HomeMy WebLinkAboutThe Citizen, 1996-04-10, Page 5Arthur Black
International Scene
By; Raymond Canon
THE CITIZEN, WEDNESDAY, APRIL 10, 1996 PAGE 5.
Fear of flying
I don't haye a fear of flying.
1 have a fear of crashing.
Anon
I've flown to Yellowknife. I've flown to
Halifax and Atlanta, Winnipeg and Madrid,
Moncton and Fort MacMurray, Vancouver
and Dallas. I've been lost in Heathrow, eaten
cardboard sandwiches in O'Hare, searched
for my luggage in the bowels of Miami
International and the Lester B. Pearson
Labyrinth — I must have flown around the
world five times in short installments ...
And I've never become used to it. I still
feel uneasy when I park my buns in seat 18A
and wait for the flight attendant to begin her
sing-song mantra about the flotation devices
under my seat, the smoke detectors in the
washroom and the oxygen masks over my
head.
And I'll tell ya, the story in my newspaper
this week doesn't make me feel more blast
about flying.
Did you see the story? A survey conducted
by the British airline pilots union found that
40 per cent of British pilots admit they have
fallen asleep over the controls in flight.
It gets worse. One snoozing pilot
accidentally strayed into a United Nations
no-fly zone over the former Yugoslavia and
came within a whisker of being shot down.
Another pilot — captain of a jumbo jet
How columns happen
I would suppose that anybody reading a
few of the articles that appear under my
name would perhaps wonder where I get my
material, whom I talk to, how much research
do I do and the like.
Are the articles dashed off in the heat of
passion? Do I have a ghost writer who has a
superior way with words and could, if called
upon, sell snow to the Eskimos?
Good questions all, but to start things out
on the right track, I have to inform you that
every word is written by me. I do this
because I know what I want to say and I do
not want anybody else saying it for me. I
have people who know me personally and
who read my articles; they tell me that my
articles sound a great deal like I am in
person, in or outside the classroom. I take
that as a sign of success since that is
precisely what I want them to be — a
projection of my way of saying things.
When I was doing a thesis at university,
my professor handed back a chapter that I
had written and said that, while it might go
over very well in an informal conversation,
it would certainly not do as part of a learned
document.
Needless to say, I was glad when I got it
finished; when I look at it today, I wonder
just how I was able to sound so pedantic for
175 pages. The thesis did play a pivotal role
in conditioning my career from then on but
that is another story.
Most of the countries I write about, I know
at first hand, having lived, worked or studied
there, or visited in the course of writing a
series of articles.
flying to the Caribbean woke up with a start
and darted an embarrassed glance over at his
first officer — only to discover that he, too,
was sawing logs.
These are not the kind of confessions you
want to hear about while you're checking
your luggage through from Montreal to
Regina.
The problem with airplane urn ... mishaps
is that, while they don't happen very often,
when they do, they are lulus.
Not surprising, really. You've got an
oversized aluminum cigar tube held together
by rivets rocketing through the ether at
several hundred miles an hour and there's a
couple of guys at the front end sitting in
front of a panel with about five hundred
dials, switches, buttons, levers and toggles to
choose from. Not surprising that airline
disasters happen. What's astonishing is that
they don't happen more often.
We should all be in awe of the daily,
multi-miracles of air travel, but we're not.
We grouse and grumble about the dinky
seats they give us, the unidentifiable food
they serve us, the lousy in-flight movies they
show us.
Ever stop to think about the other side of
the coin? Ever wonder what the pilots, the
flight attendants and the airline maintenance
people think of the human cargo they carry?
Not much. The newspaper, USA Today
polled flight attendants to get their opinions
on the average airline passenger. They told
To cite one example, I travelled all over
Yugoslavia doing about a dozen articles on
that country after Tito threw the Russians
out. Sarajevo is very real to me: I arrived
there by train after midnight and ended up
having the police find a place for me to stay.
While I was there I talked to all the factions;
as a result a great deal of what has happened
there in the past few years comes as no
surprise whatsoever.
If I talk a bit more about Switzerland than
other countries, it should be said that it is
only by a strange twist of fate that I am in.
Canada and not there. I often wonder what
my life would be like if I had turned to the
left, as it were, instead of to the right but,
having gone in one direction, I have no
regrets whatsoever at having become a
Canadian.
The fact that I continue to maintain and
enjoy close ties with Switzerland only serves
to make my life doubly rewarding. To be
connected to the two finest countries in the
world is a sheer delight.
It is perhaps logical that one of the first
steps in my career as a Canadian should be
in the direction of the Department of
External Affairs. This helped me to hone my
knowledge of a number of countries in a
more structured way than just being in one
of them. Given that objectivity was a prime
goal when writing reports on nation A or B,
it helped me to be more analytical.
One of my professors once told me that, in
an age when specialization was the name of
the game, I was extremely obstinate in my
desire not to specialize, but to know as many
different things as possible about a subject.
When I was cycling around Holland, I
deliberately stopped one day to talk to a
Dutch farmer to find out as much as I could
about tulips. I was naturally curious and my
horror stories of boors who called them
"waitresses", yelled at them, slopped their
food all over — even "goosed" them to get
attention.
