Min Svenska Äventyr: Part 2

Since September last year, I have lived in Skåne, southern Sweden, in and around the little town of Lund. The Swedish chapter in my book of life has now come to an end, and so like the end of any chapter, I am now reflecting on what I have learned, what I found interesting and what I would like to take on board (as well as leave well and truly on the Swedish side of the North Sea). Yes, they are nearly all blonde, blue eyed and intimidatingly attractive; yes, they love IKEA; and no, I haven’t met one single porn star. Here’s some other stuff I did learn:

Less is more

Surprisingly to some, the Swedes wear more than just painted clogs, pinafores and knee socks with tassels these days (although two Swedes I know do actually wear clogs in their day-to-day activities…). Although the traditional dress is colourful and decorative, modern Swedish fashion is quite the opposite, known for its clean lines, cool tones, minimalist features and quality fabrics. H&M dominates the high street, exhibited in my Swedish friend’s annoyance with Lund town after discovering it ONLY hosted one store. Other brands have led the way in the global representation of Swedish fashion, a few of my faves were Acne, CheapMonday, Monki and Filippa K.

Filippa K

It could be down to the frustrating level of natural attractiveness of the general population, but the Swedes seem to have effortless style: There’s no ‘tacky’, no ‘flamboyant’ and no ‘tasteless’ in their fashion vocabulary. Their style seems to combine functionality with beauty, creating looks that could make the transition from day wear to night wear with ease, very much unlike the transformation that the Brits undergo

Cheap Monday for The Buffalo Exchange

to get ready to hit the tiles, from a smart office caterpillar to an (often grotesque) butterfly clad in spider like false lashes, streaky fake tans, 4 inch heels and dresses that show more cellulite than would be shown on BBC1 before 21.00. The Swede’s diurnal outfits most often consist of spray-on black trousers over (leather heeled boots for the girls or) simple converse trainers, teamed with thick knit jumpers in creams and greys, crisp white shirts, or dull coloured t-shirts (add huge knit scarves for winter) and usually topped with a head of ice blonde hair and a suspicious tan. Simple, yet lagom.

Swedish street style

As for interior design, Swedish style creates spaces that are indistinguishable between a friendly family home and a swanky city apartment. Lots of white walls, pale colour furniture, thick sheep skin rugs, bright paintings to add colour where needed, odd feature ornaments (one Swedish living room I sat in had a sprayed gold moose head on the wall…) and of course a few IKEA items. Compared to the often fussy, frilly and over-done British interiors, Swedish homes give some space to breathe and a clear mind to think. Again, mainly functional yet quietly beautiful.

Swedish living room

This style could also be due to Swedish society’s position on the gray scale between communism and a dictatorship, on which it sits quite firmly around the point of egalitarianism, and hence when the mantra is “everyone is equal”, it’s hard for flamboyance to have room to spread its wings. In the book Eat Pray Love by Elizabeth Gilbert, she writes “every city has a single word that defines it, that identifies most people who live there”, which included New York City’s word = ACHIEVE; Los Angeles = SUCCEED; Naples = FIGHT; and Stockholm = CONFORM. When a country likes to stick to the safety of the herd, I suppose it subsequently invests its energy in, and hence stream lines its style to be; very good at what lies in the middle ground. Nothing too brash, fussy or tacky, but still with some interesting features, functionality and elegance.

Perhaps it’s finally time to grow up to Swedish standards and get rid of my gold sequin mini-dress, neon lava lamp, purple walls, floral head bow… blue plastic door beads… red polka dot shirt… tribal pattern platform heels… and… the list goes on. I think the local charity shops are definitely going to appreciate the “less is more” idea I’m taking home... less for me, more for them.

Min Svenska Äventyr: Part 1

Since September last year, I have lived in Skåne, southern Sweden, in and around the little town of Lund. The Swedish chapter in my book of life has now come to an end, and so like the end of any chapter, I am now reflecting on what I have learned, what I found interesting and what I would like to take on board (as well as leave well and truly on the Swedish side of the North Sea). Yes, they are nearly all blonde, blue eyed and intimidatingly attractive; yes, they love IKEA; and no, I haven’t met one single porn star. Here’s some other stuff I did learn:

The Power of Fika

After the words “Hej”, “Tack” and “Toalett?” the next Swedish word I learnt was “Fika”. If there’s one thing the Swedes get right, it’s baked goods. The reverence and enthusiasm with which they are prepared and consumed is in my experience, unparalleled. I had never heard of a country having a whole day reserved for a particular baked good until I came to Sweden, and discovered Kanelbullens Dag, Luciadag and Semmeldagen, spread strategically throughout the year - and based on the addictiveness of each one, it’s surprising that more Swedes don’t clog the hospitals suffering with diabetes.

