Crocodiles and Education

By Judy Opitz

When I look back on my life I begin to wonder if I have achieved anything of consequence.  To my sorrow I had borne no children but I had enjoyed a very fulfilling life in other ways, particularly in the opportunities offered me by Australia.   In 1958, at the age of 34, after years of getting nowhere in particular, I decided to migrate to Australia under the Ten Pound Pom scheme.  I could not have foreseen that in the 50 years I was to spend in that country, I would be helping to pioneer a tourist venture before ‘going back to school’ as a mature age student.

For two years I worked my way around Australia’s southern States before taking a job in a safari camp in the wild, rugged country of Western Arnhem Land in the Northern Territory.   Access to the camp some 300 miles east of Darwin was along a rough bush track where buffaloes sometimes barred the way and kangaroos leapt alongside the vehicle.  Flooding of the track in the Wet Season, however, meant such access was cut off but the safari camps, buffalo farms, and Mission Stations in the region all had their own airstrip and were in contact with the outside world by two-way radio.  

The camp where I worked, known as Nourlangie Safari Camp, catered for rich Americans seeking a trophy of a pair of buffalo horns or a crocodile skull to mount on their walls back home.  One of the guides at the camp was a crocodile hunter called Tom who was about to play a large part in my life.  I was employed at the camp as chief cook and bottle washer but often had the chance to join the guests exploring the cave country with its Aboriginal wall paintings dating back thousands of years and was also taken on hunting expeditions.  I hated watching the killing part of it but often lent a hand at skinning the slain beasts.  I did, however, love joining in the fishing trips undertaken to various crocodile infested waters.  One billabong, known as Yellow Waters because of the yellow weeds which covered part of it, became my favourite with its jabirus strutting to the waters edge and crocodiles cruising with just their eyes showing above the water.   At sunset, the water literally glowed while the sun sank below the horizon.

  

Unfortunately such pleasure was not to last as a couple of seasons later the camp ran into financial difficulties and had to close.  Neither Tom nor I wanted to leave this magical region and began to dream of setting up our own non-safari style tourist venture in the Yellow Waters area so that others could share in what this spectacular piece of country had to offer.   Perhaps, one day, we could introduce boat cruises on Yellow Waters where passengers could enjoy the sight of crocodiles swimming around the boat.  We planned to start out with a little trading post and in 1964 our adventures began (1).  Financial and other difficulties plagued us for many years but the business grew as bitumen roads and bridges in the region were built.  Our dream was complete when we eventually ended up with a fully licensed Motel we called the Cooinda Motel (Cooinda being an Aboriginal term meaning Happy Meeting Place.)  Our time in the bush ended when the business got beyond our capabilities to handle successfully and, in 1978, we sold to the traditional owners association, known as the Gagadju Association, who were able to take it up several notches in comfort and management. 

After the sale we retired but sadly Tom died in 1982 and I found myself at a loss to know what to do with the rest of my life.  For some years I ran a souvenir shop in Darwin making frequent trips to Cooinda, enjoying watching the crocodiles cavorting on Yellow Waters, chatting with Aboriginal friends and being amazed at how modernised the Motel had now become in the recently proclaimed Kakadu National Park.  Then suddenly I had an urge to catch up on the higher education I’d missed out on because of war disruptions in the 1940’s.  I dared to apply to enrol in a degree course at the Northern Territory University (later to be known as Charles Darwin University) and to my acute joy was accepted on probation.  I closed down my shop and in 1990, at the age of 66, I became a Mature Age Student in archaeology/anthropology. 

My studies continued happily over the next few years and, in 1996, I was awarded my Bachelor of Arts followed by my BA Honours in 1998.  Finally, in 2008, with the aid of a scholarship, I achieved my doctorate.  Shortly after that, with 50 years of life in Australia behind me, I returned to England.   I was hardly employable at the age of 92 so the question now was how would I be able to put to use all I had learned?  Or had I simply been wasting my time and the time of all those others who had helped me through? Then it occurred to me that by making known my experiences of the amazing academic stimuli provided at Charles Darwin University, augmented by the  exotic beauty of Kakadu National Park, it might encourage others to seek and find a similar joy in that location.  Then, in their more appropriate age group, they could make a better practical and wide-ranging use of their studies than I was now able to do?   

