These posts are instigated by what family and friends, or myself may be experiencing at the time.  My son went to bed last night with a sore throat.  Today I remind myself what to do for him.

Any pain experienced in the head area is hard to ignore.  Especially when it comes to swallowing.  A sore throat can be the start of a virus infection such as a cold. Other causes can be a low immunity , infected glands, reaction to toxins, chronic stress, zinc deficiency, or allergies. If sever it can be streptococcal infection. If left undiagnosed by a GP the infection can affect the heart and bring on rheumatic fever.  Antibiotics may be the solution.

It is important to take steps to boost the immunity system. As I tell my son “Give the good guys ammo to fight the bad guys.”

Ammo For Good Guys

Consume warm not cold drinks such as herbal tea (sage tea soothes the throat), vegetable juice, warm broth’s, soups and pineapple juice.

Take Garlic (Kwai if available) Tablets

Take Goldenseal and Echinacea.

Take Vitamin C.

Take Vitamin A, but not if your pregnant. Take betacarotene, which converts to Vitamin A once it is in the body.

Ammo For Bad Guys

Sugary Foods and Dairy Products

Gargle

Warm water and sea salt .

Apple cider vinegar mixed with sea salt and warm water.

~ It is important to eat foods daily, that help keep the immune system up and running. Keep those good guys full of ammo.~

Garlic is of the onion family. It has many health benefits as well as medicinal.  It has long been thought of as a “wonder drug”.  It has been proven that raw aged garlic can have a powerful antioxidant effects.  Antioxidants help guard against “free radicals”.  For years I have relied on a Kwai garlic tablets. It is known for supporting cardiovascular health, normal cholesterol levels and blood circulation as well as a healthy immune system.  It is recommended to take garlic three times a day due to the fact that garlic only stays in the system 4 to 6 hours.  I take these garlic pills usually once or twice a day depending on my symptoms.  Three times a day can seriously dry out your sinuses.  The tablets are about the size of a mini m&m and have a sweet coating on the outside.  What attracted me to this brand initially was that it is Odorless. This brand of “Kwai” is not always easy to find.  After much research recently, I found this product at a Rite Aid Store.  Ask for it by name at your drug store.  You won’t be disappointed.

//www.enzymatictherapy.com/products/Heart/Cholesterol/53090-Kwai-Garlic-Supplement.aspx

Club RTL – 20h35 – lundi 31/8         film de D. Learn avec W. Holden, A. Guiness,

// <![CDATA[http://www.allocine.fr/film/fichefilm_gen_cfilm=1602.html]]>

// <![CDATA[http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SFMmJMNRv-Q]]>

Okay, maybe that title is slightly misleading. When I was in India I ended up with dysentery so bad that I couldn’t eat much at all. But I do remember some of the things I ate or chewed upon.

I was in Meghalaya for a month and the Khasis tend to eat their food fairly plainly. Rice, chicken, beef, with these green, little bullet peppers on the side. Begung was one particular dish I remember (and the spelling is more phonetic than anything else). It was a dark green leafy vegetable chopped into small pieces and fermented or aged with something savory. Think Asian sauerkraut but completely different. They also made a beef jerky over the fire used to distill the local rice drink, kyat. This was like drinking very very green saki.

Khasis also eat a lot of boiled eggs. This got to be too much for us on the second day. At one point we got takeout. There aren’t many restaurants and takeout involved gettting some kind of noodle dish served in a banana leaf. All biodegradable but now days they put those dishes wrapped in bananad into a plastic bag for carrying and once you’ve finished eating you toss the leaf and the bag. It was a sad thing to see that Western culture was encroaching all the bad aspects there as well.

The one other item in Megahlaya that I tried wasn’t really a food item. It would go more into the realm of entertainment, or a side, or like smoking. This was kwai, or betel nut. The Khasis eat theirs fairly pure. You take a peppercorn leave–it’s actually a betel leaf though they called it peppercorn beause of the peppery taste, put a dab of lime paste on it (this is not made from fruit). Then you take chopped up betel nut (or areca nut, which is similar to nutmeg in hardness and texture) and fold the leaf over the the ingredients. Then you chew and chew and chew. It’s very hard and takes the lime and the leaf to help break it down.

Betel nut is also a slight stimulant (and has been found to be a carcinogen). It tended to make me turn beet red, which everyone found quite funny. I didn’t notice more than a little rush. Many Khasis eat it often and it tends to stain the spit and therefore the lips red. One woman called it Khasi lipstick. Betel nut is eaten throughout India but it may be sugared, have candy sprinkles, spices or a host of other items to sweeten it up as it is pretty harsh and bitter. In India it is called paan.

Although I got into the habit of trying it in Meghalaya I didn’t continue in the rest of India because it was too sweet. Just as well since it is known for destroying gums and teeth because it is so hard. I remember being in some government buildings in India and seeing corners in halls stained red as if someone had been stabbed to death. People would just spit into the corners and it was never cleaned up.

Through the rest of India, I actually didn’t get a chance to try as much as the food as I would have liked. Dhal (a lentil stew) was common but I can’t eat lentils. And I also had dysentery, which prevented me trying many of the dishes I wanted. I do remember the yogurt being remarkably creamy and not bitter like it is here. You could get a salty or a fruit lassi, made from yogurt and they were a lot of what I survived on when I was very sick.

I’m afraid I never got to try curries and other local dishes. By the end of the two months I was too sick to remember much about the food, except to stay away from the Campa Cola, which was made in Italy but shipped to India because it was carcinogenic. What fun. It’s one regret, that I never got to try more foods while there.

This is the sermon I gave at the Mawsynjri Unitarian Church on my last day in Meghalaya (exactly one week ago now):

When I was young, I would always draw a particular small picture. I remember putting it everywhere for many years. It was a balloon, like at a party, with a smiling face on it. Next to that, I would write, “Be Happy.”

Then, I did not know how important that phrase was “Be Happy.” I did not know that when I became older, more and more of my friends and family would become unhappy. I know many people in my country who are not happy. For the past four years, I have done a lot of thinking about why so many people in my country are unhappy. These are not people who worry about whether they have enough food to eat, or whether their house was well-built. They have these needs met, but they still want more. And there is always more a person can have, so they stay unhappy. They are never satisfied.

But I don’t want to talk about unhappiness. Doesn’t it feel easier sometimes to let yourself be sad than to be happy? You can always find an excuse to be sad. Maybe it’s raining outside when you have forgotten your umbrella. Maybe you are having a difficult time in school. Maybe you are having a difficult time with your wife or husband. These are reasons to be sad.

But what I have learned in these years of thinking about happiness is that you don’t have to succumb to that sadness. You can choose to be happy. And you can choose to live your life in such a way that you are likely to find happiness. I think about this very often, and want to share these thoughts with you.

The first step on the way to happiness is to choose to behave in a correct way. If you are doing the wrong thing, unhappiness is surely to follow. As it says in the Bible’s Galatians, you reap what you sow. If you plant a bad seed, it will grow into a big, bad tree. If you do not study your books, you will fail your exams. If you are unkind to your neighbors, gossiping and unwilling to give them help, you will lose your friends and be alone. If you are drinking so much alcohol, your body and mind begin to waste away. You must act in the right way as often as possible. No person can be perfect, but you must strive toward righteousness.

God will tell you what is right, in your heart, if you ask Him to guide you. Proverbs 3[:5-6] says, “To ngeit ha U Trai da la ka dohnud baroh, bad wat shaniah ha la ka jong ka jingshemphang. Ha la ki lynti baroh to phla ia u, te un pynbeit ia ki lynti iaid jong me. [Trust in the Lord with all your heart, and lean not on your own understanding. In all your ways acknowledge Him and He shall direct your path.]” God will always show you the proper way, if you open yourself to His word.

The next thing I have learned about happiness is that you must always believe what you are doing is amazing. Do not just do the right thing. Do the right thing the best you can, so you may be proud of your work. You cannot be disappointed if you have truly done your best. If you are not doing your work excellently, then you will feel that disappointment. This year in Pingwait, the theme of the Unitarian Union’s General Assembly was about letting your little light shine. Jesus said, you do not hide your light under a basket. You put your candle on a table so that all may see. “To pynshai kumta ia ka jingshai jong phi ha khmat ki briew. [Let your light so shine before men.]” [Matt 5:16] May the excellence of your work reflect the best you can give to the world, and you cannot be affected by disappointment or regret.

Lastly, in addition to working toward righteousness and excellence, you must choose to be happy. Some people who have visited the Khasi Hills ask me, “How can you be happy here? Sometimes the water does not come to the tap. Sometimes you run out of oil, and you have to go all the way to Smit and Shillong to get more. Sometimes you miss the bus. You see broken homes and people falling sick far from a hospital.” These things are true. But I am happy here. I think you all are too. You have loving neighbors. You have good schools for your children to attend. You have much land for farming and in which to play. You choose to be happy with these things, even when you are facing a difficulty.

Are there problems here? Yes. But if you allow yourself to be dejected, you cannot alleviate these problems. You must feel in your heart that you can make your life better. You must choose that positive attitude and the belief that you can help yourself and your neighbors. Act righteously and do your actions with excellence. Choose righteousness, excellence, and happiness, and how can your joy decrease? How can you not improve the happiness of yourself and those around you?

I hope in this sermon, I am talking mostly to myself. I hope you have already chosen to Be Happy. You all have made it very easy for me to be happy this year, even though I am very far from my home. I will remember you all and will bring the joy you have given me back to America. I will miss you very much when I go away, but I am happy to have known you and to know that I will see you again soon.