So... good...

But fika is so much more than baked goods – it’s a Swedish social institution, even stronger (dare I say) than the Brit’s afternoon tea. In 2007, a record 2,620 people sat down for fika in the Swedish city of Kalmar. That’s dedication. Fika is both a noun and a verb: one can meet to fika, or meet for fika, but it will always involve strong coffee and some type of sweet sticky thing. Fika is not something to have/do alone, it is an excuse for a gossip with friends, business meeting or no-pressure date. Fika has been served at pretty much every academic meeting, and after every conference and seminar I’ve attended at Lund University, and it really does make them that bit more tempting to go, listen, and hang around for a discussion afterwards, leading to greater interest, productivity and achievement. God help the Swede who organises a meeting and forgets to organise the fika… Sweden hasn’t played a major role in war since the Fälttåget mot Norge (campaign against Norway) in 1814, and they are a renownedly calm people - but take away their fika… and tensions rise surprisingly rapidly.

Fika instructions in my department at Lund University, note the meeting times

 From my brushes with employment in the UK, it seems tea/coffee drinking is just as widespread, and is just as in demand as in Sweden: and yet it’s not the same. The Swedes organise fika in the work place together at specific times, rather than squirreling away a tea break at their desks in private as we do, which really unites the employees, gives everyone a chance to network, and helps to solve problems that may have been missed otherwise. For example, it was over a fika break that I organised my master’s thesis project, learned about the politics of lion conservation from a Nigerian, learned how to remote access my computer from home as well as learning a bit more about the people in the department I was in. Fika is a time to step back and reflect on life, whether it’s life in the work place, friendships, or romance, as well as to listen to a friend’s problems, get an opinion or learn something new. Jag kan ta en kanelbulle och stor café latte – Tack!

Enjoying fika with friends

Zwarte Piet, Santa’s friendly black-face helper!

At a friend’s house last week, the topic of the Dutch Christmas tradition of Zwarte Piet came up in conversation around the table over apple crumble. For those of you that have never heard of Zwarte Piet (Black Pete in English), he is a traditional Dutch character, who helps Sinterklaas (the Dutch version of Santa Claus) to deliver his presents. He comes out to play on St Nicholas Day on the 5^th of December (the 6^th in Belgium) accompanying Sinterklaas on his steam boat having travelled from Madrid, Spain. Zwarte Piet serves as either the clown to Sint’s kind but serious old man figure, or the punisher of bad children (Piet will beat you with a stick or kidnap you and take you to Spain if you’re naughty). Zwarte Piet is found in the form of people dressed up in black-face, parading the streets throwing sweets (or candy if we're going to be American about it) for children, and sitting them on their knee to ask what they would like for Christmas.    

My first reaction when I heard this story earlier this year, was simply denial. They CAN’T be pretending to be people of African origin right? They CAN’T be allowing black-face white people to dance around the street and dress up as Sinterklaas‘ slave? They must be some kind of mythical fantasy creature that just happens to also have black skin. They must be supposed to be covered in soot. It must be unrelated.

It’s definitely not unrelated. Google Images told me so in the first hit.

Then came the sinking realisation that this is just abhorrent anachronism. They really do look exactly like they are dressed up as Sinterklaas’ African slave. The phrase “culture shock” is quite appropriate here, but extremely unexpected given the short distance of the bus ride between London and Maastricht, compared with this huge distance between what is culturally acceptable in a cosmopolitan society. My opinion was not reflected around the table however, and a debate ensued as to the origin of Zwarte Piet, and what his black face signifies. So I decided to do a bit of research.

