Another America: The Story of Libera and the Former Slaves Who Ruled It (2013) by James Climent

Another America: The Story of Libera and the Former Slaves Who Ruled It  (2013) by James Climent 

Genre:  History

GoodReads meta-data is pages 336, rated 3.60 by 163 litizens. 

Verdict: Quite a story well told. 

Settling freed slaves in Africa started when the British Royal Navy began breaking up human trafficking.  When the RN found a contraband cargo of slaves — termed recaptives  — they were put ashore; the easiest place to land them was in what became Freetown of Sierra Leone.  It was near the sea lanes the RN patrolled to interdict the traffic, it had a natural harbour with plenty of fresh water nearby, and the prevailing winds made it was easy to navigate there.  It was easy for the Brits, but of course the enslaved individuals might be from anywhere.  Certainly few originated from that area.    

When the American Colonial Society (ACS) hatched the idea of exporting blacks to Africa, this British example offered a model of sorts, well the only available example.  The ACS was a committee which included some heavy hitters like Henry Clay and James Monroe though they gave it only a little of their time.  Its purpose was mixed. Some like Clay wanted to rid the South of free blacks, whose presence might inspire black slaves to seek freedom themselves.  There were a surprising number of such freedmen for a time as the generation inspired by the rhetoric of the American Revolution, among them Monroe himself, manumitted slaves in their wills. As members of that generation died, black southern freedman (and women) increased.  

Thus one area of Liberia is called Ashlands after Clay’s Kentucky estate, while the capital is called Monrovia after the President Monroe.       

Yet Southerners did not want a mass exodus of slaves for two reasons, one political and one economic.  The latter is the cotton business which rested to a lot of cheap labour. The political reason was the Three-Fifths clause of the U.S. Constitution.  That is 3/5s to the illiterate. (Look it up and be informed.)  Every few years some semi-literate journalist stumbles over the Three-fifths Clause and it appears in the media as a by-lined discovery of investigative journalism.  I do not kid for I have seen same.  Me, I learned about it in Civics in High School.   

Likewise there were northerners who wanted to sweep freedman away from the streets of Philadelphia, Boston, and New York to protect their wives, daughters, and maiden aunts.   

Then there were the abolitionists who supposed a black would never have a good life in the United States because of white animosity, regrettably concluding that they would be better off in their own society.  There were other abolitionists who thought that was an immoral cop-out and opposed transportation.     

Then there were evangelicals, then as now, never constrained by fact, logic, or sense, who urged transporting savage American blacks who can never be civilised to Africa where they will take Christianity to civilise the heathens.  Tune in to so-called Christian TV for more the same twisted reasoning everyday. 

In short, there were many interests who saw in the prospect what they wanted to see, including shipping companies in Boston who saw lucrative contracts for transportation.

The response of blacks was also varied. Their only social organisations were churches, and in the north church leaders liked the idea and set about cooperating with the nascent schema.  When, however, their congregations learned of the prospect, they were far less enthusiastic about leaving behind the advances and achievements they had made in their own lives for an unknown new world.  

In the south freed blacks were more enthusiastic than their ilk in the north for the scheme, perhaps because their lives were more precarious.   

While the ACS initially relied on Federal fundings secured in a slow process by President Monroe, at least three states started their own schemes, Maryland, Mississippi, and Virginia.  Each recruited by means fair or foul a shipload of blacks and sent them to Africa, accompanied by white overseers.  Often a number of slaves would be freed on the docks so as to transport them.  

No effort was made to recruit blacks with the experience or skills needed to start from scratch in the new environment.  Nor was there any assessment of the likely new environment.  Instead the ships began to sail toward Freetown and then tack south a bit to an area not claimed by any European power, because there was no harbour, and nothing to motivate a claim. This is the coast of what became Liberia.  

A ship might have between fifty and eighty blacks, men, women, and children, and two or three white overseers who would land.  Initial efforts to colonise islands rather than risk the rocks, sandbars, or shoals off the beaches were disastrous.  There were few natives on the islands because there was little water, game, or land for agriculture and the islands were lashed by wind and rain.  

Equally, the overseers were unprepared for what lay ahead. 