Such ideas, I thought, might interest not only school leavers but the mature aged and even war veterans.  Many school leavers in England or the Continent intending going on to University may also be visiting Australia in their gap year.  Why not include a short course at CDU, perhaps in hospitality, which would look well on their CV.  Those of mature years might find a satisfying outlet for their continuing energy by possibly indulging in a full four year course.  Even in their 60’s there was still a 20 year career time ahead of them.  War veterans, perhaps unsettled and at a loose end, could change their world by pursuing an educational adventure.  Their fighting experiences may well have opened them up to the need and usefulness of humanitarian and community studies and they could thereby help in the making of a less fractious world by getting involved in international relations in some corner of the globe.  If anyone takes up the idea of studying at C.D.U., finds a Course (2) that interests them and then spreads such broadened knowledge where they see fit, I believe I will have achieved something useful in my life.    

Notes.  (1) Those interested in learning more about the setting up of our venture may like to Google for ‘How the Crocodile Hunter and his ‘English Rose’ pioneered Kakadu Tourism’ or read my autobiography An English Rose in Kakadu. Her Life Journey from English Manor to Northern Territory Frontier.

(2) Those keen to know more about study in Australia could Google for CDU Office of International Services where details are given of all their Courses ranging from one to five years.  For all general and admission enquiries you can then chat to them online, or email them at international@cdu.au.   

1984: Thirty-Two Years Later

By Payal Singh Mohanka

The passage of time has lent a surreal hue to the ghastly spine-chilling memories of 1984.

Those who survived to tell the tale, wonder if that blood-curling violence truly played out. Or is it just a recurring nightmare?

The scars have dimmed but the memories are vividly etched…

I was a journalist, who had just finished a year’s training at the Times of India[1] and was confirmed as a sub-editor in the Illustrated Weekly of India.[2] My first piece for the magazine was my personal experience. A Sikh and a staffer, I was to share the terror of a train journey on that fateful day.

October 31, 1984

There was a glint of madness in their eyes and murder etched across their faces. Ominous shouts and cries of ‘Koi Sardar hain? Goli se maar dalenge’[3] followed. We were all shocked into a state of stunned numbness.

We were a group of 20 Sikhs on our way to Delhi for a wedding. When we had boarded the Deluxe[4] from Kolkata’s Howrah station on October 31, we had never imagined that death and destruction were in store for us.

It was 12.30 pm that we first heard that Prime Minister Indira Gandhi[5] had been shot by her bodyguards and was in hospital. Our instant reaction was one of disbelief. The confirmed news of Mrs. Gandhi’s tragic assassination reached us over the radio at about 6.30 pm. And it was only then that we learnt that the two assailants were Sikhs. Every passenger irrespective of his religion was in a state of shocked silence. But not one had anticipated the disaster that awaited us at Ghaziabad.

The train reached Ghaziabad,[6] two hours from Delhi at 11 am the next day. That was the beginning of two harrowing hours for us, when we were suspended between life and death. A bloodthirsty mob, almost like a pack of wolves hunting for prey, went from coach to coach in search of Sikhs.

In a frenzy of madness, the mob, armed with iron rods and knives, brutally dragged out Sikhs, burnt their turbans, hacked them to death and threw them across the tracks. Even the old and feeble were not spared. The barbaric mob, totally devoid of rationality, declared that women would be spared. But in what sense were they ‘spared’? What can be more torturous for women than seeing male members of their family brutally killed in front of their eyes?

The only Sardars who were spared were the six of us. And the credit goes to the innate goodness of the passengers in our coach. Before the train even halted at Ghaziabad, the hysterical mob had caught a glimpse of the sex turbaned Sikhs. One of whom was my father.

A fusillade of stones followed and the glass windows were smashed to bits. Shutters were hastily pulled down for protection. The police, we were told, could not control the wild mob and found it easier to turn their backs and walk away.

We had a ladies’ compartment and the other passengers in our coach, realising there was more trouble ahead, suggested that the Sardars in our group occupy it. At first, they were reluctant but we literally forced them in. I could well understand their discomfiture. It was ironic! Sardars who were historically known for their valour now had to protect themselves by hiding in a ladies’ compartment or else become victims of a hysterical horde. My mother and the mother of the bride-to-be were also pushed into the ladies’ compartment so that they could answer if any questions were asked.