To understand the tradition, we have to look at Santa in his pre-Coca-Cola era. The red coated, jelly-bellied, white-bearded Santa Claus that we now know in the UK and the USA (and lots of other places in the world), is said by some to have originated from the Dutch Sinterklaas, who in turn, originated from the original St Nicholas. St Nicholas was born a 4^th century Greek (270-343), the son of wealthy Christian parents. He grew up to become the bishop of Myra in present day Turkey. In Greek folklore, Nicholas is seen as “The Lord of the Sea” and protector of sailors, as he was born in a port city, and apparently spent much time at sea. Legend has it that he was a pretty good guy; he resurrected butchered children, gave some money to a poor man who’s daughters were going to be forced into prostitution, and generally saved children and adults who needed saving - hence he became the Patron Saint of Children. When he died, St Nicholas’ remains were transferred to Bari, which later became part of the Spanish Kingdom of Naples. This is one theory of the creation of the story that Sinterklaas came from Spain, where the religion has historically been a mix of Christianity, Islam and Judaism. Sinterklaas was depicted with a “helper” shown as Morisco (or Moorish, meaning Muslim people of mixed Berber and Arab descent, now living chiefly in northwest Africa).

Another theory, is that Santa Claus originated from Scandinavian and Germanic mythology, as an adaptation of the Norse god of thunder, Thor. Thor was the God of peasants and drove a chariot drawn by two white goats named Krakker and Gnasher. He fought the elements of ice and snow, and so his element was fire, represented by the colour red. His main symbol was a hammer, he was a carpenter and was assisted by trained elves. Sounds familiar?

Over time, the Dutch, (most responsible for bringing Santa to America) depict Sinterklaas carrying a book which tells him if the children have been naughty or nice, of course with his assistant, Black Peter, the Dark One or the Dark Helper. In Germany, his assistant is called Knecht Ruprecht, Pelzebock or Hans Trapp (a demon or Satan) who did all the punishing of children for Sinterklaas. He was dark, horned, hairy, and cannibalistic, and came with a rod in his other hand to beat naught children with, not dissimilar to Zwarte Piet's beating sticks. So Santa split into two characters, yet consistently travelled as a team dealing out gifts and retribution. 

Now, there are various confusing explanations of the origins of Zwarte Piet The oldest, is that he symbolizes the two ravens Hugin and Munin who were spies for the Norse (subset of Germanic Paganism) God Odin. In later stories the helper depicts the devil, defeated by either Odin or his helper Nörwi , the black father of the night. Nörwi is usually depicted with the same staff of branches as Zwarte Piet. Another, more modern story is that Saint Nicolas liberated an Ethiopian slave boy called 'Piter' (from Saint Peter) from a Myra market, and the boy was so grateful he decided to stay with Saint Nicolas as a helper.

In 1850, teacher Jan Schenkman (1806–1863) wrote a book, Sint Nicolaas en zijn knecht (Saint Nicholas and His Servant) in which Sinterklaas arrived in The Netherlands by boat. In Schenkman’s version, the Moorish helper was changed to the African “negro helper” Zwarte Piet (Black Peter), who followed Sinterklaas on his rounds.

Lets just look at the name of the book again there, "Saint Nicholas and His Servant". 

Servant. Not "friend", not "helper": servant.

So the confusing modern-day story follows as such: Sinterklaas arrives on his boat from Spain, with his black-face helpers (who may be Moorish, may be the defeated devil, may be African servants), handing out presents to good children, and punishing those who have been naughty by beating (or now just pretending to beat them) with branches. The more politically correct story that was introduced recently is that the faces are “black from the soot”. Quite a jumble of stories going on there.

So back to the evening of apple crumble. We were a fairly international group of mostly German, Dutch and little-old-English-me, and when the subject of Zwarte Piet came up, there seemed to be four main contradictions of opinion.

1. A German person who said that black-face wasn't a big deal in The Netherlands and Germany, and that people aren't offended by it. That St Nicholas historically would have had slaves, so Zwarte Piet was just following an accurate part of the story. White people used to black-face themselves for acting, so what's wrong with doing it for Christmas?

2. A Dutch person who had never made the connection between Zwarte Piet and slavery or black people, (and who would never want to offend a fly, never mind an entire ethnicity of people) and thought that it was just a nice tradition.

3. A Dutch person who says that foreign people coming to the Netherlands don’t understand that the tradition is not racist, it has nothing to do with people of African origin, and nothing to do with slavery. They are black because they fell down the chimney and got covered in soot (as the Zwarte Piet song says).