It's outrageous. Just because we're
customers doesn't mean we're entitled to act
like idiots. We are not after all, chimpanzees
— even when the bar service is
complimentary.
How, for instance, would you like to have
been on a recent flight from London to Los
Angeles, on which a horde of drunken
English and Irish tourists, threw food around
the plane, cursed at the top of their lungs and
sent their kids (some as young as two) to
sneak more booze off the liquor trolley. One
of the louts tried to punch a flight attendant
who refused to serve him another drink.
There is, I'm delighted to report, a happy
ending to this story.
Also traveling on the London to Los
Angeles flight: members of the US Olympic
Wrestling Team. The British barbarians
looked up from their seat trays to behold five
unsmiling Olympic athletes with shoulders
as wide as grand pianos staring down at
them. The worst offenders were slammed
into submission and handcuffed to their
seats, while the plane made an unscheduled
stop at Minneapolis. There, the bozos were
taken off the flight, thrown in the slammer —
and sent back to Blighty on the next
available flight.
A non-drinking flight, I understand.
Dutch got an excellent workout. I like
flowers and a little knowledge of them adds
greatly to this appreciation.
I am also curious about people. When my
wife went to Europe with me, she claimed
that I would strike up a conversation
everywhere. When you do this thousands of
times, you tuck away a lot of information
and it pops out time and time again in the
articles you read.
I wrote editorials for 20 years for an
Ontario daily newspaper and, while I
enjoyed this as well, it was not the same as
sitting down and writing about a subject of
interest to you and hopefully of interest to
others.
I could throw myself into it with gusto
and, when necessary, research the material
in my extensive library. I can't remember,
after all, when a person got elected, shot,
rejected or honoured. There are things you
have to check on, regardless of the extent of
your knowledge.
Above all, I like to get people to realize
that there is a big and fascinating world
beyond the boundaries of southwestern
Ontario, a world that needs to be explored
and explained, a world where people have
the same cares and joys as we do but in
different circumstances. We are not alone in
cursing taxes, enjoying music, food,
recreation and the like. We experience
moments of sheer joy or we fear illness or
death wherever we are.
If I have had the great fortune of seeing
more of it than most people, I have the
equally great fortune of bringing some of it
to you.
Unlike the 15,000 or so students whom I
have taught the intricacies of Economics, I
don't even have to give you an exam. You
might say that we both win.
The
Short
of it
By Bonnie Gropp
No debate aboutielimi
"That's because there is no debate about
Jimi, Mom."
This comment came from one of my
offspring, Sunday night in response to an
observation made while watching a special
on 60s musician, Jimi Hendrix. The
remarkable virtuosity of this guitarist is
something that, while all in the family may
not enjoy equally, is nonetheless
acknowledged and admired. His was an
amazing talent. No debate about it.
While this remark may initially stem no
big deal, upon further reflection it caused
me some wonder. In a household of six
individuals, with very definite opinions on
what they like and what they don't, finding
one entity which does not inspire at least
some dispute is worthy of notice.
Suffice it to say, with so much to argue
about, our home is seldom dull. Healthy
debate opens lines of communication and
understanding. While I'd be a liar if I said
this was the only kind our family indulged in
we do have our moments when issues are
dealt with in an open minded, fair manner,
albeit from opposing corners. When this
occurs it is lively conversation that requires
rationalization and integrity.
Civilized debate occurs in courtroom
drama and political arenas. But it can also
spice up social situations, provided it is
conducted with a sense of humour and
wholesome respect for the other individual's
right to a differing opinion. Many a dinner
party has been lost to dull, uncontroversial
dialogue. Mundane small talk perpetually
based on safe topics is, after all, inane. In
unfamiliar surroundings with unfamiliar
faces, 15 minutes of discussion can centre
around such enlightening topics as how to
feather duster the paint onto a wall.
Personally, though I do get rather bored
with the chatter used strictly to fill those
uncomfortable silences, I am also unnerved
when situations become contentious. While I
might not like the former, I will typically shy
away from conversations which may lead to
argument.
Except with my loved ones that is. It is
only in that familial environment I am able
to relax and speak my mind. With my
husband and kids I can be who I am; I need
not find verbal fodder to fill voids and while
my opinions may not matter, they are
tolerated.
Thus my family is my forum for debate.
Demographically we're a good mix, which
provides fairly extreme perspectives on ideas
occasionally. They let me rant on things as I
see them, and don't hate me for it. In turn I
am privy to their views on topics and
because they are usually not shared by me,
am forced to practise tolerance.
For someone who has spent a good portion
of her life worrying about what others think,
who will often avoid conversation for fear of
saying the wrong thing, our family's dinner
table debates have provided me with a
chance to air my views without danger of
derision. They have helped me learn to open
up verbally and above all, laugh at myself.
That's part of the reason why I enjoy their
company more than anyone's.
Now, all this is not to say that we are any
different than anyone else. Most families
experience talks where things don't always
turn out so well, as well as animated, good-
natured arguement. What began as a debate
can flare into a raging argument.
But, now I have a solution. When control,
tolerance and deliberation are out of hand,
I'll just put on a Hendrix CD! There is, after
all, no debate about Jimi.