This leads to the formation of the often-cited opinion bubbles, in which everyone reinforces each other's gut feelings and which are inaccessible to those who think or feel differently. And then like-minded people recognise each other by specific characteristics. Those who use gender-neutral language and ride cargo bikes are vaccinated against COVID-19 and support arms deliveries to Ukraine. It's that simple! To put it bluntly! (TA)

(De) Our teacher in the English Conversation course at the Senior Citizens’ Centre is undoubtedly a phenomenal character. He’s not only a musician but also a children's book author – yet none of that prevents him from striking exactly the right tone when engaging with older adults in the course. His appearance, however, has not been tailored to the standard tastes of the participants, aged between 65 and 92. The young man, likely in his 40s, has been wearing dreadlocks since the age of 18. And lo and behold – it works brilliantly. It’s not just that all course participants like him; no, he also commands the kind of authority many teachers in mainstream schools could only dream of. So who would still want to ramble on about generational conflicts!? – Certainly not us, the older student body! He, this almost young man, a member of the next generation after ours, has indeed uncovered some contentious issues in his senior courses – and likely in his family environment as well. “Woke” – Awake, Awoken As is the case for many of his generation, being “woke” is important to him. The English term “woke” means being awake or awakened. So, wokeness is about being alert to discrimination and social injustice. That’s why he has long been trying to raise awareness among those around him to be more mindful in their choice of language. But it seems he often encountered resistance – even stubborn insistence on problematic expressions – especially among the older generation. For this reason, he took the first step by giving talks under the title “ Surely you are still allowed to say that!”  and, in 2025, went on to publish a book bearing the same title.( Literature reference at the end of the article ) Photo/Title: Quentin Strohmeier; Used with permission from the author and publisher Andy Kuhn What is this little book about? What is the author’s aim? On the surface, it’s about identifying inappropriate terms for ethnic groups, explaining why they are unacceptable and offensive to those affected. However, it also presents alternative ways of expressing oneself. What strikes me as particularly important and commendable is the author's recurring desire to contribute to better communication. He firmly rejects any moralistic lecturing as well as stubborn insistence on using old-fashioned terms. The final sentence of the foreword is striking because it deviates from the often heated debate about correct terminology and the changes to wording in literary works that are frequently branded as censorship: “I hope this book gives you some interesting insights and new perspectives – not to demonise the past, but to work together on respectful language for the future.” (p. 9) He appeals to advocates of wokeness and consistent gender-inclusive language not to act morally superior towards those who still find terms like "Gypsy", "Eskimo", "Indian" or "Black" perfectly acceptable, and who don’t wish to replace the generic masculine form with constructions like “...innen” or “...:innen”. (Note by the translator LL: This article refers here to a controversial issue within the German language, which usually uses the generic male form and subsumes female ones; whereas the English language usually uses a neutral form of language that includes both female and male forms. There is much criticism and efforts to change the use of the language to using the female version and subsuming the male one.) At the same time, he wants to point out to those who view linguistic changes with suspicion – and who feel patronised and censored when terms they don’t mean offensively are suddenly banned – that language evolves anyway. Whether we like it or not is irrelevant. Thus, in the chapter titled “Looking Ahead” at the end of the book, we read: “…instead of thinking in extremes – either ‘everything stays as it was’ or ‘everything must change’ – we should seek common ground, through open conversations, which are best conducted verbally, not anonymously posted in some social media columns.” (p. 74) I wholeheartedly agree with the author, and I wish more people think like him and engage in controversial discussions with such openness, self-reflection, deep humanity, and tolerance. That’s why I also believe he would be open to my criticisms and doubts regarding the high expectations placed on wokeness, as well as my questions about how it’s being implemented in our times, all of which are discussed in reference to his book. One thing that struck me as odd in places is the assumption that the acceptance or rejection of wokeness is primarily a generational issue. Contemporary history contradicts that view. Woke – A New Word for Old Ideas Already in the 1970s and 80s, when today’s woke generation hadn’t yet been born – or at most were in nappies – left-wing groups in the United States began paying increasing attention to political correctness . The aim was to prevent hurtful and discriminatory language. In the 1990s, when I was the age of