When shore landings were made, the natives were not friendly.  European traders had long been welcome for a week at a time, but not colonists who came to stay and who would compete with the natives for game, land, water, and trade with visiting Europeans. The natives referred to the incomers as ‘black white men’ because though their skin was dark, their ways — clothing, manners, attitudes, weapons, food — were white. 

Even worse was the insects and the disease they bore: malaria.  Between a third and half of all transported blacks died within twelve months, mainly due to this malady.  

The differences among the transported: north and south, free and slave would be cemented into the gestating social structure.  Equally the hostility between the natives and transported would also endure and be solidified over the years in the population.  Of course there were divisions among the natives in the area but these recede in importance against the black white men. In short, the black white men reproduced the very society they had left. Skin colour was of paramount importance.  The light-skinned dominated the dark settlers, and both enslaved the natives.  Yes, in the 1920s there was slave labour in Liberia to make rubber for Firestone Tires.    

A ruling caste and class emerged which carefully guarded its dominance in much the same way as occurred in the ante-bellum South.  At the top were the descendants of the First Fleet, free emigrants (rather than an emancipated slaves), mulattos (only part Negro and part white), light-skinned, these people put the wagons in a circle that lasted well into the 1960s.   Oh yes, elections occurred.  In one instance an electorate of 5,000 cast 25,000 votes for the incumbent!  Get the idea?  Sounds like Mayor Richard Daley’s Chicago, where miracles of miracles, the dead voted for years.  

Ellen Sirleaf Johnson whose election turned a corner, it is to be hope.

The ruling caste was finally deposed in the latter Twentieth Century in a series of bloody civil and tribal wars.  It makes gruelling reading.  More than ten percent of the population died.  A sitting head of state was found guilty of crimes against humanity during the course of these events, as one crazed tyrant replaced another.  Exhaustion set in, leaving the country a wreck which has struggled to recover since then, and has had free elections and at least one peaceful transfer of power.  These are hopeful signs, but the background of deep animosity among Liberians remains, I suppose, rather as it did in Tito’s Yugoslavia for forty years only to re-emerge whole when the amber melted. 

James Ciment.

Stealing the Future (2015) by Max Hertzberg

Stealing the Future (2015) by  Max Hertzberg

GoodReads meta-data is 244 pages, rated 3.58 by 108   

Genre: krimi

Verdict: verbose

When the eternal Berlin Wall crumbled in November 1989, the Deutsche Demokratische Republik (DDR) underwent a transformation for a few short months that are now largely forgotten.  From 1989 to October 1990 it remained an independent polity, and this period is stretched for this story.  In this book there is sentiment for the DDR to remain independent and go from red to pink, that is to retain many of the benefits of the communist regime without the oppression, while avoiding the myriad evils of capitalism.  The benefits include health care, childcare, pensions at fifty-five, convenient public transport, and so on, but not forced labor camps, re-education, endless surveillance, disappearance, murders at the Wall.  Of industrial pollution and environmental degradation and the economic distortion nothing is said. Against this opinion is the desire for Unification which is made to seem in these pages a capitalist plot.  

In this context Plod is roused from his crappy east Berlin office to go to West Silesia on the eastern border of the DDR with Poland way off his patch to look at a homicide.  The order came straight from the Minister’s office, so off he goes.  He finds there not only the local cops but others from neighbouring Saxony.  Why all the interest he wonders, but not enough to ask anyone.  He contributes nothing to the investigation. When he tries to report to the Minister, he is greeted with indifference.  Investigation of the homicide was urgent and then unimportant in the space of a few hours. Plod finds that both irritating and suspicious, but his lassitude prevents him from making any backchannel inquiries, yet surely a veteran officer has backchannels.    

There are interesting asides about some of the Eastern landen (provinces), like Western Silesia, in the DDR seeking their own separate deals with West Germany.  There is also a reference to a referendum in the DDR to unification being defeated but I could find nothing about that. I guess that is part of the fiction.  In the Wikipedia account, the only impediment to Unification was the reluctance of the Western Allies, mainly in the person of Margaret Thatcher, to a resurgent Germany.  