The main doors of the coach were locked from inside. We waited with bated breath. The mob, hell-bent on destruction, was not to be deterred. They pounded on the heavy metal door for over 15 minutes. The incessant hammering was accompanied by threats to set the train on fire. One non-Sikh passenger shifted uncomfortably in his seat and felt that all of them would lose their lives if the door was not opened. But he was sternly reprimanded by the others who forcefully announced that under no circumstances would the door be opened.

But finally the mob broke open the door. Their violent mutilation of the train had only whetted their appetite for more destruction. The savage mob stormed into our coach and walked past the ladies’ compartment. But even before we could sigh with relief, they turned around and angrily demanded that the door of the ladies’ compartment be opened, so they could check for themselves.

But our nerves had reached breaking point. Yet we couldn’t lose our composure lest they suspect that something was amiss. My parents were inside. Yet my face could not betray any emotion. We tried to convince them that there were just panic-stricken women inside but the mob was adamant. They began to bang on the door. They seemed to grow suspicious at the sight of a large number of women outside the ladies’ compartment and pointing towards us, asked the other passengers, “Are these women travelling alone?” Even before I could bat an eyelid, a middle-aged Hindu replied, “No, they are with us.” Our fellow passengers couldn’t have been more cooperative.

The petrified screams of the two ladies from inside, our pleas and the persuasion of other passengers finally seemed to convince the mob that there were no Sardars. They retreated. After two hours of excruciating agony, we could almost collapse with sheer relief.

We hoped that conditions in Delhi would be better but sadly, no security arrangements had been made at the station. There were many Sardars stranded in the waiting room, while the women left the station to make arrangements for them. I left the station at 3 pm with the ladies in our group, while the Sardars with us, who were the only ones on the train to survive the ghastly disaster, waited at the station. They removed dead bodies from the train and assisted the injured. By 8 pm, we were successful in making arrangements for them to be safely ferried out of the station.

In a state of stupefied silence, I saw bodies of Sardars with rivulets of blood streaming down their faces, being unloaded from the train in which I had travelled. Brutally battered bodies of innocent Sikhs reached Delhi from other incoming trains as well. Innocent people who had done nothing, except for being Sikhs and travelling to Delhi on that fateful day!

THIRTY -TWO years later when as a family we talk of 1984, there is a sense of disbelief. My 85-year-old father, Jasmit Singh says, “It’s a second life for me. It brought back the horrors of Partition.[7] I can’t forget that train journey. Those memories send a shiver down my spine. Yet it seems unreal. Could this have really happened? My grandchildren will never believe this: Sikhs, a community known for their courage and patriotism, were butchered like cattle while women and children trembled with fear.”

Truly, an ugly blotch in the history of Independent India!

My mother, 80-year-old Deesh Singh, who was one of the two ladies in the compartment, where the six turbaned men were made to hide, reminisces, “Even after three decades, the images have clarity. Initially two of us screamed as we had to convince the horde that we were just women inside the ladies compartment. But when we heard the thunderous anger in their voices as they searched for Sardars, the enormity of the situation and the gravity of the crisis overtook us. After which we were not pretending to scream; the shrieks just poured out. It seemed as though the world had come to an end.”

While under the Congress administration, Delhi burnt for over 3 days, the situation in Kolkata was different.

My brother, Dinendra, who had not accompanied us, was in his office in Kolkata when the news of the assassination reached him. He had not expected a backlash against our community. But only when news started percolating in about the mayhem in Delhi and Uttar Pradesh, did some level of caution set in. “ My panic-stricken business partner refused to let me leave the office that day,” he recollects. “Finally, he decided that he would drive and I would lie on the rear seat. Stray incidents notwithstanding, Kolkata reported complete safety for the Sikhs, thanks to the firm intent of the then Chief Minister Jyoti Basu.[8]

There are some who believed that the blood bath and the carnage were a spontaneous outpouring of grief. But members of the Sikh community disagree.

“This was a state sponsored massacre where the Congress party abused the government machinery to indulge in riots, murder and shameful looting. And then denied justice by protecting and shielding the culprits for decades,” adds Dinendra.

Tragically, 1984 had the support of a paralysed administration. There was no political will to douse the raging fire.

Painful memories return each year on October 31. And then again with an abiding faith in secular India, an inherently strong and resilient community marches on buoyantly with the business of living.

Payal Singh Mohanka lives in Kolkata, India

[1] National English daily, started in 1838.

[2] An English weekly magazine run by Times of India started in 1880 and ceased publication in 1993.

[3] Is there any Sikh (also called Sardar)? We will shoot them dead.