4. Me, who said Zwarte Piet is clearly now depicted as African ethnicity, has obvious connotations to slavery as Santa’s “helper” and that he has no place in a Christmas celebration in a supposedly cosmopolitan Western country.

Normally I try to be as accommodating as possible when it comes to other’s beliefs and traditions, but if you try to tell me that Zwarte Piet is not now a caricature of an African face, has no resemblance to racial stereotype playing the “helper” of his master and does not offend anyone then YOU ARE WRONG, WRONG, SO FUCKING WRONG.

That is EXACTLY WHAT HE IS! (See my diagram below for further explanation)

I would love to believe that Zwarte Piet is black because of the soot, I think that story is kind of cute that Santa has a helper that gets covered in soot every time he goes down the chimney, but let’s be realistic and look at what’s in front of us. HE HAS DARK BROWN SKIN, PAINTED RED LIPS AND CURLY AFRO HAIR. If it was soot, he would be dusty black, or charcoal black. He’s a sort of dark-chocolate brown. Also, how the hell did his clothes stay so clean?

So why don’t they just start chaining the “Zwarte Piet’s” together in a line for their parade? They can call the chains “just skipping ropes they play with”. They can make them pick some cotton and shine some shoes on their way around and pretend they are just “helping people with friendly services” because saying that black-face is “just soot” is exactly the same thing.

In my opinion, it’s one thing to dress up in black-face for a politically incorrect party where everyone knows what they’re getting in for, where people are intentionally pushing the boundaries, and also turning up as paedophiles, terrorists, rapists and every other offensively politically incorrect thing under the sun (and would hopefully never go out into public, for their own safety): but it is quite another to openly dance around the street en mass and maintain that this is acceptable.  The fact of the matter is, that regardless of what Zwarte Piet was originally suppose to resemble, he/she now looks like a black person dancing around doing Sinterklaas’ bidding.

In a country whose colonial past is much ingrained with the slave trade (much like the United Kingdom) I find it absolutely shocking that the people of this country are still able to celebrate Christmas with a parade of white people dressed up in black-face, and not see the screamingly obvious connotations, even if they are not directly intentional.

If you did this in the UK, you would be stabbed within roughly 2 minutes and 7 seconds.

Why stubbornly cling onto a tradition that we know compromises a whole ethnicity of people’s dignity? A tradition that we know makes people feel uncomfortable, excluded and upset. A tradition that appears to the rest of the world to make fun and jokes of a period of history when African people were subjected to oppression, torture and sub-human treatment under the conquests of various colonial periods including the Dutch Golden Age.

The excuse of “tradition” does not fly with me. It was “tradition” to ritualistically sacrifice animals in the Pagan times in the UK, as it was “tradition” to beat your children in school with a cane until they bled, but thankfully we got rid of those ones when we realised that burning live animals and abusing children is kind-of-completely-unacceptable-behaviour.

I’m NOT saying that Dutch people keep this tradition because they are racist, or because they are intentionally trying to make fun of slavery. Dutch people have obviously been brought up with this around them every year, and see only innocent fun, free sweets and Christmas tradition. What I AM saying, is that Dutch people have had this tradition for so long, that right underneath their noses, it has now lost all meaning, is riddled with confusing backgrounds, and has now become outdated, offensive, and completely unacceptable, without the Dutch even realising what they’re doing.

The bottom line is, how would African-Dutch people feel about this? What do they tell their kids when they ask “Mummy, why are white people dressing up to look like us and parading around the streets?”. How can immigrant children be integrated into a society where their history of oppression appears to be brazenly splashed around the streets each Christmas? If the Dutch claim to be so liberal, tolerant and accepting of other cultures, how can they let this obviously ludicrous tradition continue?

There have, of course, been many objections about this tradition, and an offered solution has been to make all different rainbow colours of Piet. But I don’t think that’s a valid solution either, then you really do make it about colour, the soot story goes completely out the window and the tradition will again morph and evolve into something even more confusing and irrelevant. In my opinion, a valid solution is keep the parade, keep the sweets, keep the costumes and the feather hats, but just don’t have people dressing up in black-face. Call the “helper” just Piet. Piet can be a person of any ethnicity, with no black-face, black gloves, fake red lips or fake afro, just people who want to celebrate Christmas in a parade, whatever their background. Or, The Netherlands can join the rest of the West and get rid of Piet entirely, and replace him with elves (which are completely mythical, have no connotations of a period of real human oppression and are generally unoffensive).