Khublei shibun ki paralock jong nga. [Thank you very much, my friends.] May God give you every blessing.

Amen.

My last day was lovely.

I went to the children’s service with the kids in the morning. Spent most of my morning over at the Children’s Village, eating lunch there and at the Mukhims’ home. Tea with our main construction workers at noon. Church service around 1 with this sermon and kwai and candies for everyone afterward. Tea at the Mynsongs, the family I’m closest to in the village. Packing up Khlur’s car at home, saying goodbye to his parents, Dari, and all the kids. Saying goodbye to the mothers and children at the Children’s Village. Goodbye dinner at Bari and Nangroi’s house in Lumparing.

As I’ve written before, the children are adapting well. The mothers and Birialna are doing a great job looking after them, and have plenty of resources to help them out. Construction is nearly finished, though most recently stalled by a cement shortage. But, our men have finished a big drainage ditch in the road (utilizing stones the size of eight year olds), and, now that cement has been found, can put in our last doors and windows for the kitchen and bathroom and build our septic tank’s filter. In the fall, they’ll come back to paint the whole place.

I am currently with my friend Ram in Toyko, the first of my stops over the next five weeks. I’ll probably write an update from each country I visit, so folks at home can collectively read where I am. Nangroi, Khlur, and I have talked about using this blog as a public way to update everyone on the Children’s Village, but who knows how that will pan out. In the meantime, this is now a travel blog.

Thank you all for your interest in this important project. Khublei shibun.

Se abre el telón:

- Se abre el telón y se ve un gnomo del bosque, sentado en el hombro de un tío que parece muy simpático…

¿Cómo se titula la película?

- El duende sobre el tío guay.
Para los ignorantes:

Mas información

Estos 4 ultimos dias en el Sudeste Asiatico han transcurrido placidamente, sumido en el universo francofono que siempre rodea a Eric. Esta vez me he alojado en Thewet, no tan inmerso en la tumultuosa Kao San Road, como en anteriores visitas.

He vendido y comprado libros, he visitado el Bangkok de los rascacielos y el Sky Train, he utilizado el modernisimo metro de Bangkok por primera vez y he sufrido mi primera tormenta asiatica de las de verdad.

El ambiente politico parece que se va calentando. Dia tras dia se ven camisetas rojas de manifestantes en apoyo a Thaksin, el anterior primer ministro. Eric tuvo la infeliz ocurrencia de ponerse una banda roja en la cabeza, de apoyo a Thaksin, y casi tiene un altercado con un tailandes que le sugirio que la utilizara como papel higienico.

Mercado flotante

Y he contratado un tour que ha supuesto mi ultima turistada por la zona. Era muy interesante, pero las visitas estaban excesivamente masificadas. Incluia la visita al abarrotado mercado flotante. Despues fui a Kanchanaburi, donde cruce a pie el famoso Puente sobre el rio Kwai, por la via del tren de la muerte. Otro mito caido: donde esta la linea blanca que hay que seguir mientras se silba la cancioncilla de la pelicula?

Ante el puente sobre el rio Kwai

Y el dia culmino en el Templo de los Tigres. En este templo, los monjes budistas que crian a los tigres, les transmiten tal paz que uno puede ir alli, tocarlos, hacerse fotos con ellos… Lo malo es que luego no se pueden poner en libertad en su habitat natural, porque son demasiado mansos para sobrevivir. Aun asi, se recomienda no hacer movimientos bruscos, no llevar colores llamativos, objetos reflectantes o acercarse a ellos por delante. Tambien existe una version oficiosa que dice que los tigres van drogados hasta las cejas.

Me parecio ver un lindo gatito.

Aqui concluye la primera gran etapa del viaje. Si todo va bien, se avecinan cambios relevantes. No se vayan todavia, que aun hay mas.

Salut.

Farang medverkade i plöjningstävling.

Den 67-årige Gerdosh Theodore Minten från Tyskland är gift och lever tillsammans med en thailändska kvinna i Koratområdet. Han ställde nyligen den upp i den 15e upplagan av det årliga nationella Biffdjurs-, och Buffelmästerskapet vid ampour PakChong i Jangwat Nakhon Ratchasima (Korat).

http://www.thairath.co.th/newspic.php?cat=2377&id=15408

Ett av de populära inslagen under dessa festligheter var den svåra plöjningstävlingen med hjälp av en vattenbuffel som dragdjur. Den gode Gerdosh och hans fyrbente medtävlare gjorde så pass bra ifrån sig att de via stort stöd av den sportsliga och vilt påhejande publiken gick och vann förstapriset i tävlingen.
Under stort jubel från åskådarna delades både prispengar och diplom ut till den tyske segraren.

Inget är ju som segerns sötma, och denna framgång borde ha varit en skön revansch och sporre från tidigare förluster på fältet. Men låt oss nu lägga Stalingrad bakom oss, för den här gången var det faktiskt helt rättvist att Tyskland fick vinna kampen och segra där ute på fältet.

Därför vill jag framföra ett stort grattis till Herr G. T. Minten och hans duktiga medtävlare.

Plöjning med kwai är ju en sak, och fotboll är ju av en helt annan dignitet när det gäller allvaret i sportsligt tävlande.

Även i Thailand är det stor skillnad på sport och sport, och även om vissa hävdar att deltagande och kämpande skulle vara minst lika “Sanock” som att få vinna, så gällde i alla fall inte den tesen efter att Vietnam var oförskämda nog att spöa Thailand i fotboll för ett tag sedan.
Speciellt när det gäller vadslagning så tenderar sport att urarta och bli blodigt allvar. Och vem kommer inte ihåg när en viss mustch-prydd herre förlorade sitt satsade kapital och blev rasande när han blev snuvad på en thailändsk seger.

Ha dé bra,

SiamNilsson – jordnära nyheter med “knorr”

Copyright © SiamNilsson, All rights reserved

“I wanted to invent a new engine that could run forever.  I could have developed a new train, had I stayed in the railway.  It would have looked like an AK-47 though.”

- Mikhail Kalashnikov

For my last day in Kanchanaburi, I figured it would probably be a good idea for me to visit the Bridge Over River Kwai that was built by American POWs during WWII, as it was the main reason I came to Kanchanaburi in the first place.  But I knew the bridge wasn’t all that big, so I knew I’d have to fill my day with something else as well.

After waking up fairly late, I headed down for another buffet breakfast (and another flirtatious note from that Thai waitress working at the hotel restaurant… *blush*) and then made my way out to the pool.  The bridge was definitely on the to-do list, but a morning by the pool to work on my tan also seemed like a good idea.  The pool also had a cold-water jacuzzi built into it, which proved to be quite helpful in loosening up my sore muscles from the previous day’s hike up Erawan.

For lunch I headed back over to the Four Nine Bar and had a massive chicken club wrap.  Don was around and told me I had missed out on some Canadians the previous night who had came in a few minutes after I had left.  Apparently they were staying at the same hotel I was and were in Thailand as a family (father, mother, son and two daughters) since the son of the family had met a Thai girl from Kanchanaburi and was going to marry her.  It was a shame I missed them, so I told Don to keep an eye out for them and let them know there was another Canuck kicking around. 

Don also gave me some pretty bad news – apparently one of his regulars (Terry, who I hadn’t met) was struck by a motorbike and was killed the previous night.  He joked that Terry had probably been stumbling across the road drunk, but I could tell Don was pretty upset to know Terry had died in such a tragic way… he smoked about a half a pack of cigarelllos in the hour I was there talking him up and having my Pad Thai.

Around mid-afternoon I finally grabbed a moto and headed down to the railway – it would have been at least a 30 – 45 minute walk otherwise, so the $2 CDN moto ride was worth it on such a hot and humid afternoon.  As predicted, the bridge only took about 30 – 45 minutes to check out.  It was a bit freaky walking across the bridge as there are no handholds or guardrails to create an illusion of safety, and there are large gaps along the tracks that are large enough to fall foot-first through (at least up to your hips… you wouldn’t fall straight into the lake, but it would hurt like hell if it happened).  To make me feel even more comfortable, a bunch of overweight tourists who were hellbent on stopping ever 5 seconds to take 20 pictures were all around me, and being the gentleman I am I kept walking along the very narrow track beside the foot-sized gap so that they could pass by me and make their way further down the tracks.  I only got about halfway across the bridge before I figured I’d seen enough and turned back.  I killed a little more time checking out some of the old steam engines that were displayed by the bridge, and then started the long walk back to the hotel.

On my walk back I noticed the sign for a recommended guesthouse/restaurant I had read about in Wikitravel (called By De River), so I figured I’d check it out.  While it was pretty peaceful sitting on the river; I watched the barges and boats go by, as well as local Thais swimming in the lake, while enjoying an orange soda.  Unfortunately I didn’t really enjoy the hospitality of the Thais at the guesthouse, as they didn’t seem all that interested in serving me and I think I was the butt of their jokes for awhile too.  Seeing as how I was the only farang (Thai for foreigner) at the guesthouse restaurant, I finished up my soda and started on my way back to my hotel once more.

Again I passed through the bar/restaurant/guesthouse district on River Kwai road and again I wasn’t really tempted by anything I saw.  Back at the hotel it was late in the day, but there was enough sun left to hit the pool one more time… I’m pretty surprised I haven’t burned as I haven’t been using sunscreen at all over here.

For dinner it was back over to Four Nine Bar where I had some more Pad Thai, another beer or two, and since Don wasn’t around I ended up playing some pool with one of the girls working the bar and learned a little more Thai (than I’ve already unfortunately forgotten).  It ended up being an early night since I had to catch an early morning bus back to Bangkok for my flight up into northern Thailand.