[4] A fast train that ran from Calcutta to the capital Delhi.

[5] Indira Gandhi was the third Prime Minister of independent India. She served three consecutive terms from 1966 to 1977. She came back to power in 1980 and served till she was assassinated in 1984. She headed the Congress party.

[6] Ghaziabad, 42 kilometres, south east of Delhi in the province of Uttar Pradesh. 

[7] The Partition of India and Pakistan in 1947 at the time of their independence from British rule.

[8] The head of the provincial government of the eastern province of West Bengal, ruled by a coalition of leftist parties. Jyoti Basu was the leader of the Communist Party of India (Marxist), the largest party in the coalition.

Life with my Grandparents

By Ketaki Ray Chaudhuri

 

I was very lucky to be loved and cared for by my grandparents for a very long span of my life.

My paternal grandfather died at the age of ninety two in 1980. My grandmother passed away three years later. She was born in 1898, ten years younger to her husband. I was very close to both of them. Both my son and daughter were fortunate to have spent their formative years with their great-grandparents.

My parents lived in the industrial town of Durgapur[1], not far from Kolkata where my grandparents lived. Both my brother and I came to Kolkata for our under graduate studies, after finishing school in Durgapur between 1965 and 1968. We lived with our grandparents then and what love and care they bestowed on us! I have very fond memories of both of them.

On a walk with my grandparents, Dida & Dadu

My grandfather would walk me to the bus stand from where I would board the bus to college. Most of the days he would be waiting at the bus stop for me to return from college. We would walk back home discussing my day and my friends.

At home, my grandmother regularly cooked delicious snacks and special food for me and my friends. She would wake me up in the morning and sit in my room giving me company while I studied and prepared for my exams.

Like all married couples, my grandparents disagreed on many things.  And every time they had a fight, my grandfather blamed my grandmother. He said, “She was asleep all the time the marriage vows were taken.”

 Actually the fact was they had an arranged marriage as was the custom of those days.  My grandmother was nine years old and my grandfather was nineteen. After a whole day of rituals and all the excitement, the nine year old bride, was too tired and fell asleep, in the evening, while the priest recited the mantras (scriptural verses) and the actual marriage was taking place. My grandfather could never forgive her for spoiling this special romantic moment.

The first few years after her marriage, my grandmother stayed back with her parents. After puberty she came to stay with her in-laws. My grandfather was studying law and staying in the College hostel. After finishing studies, he joined the government service as a magistrate. Later he retired as a judge.

My grandmother joined him at his place of posting and they started a family.

With my grandmother, I called Dida 

My grandmother had never been to school. She learnt elementary Bengali and Arithmetic at home. But after they got their first child, my grandfather was worried that bringing up children would be difficult for her unless she learnt English. Especially when someone was sick, to read the doctor’s prescription and administer the right medicines would be impossible. So he started teaching her English at home.

My grandmother was an enthusiastic learner. She picked up the language fast, and started appreciating English literature. In my childhood, she often told me how she read “The Good Earth” by Pearl S Buck. She was very fond of Bengali literature too. She had read the whole works of leading Bengali litterateurs, like Rabindranath Tagore, Sarat Chandra Chattopadhyay and Bankim Chandra Chattopadhyay[2]. She could recite most of all, Tagore’s poems from memory. She was a good writer too. She often wrote short poems and prose pieces in Bengali. She was a voracious reader and read all contemporary Bengali writers.

She was a good story-teller as well. All her grandchildren were extremely fond of the stories she narrated. All through my growing years I got good guidance and advice from both my grandparents. Even today I miss them very much.

Ketaki Ray Chaudhuri lives in Kolkata, India

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[1] Durgapur, 165 kms from Kolkata and known as the steel city of Eastern India, is the third largest city in the province of West Bengal.

[2] They were Bengali novelists of the 19^th and early 20^th centuries. Rabindranath Tagore, a celebrated poet  won the Nobel Prize for literature in 1930. 