Maybe even more shockingly than the tradition itself, were the brutal arrests of those who made a peaceful protest against Zwarte Piet. Quinsy Gario is a blogger for Science of the Time, editor at the feminist journal LOVER, and the founder of the art project Zwarte Piet Is Racisme. He and three others were arrested in November 2011, after wearing t-shirts that read “Zwarte Piet is racisme” (second video below). Others who publicly and peacefully protested about Zwarte Piet have also been arrested (see first video). Clearly this is an outrageous infringement on freedom of speech, and it seems that the Dutch police will go to any lengths to protect this tradition no matter the cost of human dignity or brutality. (Videos below, need to do some skipping through the Dutch bits if you don't understand Dutch). If you'd like to show your support to Quinsy and his project, go to his facebook group.

As the word “Dutch” is a nationality (not an ethnicity), and will progressively encompass a greater diversity of ethnicities as time goes on and Western countries become more cosmopolitan, how can Zwarte Piet continue to be called a Dutch tradition? All I know is, if I was to start a family in The Netherlands, and have mixed race white-black children, then in the words of Chris Rea, I’d be “driving home for Christmas”.

References:

Wikipedia

http://persevering.blogspot.se/

http://amsterdamherald.com/index.php/allnews-list/150-20120223-zwartepiet

http://www.creativeafricanetwork.com/person/18065/en
http://www.expatica.com/de/lifestyle_leisure/blogs_photos/zwarte-piet--a-sinister-symbol-in-a-tolerant-country--1658_9813.html
http://www.spiegel.de/international/europe/holland-s-politically-incorrect-christmas-santa-s-little-slave-helper-a-594674.html
http://www.theroot.com/views/very-racist-christmas

Why do conservation?

I have toiled away my evenings for the last nine months or so at my local pub, pulling amber pints of Speckled Hen and serving too many greasy cod and chips than I care to remember just to pay back the costs of my last lot of conservation volunteer work and save for the next. Standing behind the bar on an evening shift, I was confronted with a question from one of the dedicated regular drinkers that has niggled like an unreachable tick at the back of my mind since that night.   As I placed his third pint of bubbling Carling down on the glazed wooden bar top with a soft thud, he looked at me with a blank, wide-eyed, open-mouthed expression of simple shock. “But what about your LIFE?” he asked me. His question was prompted after I explained that I wouldn’t be behind the bar the following week, as I was going to volunteer in Greece for three months with a marine conservation charity. This man is not the first, and I’m sure will not be the last, who does not understand the reasoning behind the choice, and the necessary process to work in conservation. I have seen this confused blank expression on many faces during the short time throughout and after university in which I have decided to make conservation my career choice, which is caused by the clash of opinion and understanding about what life ‘should’ be.

            Since that night behind the bar, I have had time to contemplate this career choice, and the justification of the necessary way of living to eventually be paid, as well as the importance of the research, science, activism, community work and influence on local and national policy that conservation is all about. So here I will attempt to explain to those who do not understand, to those who have lost faith in, to those who do not agree with the idea of (and necessary life style to permit) conservation work.

            To my Dad, who’s reaction to this latest three months volunteer work was “You can do what you want Alice, you’re old enough now that I can’t stop you”, who sees voluntary work abroad as time wasted putting off getting a ‘real’ job in the UK, my Dad who when I announced I will be applying for a PhD in conservation genetics said “How old will you be when you finish THAT? But what about getting married?” (I think he was joking...) My Dad who has also toiled away day after day, in a job that has turned his hair grey, to provide a privileged standard of living for me and my family, and who only wants the best for me as his little girl.

            To my Mum, who wanted the same things I do, but never took the leap to make it a career because of pressures on her to make money in an office job. Who hated her office job so much that she quit out of stress when we were kids. Who worries about me every time I get on a plane. Who I tell white lies to about the number of species of poisonous snakes in the area, and the absence of any anti-venom in the first aid box. My Mum, who inspired these desires in me to live in, and protect nature.