Instead of investigating anything, Plod spends far too much time arguing with everyone he meets about the virtues of the DDR.  His daughter, a British Army officer, a neighbour, they all get the benefit of his explanation of the good points of the corrupt and oppressive regime he served while grizzling about it.  Plod seems to be the only one who does not realise the Unification is happening, and its completion is inevitable.  

To be sure even now the DDR has its defenders who battle it out in the Wikipedia editing wars everyday.  Look at the editing history at the bottom of each page. Oh hum.  And that is in the English language version of Wikipedia.  The German language version is even more hotly contested from my brief glance with edits coming one after another. There are plenty of films about life in the DDR, but for me the best is the muted, Barbara (2012) discussed elsewhere on this blog. Timothy Garton Ash’s book The File (1997) says it all. 

First in a series.  I chose it since we are ticketed to go to Berlin 2020.  I could not find a photograph of the author but on Twitter he describes himself as the author of crime and hope punk, mostly tales of East Germany. ‘Hope punk?’ Don’t know.

The 2019 Books Read Awards

The next category to be revealed …. [drum roll].. is the book Closest to the Bone. The winner in this category is Straight Man (1997) by Richard Russo. It chronicles the lows and lows of the life of a head of a department at a university. Fractious colleagues, deceitful deans, whining students, shrinking budgets, and geese. It has everything.

It is discussed elsewhere on this blog. Get clicking’.

Richard Russo has many other titles.

Phantom of Chinatown (1940)

Phantom of Chinatown (1940)

IMDb meta-data is 1 hour and 2 minutes of runtime, rated 6.2 by 449 cinematizens.

Genre:  Mystery

Verdict:  Odd Coupling

At Southern University up north learned professor John or Cyrus Benton (the props department could not make up its mind about his first name) back from a harrowing expedition to the Gobi Desert in the interior of Mongolia gives a lecture — the fraternity bothers fell asleep instantly at this point — on his discoveries, which include…[gasp] a map to the Ming emperor’s legendary temple of Eternal Shopping Mall.  With the lights dimmed for PowerPoint he talks while the film of the expedition runs behind him.  

Dimmed lights, steady drone, cool night air, no wonder the fraternity boys dropped off. 

As Prof’s lugubrious presentation nears the punch line…he keels over and a mêlée ensues as everyone tries to take a selfie with the corpse, because corpse he is.  Plod arrives and declares it a natural death due to PowerPoint overexposure, but Mr James Lee Wong soon undermines that conclusion.    

Grant Withers

Casting notes:  Grant Withers plays Plod as only he can: a perfect fit.  This Plod is loud, impatient, stupid, patronising, inept, ranting, incoherent, slow-witted, pompous, inconsistent. and a fool.  In short, he is presidential material.  Withers played this stereotype repeatedly, and he must have brought his own felt hat because he always has it on.  

Boris Karloff played Mr James Lee Wong in five previous film with quiet dignity, a respectful authority, and a certain dry wit.  Karloff’s contract ended and with a contempt for the viewing public now equaled everyday by the News Corporation, the studio cast the diminutive Keye Luke as Wong.  Not even as the nephew of Wong but Wong himself.  Still it is the first, and for years the last time, a Chinese actor was cast to play a Chinese lead.  Progress of a sort.  But in this rendition Number One Son does not have the gravity or grace of Karloff.  He does, nonetheless, hold his own against the village idiot Plod, but that is not a high bar.  

Lotus Long

The ethereal Lotus Long is cast as Benton’s loyal assistant Win Len, and endures some of Plod’s groping efforts at humour.  For that alone she deserves a round of applause.  He is clumsy, vulgar, and oafish as he dismisses Chinese as savages, and she is glacial and reserved as he tweets out garbled non-sequiturs.  Now who does he remind me of….  

There is another point when Plod is yucking it up about taking anything Chinese seriously apart from Chop Suey when one of the villains no less points out to him that Genghis Khan ruled the world long before Europeans were using soap. [Was this a personal hygiene hint?] It is all way beyond the fourth grade level Plod attained by cheating.  Presidential indeed. 

Going for gold, Plod makes a meal of the absurdity of burying any Chink in a tomb and then digging it up.  Mr Wong replies that a Chinese expedition is scheduled to dig up George Washington soon.  That comparison passes way over Plod’s head.  