I.R.A. Activity in London - THE HARROD'S BOMBING

By Marion Brown

 

It was unfortunate that the day our son Robert went to Harrods to buy a Christmas present for his father, the IRA should choose the same day to try and blow up Harrods. Robert had bought the gift and left the store into Hans Crescent (a narrow street with high sided buildings). He admired a lovely luxurious white Rolls Royce parked there and was somewhat surprised to see a rather scruffy blue car behind the Rolls. He found the contrast striking! He crossed the road to look in the window of a Gents clothing shop as a police car came up the street. Instantly, the blue car exploded, the police car was badly damaged and a policeman killed. Robert, who was thrown into the air, landed heavily and was injured. In the high street, the explosion was upwards not outwards, I understand. Robert told me that his first reaction was,

“If there is one bomb, there is sure to be another. I must move…if I still have legs!” He did stagger to his feet and hobbled to a small hotel just round the corner from Hans Crescent to ask them to ring for an ambulance. One of the hotel staff cleaned him up a bit whilst he waited for help. He was taken to Westminster Hospital where he was cleaned and x-rayed.

He had flash burns to his face, a badly broken right elbow, a nasty cut to his forehead and multiple shrapnel wounds to his neck, hip and legs. (A year or so later it was discovered that he had a hiatus hernia due to having been blown upwards and dropped heavily). The small bones in his ears were moved and these could not be righted so some deafness followed.

His father and I went to London to stay there until we could bring him home. We took a taxi from the place where we were staying to the hospital. The taxi driver said, “Are you going to one of them?” As we said yes, he absolutely and resolutely refused payment!!

I did not recognise Robert at first. His front hair was burnt off, his face scarred and his right arm encased in plaster from shoulder to palm and it hung from a high rod. But he spoke and was surprised that we had arrived so quickly and intended to stay.

The shrapnel in his neck, hip and legs was mostly removed in the hospital theatre, but tiny fragments came through his skin in tiny blisters which burst and released the shrapnel. Robert had four operations in five days to clean his wounds and he then needed skin grafts to a leg and his right elbow. The latter being done through a large diamond shaped hole cut in the plaster. Twenty three pieces of shrapnel were removed from his elbow which healed remarkably considering the damage done by the shrapnel!

Then skin was removed from his inner thigh for grafts to his elbow, and a leg wound. They took twice the amount i.e. half for the first graft attempts and the other half in case the first attempt failed. Robert said this procedure caused him more pain than anything else!

Prince Charles and Princess Diana came to visit. I was so impressed by Prince Charles’ genuine concern for all the injured. He held my hand between his for many minutes whilst he told me about flash burns. I had not known what that was until he told me. He said that only the surface skin was affected, not the flesh and scarring did not always follow. This was so in Robert’s case. His only scar was on his forehead and into his hair. Robert said he thought he looked piratical and interesting.

On Christmas morning, Robert rang to say he had walked round his bed. The first of the injured to do so! I have never before or since received so fine a gift. As we walked into the ward later, we heard other “bomb patients” telling their visitors, “One of us walked today.” He had lifted the atmosphere and given hope to them all.

Robert came to us after about a month and he set about making his limbs work, and getting rid of the car fear which all of the injured seemed to suffer from after returning home. His first walk with his father was about 25 yards long. He went a little further every day and then he insisted on being taken round car parks to remove fear. All this time he was in a lot of pain from the skin removal site though the grafts themselves healed well. It was to be another month before the donor site healed.

We went to the memorial service in Westminster Abbey after the rather bad news from Westminster Hospital that a piece of bone in his elbow had not joined up properly and so Robert might need another operation. Help came from an unusual corner. A friend of ours had worked for many years in Leslie Weathheads healing ministry. She offered to help Robert; he accepted and saw her for several weeks. She simply put one of her hands above Rob’s arm and one below; she did NOT touch him at all. When we went back to Westminster Hospital, the doctors told Robert that they had never seen such a healing. Our friend told us that this healing was called Radiosthesis; it was not faith healing, but it was rather like the electric charge healing given to some broken bone conditions.

Robert went back to his work in London and prospered. He made a very happy marriage with a lovely wife and eventually three lovely and intelligent children. But at fifty four years he sadly developed pancreatic cancer and died within three months.

I can never describe our feelings over this awful end.  Instead we remember,

1) Robert’s bravery, his concern for his Irish friends and their situation and for the families of those who died on the day he was injured.

2) His joy in his children and sharing life with them.

And all of us involved were grateful to the police from Chelsea who lost colleagues and still came to see the injured in hospital to cheer them up at Christmas. And the staff at Westminster Hospital who having just recovered from dealing with the soldiers-in-the-park bombing, suddenly had to cope with us.

Marion Brown lives in Cambourne, Cambridge, UK

Given the nature of the narrative, I have desisted from adding any notes. Editor