            To my girl friends who have asked me where and when I plan to settle down, who have the five-year-plan all mapped out. My friends who have to put up with me missing birthdays and events every year because I’m living in a rainforest somewhere. My friends who don’t understand why I would want to live in these places where I can’t wash for days and can’t see my boyfriend for months.

            To my boyfriend, who supports and encourages me everything I do, but who may wonder what my motivation is for leaving him for months at a time, who may sometimes doubt the practicalities of making a long distance relationship work, who may worry about me when I don’t have internet for days or weeks at a time and will have to go without communication between us and call this his relationship.

            To my friends from my university course, who also love conservation, but gave up on it because of the overpoweringly sheer hopelessness of most conservation efforts. My friends who are clever enough and interested enough to work in conservation but went for better financial prospects working for huge research companies or selling insurance.

            To those people that say they would never give money to an environmental charity, as the only thing worth giving money to, are charities that care for humans. To those people who believe that conservationists, if they had the choice, would rather shoot a human than a dog. To those people that see conservationists as tree hugging, vegetarian hippies, who have their head so high in a cloud of sunshine, LSD, orang-utans and rainbows that they forget the suffering of PEOPLE in poverty and exploitation.

            To the policy makers who sit behind desks and make decisions that affect the entire planet about how much of it we are allowed to keep taking and taking and taking without giving back. The policy makers who may have never set foot in a forest, or walked through a wild flower meadow, or seen a fish swim in the sea. The policy makers who continue to allow extortionate exploitation of natural resources at rates that will mean we have nothing left in the next 50 years.

To all of these people, my answer is this.

            Dad, I don’t want the life you imagine for me. I don’t want to get a graduate job as an environmental mitigation officer for a global food research company and spend my days contemplating the most environmentally friendly way to dispose of Marmite. I don’t want to be a Biology teacher and go from a life in the classroom to the rest of my life in a classroom forcing text books down unwilling throats. I want to do something I love, I want to see the world, I want to I feel I’m contributing some good in a world where so many people don’t care about preserving it. I want to do something that challenges my brain and heart every day, and pushes me beyond my comfort zone: and that will not come from sitting behind a computer. Financially, this may be a problem - I will have to volunteer, keep a bar job on the side of my PhD, start right at the bottom and take post docs or short contract jobs that will be unpredictable and unsecured. But I regard a stimulating, exciting, enriched standard of living in which I may see the world, learn many languages, experience many cultures and feel proud of what I do, over a financially rich one.

            Mum, this career choice may be difficult and it may be dangerous. I may die after getting bitten by a snake, or skewered by an elephant, or drown diving, or squished under a falling tree, or contract Malaria or Japanese encephalitis, or be eaten by a crocodile or fall off the side of a mountain, or constricted by a rogue anaconda. But I also might die in a car accident, or of cancer, or stabbed in a robbery, or I might just die as an old lady peacefully in my sleep after a long and fulfilled life in which I did my best to prevent the onslaught of human mistakes by protecting the biodiversity on earth, stimulating my brain, developing my knowledge every day, and seeing the beauty of the world. I promise I will be careful.

            Friends, I’m not ready to plan out my marriage; my 1.8 children; how many rooms I want in my detached suburban house; what brand of car I want and what colour to choose to match the bathroom towels to the bathroom tiles. I’m twenty three, and I have the rest of my life to worry about that. Maybe I’ll live on a boat, maybe I’ll live in a tree house, and maybe I’ll have a tiny flat in central London shared with four other people. Right now, it’s not a priority for me.

            Boyfriend, you know this is what I have dreamed of. I have always wanted to see the world and every forest, lake, mountain and creature it has to offer, because there is just so much THERE that one life time isn’t enough. It’s overwhelming how much there is to see. I have always been angered by the destruction that man imposes on an Earth with an ever dwindling array of life, and someone once told me that where you have passion, you will succeed. It is that passion that is the reason why our relationship may be difficult at times, but I know that if anyone can fire and reflect that passion in me, it is you. I am a bird that will migrate across continents, I look forward to a day when you will fly with me, and if you are patient, after the days, weeks or months when we must fly our separate ways, I will always return to our nest.