The next morning at breakfast the flirty waitress was nowhere to be seen, which was sort of a shame as I would have liked to say goodbye to her – her notes were pretty funny.  Instead, I had the pleasure of seeing a group of trashy Europeans enjoy their breakfast at the buffet restaurant.  I say “trashy” because the young girl of the group was hardly dressed, as was the young guy, and they were practically shouting to each other across the restaurant in some European language I couldn’t understand.  Oh, and the last guy in the group (a very heavy-set / fat older guy) ended up taking about 20 pieces of bread from the buffet to take back to the table (just for him, or for all three of them I’m not sure?), leaving no bread for anyone else.

I hate to say it, but I totally expected to see that kind of behaviour from American tourists while I was on vacation.  I was pretty shocked that all of the Americans I met were really well behaved, and it was many of the Europeans I saw who seemed to have no manners or respect for the people who’s country they were visiting.  For anyone ever planning on going to Thailand, or anywhere in Asia for that matter, here’s a tip – notice that most Asian people dress very nicely when going to eat.  I’m not talking about a suit or anything, but they tend to at least wear sleeves and pants.  Technically tourists can where whatever they want (they are on vacation after all), but if you want to show some level of respect for the people serving you (who’s country you’re a visitor in) I’d advise against booty shorts, tops that have your cleavage practically popping out, basketball shorts, dirty tank tops, and t-shirts with derogatory slogans – at least not while you’re in their restaurants.  Okay, that’s the end of my rant on Eurotrash.

After breakfast and checkout it was time to catch a bus to Bangkok.  It proved to be a pretty long trip (on the way there I had slept the whole way and had no idea of the time it would take), but mostly because I was worrying I wouldn’t get to Bangkok in time to get to the airport and catch my flight up to northern Thailand.  I wanted to catch the public bus from the South Bus Terminal in Bangkok to the airport, but by the time I got into town I had to take a taxi to make sure I didn’t miss my flight.

The flight up to northern Thailand was quick (1 hour?) and pretty uneventful.  I had flown into Udon Thani, one of the larger cities in the north-east of Thailand and part of the province known as Isaan (sometimes pronounced Eee-sarn).  Isaan is the poorest region of Thailand, and many of the people there leave their homes to go to Bangkok, Chiang Mai, Phuket and Pattaya to find work (the latter two usually being the destination of the younger girls of Isaan, where they unfortunately find work in the bar scenes and sex trade… not to say Bangkok and Chiang Mai doesn’t get its fair share of Isaan girls for this type of business as well).  Despite being so poor, I had heard that Isaan is also one of the last areas where you can see “real” Thais, or at least Thai culture that hadn’t been overly infringed upon by Western culture.  Isaan also serves as a gateway into the country of Laos.

The original plan was to catch a bus as soon as I got off the plane down to Khon Kaen, a smaller city than Udon Thani but home to the second largest university in Thailand.  I would stay there for three days in a fairly fancy hotel and live somewhat high off the hog, which is cheaper to do in Isaan than Bangkok, Kanchanaburi or Chiang Mai.  Then I’d head back up to Udon Thani by bus for a two days, one of the days being reserved for a day-trip into Laos to check out its capital, Vietiane.

The two hour bus ride from Udon Thani to Khon Kaen ended up being a nerve-racking one.  The bus left Udon Thani just as the sun was setting, and we had to drive through a lot of countryside where there was little-to-no light to see anything.  English isn’t widely spoken in the north-east, so not many people understood me and I worried that I’d be in a lot of trouble if I missed my stop in Khon Kaen or got off too early.  Despite being worried about the bus ride, I still managed to get about a half-hour of sleep in there… good old sleepy Blair.

In the end my worries were unjustified.  Khon Kaen is a big enough that I knew I was in the city when we entered it, and I was also lucky enough to find an older Thai gentleman near the front of the bus who spoke a bit of English.  He told me when to get off the bus, and even helped me get a tuk-tuk ride to my hotel since it was pretty late at night (around 10:00p.m. or later).

I checked in at my (pretty fancy) hotel, but figured I’d do a quick walk around the hotel to get my bearings being that my hotel was situated in what looked to be a fairly tourist-friendly area.  I discovered two other fancy-schmancy hotels, a street with a strip of bars/clubs/pubs, a small shopping mall, and some more small restaurants and pubs.

But it’s almost midnight and I have a 6:00a.m. day trip tomorrow, so I’ll save the stories of my first night in Khon Kaen for another time.

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Sortí de casa seva a trenc d’alba, com cada dia, a la mateixa hora. Just quan creuava la porta, abans d’arribar a un petit pati ple de flors, es va aturar un moment…no, no s’havia deixat res. Amb pas ferm i decidit va seguir el seu camí. Gumersindo de Villabona era petit i lleuger, calb, amb bigoti gruixut i la mirada perduda d’un “Boston Terrier”. Era home de costums fixes i no es plantejava si això li agradava o no. Tenia trenta vuit anys, solter, sense compromís i cada dia feia el mateix, ho tenia tot programat fins l’últim detall: s’aixecava a les set, vestia segons un precís calendari que mai havia alterat, esmorzava, dinava, berenava i sopava a la mateixa hora i a la mateixa hora se’n anava a dormir. Es dirigia a la factoria de formatges de Borfia del Pestat, un petit poble rural de poc més de mil habitants, entre Pravia i Tineo, a la zona més oriental del Principat d’Astúries. Coneixia de memòria cada racó d’aquell majestuós paisatge de verd del nord, i li agradava caminar abans d’arribar a la feina. Baixaria aquell turonet i puntualment arribaria a l’antiga casa senyorial de “Fondabonda”, on treballava des de feia vint i cinc anys sens faltar un sol dia. Allà s’hi elaborava el producte més especial d’aquella zona, el “penecillium claverum” o formatge de Cabrales, extremadament cremós, intens, un xic picant i amb tendència a esmicolar-se. Tot es feia de manera artesanal, amb la llet de les vaques, xais i cabres que ell mateix cuidava. La “Gabriela” era la nineta dels seus ulls, es tractava d’una vaca “Holstein Freisian”, importada des de Holanda i que rumiava el doble que les demés. Gumer, tothom li deia així, per primera vegada en molt, molt de temps, va aturar el seu pas i va respirar fondo. El seu instint li cridava que alguna cosa, no anava com calia, els ocells havien parat de cantar. Abaixà els ulls per contemplar un petit objecte de color taronja que hi havia al costat de la pista. No va saber identificar-lo a primer cop d’ull, << sembla metàl•lic >>, va pensar. L’enlluernava, era el pic de l’estiu i el sol havia sortit rabiós. Es preguntava que era allò…instintivament va mirar a tot volt, no hi havia ningú, allà mai no hi havia ningú. Es va acostar al misteriós objecte, suava i es passà una mà per davant dels ulls per veure-hi millor, << però, com pot ser?….una llinyola? >>. En aquell moment li vingué al cap un vers que gairebé havia oblidat, <>. No tenia cap sentit, << Potser ha de passar una carretera per aquí?…quina tonteria! >> va pensar mentre mirava el seu rellotge; aquest s’havia parat a les vuit en punt, el va picar amb el dit índex, << Maleïdes piles! >> i el va oblidar. Continuà mirant aquell artefacte, amb més deteniment i el que va veure l’intrigà encara més. Del seu interior sortia un petit cordill de color blau “Montserrat”, que es perdia darrera uns arbustos. Gumer el va seguir. A mesura que avançava, el fil s’anava alçant. Va caminar fins arribar al final, << Però com potser? >>. El fil restava suspès a l’aire, rígid i simplement desapareixia. El va tocar amb por i aquest es bellugà desprenent pols de color. Va tornar a tocar-lo més decididament i es va repetir el mateix, no entenia res de res, aleshores va cridar:
-Hola? –. Adoptà un posat digne en veure que ningú el responia, allò semblava màgia de mal gust i s’incomodà. Va agafar el fil, enfadat va tirar amb força i de cop, una forta atracció totalment inesperada el va atraure. Per molt que es resistia se l’emportava irremeiablement. Tancà els ulls i es posà les mans al davant del cos per evitar el xoc contra les bardisses i va caure com un ninot.