today’s woke generation, this approach was also discussed and promoted in Germany under the label of "politically correct" language. The academic basis for this was the thesis that a change in language would be followed by a change in thinking, attitude, and ultimately, behaviour. Language – a tool of social control? In Germany during the 1990s and later, the idea was that language could be used to steer society in a positive direction – towards respect, mindfulness, acceptance, and tolerance. I still clearly remember how the word  Gipsy  was replaced by Sinti and Roma , just as Eskimos  came to be referred to as Inuit , and how it became common practice to use both feminine and masculine forms wherever possible in official texts. It was a running joke among speakers to exaggerate this for the audience’s amusement – people would speak of leaves and leafesses , or forests and forestesses , and so on. Now in 2025, after more than 30 years of efforts to achieve political correctness in Germany, the discussion is still ongoing – and that’s quite telling. Have these well-intentioned changes in language perhaps failed to move from the head to the heart, so to speak? Could it be that actual linguistic change requires multiple generations and a host of reasons to occur naturally, and cannot be artificially accelerated or imposed? That remains to be seen. Another question is even more interesting – and can certainly be explored in our present time: Is the thesis that a change in people’s sense of justice will take place when negatively connoted terms are replaced with “innocent” terms, not as accurate as hoped? Do new terms truly lead to new attitudes? At this point, I’d like to share a few experiences and reflections that give pause for thought. In the early 2020s, I volunteered to teach German to asylum seekers in a small multi-purpose room in their accommodation facility. When I talked about it with my family and friends, I colloquially referred to this accommodation as an Asylantenheim  (asylum seekers’ home) and to the people as Asylanten (asylum seekers). Friends kindly but firmly pointed out to me that this terminology was no longer acceptable. Indeed, these facilities had long been officially referred to as collective accommodation,  and the people living in them were referred to as migrants  or asylum applicants . However, the living conditions in these accommodations were still unpleasant, and the new term “community accommodation” had nothing to do with living in a community. Changing the terminology did nothing to change the reality. Attitudes towards migrants and asylum seekers have deteriorated even further over the years and culminated in 2025 in an outright anti-migrant sentiment. The abandonment of the negatively connoted terms Asylanten  and Asylantenheim had absolutely no effect on the attitudes of many Germans towards refugees and immigrants. There’s another example that also proves, at least at first glance, the lack of influence language may have. For instance, does someone who now says Sinti  or Roma instead of Gypsy  no longer automatically hold on to their wallet when encountering a person from that ethnic group on a busy street? Would that person rent their flat to a Roma family, or at least not eye them nervously if they became neighbours? Would that person allow their children to befriend Roma children without hesitation? The answer to all these questions is clearly no. Even in 2025, although the term Gypsy  has been taboo for decades, the negative prejudices have not disappeared – in fact, they haven’t even weakened. The traditional mindset of “Bring in the laundry – the Gypsies are here!”  still applies, more or less unchanged, even if the word Gypsy is replaced with Sinti  or Roma . The new terms, which were accepted by those affected, have hardly, if at all, led to new attitudes or behaviours. I can’t shake off the suspicion that the “good people” simply grew weary of fighting prejudice and turned instead to focusing on linguistic reform. And that fight against prejudice may be one of the most frustrating of all – not only because those who are supposed to unlearn their biases often dig in their heels, but also because those who are the targets of prejudice sometimes fall into the self-fulfilling prophecy trap, thus reinforcing the very stereotypes they wish to see dismantled—a vicious cycle. “Black” and “White” The skin colour of a person, especially if it is darker, is an ancient and still highly sensitive topic. Behind this discussion lie centuries of history, centuries of oppression and subjugation, and the development of racist theories for economic and political purposes. The politically correct woke term for people with dark skin is, therefore, also complex and unclear. Even in the book “ Surely you are still allowed to say that ” , the supposedly inoffensive suggestions that are widely accepted aren’t particularly catchy. At this point, I would like to quote from Andy Kuhn’s book: “... the preferred alternative used by the community itself is ‘person of colour’ or ‘people of colour’ (POC). This term emphasises diversity and dignity while avoiding the degrading and historically burdened terms like ‘Negro’ and similar.” (p. 24) As a rule of thumb, the author Andy Kuhn states that the adjective “” black is only acceptable in its capitalised, noun form when referring to a movement, but