            University friends, I may come to find one day that I will be forced into the same path as you. I may find that I have to have more money to live or that I want to settle down in the UK but can’t afford the house prices whilst I’m working in conservation. I may become disheartened at the uphill struggle and seemingly endless battle to preserve biodiversity and eventually say “Fuck it!” but for now, I will try, because my gut tells me it is important and morally right. If the greatest threat to conservation is thinking that someone else will take care of it, then I will not leave it to someone else. Yesterday I found a kitten on the edge of death. Its eyes had sealed closed with thick green puss and become one huge scab. Its head was covered in tiny white lice that had grown in layers over layers, blocking its entire head from the light. It didn’t have the strength to make a noise. I knew it had nearly no chance of surviving, but I spent the morning cleaning it and feeding it through a syringe until all the lice we gone and its eyes were clean and open. I put it in a cardboard box with a towel and visited it before bed with more food. In the morning it was dead. In hindsight, it was so weak and ill, that it didn’t surprise me, but even knowing this now, I would do the same thing again because my gut and my heart tells me to try.

            To those people who stereotype conservationists - if I had the choice between shooting a dog or a human, I would shoot the dog every time. I value human life over the life of an animal. But at what point that is always the case, I do not know, at what point do we value life for its quality rather than because it is the same species as us? If you gave me a gun and asked me to point it at a thirty year old mother elephant, with wise eyes behind long lashes that keep out the African dust, an incredible memory of the layout of the land, and an emotional and social structure more intense and complicated than a human one – then point me at mass murderer or serial rapist who has exploited and lived on the suffering of others his entire life, I think I’d be stuck for a decision. I am not a vegetarian (as much as I have contemplated it, but that’s a whole other article). I do agree with the work of human charities, I do understand the need to put poverty, human abuse and human exploitation as a high priority. I believe the biggest threat to earth is over population, and this is should be the primary issue facing our generation. However, I also believe that human preservation comes hand in hand with the preservation of the environment.

            That includes the ecosystem as a whole. The global ecosystem, consisting of the fabric sown by the hand of evolution, made of the fibres of the pollen grain on the leg of every bee as he makes his journey from flower to flower across the countryside so that humans may survive on fruit, vegetables and grain. The fabric that includes the microscopic phytoplankton floating in sea that depends on clean water, which feed the zooplankton, which feed the mesopelagic fish which feed the tuna that propels the fishing industry that provides livelihoods and food for millions of humans. The fabric that consists of the oxygen in the air that we breathe, expelled by the stomata of every leaf of every tree that we cut down for paper or space to grow coffee or oil palm, which as we do, slowly chokes our atmosphere until a day will come when humans can no longer live with the pollution and subsequent effects of high temperatures. Trying to slow the destruction of mankind because of the mistakes of mankind - this is conservation.

            To the corrupted policy makers who make laws and quotas that allow you to make dirty millions from the over exploitation of resources. Do you think when you have allowed the last fish to be hooked out of the sea and allowed the last tree to be cut down, you will eat your money? Do you not care about the preservation of mankind after you are dead and buried in your oak, gold rimmed coffin bought with the backhanders from corrupt politicians with personal interest in the decisions you make? This is why I want to do conservation. To bring some balance to your decisions. To stand up for logic in the court of Earth. To give evidence against you so that there is hope of the continuation of our species as well as the other millions upon millions of species that you directly affect.

But more selfishly, I want to do conservation because of the life it allows.

Sitting on a boat watching the sun rise, platinum-gold at five in the morning over the flood plain of a rainforest, where the cool air is bursting with sweet life in your nostrils, where the proboscis monkeys crash between the branches making leaves fall down at your feet and the hornbills swoop overhead in shocking colours: this is living.