These are pretty pointed remarks though they are passed off as throw-away lines. Let’s credit George Waggner who wrote the screenplay and director Phil Rosen for retaining and staging these lines.   

As between Plod and Wong, the race goes to Wong, but he lets Plod think he figured it out.  It may have been a step forward to cast a Chinese to play a Chinese lead, but Luke is not convincing, scowl though he might.  

Lotus Long was half-Japanese but from the latter 1930s she pretended to be Chinese to avoid the opprobrium increasingly directed at Japan. Thus, when most Japanese-Americans on the West Coast were interned, she was not.  Though in 1946 she played Tokyo Rose in a film of that name. She married a cameraman because he made her look so good, she said, and they stayed married for fifty-six years until his death.  She played Eskimos, red Indians, Chinese, Japanese, Hawaiians, and other stereotypes in a mere twenty credits.  She quit the business in the 1940s and devoted herself to philanthropy.  Cinematizens loss.  

Grant Withers played this painful fool so routinely the fraternity brothers have come to think that it is the real man.  Maybe he watched too many of his own 202 films. They certainly sap my will to watch.   

A Murder of No Consequence (1999) by James Garcia Woods

A Murder of No Consequence (1999) by James Garcia Woods

GoodReads meta-data is 278 pages rated 4.03 by 91 litizens.

Genre: krimi

Verdict: D&D  (Deep and Dark)

It is early July 1936 in Madrid and the stifling summer suffocates everything in Madrid. Early one morning Inspector Ruiz and Sergeant Felipé are called to investigate the corpse of a young woman found in a vast Retiro public park.  These are homicide dicks and this is a homicide.  The questions start here.  Who was she?  There is a purse with money in it, lacking the all important identify card.  She is dressed in a fine silk gown, and there is no sign of sexual assault.   So it is neither robbery nor rape gone wrong.  Her calloused hands do not fit with the dress. There is no disturbance of the ground from which absence they conclude the murder — strangulation — occurred elsewhere.  

It became a police procedural in the atmosphere of the fatal storm clouds gathering in Spain at the time.  Even as Ruiz and Felipé go through their routine procedures carloads of armed hoons peel around threatening each other. Shootings and murders at political rallies occur nearly everyday.  It is an NRA paradise.  Everyone has guns and everyone uses them.  

Ruiz follows three good rules: Start where you are.  Use what you’ve got.  Do what you can.  These two have a photograph of the girl and they have the expensive dress with a maker’s tag in it.  Off they go.  Their inquiries are baulked at every turn because this is a society in which the wealthy are above the law.  Anyone who sits on a gold-plated toilet answers to no one. Think of the Thief in Chief’s ideal world. This is it.  The girl was a maid in the household of a very wealthy and politically connected man.  No one in this household is much bothered by her murder, and certainly cannot spare even a few minutes to talk to the investigating officers about it.  It fits the time and place.  

As they try to find people who knew the girl, they question milkmen, greengrocers, doormen, and the like, and are warned off in no uncertain terms by Falange Blue Shirts.  In keeping with the Krimi Writer’s Manual, being warned off spurs their desire to persist. Another warning is delivered by the Guardia Civil.  Shutter!  

Regrettably, Ruiz (but fortunately not Felipé) has a life outside policing, and we get (far too much of) his backstory, and his side story punctuated by an American exchange student who throws herself at him within five minutes of nodding on the stairway.  What dean would let a student go on exchange to Aleppo today, because that was what Madrid was like in the summer of 1936? He also moons about his youth in the Army of Africa, and pals around with his now middle-aged school mates, who have to be one Socialist and one Royalist. so we can see the country dividing. It’s all contrived, but the pace, writing, and dialogue are pretty well judged so that it moves.  

It ends at the Montaña Barracks on 20 July 1936 when the shooting became general. 

Spoiler here.  That this naive village girl could be used as a courier travelling by train hither and yon over a roiling Spain to deliver letters is a stretch.  How would she manage the logistics?  Sure Don Carlos can buy the railroad tickets, but how would she find an address in Seville?  Take a taxi, she who has never seen one, and would know how to hail one or pay the driver.  And if she travelled to distant Badajoz would she stay overnight in a hotel until the trains resumed.  She whose bed was straw on a packed earthen floor until a few weeks before the story starts? 