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En realitat caigué de genolls sobre una superfície totalment diferent de la que esperava, era tova, quina sorpresa. Prengué un grapat de << sorra? >> i automàticament el deixà anar, cremava. Alçà la mirada i aquell panorama que tenia al davant, el va deixar fred, tot i que hi feia una calor sufocant. Aquell desolador paisatge li va fer obrir la boca quasi un pam, davant seu s’estenia un gran desert ple de tota mena d’andròmines, o això semblaven a primera vista. Se’n feia creus, es tractava de vaixells, avions i tota mena de vehicles, immòbils, saturant l’immensitat d’aquell erm de sorra i pols. A l’horitzó va intuir una gran silueta, circumdada per una espessa boira que era massa lluny i tremolava en la distància. Un fort vent de gregal, com el que els antics perseguien per anar a Grècia, l’atiava sense indulgencia. Es posà d’en peus i va mirar la perifèria, tot era igual, es va pessigar el braç. -Ah! -. No, no es tractava d’un mal son. Gumersindo de Villabona romania sol i espantat, sense saber ben bé que fer, sobre la duna més alta que hi havia en molts kilòmetres a la rodona. En aquell instant es va adonar que estava espantat. Es va girar, palpant l’aire, buscava el maleït filament però ja no hi era, no va desistir, havia de sortir d’allà i el seu esforç totalment inútil, va fer que aquell monticle s’esmunyís entre els seus peus i rodolà fins caure bocaterrosa. Al seu costat s’aixecava un vaixell de càrrega grandiós, de color groc brillant però molt rovellat. A proa s’hi podien llegir una sèrie de caràcters xinesos que Gumer no va entendre, com quasi res del que estava passant. Es tractava del “Raifuku Maru” (desaparegut el 23 de Febrer de 1925 mentre navegava per la costa japonesa). El caliu era insuportable i va decidir refugiar-se dins aquell monstre de metall a través d’una petita esquerda que hi havia al casc. Era fosc, només petites escletxes de llum entraven per un costat. Va seure, deixà el sarró que duia penjat en un costat i va començar a plorar.
Va quedar-se adormit, després es va menjar l’entrepà que s’havia preparat per esmorzar, truita de faves com cada dijous i això el reconfortà bastant. Decidí inspeccionar aquell vaixell ajudat d’una torxa improvisada amb un pal i la seva camisa. No hi havia ningú, només caixes i més caixes de fusta. Va obrir unes quantes a l’atzar, totes contenien el mateix a l’interior: màscares xineses, semblaven caps de drac, de fusta noble, amb sanefes variades i de tots colors. Va decidir posar-se’n una verda, així es protegiria del sol. Al cap d’una estona ja estava preparat per aventurar-se en aquella terra desconeguda i misteriosa. Feia una fila del tot extravagant: portava les sabates sense mitjons, els pantalons retallats pels genolls, sense camisa, amb la bossa penjada a l’esquena i aquella màscara que li quedava enormement gran però que feia a la perfecció la seva funció.
Deixà enrere part d’aquell desballestament d’objectes immòbils. Al principi els examinava encuriosit per com havien arribat allà i guardava quelcom que trobava interessant. Un robí vermell i gran com un puny del “Black Rosalie”, una caravel•la pirata gairebé descomposta (desapareguda misteriosament a les costes de Noorfolk el 6 de Desembre de 1640), una pistola de bengales, molt gran, pesada i de canó ample del “Martin Mariner”, un hidroavió nord-americà (desaparegut el 5 de Desembre de 1945, juntament amb 13 aviadors, als vint minuts d’emprendre el vol) i una pota de cabra d’un buc alemany de tres pals al que li faltava la proa, anomenat “Freya” (desaparegut amb la corresponent tripulació, prop de Cuba, el 4 d’Octubre de 1902). Gumer mirava de desxifrar aquell enigma, però quan més voltes i donava, menys ho entenia. Es preguntava qui donaria de menjar als seus animalets, si el trobarien a faltar, si l’acomiadaria el gerent, el senyor Cascarabiel, que sempre li buscava tres peus al gat, sobretot si es tractava del pobre i educat Gumersindo. Va ser llavors, capficat en les seves cabòries, va sentir un crit, << una veu humana! Per fi! >>.
Seguidament va cobrar un fort cop al cap, bé al cap no, a la màscara de drac que portava encara posada. Se la va treure ràpidament per veure millor qui l’estava picant. << Només faltava això! >>.
La seva sorpresa va ser majúscula en veure un astronauta histèric amb un rem etrusc a la mà, que l’amenaçava mentre no parava de repetir una i altre vegada: – Atkúda vï príbïli?, Atkúda vï príbïli? -.
Curiosament, després de la tensió, molta discussió i finalment la calma tan habitual d’aquell enigmàtic lloc, Gumer s’estranyà que encara no fos de nit. Més tard descobriria que allà mai es feia de nit i els dies eren només de sol. Dos homes perduts, que amb prou feina s’entenien, xerraven en una ombra improvisada, l’un en asturià tancat i l’altre amb un rus estrident i marcial. Era bo no estar sol i era curiós, que llegís la historia del seu company dies abans a “La voz de Asturias”, el diari que llambregava cada dia després de dinar i que explicava com havia desaparegut misteriosament la nau russa “Progres U-50” durant uns experiments en òrbita a la terra. Es deia que probablement s’havia desintegrat, però allò no havia passat mai, perquè Viktorenko Ilimitomovich era allà amb ell, en el món dels dies eterns. La densa barba pèl-roja delatava, que hi portava més d’una setmana, espantat, sol i a l’aguait, fins que un dia, va aparèixer el monstre del desert, una bèstia que s’arrossegava per aquell infern i sens dubte li donaria explicacions, encara que fos a cops de pal. Viktorenko, Víktor pels amics, no reia des de feia molt de temps i per celebrar-ho va treure una ampolla de vodka que havia amagat a la seva nau, Gumer ho acompanyà de formatge blau i reinetes .
Es van posar en marxa unes hores després. Estaven d’acord. Rumb al nord, en direcció als singulars caminets que Gumer havia vist des de aquella duna gegantina. Recordava aquells grup de camins, com tentacles que sortien de la broma llunyana. Naixien en el centre d’aquella massa i s’endinsaven com serps cap el desert. La xafogor enutjant feia que caminessin lentament. Així continuarien durant dies i dies, a l’abisme de sorra i vent que a estones bramava, xiulava i no tenien més remei que refugiar-se on podien, alternant la guàrdia doncs aquell lloc els feia por. Precisament en una d’aquestes parades, es van separar per explorar el territori i quasi es perden, així que decidiren no tornar-se a separar, sota cap concepte.
Finalment, extasiats, van arribar al seu destí, amb la pell cremada i els llavis tallats. Tal com Gumer havia promès, un d’aquells caminets va apareixer. No era un camí sinó una via de tren, i al seu costat hi havia una petita vagoneta, mig enterrada a la sorra. << Ja tenim transport! >>, va pensar Gumer emocionat, mentre animava al seu amic perquè l’ajudes a extreure-la. Era petita però amb suficient espai per dos persones, amb una gran palanca que l’entravessava longitudinalment i un eix al centre amb una molla rubinada. Entre els dos van decidir posar-la al seu lloc. -Amb una mica de sort encara funcionarà! -. Va dir Gumer entusiasmat i la varen aixecar plegats de terra. Va ser difícil, sobretot pel més petit, que tot i que la sostenia amb les dos mans, els braços li tremolaven i la tremolor es va escampar pel seu cos. Això va produir un atac de riure a Víktor i la vagoneta es decantà perillosament, quasi perd l’equilibri, sort que el rus era fornit i la va redreçar sobre els rails, encaixant-la perfectament.
Es posaren en moviment amb ritmes descompassats, al principi, tanmateix al cap d’una estona anaven perfectament sincronitzats i xiulaven plegats la cançó: “El pont sobre el riu Kwai”. Lliscaven per la via i cada cop eren més a prop d’aquella broma que Gumer recordava, aquella calitja concentrada què cada vegada era més contundent i augmentava. No, allà res no era el que semblava, i aquella muralla impressionant se’ls tirava al damunt. Tenien previst arribar de nit com a factor sorpresa, però allà mai es feia de nit. Van observar la muralla de prop, era de metall i estava realment calenta. S’enlairava trenta metres, era uniforme, totalment llisa i no presentava cap porta ni obertura a la vista. Decidiren rodejar-la, després de dormir una bona estona. Es van adonar que cada cert període de temps s’obrien, com si fossin parpelles, unes finestres rodones que escopien un fum blanc immaculat, restaven obertes un moment i es tornaven a tancar. Sempre era igual, s’obrien a l’atzar en llocs que no podien determinar. Gumer ho va rumiar i va donar-li voltes i més voltes, se li va encendre la bombeta i va dir: -Eureka!! -. Acte seguit s’allunyà d’allà com si hagués vist al dimoni i es va dirigir cap un camió de bombers que pertanyia a la ciutat de Toronto, era vermell llampant i blanc. Estirà una de les mànegues del rodet que hi havia al seu darrera, fins que va sortir tota. Lligà un dels seus extrems a la pota de cabra que tenia dins la bossa.
Va seure amb les cames creuades com un indi esperant el seu moment i no va passar gaire temps fins que veié el seu objectiu a la dreta. A uns cinc metres de terra es va tornar a obrir un forat i sense dubtar-ho, llençà la baluerna contra el mur, va fallar. L’eufòria va prendre el lloc a la precisió. Ho va tornar a intentar i aquesta vegada la barra va quedar posta al centre, impedint que la comporta es tanqués. Gumer tirà pel dret, era més petit i allò s`havia d’assegurar millor. Va arribar al capdamunt extasiat i amb les plantes de les sabates pràcticament socarrimades. S’adonà que no era una finestra, es tractava en realitat, d’un cilindre que feia baixada, pel que sortia aire fred meravellós. Posteriorment va estrènyer bé el nus, va mirar el seu company que ja pujava a bon ritme i es llançà al buit sense saber on aniria a parar.