Lying in a hammock at night as the thick tropical rain drops pound down on the thin lining between you and them, where the water runs in streams through the mud below you and you pray that the supporting strings don’t snap: this is living.
Sitting and watching a Red Capped Manikin lek fly above your head in a mating dance of chirps of wing vibrations faster than your eye can see, whilst you quietly listen to the glorious diversity of the dawn chorus using the senses that our devolution has left dusty on the shelves of our subconscious: this is living.
Holding your breath until your lungs twitch in response to oxygen starvation as you swim to the ocean floor to meet the eyes of a fish who curiously comprehends you, and the peaceful thick silence like that in an enormous empty cathedral that lies all around you whilst you sway in the current and feel the cold cover your body and look up to the bright, white, shimmering rays of the sun on the surface of the water: this is living.
Laying on a boulder next to a mountain river as it gushes next to you, teaming with tadpoles and tiny fish growing in the shallow pools, staring up at the silver white moon in all her clarity, glowing through the cloud halo as the stars scatter the sky like spilt salt over a black table, shooting occasionally straight across your vision: this is living.
Seeing the glowing eyes of an animal in the night that could put you in the hospital that is at least three hours journey, but judging the situation using your senses, feeling your heart pound in your throat and your adrenaline rush, as health and safety is forgotten here and you are reminded of your vulnerability, your pain, your senses, your animal nature: this is living.

And so, if I had the time to think before I replied to this man at the bar, I may have said something along these lines. But in answer to his question and to the question in all its forms of why I want to work in conservation, the answer is simply, to live.

When Spring Comes Back to England

I don't think I could ever settle down abroad; I'd miss the seasons in England too much. My favourite season has to be spring, not just because of my obsession with blossom, but because of all the other beautiful countryside things that begin to wake up over April and May; hawthorn flowers, lady's smock, daisies, cuckoos, sky larks and the anticipation of warmth, and green life of summer to come. Here's a nice spring poem and spring pics, just because I love it.

(Alfred Noyes)

When Spring comes back to England
And crowns her brows with May,
Round the merry moonlit world
She goes the greenwood way:
She throws a rose to Italy,
A fleur-de-lys to France;
But round her regal morris-ring
The seas of England dance.

When Spring comes back to England
And dons her robe of green,
There's many a nation garlanded
But England is the Queen;
She's Queen, she's Queen of all the world
Beneath the laughing sky,
For the nations go a-Maying
When they hear the New Year cry -

"Come over the water to England,
My old love, my new love,
Come over the water to England,
In showers of flowery rain;
Come over the water to England,
April, my true love;
And tell the heart of England
The Spring is here again!"

England's Pastures Yellow

As I entered England on the train home this Easter, the rolling green scenery which had been flitting past for the last hour or so suddenly exploded into vibrant yellow as far as the eye could see. No, I wasn’t on LSD, I’d just forgotten how at this time of year the English fields erupt into waves of yellow flowers belonging to oilseed rape.

It’s exciting to see the landscape bursting into periodic swathes of yellow, in the same way that it’s exciting to wake up and see the fields covered in snow. Although it smells quite odd, oilseed rape has a stunning quality when combined en mass in vibrant rows upon rows that make the landscape look ever more like a patchwork quilt. Some people seem to think oilseed rape fields are unsightly and unnatural in appearance, but I can appreciate the beauty of oilseed rape fields in the same way as I can appreciate the beauty of a collection of wind turbines; for its sheer scale of visual impact.

     

            Living in the countryside myself, when I arrived home I was compelled to go out and walk around in it. I’m a very tactile person, and when I see something that interests me from afar I immediately have the desire to touch and absorb it, so after digging out my old bike from my parent’s shed I went off and explored the lanes to play in the oilseed rape. Yes, I’m twenty-one, and I don’t care if that’s normal behaviour or not.

Diamond in the Roath

Every  Saturday morning in Cardiff, there’s a little food market held in a car park in Roath just off City Road. How I didn’t know about this in the four years I’ve lived in Cardiff is a mystery, but one that I’m glad I discovered.

 

            From award winning Indian cuisine to plant-pot-baked rosemary bread, the range of locally produced foods is impressively diverse. As Cardiff is proudly one of the most multicultural cities in the UK with over 100 ethnic groups, we’re lucky enough to have local foods that are just as multicultural.  After sitting down to a deliciously light, spiced Indian breakfast of various fried bajis and kebabs I bought some red onion chutney produced in Caerfilly and a load of sundried tomato bread.

There was also a little craft fair selling jewellery, knitted clothes, hand stitched bags and various other arty things. My housemate with the romantic obsession with Cardiff bought a water colour painting of Cardiff City Hall from a lady whose father was now too old to come to the fair, and she said now painted from his shed.

Whether you want to support local produce or discover how many different types of bread it turns out you can make, Roath Market is definitely worth pottering around.