To think about these practical details of travelling is to see how unlikely it is.  If Don Carlos was buying all those train tickets someone would have noticed, or if not, why all the indirection.  Then there are all the disruptions to railroads at the time by striking workers and union busters that would have frightened her to death.  It seems to me just as likely that she would take a little money and run.  It seems to me also that she would have been even less likely to realise what she had mistakenly been allowed to see.  

This title is the first in a series.  I could not find a picture of the author. It put me in mind of a far more subtle series set in the immediate aftermath of the Spanish Civil War: Rebecca Pawel’s study of Guardia Civil Carlos Tejada, starting with The Law of the Return (2005).      

Rogues’ Gallery (1944)

Rogues’ Gallery (1944) 

IMDb meta-data is 1 hour, rated 5.2 by 112 cinematizens.

Genre:  Mystery.

Verdict:  Fluff.

Emeritus Professor invents a Big Ear that can eavesdrop on a conversation anywhere in the world once he has the co-ordinates.  No wires, no transmitter, no credibility are required.  All EP needs is the shortwave signature of the spot, and every spot has a unique shortwave signature.  Is that what Google Maps is doing?  Uh huh.  Maybe the President in Thief can explain this.  

This is Big News! Hat and Snap are dispatched by the Daily Rag to get the scoopola.  Sure.  Hat is a no nonsense dame that stomps as she walks and Snap carries a really big iCamera.  Turns out Prof’s KPIs do not require him to talk to idiots so they get nothing.  For a scandal hound ‘No!’ is just the beginning and they barge around, first at the foundation headquarters and then the laboratory.  Sure.  

They take possession of the Top Secret plans for the gizmo. How this possession happens has to be seen to be disbelieved. They use the plans to extort interviews. [Media ethics have changed so little.]  During one interview a board member is shot dead. The flour is in the oil now, thickening the plot.  Hat is well known to Plod and in between praising her perspicacity he derides her intelligence.  Consistency takes a holiday. 

Snap makes clever use of his flashbulb camera to foil a heist of the plans.  Hat gets some good lines, like this exchange.

Plod: ‘Just because a man is cold to the touch doesn’t mean he’s dead.

Hat: ‘When I touch a man and he stays cold, then he is dead.’

In contrast to the dialogue there is an attenuated scene about trying to whistle that, well, where is The Whistler when he is need.  The efforts to whistle go on too long and are repeated to no purpose but to get that the magic hour for theatrical release.  Don’t blame the players, they did as directed, and the director can blame the screenplay, if there was one.  The buck stops there.   

Regrettably there are few Rouges and no Gallery.  The singular villain — Smiley — was there all along, bumping into Hat and Snap wherever they went.  It took these two Mensas an hour to connect the dots to the ever present Smiley who for reasons unknown to the scriptwriter persisted in hiding the stiff.  

It was released on 6 December 1944 when the US was fighting a two-front war with nearly a million men under arms.  B-29s began bombing Iwo Jima for the blood bath that would take place there in a month.  Meanwhile an all-out Japanese offensive had begun on Leyte to expel the invading Americans, and in Europe the Nazis were preparing for the offensive that in ten days would be called The Battle of the Bulge. The Pentagon dispatched the dreaded yellow and black telegrams everyday with many more to come.  In this context some inane light relief was certainly in order. 

Deadly Lies (2017) by Chris Collett

Deadly Lies (2017) by Chris Collett 

GoodReads meta-data is 348 pages, rated  4.2 by 2881 citizens

Gerne: krimi

Verdict: Procedural 

A journalist is found dead in his Spartan home in Birmingham, the second largest city in England these days. Local plod writes it down as suicide and prepares to leave, but by chance DI Mariner is nearby, attracted by the flashing lights of the panda car; he takes a closer look.  It is enough to make a citizen lose faith in Plods.  He finds obvious signs it is a murder and also a witness hiding under the stairs which the local plod had missed.  