not as a regular adjective. Otherwise, the English terms are more contemporary – i.e., more woke . (p. 21 ff) I must say, in my view, this expression doesn’t fit smoothly into the German language. It certainly wouldn’t come to me spontaneously to ask, for instance, when searching for a lost child in a park, for a “little person of colour” . Yet those are the classic situations in which one must describe someone: when searching for a person, reporting someone, or giving a description to the police. Of course, I would also never dream of saying “Negro” or “Moor”  – no one who isn’t a racist would think of saying that. For my generation, born in the 1950s, these outdated terms for real people with dark skin were never truly neutral – let alone positive. We used them thoughtlessly for sweets like “Mohrenkopf”  or “Negerkuss” and for nursery rhymes like “Zehn Kleine Negerlein” (Ten Little N*****s”) . That much is true. But in the playground game “Hast du Angst vorm Schwarzen Mann?” (Are You Afraid of the Black Man?)  I never associated the figure with a dark-skinned person, but rather with a frightening character in dark clothes. We read Uncle Tom’s Cabin  and empathised with the victims – the black slaves – whom we would have liked to protect and save. But of course, such reading didn’t teach us that all humans are fundamentally equal. Naturally, the concept of race was conveyed through this literature, along with the notions of otherness  and foreignness . As we know from scientific research, the feelings of “otherness” and “strangeness” can trigger deeply rooted, primitive instincts of distrust and defensiveness. So, does it help when I use the term “people of colour” , as recommended in the book, when I talk about dark-skinned individuals? Do I then see only the person and not a member of an ethnic group or – worse still – a race, which, according to science, doesn’t even exist? During a talk on this topic, where a dark-skinned woman – or to put it in up-to-date, woke terms, a person of colour  – was present, she was asked her opinion on the correct form of address. She replied that “black”  wasn’t appropriate, as she was no more black than the rest of us were white. Which, of course, is true – and I must admit, I no longer like to be referred to as white  either. I had never thought about this before, but her response made me realise that the term “white” , too, is negatively connoted and often far from desirable for fair-skinned Europeans. Just think how desperately many white  people try to hide what they perceive as unattractive skin colour in summer – not to mention the fact that “white people”  are so often described throughout history as arrogant, self-righteous, cruel, violent, and ignorant. So then I suggested “coloured” , because her argument made sense to me. That wasn’t acceptable either, she said – after all, she wasn’t colourful . Coloured  means multicoloured . Ah – but to me, multicoloured  implies many colours, while coloured simply means non-white . And after all, the English term “people of colour”  literally translates to “farbige Menschen”  in German. So, I wonder, why is the English version less offensive than the German? And why does the power to define the appropriateness of a term like coloured  rest solely with her – and not equally with both of us? I consider the terms "dark-skinned"  and "light-skinned " to be unproblematic – comparable, for example, to the entirely neutral terms "dark-haired" and "light-haired ." As a white  person who no longer wishes to be described as such because I feel historically tainted by the label, I feel comfortable with such adjectives. Is it woke  to feel and think this way? Is it fair? Respectful? Mindful? Have I taken a step that now puts persons of colour  under pressure to position themselves on the matter too? Or is that intrusive? Given all this uncertainty, it’s no surprise that many people flip the switch and go into defence mode. They no longer want to hear about it and begin to view the entire debate as exaggerated or even unnecessary. Cries of “language censorship!”  emerge, and the phrase “Surely one should still be allowed to say that!”  regularly comes up in discussions, stifling any genuine engagement. “The Recipient, Not the Sender, Decides!” How do we solve such a problem in an era that emphasises respectful interaction? There is, after all, a long-established rule: The recipient of a message—whether an individual or an ethnic group—decides what is offensive or inappropriate, not the sender! That, in turn, considerably complicates matters. After all, if I need or wish to describe someone, I cannot ask them for their preferred term for their skin colour or ethnicity. Moreover, rules for “woke” terminology differ around the world. The book lists modern self-chosen terms for Native Americans as: “Indigenous peoples, American Indigenous Peoples, Native Americans or Natives (USA), First Nations (Canada), tribal names such as Lakota, Apache, Sioux, etc.” (p. 30) Given the abundance of all these self-determined, non-pejorative terms for ethnic groups, I’m left wondering how any consensus was reached. This brings to mind a population group that is located all over the world and is called by the same name everywhere, and would have every reason to reject its label as negatively connoted and to change it: the Jews! Over the centuries, Jews