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Víktor va caure sobre seu i Gumer va cridar, però l’únic que sortí de la seva boca va ser silenci; hi va tornar però no es va sentir res. Per descobrir si es que era mut o sord, espetegà els seus dits al costat de l’orella per descobrir que tenia el sentit de l’oïda perfectament, però per molt que s’esforcés en cridar ningú dels dos percebia cap so. << Ens hem quedat muts? >>. Estaven sols, allà tampoc no hi havia ningú, només coses i més coses. Centenars d’objectes: una estàtua d’un Buda de setanta metres d’altura, varies mòmies i sarcòfags; cadires de fusta, de pell, tamisades i giratòries; llits victorians de cames entorcillades; un projector que pertanyia als germans Lummiere; motos, cotxes i bicis; arbres de tota mida i condició, s’apilonaven en aquell majestuós jardí, cuidat meticulosament, i al final de tot un edifici de dimensions desmesurades, completament de vidre.
Caminaven lentament, tafanejant mentre l’aire, fresc i frondós, els acariciava la cara. Gumer es va aturar davant un gong mongol que duia el nom: “Khan”, gravat a la superfície. Aleshores observà que cada peça duia la pertinent etiqueta i a cadascuna li pertanyia un número diferent. S’havia quedat enrere i quan va voler comunicar el seu descobriment al seu company, un terrabastall en forma de sirena, el deixà mig estabornit.
-Alarma!…Alarma!…Objecte desvirat -. No paraven de repetir, una i altre vegada, els dos robots sentinelles, alts com un sant Pau, que portaven a Víktor emmanillat. Només tenien una cama que no arribava a tocar a terra, donava la sensació que flotessin. El cos metal•lífer levitava, amb dos braços al costat que tenien pinces com a mans i a sobre, un cap llargarut amb només un ull vermell, que pampalluguejava intermitentment. Abans que Gumer pogués reaccionar, els dos guardes i el seu presoner, desapareixien per una entrada que ara ja es tancava. Va córrer amb totes les forces que li quedaven, l’espai no era molt llarg però aquella porta es replegava ràpidament cap un costat. Va fer un salt i rodolà fregant-la amb l’esquena quan es zelava al seu pas, li va anar d’un pel. Una vegada dins, mirà de fit a fit i caminà amunt i avall buscant al seu amic. Allò no tenia ni cap ni peus, els passadissos es perdien en direccions absurdes, es confonien, tot semblava igual, i sense trobar a Víktor per enlloc. Hi havia infinitat d’habitacions sense cap mena d’ornament, només petites urnes, cotícules de cristall amb més objectes al seu interior. A la primera sala hi havia: una pipa, un casc víking, un exprimidor de taronges, una aspiradora, trenta gossos, vuit mamuts, deu rinoceronts, sis pigmeus, quatre submarinistes i una dona que feia mitja compulsivament. Insonoritzats, tots classificats amb aquells números. Va estar donant voltes dies i més dies sense trobar cap rastre, mort de fam, fins que una tarda, es trobà de cara amb l’objecte número “46700488948151623429467”. Es tractava d’un “Guillot-xe”, amb caixa d’Angora i motius de plata. El rellotge de butxaca que el seu avi li havia regalat justament, el dia que feia catorze anys. L’avi Alfonso, Fonso, com li deien des de petit, era com una enciclopèdia oberta, sabia un niu i mai s’equivocava. Tenia un sisè sentit, tant era així, que va saber fins i tot, quan es moriria. Aleshores va saber el que ja sabia; ara entenia on anaven a parar els mitjons sense parella que li desapareixen a la rentadora. Ell tenia la teoria, que amb la centrifugació, es creava un forat negre que tot s’ho empassava.
No anava desencaminat, però la maquinària d’aquell lloc era més sinistre i malvada, i els seus secrets mai havien estat en mans de ningú.
Estava esgotat, feia massa que no dormia i les parpelles se li tancaven involuntàriament, així que es va dormir com una rabassa.

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Un soroll cada vegada més intens, va desvetllar a Gumer del seu son. S’entaforà veloç en un angle mort de la cambra perquè ningú el clisses. Un robot més petit que els altres, empenyia un carretó. El va seguir guardant una distància prudent. De tant en tant, aquella màquina electrònica feia una parada, i executava automàticament la mateixa operació: obria una d’aquelles vitrines amb una clau rodona que duia al coll i agafava el seu contingut. Finalment, cansat de perseguir-lo per tot arreu, l’androide es va aturar davant un ascensor i deixà el carro al seu davant. Amb precaució, després que marxés l’autòmat, es va introduir al seu interior. Sort que era petit i va poguer tancar la comporta superior, sense fer soroll pensava: << Ocasió i temptació, són la mateixa cançó >>.
Es van obrir les portes de l’elevador. Una mà en forma de tenalles introduí el carro a l’interior, va prémer un dels molts botons que hi havia en una paret lateral i van començar a pujar a sotragades. Gumer va notar una destravada més forta que les anteriors i va comprendre que s’havien aturat. Va sentir com les portes s’obrien i com el desplaçaven fins que va quedar quiet. Obrí una mica la tapa i veié una gran estança. Sortí amb cautela i s’amagà darrera unes cortines vermelles de vellut. Per un costat, va poder veure amb més detall, l’exorbitant habitació, molt barroca pel seu gust, com tot el que havia vist fins al moment. Havia perdut el sentit dels temps,tot li semblava una eternitat. En veure la paret que tenia a l’esquerra, li va agafar un esglai, penjaven una sèrie de caps humans a tall de trofeu. << Déu meu! Això passa de mida! >>. Al final d’un llarg passadís, algú fumava d’esquena. Només li veia una mà arrugada que duia un anell de diamants a cada dit. Romania assegut en un tron fastuós d’or massís, digne d’un rei. Era al costat d’un home molt jove, dissecat dins una armadura platejada, amb la deessa Atenea esculpida al pit, a lloms d’un cavall de Tessàlia. També hi havia una llar de foc de marbre, negre, com la nit que Gumer tant enyorava, amb una gran foguera que espurnejava fàtuament. Allò li va produir certa repugnància, però va esperar pacient fins que aquell homenet de pell estriada i tons liles es va aixecar, pausadament. Portava un bastó, l’ajudava amb la paràlisi que l’obligava a arrossegar la cama dreta. Els moviments eren pausats, Gumer va aguantar la respiració quan el va notar a prop. Aquell engendrament va acostar el carro que el robot li havia portat fins davant del foc i començà a llençar-hi tot el que hi havia dins. Primer una harmònica diatònica de deu cel•les, acompanyant-ho d’una sinistre rialla. Després una flauta travessera d’alpaca i una altre cop reia com un possés. Així va seguir, tirant uns jocs de castanyoles espanyoles, pues de contrabaix, una corneta de dos vàlvules, moltes partitures i un “Stradivarius”, fins que, de cop i volta, el riure es transformà en irritació. Ara, aquell home escarransit bullia de ràbia mentre remenava l’interior del carro. Semblava trastornat.
-On és?… On és?…..maleïts robots!, els fregiré a tots! -. Va dir el vell emprenyat com una abella.
-Busques això? -. Gumer tornava a parlar, per alguna raó havia recuperat la veu i sense saber ben bé perquè, s’estava enfrontant a aquell sinistre personatge. A la mà sostenia una trompeta daurada, l’havia agafat mentre estava amagat al carro.
-Es pot saber que hi fas aquí?… On és el teu número?… Com has entrat?… Moriràs per la teva ofensa! -.
Treia foc pels queixals i fum per les orelles mentre l’amenaçava amb el seu bastó, que en realitat era una espasa camuflada.
-Perquè cremes instruments? -. Va dir-li Gumer mentre l’apuntava amb la pistola de bengales que encara duia a la bossa. –Respon o tastaràs de la teva medicina! -. Sense voler l’arma se li va disparar i al contrari del que es podia esperar, el vell obrí la boca i s’empassà la bengala.
-Ja,ja,ja!!! -. Aquell personatge reia excitat i fora de si. Un objecte perdut li estava demanant explicacions i a més a més el disparava. Va pensar que ja n’hi havia prou.
–Guàrdies!! Guàrdies!!! Acabeu amb aquest producte fugitiu -.
Gumer agafà la trompeta amb les dues mans, amb força, i començà a tocar-la instintivament. Primer pistó, aconseguint afinació. Feia molt de temps que havia deixat d’anar a les classes del senyor Bertran, que sempre li deia:
-Gumersindo ja cal que la setmana vinent, t’hi escarrassis més o li diré a la teva mare que no fas els deures! I que toques de mala gana! -. A Gumer li agradava més anar amb bicicleta, anar a robar peres a l’hort de l’Eustaquio o anar a les basses de “Casariego” per fer-hi un bany amb el seu amic Rafael. Mai hauria imaginat, que trobaria a faltar els consells del seu mestre. Tot i que feia molt que no la tocava, va esprémer el segon pistó i després el tercer, mentre els seus llavis vibraven amb força contra el broquet, impel•lint l’aire a borbolls. El so era tant alt i tant agut, que una vaixella que hi havia a prop, s’esmicolà en centenars d’encenalls cristal•lins de bohèmia. L’home del seu davant es posà les mans a les orelles per evitar aquella tràgica melodia, però era inútil. L’ancià li suplicava que no la toques, però quan més li demanava, ell més bufava, fins que el vell es va començar a desfer com la mozzarella. Una força interior l’animava a continuar bufant i així va continuar durant hores, hores i més hores. Tot tremolava i mica en mica, els objectes s’anaven desempedregant. Primer l’estança on era, juntament amb tot el que hi havia. Després l’edifici sencer, el jardí i així successivament. Li van passar per davant milers d’artefactes, vehicles, animals i persones. Gumer volava en un tornado, flotava i seguia insuflant. L’harmonia era més que perfecte. Havia esperat més de vint anys, però ara, el “What a Wonderful World”, semblava tocat pel mateix Louis Armstrong. Quan ja no quedava res ni ningú, el petit Gumersindo de Villabona, va començar a inflar-se, cada vegada més i finalment va esclatar com una bombolla de sabó.