The witness is of little use for though he is twenty-nine years old he is on the far end of the autism spectrum. That malady, its effects on families, its care and treatment, the cocktail of guilt and wishful thinking it triggers, the charlatans that comes out to feed on it, these are all central to the plot.  I found out more about autism than I liked, truth to tell, but it did develop the plot, including the description of the home as spare, sparse, and Spartan.   

The deceased was the sole-carer of this autistic man, his brother, and had devoted most of life in recent years to that.  Now that he is dead, their reluctant sister has to prise herself away from her high-powered job to take over.  One day she is soaring with corporate eagles, and next day cleaning up the living room after this unhouse trained man-child brother has….   While she has been well paid, and her brother left a sizeable estate, the cost of residential professional care for the autistic brother is cosmic, far beyond ‘well paid’ and ‘sizeable,’  more in the income range of an Oil Sheik, a Latin American dictator, or the President in Thief. In any event the deceased estate will be tied up for at least a year, and she will not be well paid if she has to care for the brother full-time. The problem for her is N-O-W.  One place she turns for help is the kindly old family doctor.  

Meanwhile, Mariner noses around. He is especially motivated to stick his oar in the water because by sheerest chance (maybe a little bit too sheer for some readers, like this one) he realised he had seen the deceased outside a pub earlier that very evening as the victim was getting into a distinctive, if old, Stuttgartmobile.   

Thereafter the herrings are diverse and red.  Mariner’s fallibility is nicely handled as he goes from dead ends to false trails and back. The moral growth of the sister as she copes with her unwanted brother, and in so doing begins to see the world in a different light is credible.  

According to the formula the least likely person is the villain and that applies here with a deus ex machina revelation, although it leaves many, many loose ends. We may infer that low bid contractors for the Bleachers did it and they remain untouched, yet they killed four people on someone’s orders. What were those symbols that were mentioned several times early and then dropped?  Did I flick a page too fast and miss the point?  Perhaps later titles in the series dot a few of these i’s, and I might find out. 

Chris Collett

There is much to’ing and fro’ing in Birmingham, including Bournville which we visited on the utopia trail in 2004, and many of the city’s canals.  When planning a trip occasionally I consult Trip Fiction for novels set in the destination, click on https://www.tripfiction.com. Anticipating a trip to Birmingham late in 2020 I went looking and found this title.  

Sydney Festival 2020

In 2019 we did the Sydney Festival with Renaissance Tours and were tourists in town, staying at a hotel and letting Renaissance select what we saw. That was a good experience and we thought to repeat it 2020, and signed up for the Renaissance Sydney Art and Culture Long Weekend again, but for reasons unknown it was cancelled. Sacré bleu! Tabarnak! We had to decide for ourselves.

Studying the program we picked five things and I proceeded to book them. Too slow I was for our number one pick, which was William Barton playing the didgeridoo. We had seen him perform with the Song Company nearly ten years ago in Darwin and found it enchanting. But by the time I hit the keyboard, it was sold-out and I accepted waiting listing. (Later I got an email about a few last minute tickets but when I tried to purchase the web site was down – collapsed under the demand I supposed.)

My timing was better for the other four and we got tickets on the days and at the times that suited us.

First up was Life – The Show at Spiegeltent in Hyde Park, produced by one of the fabulous Davey sisters from Melbourne. It was marvellous. Wet, dry, hot, cold, sad, deliriously happy with anti-gravity aerialists, cabaret music, and a flying saxophonist shown in the centre bottom of the image above.

Next up was the Albury-Wodonga’s Flyings Fruit Fly Circus show Time Flies at the Seymour Centre, University of Sydney. It was presented as a School Captain’s report with droll humour, and with exuberant energy.

Adding to cabaret and circus was drama in Black Ties at Town Hall. It was great fun though the antics of one of the characters was disproportionate, we thought.

But seldom have so many had so much fun in the Town Hall theatre, which is frequently the site for some acrimonious back-stabbing when political parties use it for annual meetings.

We capped off our Festival with the songs of the a cappella Tenebrae Choir from Old Blighty at the City Recital Hall where we saw several others from Kate’s choir, from Newtown, and from days gone by. Such precision, such clarity, such blending of voices, such emotion made it a riveting performance.