were insulted, persecuted, discriminated against, and brutally murdered. The term “Jew” was often used as a swear word. Yet Jews have held on to this expression of identity. Why? Because the term wasn’t imposed externally? Because they are proud of their identity and refuse to let it be destroyed from the outside? Because there simply are no alternative terms that are unburdened? Even today, with antisemitism on the rise again, no one is attempting to shield Jews from insults through changes in terminology. Nor are Jews demanding such changes, even as they defend themselves. In this case, “the recipient” has decided to pay attention not to what the sender says, but to their mindset. That could be a way of dealing with each other. A little openness to the inner attitude of others—beyond mere words—would go a long way towards peaceful and positive interaction. This leads to the next open question: Do 30 to 50 years of mindful language have any real impact? Are we seeing even a slight reduction in prejudice and racism, and in return an increase in mindfulness and respect in 2020s society? It depends. It depends on the circles in which one moves, the bubbles in which we live and communicate. The fact is, Germany in 2025 is characterised by deep divides between various social groups and regions. As much as some people treat each other with mindfulness, others hate each other in a ferocity I have not encountered in my adult life. My generation believed such hatred of foreigners, of those who think differently, and of minorities had died out. Farmers ambush a Green Party politician, threatening him with violence. Stones are prepared for throwing at election rallies—allegedly as symbolic gestures. Local politicians resign, out of fear for their families, because they have been subjected to hate-filled emails and threats on Facebook and other social media because of their pro-refugee stances. In Nuremberg, the mayoral candidate—the German-born child of Syrian immigrants and therefore darker-skinned than a typical Franconian—has been bombarded with thousands of hate mails and online posts simply because he is a person of colour. How can this be? Why haven’t decades of teaching values like tolerance, mindfulness, respect and human dignity in schools, cultural institutions, films, and literature reached these people? While on the one hand, there is a struggle for politically correct language, gender inclusion in language and mindfulness, on the other hand, attitudes and prejudices that were long believed to have been overcome are reappearing, and it is clear that these reactionary chords can be successfully played by political parties such as the Union and AfD ( The ultra-right wing political party Alternative für  Deutschland). Taboos were probably only taboos by declaration, but they did not find their way into the hearts and minds of many people.
Perhaps we, and I indeed count myself among those who respect the dignity of every human being, have tried to pass on this value throughout our lives. However, we seem to have stopped too soon to truly engage with the reluctant, to face doubts and questions openly, to explain our positions repeatedly. How did we react instead? With disgust at these unwilling people and their statements. We created taboos. We boxed people in. We should probably have entered the “ring” from the beginning, without fear of contact, engaging on equal terms instead of rising above the “stupid oafs” and turning away in disgust. Now these “undead of the intellectual realm”—racism, antisemitism, xenophobia, hatred and violence towards dissenters—are re-emerging, because some politicians have realised they still exist, dormant and viable. And that they can be awakened. The questions of why these people weren’t reached, why their inner core wasn’t touched, why they perceived what we considered as societal consensus as a moralising condescension were not asked. The resurgence of antisemitism is hard to explain. Since the end of the war, antisemitism has been officially fought on many fronts in Germany, through education and legal bans. Yet attacks on visibly Jewish people — identified by kippah or other characteristics — are clearly on the rise again in statistics. How is this possible? In a world where mindfulness and respect are so strongly reflected in language, ancient prejudices and violence are resurging to levels once thought unimaginable. When you move among the “politically correct”, the “woke crowd”, you might feel you live in a highly sensitive, respectful society. But when you leave that circle, you often find yourself entering a world of old-fashioned mindsets, defiance, and aggression. The societal divide is undeniable. Whilst some turn away from the so-called “stupid people” with disdain and shaking heads, others react with anger, aggression, even violence to anyone who is different or thinks differently. In 2025, communication and exchange between these groups are virtually non-existent. Politically, propagandists and right-wing to far-right parties are gaining ground, not only in Germany. I see historic failures on both sides. The self-righteous Left and Green, who indulge in their moral superiority, completely overlook how they devalue and exclude others. Meanwhile, sympathisers of the Right, convinced they’re “facing reality”, fail to see how their tendency for simple solutions is being