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Va adonar-se’n que tot havia acabat on havia començat, en aquell prat misteriós que tant trobava a faltar. Va saltar d’alegria i va mirar el seu rellotge, tornava a funcionar, marcava les vuit en punt. Amb la trompeta a la mà va córrer cap a casa seva.
Allà l’esperava Víktor, llegint el diari atapeït de noticies que explicaven, com havien aparegut arreu del món persones i objectes, que un dia per art de màgia, van evaporar-se de la capa de la terra.
Era un dia feliç, de retrobades i molta il•lusió, però Gumer simplement deixà el robí, més gran que mai havia donat Madagascar, sobre la taula. Va seure al costat del seu amic i es van abraçar. Havia entès que la vida, malgrat que ens doni sofriments, es per viure-la intensament. Van parlar, van veure, van menjar i van cantar. Fins que a la fi, es va fer de nit.

40) Full Metal Jacket- (58/100)- This is not one of my favorite war movies, but on most of the lists I saw, it scored consistently in the top 10.  I honestly thought that I would have it higher, but here it is at number 40.  The movie suffers from what I call “Stripes Syndrome.”  It is almost as if it is two complete movies: one about basic training, and another about Vietnam.  The first part of the movie is gold, but this is not a list about great basic training movies, or An Office and a Gentleman would be on it.  By the time you get to the second half of the movie, all of the compelling stuff has already happened, and you just want it to end.

39) Stalag 17- (59/100)- This is a good movie with a compelling plot and some good acting, but it takes place in a POW camp, and therefore suffers from a lack of battles in the ‘war movie’ department.

38) Where Eagles Dare- (60/100)-  This is another good movie with good acting, but it suffers from the fact that it is a complete work of fiction.  It is, however, considered to be the one of the best of the fictional war movies.

37) Andersonville- (62/100)-  This was a made for TNT depiction of life at the most brutal prison camp in the South during the civil war.  It suffers from many of the same problems that Stalag 17 does, but it is shows a little more of the actual brutality that often accompanied prisoner of war camps.

36) The Bridge on the River Kwai- (63/100)-  This is really more of a character study than an actual depiction of life in a POW camp run by the Japanese during WWII.  It suffers on this list from the same things that hurt Stalag 17 and Andersonville.  Though it has a great cast, there is some pretty bad acting at times in the film.  It is also a fictional work.  It however deserves some respect because of the mold that it broke when it was made and the fact that it won seven Academy Awards.

35)  The Green Berets- (65/100)- I’m not saying that it is a great movie, but what kind of war movie list would this be if it did not have a few John Wayne movies on it.  At least there are a few good battle scenes in it.

34)  Memphis Belle- (65/100)- It is hard to think of Sean Astin as a war hero, but this is really not a bad movie.  It attempts to encapsulate the trials and tribulations of the average bomber crew in the European theatre during WWII.

33) Sink the Bismarck- (67-100)- This movie is on par with The Battle of the River Plate as far as the way it was made.  The ships still have that ‘toy’ quality about them.  The reason it scores higher, it the Bismarck was simply an icon and the Graf Spee was not.

32) The Desert Fox- (70/100)- This biography of Rommell is a very good.  It is not big on battles, and suffers here for it.

31) The Charge of the Light Brigade- (70/100)- The subject is one of the greatest military debacles in history.  The cavalry charges are some of the best to be found on film, but the plot, complete with social commentary tend to make the film tiresome.

Top 50 War Movies Criteria

Top 50 War Movies 10-1

Top 50 War Movies 20-11

Top 50 War Movies 30-21

Top 50 War Movies 40-31

Top 50 War Movies 45-41

Lists

The SHOR Paradigm

[Decision Management in Uncertainty, Risky and Conflicting Situations]

By

VIKRAM KARVE

“The man who insists upon seeing with perfect clearness before he decides, never decides”  …Frederic Amiel

Decision-making is so pervasive that everyone, professionally or personally, is involved with making a variety of decisions.

In today’s fast-moving world, the timing of a decision is of paramount importance in many decision-making situations. In real life even the “perfect” decision may not be optimal if it is made too late. 

Information is a vital resource in decision-making. One of the most important characteristics of successful managers is the ability to make the correct decision when confronted with imperfect or insufficient information (i.e.) Decision-making under conditions of uncertainty.

In the context of decision-processing, two realms or domains of uncertainty are:

1. Information Input Uncertainty which creates the need for hypothesis generation and evaluation;

2. Consequence-of-Action Uncertainty which creates the need for option generation and evaluation.

THE SHOR PARADIGM

A decision taxonomy: The Stimulus – Hypothesis – Options – Response (SHOR) paradigm, formulated by Wohl, is useful in such decision situations. The SHOR paradigm represents a qualitative, descriptive, model as distinct from a quantitative, predictive model, and comprises three primary decision-making task elements:

S: Stimulus Input Data Processing

H: Hypothesis Generation, Hypothesis Evaluation, Information Processing [What is?]

O: Option Generation, Option Evaluation, Decision-Making [What if?]

R: Response Output Action

The SHOR paradigm is basically an extension of the classical Stimulus – Response (SR) Paradigm of behaviourist psychology. The SHOR paradigm provides explicitly for the necessity to deal with information input uncertainty and consequence-of-action uncertainty, and helps us understand some of the peculiar human factors that affect the quality of the decision-making and answering questions such as:

What makes some decision-makers perform better than others, especially in placing high-value assets at risk, in business?

What are the sources and dimensions of “poor” performance?

HUMAN ERRORS IN DECISION-MAKING

Based on the SHOR Model, human errors in decision-making appear to lie in four domains:

(S) Stimulus: “I didn’t know…”

(H) Hypothesis: “I didn’t understand…”

(O) Options: “I didn’t consider…”

(R) Response: “I didn’t act…”

Stimulus based errors of the type “I didn’t know…” result from lack or inadequacy of information, the true inability to obtain information.

“I didn’t understand…” is the fundamental result of information input uncertainty, while “I didn’t consider…” is the product of consequence-of-action uncertainty.

It is possible to have accessed all significant information, to have developed the correct hypothesis and to have selected the best option and yet fail to take appropriate action. The two possible reasons for the “I didn’t act…” type of response error are:

1. Paralysis: This is a complete failure to act, the pathological ‘observation of an inevitable course’ without intervention. It is caused by an over-riding emotional struggle in which some internal factor is being placed in conflict with the course of action selected by the decision-maker. The final scene in the evergreen classic film The Bridge on the River Kwai (1957) exemplifies such a situation.

2. Misjudgement: The decision-maker correctly decides what to do but errs in either or both of the two dimensions – how [the specifics of the action] or when [the timing of the action].

Prediction of the critical consequences of inaction may be of some help in dealing with paralysis whilst the ability to perform sensitivity analyses may assist in alleviating misjudgement. 

Any Decision-Maker [and designers of decision aids] must address the four cardinal types of errors epitomized by the SHOR paradigm: “I didn’t know…”, “I didn’t understand…”, “I didn’t consider…” and “I didn’t act…”

DECISION-MAKING IN UNCERTAINTY

In the context of decision-making in uncertainty, the conflict theory paradigm developed by Janis and Mann may be apt. This paradigm postulates five patterns of coping behaviour which tends to occur in such situations:

1. Unconflicted Adherence in which the uncertain, or risk, information is ignored and the decision-maker complacently decides to continue whatever he has been doing.

2. Unconflicted Change to a new course of action, where the decision-maker uncritically adopts whichever new course of action is most salient, obvious or strongly recommended.

3. Defensive Avoidance in which the decision-maker evades conflict by procrastinating, shifting responsibility to someone else, or constructing wishful rationalisations and remaining selectively inattentive to corrective information.

4. Hypervigilance wherein the decision-maker searches frantically for a way out of the dilemma and impulsively seizes upon a hastily contrived solution that seems to promise immediate relief, overlooking the full range of consequences of his choice because of emotional excitement, repetitive thinking and cognitive constriction. In its most extreme form hypervigilance is referred to as “panic”.

5. Concerned Vigilance in which the decision-maker optimally processes pertinent information, generates and evaluates hypotheses and options before selecting a response as characterised by the SHOR paradigm.

In many real-life situations a decision-maker cannot always keep waiting until the entire information-input and consequence-of-action conditions are known a priori with certainty. In most cases there is no such thing as “perfect” certainty.

If a single most important characteristic is crucial to a decision-maker in any field, it is the ability to make optimal decisions in conditions of uncertainty. Qualitative descriptive models like the SHOR paradigm may prove useful in such situations.

To quote Frederic Amiel once again: “The man who insists upon seeing with perfect clearness before he decides, never decides”.

VIKRAM KARVE

Copyright © Vikram Karve 2008

Vikram Karve has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

vikramkarve@sify.com

vikramkarve@hotmail.com

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25. Aug

Heute morgen ging mein Zug von Thonburi nach Kanchanaburi. Die Abfahrtszeit waren unchristliche 7.45Uhr. Thonburi Bahnhof ist eigentlich nur einmal über den Fluss von der Khao San Road gesehen, aber so ziemlich jeder Taxifahrer versucht einem einen Festpreis abzunehmen der jenseits von gut und böse für die Strecke ist. Das Problem löst man einfach damit, dass man zur Hauptstrasse läuft und ein vorbeifahrendes leeres Taxi herwinkt und schon war es kein Problem mit dem Taxameter dahinzukommen. Der Endpreis belief sich auf 60Baht ist irgendwie schon ein Unterschied zu 200Baht Festpreis.

Nachdem ich am Bahnhof war konnte es auch schon losgehen mit der Zugfahrt von Thonburi nach Nam Tok. Fast 5Stunden in einem 3te Klasse Zug, da kommt Freude auf. Bis zu Kanchanaburi dauerte die Fahrt 3Stunden und man konnte einiges von der Landschaft sehen. Ab Kanchanaburi Hauptbahnhof wurde es irgendwie voll im Zug. Ab hier stiegen ab jedem Halt immer mehr und mehr Touristen ein die eine fertig Tour gebucht haben und in ihrem Tagesprogramm den Punkt “Fahrt über die Todesstrecke” abhaken wollten. Der Grund für diesen Namen sind die ganzen Kriegsgefangen die beim Bau dieser Strecke gestorben sind.

Da ich bis Nam Tok gefahren bin und von dort mit dem Zug wieder zurück nach Kanchanaburi kann ich jedem nur den Tip geben sich in den Zug zu setzen der von Nam Tok zurück geht. Der ist nämlich wunderbar leer. Hab auf dem Rückweg auch gleich mal die Gelegenheit genutzt ein wenig Zugsurfen zu betreiben. Als ich die Brücke über den Kwai erreicht habe bin ich ausgestiegen und es begann das Brückensightseeing, mit abschliessendem Essen in einem Restaurant das auf dem Fluss gebaut ist. An den Preisen merkte man auch, dass man hier hauptsächlich die Aussicht bezahlt hat.

Anschliessend kam der lange Weg von der Brücke zum Busbahnhof, dabei wurden der Friedhof der Allierten besucht. Auf mich hat Kanchanaburi Stadt einen sehr gemütlichen Eindruck gemacht. Hier in der Stadt und der Umgebung kann man sicher einige Tage verbringen ohne, dass einem langweilig wird.

Nach knapp 2,5 Stunden Fahrt war ich dann in Bangkok am Südbahnhof angekommen und von dort direkt in den 511 Bus eingestiegen der an der Khao San Road vorbeifährt. Als ich über die Strasse gelaufen bin konnte ich meinen Augen nicht glaube. Hab dort David und Angel zum keine Ahnung wievielten Male wiedergesehen. Das ganze endete dann mit mehrer Cocktail Eimern auf der Khao San Road.

Die Tage gehen hier echt schnell vorbei… Hier mal eine Zusammenfassung der letzten Tage:

Noch am Tage des 19.3. waren wir in der Stadt Kanchanaburi unterwegs. Unsere erste Wahl viel auf das “Thailand-Burma Railway Museum”. Hier sollten wir erst einmal noetige Hintergrundinformationen ueber die Geschichte dieser Stadt erhalten, um uns dann den eigentlichen Sehenswuerdigkeiten zu widmen. Das Museum ist uebrigends wirklich sehenswert. Und jeden Baht wert, den man zahlt.
Es erleutert die Geschehenisse hier in Suesost Asien waehrend des zweiten Weltkrieges und erklaert, wie es zu der geplanten Bahnstrecke (Thailand-Burma) kommt. Anhand sehr persoenlichen Einzelschicksalen wird beschrieben unter welch krassen Umstaenden, die Bahnstrecke mit Hilfe der unzaehligen Kriegsgefangenen erbaut wurde… Gleich neben diesem Museum findet man den Gedenkfriedhof der unzaehligen Opfer der Sklavenarbeit. Wirklich erschuetternd.

Gestern ging es dann direkt zur Bruecke am Kwai… und sie steht tatsaechlich wieder. Die Spuren der Bombardierungen sind an einigen Betonpfeilern immer noch sehen. Es beeindruckt, dass man sie heute immer noch begehen und befahren kann. Sie ist absolut originalgetreu erhalten worden… Das soll heissen, dass man neben den Schwellen runter auf den Fluss schauen kann. Wenn man nicht aufpasst liegt man drinne
Zwischen den Gleisen wurde jedoch ein schmales Metalltrittbrett eingesetzt, damit keiner mehr durchfallen kann… wenn jedoch der Zug kommt (ein kleiner Tourizug in Schrittgeschwindigkeit), dann ist es lustig anzuschauen, wie panisch alle Touris richtung Pfeiler rennen, um dort auf kleineren Plattformen dem Zug auszuweichen. Das alles muss wirklich abenteuerlich klingen… aber das ist eben Thailand

Heute haben wir im uebrigen gar nichts getan. So rein gar nichts… Wir haben uns neue Buecher besorgt und nur unter den Baeumen in Liegestuehlen gechillt. Etwas spaeter dem Monsunregen/Gewitter auf unserer Veranda zugeschaut.

Eben beim Abendessen gabs nen Film von DVD (wie es in Thailand so ueblich ist). So haben wir heute einfach nur die Seele baumeln lassen. Morgen werden wir aber wieder aktiv werden… versprochen.

Puh, war das ein Tag… Gestern haben wir uns geschlagene 10 Stunden den Hintern platt gesessen. Zunaechst ging es von Sukothai mit einem wirklich erstklassigen Bus (diesmal mit richtig guter AirCondition) nach Bangkok… In Bangkok angekommen, ueberlegten wir kurz, ob wir eine Nacht dort bleiben sollten – entschieden uns aber dagegen.
Die Wahl viel auf Kanchanaburi. Es ist nicht sehr weit von Bangkok nordoestlich gelegen und auch fuer Tagesausfluege von Bangkok aus geeignet. In knapp 2 einhalb Stunden sollte man es hinter sich haben (Minibus, Rush Hour, lahme Kiste)… Also ging es wenig spaeter noch vom gleichen Busbahnhof in Bangkok los.

Nun sind wir hier, in Kanchanaburi. Wir haben wieder ein schoenes Guesthouse gefunden, leider ohne Pool, aber den Kwai durch den Garten fliessend. Nicht viel weiter steht auch die beruehmte Bruecke ueber den Kwai… Trotz den unzaehligen Moskitos, die uns hier tierisch auf die Nuesse gehen, ist wohl Malaria kein Thema… also auch ein Problem weniger

Sehen wir mal von den unnuetzen Blutsaugern ab, wird man hier sicher ein paar schoene Tage verbringen. Der Garten mit den Haengematten zwischen Palmen, der Blick ueber den Fluss (mit schwimmenden Terassen zum chillen), der Urwald auf der gegenueberliegenden Seite und die Berge in der Ferne laden zum traeumen ein… Was will man mehr?