exploited, which means they are lied to and used. Talking to one another, genuinely listening, being open to argument and respecting each other would be a new way forward into the future. Anonymity – An Accelerant for Hatred and Indifference Andy Kuhn’s call for direct conversation, beyond the anonymity of social media, is fundamental, as it is often this very anonymity that unleashes inhibitions. On social media, where people can give free rein to their most appalling and repulsive instincts under the cover of anonymity, you can see what lurks in many minds and souls. But it’s not only hateful messages that people spew out from behind a veil of anonymity. Increasingly, we also see seemingly harmless displays of everyday inconsideration. Indifference hides well in anonymity. Every car driver can be identified by their number plate if they behave recklessly or like a road bully. This is not the same for cyclists and e-scooter riders. They hardly need to fear being held accountable. Is that why their behaviour in traffic is often so reckless and inconsiderate that an elderly lady like me no longer dares to cycle on the road? What were those who parked the e-scooter thinking? – Nothing at all! E-scooters and fancy cargo bikes are frequently parked in a way that forces pedestrians to take dangerous detours over roadways and cycle paths. The culprits remain untraceable. A bicycle or e-scooter has no number plate! Cyclists motivated by climate protection are not necessarily motivated by the protection of human beings. And even nature lovers who go hiking in the mountains are increasingly abusing the anonymity of winter shelters by leaving rubbish behind, burning furniture, or deliberately vandalising property, according to the Alpine Club, Mindfulness, it seems, is swiftly followed by indifference – even a certain moral decay. (Current note: In June 2025, the German Chancellor Friedrich Merz claimed to be grateful for Israel’s attack on Iran – a violation of international law. Israel, he said, was “doing the dirty work” for us, by which he presumably meant the Western states, including Germany. That a chancellor dares to speak and possibly even think like this! This statement would be worthy of a mafia boss. And all this happens in a society where large parts strive for mindful language!) In five, ten, or fifteen years, we will see where this Zeitgeist has led society.(TA) Note on Terminology: The use of specific terms in this context is necessary because the discussion revolves around language. Naturally – and this is clearly expressed in the text – no offence is intended, and it has never occurred to me to describe people in such a way. Literature Reference Andy Kuhn: “Das wird man doch noch sagen dürfen. Ein Buch über die Achtsamkeit der Sprache.”  ( Surely you are still allowed to say that! A Book About Mindfulness in Language)  First Edition 2025) Those wishing to obtain the book may contact: andy_kuhn@gmx.net ) In nine chapters, the author systematically examines problematic terms for various ethnic groups, explains the historical development of outdated and offensive labels, and offers alternatives. It is an honest, non-dogmatic book about wokeness, and a shining example of openness and tolerance, especially when the author reflects on his own unsatisfying attempts at gender-inclusive language. I was also genuinely impressed by his personal account of wrestling with the issue of “cultural appropriation” concerning his hairstyle – dreadlocks, which he now simply refers to as “locks” as a result of his research. He devotes an entire chapter to the topic, explaining that matted locks are particularly associated with the Rastafarian movement in Jamaica, where this hairstyle is a profound expression of reverence for God. As such, it is not really appropriate for a European to adopt this external feature of a belief and culture, risking distortion and stripping it of its original meaning. Had his research revealed that matted locks existed exclusively in that culture, he would have cut his hair – a highly consistent stance. I won’t spoil the conclusion, but I will say this much: he still wears his locks, and for good reason. This in-depth discussion also clarifies for readers what cultural appropriation is and why it is problematic. The contents of this book may serve as the beginning of interesting – even controversial – conversations, which seems to be something Andy Kuhn cares deeply about. “Let’s talk to one another about mindfulness – without prejudice or pre-conception.” That’s how I would summarise his message. (TA)