8 iunie  2006S-a tot vorbit despre arestarea teroristului lugojan Florin Lesch. Rămâne   deschisă chestiunea agenţilor SRI care se infiltraseră în anturajul lui Florin Lesch – tînăr altminteri paşnic până la “ziua atentatului terorist”. Cel puţin unul dintre agenţii SRI ar fi putut acţiona ca ‘agent provocateur’. Tactica este cunoscută de pe timpul vechii securităţi, din faza când era condusă de internaţionalişti. Episodul Florin Lesch pare să ne arate că  SRI-ul nu mai este controlat de patrioţi români, ci este în serviciul unor forţe din exterior. 9 iulie 2006În comentariul său  după arestarea primului terorist “dovedit”  din România, –tînărul Florin Lesch din Lugoj–, ziaristul Ion Cristoiu reînvia buna tradiţie din “Cuvinte prea încrucişate”, rubrica pe care o citeam  cu plăcere în “Suplimentul literar al Scânteii Tineretului”. Exista  o reală  foame de luciditate atunci – luciditate asociată foarte probabil caracterului eroic de către publicul larg. Superstiţia pseudo-religioasă încurajată de  popi cu o cultură minimalistă înlocuieşte acum spiritul hieratic, însă chiar  şi această superstiţie este doar insulară  în oceanul de “vulgaritate” –  am folosit clasificarea lui Giambattista Vico.  Dar există şi azi  o societate reală de cognoscenti, o ‘knowledge society’ în România. Ştiam că la “loviluţie” au fost ucişi peste o mie de oameni, că au fost arestate persoane purtătoare de arme şi bănuite de terorism, dar până la urmă nimeni nu a fost dovedit. Arestarea şi ancheta asupra lui Florin Lesch arată victoria “dublei măsuri” în exercitarea justiţiei din România de astăzi. O anchetă judiciară onestă  ar fi cerut şi identificarea, chiar chestionarea, acelui “agent provocateur” despre care  comunicatul SRI  sugera că el a existat. În analiza pe canalul de televiziune Antena 3, domnul Ion Cristoiu a încercat să identifice părţile “maşinii infernale” încropite de tînărul Florin Lesch. Îl felicit, pentru că, fără a se bucura de avantajul unei “culturi tehnice”, Ion Cristoiu identifică un “missing link” de tip «releu »  în comunicatul despre “evenimente” furnizat de SRI. În concluzie, şi găsind prilejul de a-şi turna cenuşă  pe creştet, domnul Ion Cristoiu sugerează  o analogie între maşina infernală prezentată  de SRI, şi “găina care naşte pui vii”, prezentată de cotidianul “Evenimentul zilei”.Ca să fiu sincer, eu sînt unul dintre cei care au rămas cu impresia că Florin Lesch a fost ales  ca “ţap ispăşitor” pentru lunga vină a instituţiilor responsabile ale  statului român de a nu fi identificat după 1989 nici un terrorist (dar există şi alte piste, mai veridice, care pot explica atitudinea SRI). Credeţi-mă, dacă tînărul Florin Lesch va fi condamnat, credibilitatea instituţiilor statului român, cât şi ale ONG-urilor din societatea civilă  care apără drepturile omului,  nu va fi amplificată. Totuşi, totuşi, comunicatele SRI păcătuiesc prin stupiditatea de a crede că se adresează unui public românesc naiv. De altminteri, chiar în acea emisiune de la Antena 3 unde era dezbătut prima oară la modul serios cazul arestării “teroristului în şlapi” care a leşinat, domnul Mihai Gîdea dezvăluia că  primea pe laptop scheme mult mai realiste şi mult mai fezabile de ‘maşini infernale’ care să arunce în aer automobilul cu butelii de aragaz al teroristului din Lugoj.Oricum, sînt de acord cu domnul Ion Cristoiu care afirmă că la SRI există cineva, un angajat din generaţia tînără, capabil să adune oricând cioburile contradictorii  pentru a construi un alt comunicat coerent oferit publicului. Dar, cum sublinia Ion Cristoiu, dacă sunt de faţă  şi ziarişti ce adresează  întrebări pertinente, consistenţa comunicatului SRI  se sparge din nou. La drept vorbind, nu înţeleg de ce nu există o consultare a tipilor vorbăreţi din departamentul  Public Relations de la SRI cu tehnicienii lor interni, specializaţi în “maşini infernale”. Altminteri, vorbăreţii de la departamentul PR ai SRI se cramponează doar într-o  imitaţie delicioasă  a unui  text caragialesc din secolul XIX. Ar fi timpul să treacă în mod serios  la o lectură a eseurilor lui Paul Zarifopol, dacă vor  o pregătire pentru intrarea lor culturală în veacul  XXI. Apoi, “cultura de masă” în România  este încă dominată, intelectualiceşte, de cultura generaţiilor de absolvenţi ai  liceelor industriale organizate pentru învăţământul românesc de academicianul Mircea Maliţa. Există deci, în România, şi o cultură  tehnică  dovedită  realmente chiar şi în condiţii de improvizaţie, adică  o “cultură  tehnică  în stil european”  cum este aceea  zugrăvită  de Pierre Boulle în romanul “Podul de pe rîul Kwai”.  Cel puţin eu, fost profesor de liceu industrial, sînt gata să depun mărturie că  românii pot oricând să inventeze maşini funcţionale,  –eram uluit de ingeniozitatea elevilor mei din Craiova–, deşi unii atribuie maliţios doar oamenilor din Ardeal această  capabilitate. Atunci când îşi redactează comunicatele de presă, pe orice temă,  funcţionarii PR merituoşi  de la SRI trebuie să  ia meticulos în consideraţie  faptul că există totdeauna şi un segment realmente “connoisseur” al publicului românesc. 30 august 2006Avem din nou un comunicat SRI despre tînărul Florin Lesch, teroristul prezumtiv arestat preventiv de această eficientă organizaţie. Ni se prezintă şi dovezi iconice. Bănuiesc că SRI are ca ţintă pentru comunicatele de presă doar persoane excesiv de credule,  ori “guguştiucii şi fătucile” care lucrează în presă,  am citat din autorul Ion Cristoiu. Problema mea de înţelegere este aceea că dacă se vorbeşte despre  terorişti, trebuie neapărat prezentat binomul ‘Omul şi Organizaţia’. De exemplu  ‘Bin Laden şi  Al Qaida’. Oricât de atent aş privi, nu reuşesc să văd altă organizaţie ce se ascunde în umbra lui Florin Lesch, în afară de SRI.18 septembrie 2006Prelungirea arestării “primului terorist dovedit” din România nu rezolvă nimic pentru SRI. Este adevărat, organizaţia SRI  e condusă actualmente de un interimar. Dar viitorul “şef suprem” de la SRI va trebui să  rezolve în primul rînd cazul “teroristului” Florin Lesch din Lugoj. Am mai scris despre Florin Lesch. Insistăm pe tema aceasta, doar pentru că nu îl cheamă Florin Leş. Ceea ce l -ar fi transformat automat în român de baştină, un român aborigen care poate  să  fie stârpit. Ca la 1907. Dar grafia numelui Lesch sugerează  o ascendenţă  a sa în Imperiul austro- ungar. De altminteri  Florin Lesch afirmă  că  este moştenitorul averii unui strămoş Lesch.  Avere pe care o cere restituită de către statul român. Cred că tînărul Florin Lesch are tot dreptul la apărare. Şi are tot dreptul la instituţii inteligente ale statului român. Tinerii slujbaşi de la SRI sunt vital interesaţi de rezolvarea foarte corectă a cazului  Florin Lesch, numai aceasta acreditează (sau nu)  şcoala SRI ca instituţie universitară. Afirmaţia comunicatelor oficiale ale SRI privind apartenenţa lui Florin Lesch  la ‘structuri teroriste islamice’ este foarte « vagă », ca să folosim un eufemism. La nivelul conferit de posesia unor studii  universitare autentice, nu poţi să vorbeşti numai despre « structură », ci despre « structură şi organizaţie»,   într -un binom ierarhic. Studiile de la şcoala SRI pe această temă nu pleacă oare  de la  marele Émile Durkheim ? Nu recurg oare la ideile despre cultura organizaţională  ale lui Michael Thompson*? Care el însuşi s -a format pornind cu impetus  din structura unei organizaţii având caracter militar. Tinerii angajaţi actuali de la SRI trebuie să  înţeleagă că  este în joc aici  nu destinul individului Florin Lesch, ci  atestarea de seriozitate a şcolii universitare SRI (oficial se numeşte Academia Naţională de Informaţii).11 iunie 2007În intrarea precedentă adresam întrebarea retorică : “Studiile de la şcoala SRI nu pleacă oare  de la  marele Émile Durkheim ?”. A fost o premoniţie ? Căci una dintre cărţile fundamentale scrise de Émile Durkheim (1858-1917)  era intitulată : “Le suicide. Étude de sociologie “. Mass media ne transmit ştirea despre  un ofiţer de informaţii care s- a sinucis în incinta Academiei SRI.  “Conducerea SRI a dispus o ancheta interna la ANI pentru a stabili cum de un astfel de incident s-a putut intampla  in cadrul SRI, cunoscut fiind faptul ca pentru a putea accede in randurile ofiterilor de informatii, candidatii sunt supusi unor teste psihologice foarte dure.”, aflăm dintr- un articol publicat de ziarul  Gardianul. Sancta Simplicitas , nici măcar jurnaliştii de la Gardianul nu l- au citit pe Émile Durkheim ! Acest cugetător este ignorat nu doar la Academia Naţională de Informaţii, ci şi la la facultăţile  de jurnalistică din România. Bineînţeles, în condiţiile economiei de piaţă există acum la noi un mare număr de specialişti bine calificaţi în psihologie hedonică. Dar nu  prea cred eu că Academia Naţională de Informaţii are şi un foarte bun specialist în psihologie abisală. Pentru că aşa ceva s- ar cere la şcoala SRI.În cultura organizaţională  de azi există interesul de a cunoaşte şi de a defini individul în  raport cu triada de termeni : (i) Grup + (ii) Grilă de comandă + (iii) Reţea, adică suma conceptuală agregată  (group + grid + network). Termenul Grup (‚Group’), în  interpretarea propusă de sociologul Émile  Durkheim, caracterizează tipul de solidaritate la care aderă individul. Metafora pentru Grilă (‘Grid’), aşa cum este termenul Grilă folosit aici, poate fi  „electrodul de control” dintr -o clasică triodă cu vid.  Grila înseamnă circumscrierea alegerilor individului de forţele societale externe lui. Cu cât este mai intens controlul de grilă, cu atât indivizii sunt mai „ţinuţi în lanţ”.  Cu cât este de o intensitate mai scăzută  controlul de grilă, cu atât indivizii pot să îşi negocieze relaţiile. Cât despre sursa de valoare adăugată pentru individ, şi aici nu vorbim despre sensul monetarist al termenului,  aceasta o constituie  reţeaua personală (network) pe care individul reuşeşte să o creeze.Tipologiile de clasificare a indivizilor  caracterizaţi prin triada criteriilor :   (i) Grup + (ii) Grilă de comandă + (iii) Reţea,  sunt ordonate după arhetipuri culturale. Psihologia abisală reprezintă domeniul ştiinţific având înscrisă exhaustiv pe agenda sa taxonomică toate  arhetipurile culturale. În opinii exprimate public de autorităţi începând cu administratorii de la World Bank şi terminând cu teoreticianul culturii lucrative Clotaire Rapaille, găsim suficiente argumente care sprijină utilitatea arhetipurilor culturale  şi a Psihologiei abisale. Vorbim despre Psihologie abisală  în contextul intervenţiilor arhetipurilor culturale în  elaborarea deciziilor politice  şi a deciziilor  manageriale. Dar şi în alegerile personale de “viaţă sau moarte”. 16 noiembrie 2007Mai există dreptate în România ? ‘Anchetatorii susţin că Lesch intenţiona’- se spunea într-un articol mai amplu despre cazul “teroristului lugojan” (Timişoreanul Lesch condamnat la 12 ani închisoare pentru terorism,  în România liberă din 15 noiembrie 2007). Deci a fost un ‘proces de intenţie’. ‘Tânărul se afla sub supravegherea Serviciului Român de Informaţii de mai mult timp. Acesta a trimis mesaje de ameninţare’ –se mai prezentau motivaţii. Nu a fost ‘supraveghere’. A fost ‘provocare’ şi ‘instigare’. Faptul că a existat un ‘agent provocateur’ de la SRI a fost oficial recunoscut. Este o zi neagră pentru România şi spiritul dreptăţii. Este o zi care anunţă  un viitor sumbru pentru toţi cetăţenii României. Condamnarea lui Florin Ioan Lesch ne spune limpede că nu avem dreptul la instituţii şi instanţe inteligente în România. Şi niciunde în lume.

*Bineînţeles, ideile lui Michael Thompson fac parte din Teoria culturală.

Titus Filipas

The death railway itself, complete with tourists walking across it. Apparently the curved sections are original but all else has been replaced.