(DE) When I returned to my hometown, my apartment, my neighbourhood, and my regular stores after a several-year absence, almost everything was still the same as before, despite the pandemic we had endured. Only my hairdresser had retired. I don't know if this is a problem for men, but for women, especially at my age, it definitely is. Going to the hairdresser is a matter of trust. You anticipate it because it removes the upsetting sight in the mirror. You look forward to stepping back out onto the street an hour or two later, revitalised and looking your best, with renewed self-confidence. You look forward to someone believing that, despite wrinkles, drooping eyelids, and a double chin, there is still something that can be done. But the idea of feeling horribly disfigured because the cut is unsuccessful and the hair colour doesn't match your complexion fills you with dread. You never forget an experience like that. That's why every woman feels happy when she finds a hairdresser who knows how to make her feel good. If you lose your hairdresser for any reason, you are faced with the seemingly impossible question: Which hairdressing salon can I trust? I set out on a search and looked through many shop windows into various salons. I noticed that nowadays there are more young men than older women sitting in hairdressing chairs. Most hair salons are more elegant than cosy. The stylish hairdressers seem to have learned during their training that a rather snooty look is more in keeping with professional ethics than a smile on their faces. Sometimes I didn't dare enter the shop because I was afraid that these hairdressers wouldn't know what to do with my head and would simply give me an appointment with a deep sigh. But one day, I was drawn to a salon that didn't shine with elegance but with vibrancy. The store sign also mentioned relaxation, so I went in. Behind the small counter stood a young dark-haired man who, when he looked up, had a radiant smile in his eyes. Completely taken aback, I explained that I urgently needed a hairdresser and pointed to my hair, hoping for understanding. There was no sign of alarm on the young man's face. Unperturbed, he leaned over his appointment book and suggested a suitable appointment for me. As I left, he accompanied me to the door and said goodbye with a cheerful “I look forward to seeing you!” Had I really just experienced that? What was wrong with this young man? Had he missed all the training courses where young hairdressers are taught to behave condescendingly, implying superiority? When I arrived for my appointment at the hairdresser's, I felt very unsettled. What was the catch? To cut a long story short: there wasn't one. A salon where you feel at home This young man gave my hair a natural colour and a suitable cut, and he was very friendly to everyone who entered the salon. An elderly lady simply wanted her hair blow-dried because he was better at it than anyone else. Young men had these modern haircuts, which always remind me of the 1940s. They chatted with their trusted hairdresser as if he were an old friend. He seemed to understand his customers' circumstances well, yet he didn't ask any intrusive questions. I never heard him engage in small talk or spout platitudes. He preferred to remain silent and focus on his work. Once, when I made a snide remark about a comment on the radio, which was playing constantly, he asked me quite sincerely what I meant by it. He stopped his work, listened carefully to my explanation, nodded, and that was the end of it. Once, everyone in the saloon was discussing strange phone calls, which often turned out to be linked to criminal activities. My hairdresser listened and finally shared his own story. One afternoon, a strange phone call came into the shop. A woman's voice said, ‘Oh please, could you read something to me so I can fall asleep?’ We all laughed and thought it was a joke. ‘What did you do?’ I asked. ‘Well,’ he said very seriously, "I didn't have any customers at the time, so I read articles from the magazines lying around here. In between, I kept asking if the caller was still listening. But at some point, all I could hear was the lady breathing. So I quietly hung up." My hairdresser is simply a good person! I was speechless. Most people, myself included, would have hung up angrily or suspected some malicious intent. Not my hairdresser. He was able to fulfil this unusual but very human request, and so he simply did it. That was when I first realised that my hairdresser must not only be a good hairdresser but also a good person. On another occasion, my impression was reinforced. It was a freezing Saturday afternoon in spring, and it had rained all day. My hairdresser was pressed for time because there had been an emergency in his family, and he needed to get home as quickly as possible. While he was still busy blow-drying my hair, a man about 50 hurried in. He held an umbrella and was dressed only in a T-shirt and trousers, both soaking wet. As he tried to tell his story—that a friend had refused to give him a lift in his car—a puddle spread around him. My hairdresser stood sadly in front of the soaked man and asked him what he could do, how he could help. But the man rushed out of the shop again and disappeared. Stunned, my hairdresser returned to the salon chair where I was sitting and stared ahead. ‘What could I have done? He didn't tell me what he needed! I didn't understand him and now he's gone!’ He felt bad because he was helpless in this situation and didn't know how he could have reacted better. The only thing that didn't occur to him was to get upset that the man had come into the shop and disturbed him. Nor did he justify himself by citing his own emergency and time pressure as an excuse for not having done anything specific. He just kept insisting that he would have done everything if the man had only told him how he could help. I observed the situation and can only say that to this day, I don't know what could have been done for the man who appeared and vanished in a flash. But that's how he is, my hairdresser! A philanthropist! A good person! A painful experience and a new beginning! I was very curious to discover what kind of life story lay behind such a character, so I began asking him questions cautiously. And so, gradually, I learned about his life story. My hairdresser was originally an exceptionally talented footballer. Football had been his great passion since childhood. He trained hard in the youth team of a well-known football club and, because he was also very talented, he was highly promoted by the club. Before he was 20, he was playing for the amateurs, and no one doubted that he was a gifted professional footballer in the making. Several hours of training every day alongside his apprenticeship filled his days quite nicely. And on the weekends, he headed to the matches. His talent was outstanding, and he enjoyed the sense of recognition and admiration he received. Just a bit longer, and he could make the leap to professional football! But he still wanted to complete his apprenticeship. Despite his promising future as a professional footballer, he believed it was sensible to acquire a vocational qualification. His trainer and employer supported their apprentice, who aimed to stay grounded while pursuing his big dream. And then, fate started to place obstacles in his path. He got a new boss. This boss was no longer as willing to support the third-year apprentice in his football career. The chemistry between them was not right. There was a falling out, and a typical reaction from a young man in his twenties who had not yet learnt to cling to desperate hope, but who, spoiled by fate and blessed with talent and attention, believed in himself and his luck. The apprentice quit in the middle of his final year and put all his eggs in one basket, namely football. This was not unrealistic, because not only he, but the whole club and its fans believed in the gifted centre-forward. A few weeks after quitting his apprenticeship, it happened. There was a football match in the hall! He twisted his left foot—broken ankle! The club's great hope was now in the hospital. Of course, the doctors managed to fix the fracture. After the healing process, rehabilitation followed, accompanied by the patient's restlessness, as he worked obsessively towards his full recovery. To build his muscles and endurance, he took a job as a postman as soon as he was physically able, delivering mail by bicycle without the aid of an electric motor. Not only did the young man hope for a full recovery, but the football club did as well. They offered him their full support. For over a year, the door to the amateur team and therefore to a professional career remained open. This was thanks to the conviction of both the club's management and the players. Their captain should return, had to return! Such talent couldn't just vanish! But what no one wanted to believe happened. He never regained the form he once had. Eventually, not only he himself but also the club had to accept this reality, and the door to a professional career closed once and for all. How does a young man in his mid-20s, who has dedicated his entire life to this dream and was so close to achieving it, cope with this stroke of fate? When I asked him this question, a wistful expression appeared on his face. Even many years later, he still could not find the right words to describe how he felt at that moment. ‘I couldn't go to any football pitch. I couldn't even watch a game on TV, not even with my family,’ he tried to explain his state of mind to me. ‘Even today, sadness mingles with my enthusiasm for football when I see the players on the pitch. That could have been me. The thought is impossible to suppress." You can tell that this wound remains far from healed, even after all these years. Therefore, I didn't ask how he experienced or, rather, survived the disorientation after his final exit from football. But one thing is certain. Neither he nor his family had an easy time during this period. And this is where the father, who runs a hairdressing salon supported by his wife, comes in. These parents do not appear to have pressured their traumatised, sad, and clearly angry son to start doing something meaningful with his life or to stop dwelling on this dream. They probably allowed him time to grieve, which is difficult for parents and therefore a significant achievement. But one day, he surprised them and himself with a decision. The young man, who used to come and go as he pleased in his father's salon, suddenly developed an unexpected wish to be trained by a hairdresser working there. When he got up that day, he didn't even realise it himself. It was only when he heard himself say to his father's employee in the shop, ‘Would you take me on as an apprentice?’, that he understood he had made a decision about his future. Today, he enjoys being a hairdresser and succeeds in making his customers feel as if the artist in him is eager for the task. There is also a positive atmosphere during each visit to the hairdresser. He never looks at his customers' heads with indifference, but with that very special creative gaze that asks: What shall we do today? And then you can see the joy on his face when his work is finished. Always something different, never the same! And every now and then, he even says to me, an old lady, as I leave: ‘You look good.’ Since I have a mirror or two at home and occasionally look at myself in them, I can only say again: my hairdresser is a good person! (TA)