Author: Richard Barnes

Singapore II

Richard Barnes

I had originally expected to post twice from notes I took about a decade or so ago during or shortly after my visits to Singapore. However, having found more notes than I recalled having written and seeing that they contain history that is relevant but not well known, I will be posting a few more items on Singapore.

My notes do not pretend to be scholarly from a historical, sociological, or any other “expert” perspective; they were written by a layman who appreciates the subject and believes it to be worth remembering and pondering.

While working in Saudi Arabia, I had the honor and privilege of meeting the Singaporean ambassador stationed there at the time. He and his wife were very gracious to me and were intrigued to hear how all my narratives centered around the historical sites and the stories thereof and some of my encounters there. They appreciated that my interests were similar to theirs. 

He said, “It is unusual for visitors to care much about these matters.” To which I replied, “And that is unfortunate, isn’t it.” He agreed.

His grandfather was Scotch and had died in the prison camps. His father survived and so did his house. But the roof had damage from Japanese shelling. As a late adolescent, he asked his father why he had never gotten around to repairing the roof. “Because I don’t want to ever forget what happened,” was the terse reply.

The ambassador told me about the visit by Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher to the Kranji War Memorial and Cemetery in 1985. He was a young member of the diplomatic corps at the time and he formed part of the delegation accompanying Mrs. Thatcher. He told me what impressed him was that most visitors of state just go to the memorial in the center of the place. Mrs. Thatcher did that, of course. But then she began to walk all around the cemetery, pausing long before the many tombstones, many with crosses engraved therein, and reading names and dates of birth and dates of death, and sometimes commenting, “He was only 18,” or “He was 22,” etc.

He asked me if I had also walked around. I told him I had indeed, and that I was deeply moved.

Then he offered to lend me his books. I requested Thompson’s The Battle For Singapore, because I was about to buy that one during my last trip there, but had hesitated and lost the opportunity. He lent it to me [a year later, I bought my own copy after returning to Texas].

The Kranji Memorial (also known as The Singapore Memorial) has over 24,000 names of Allied men and women inscribed on its walls. They memorialize those for whom no remains or graves could be identified, plus those killed in Malaya, where their bodies remained. 

British, Australian, Indian, Chinese, Sri Lankan, Netherland, and New Zealand soldiers, marines, airmen, nurses, and more are buried or memorialized here, as are those who were killed in the Singapore Hospital in the early days of the Japanese occupation. Over 400 of these latter are memorialized in a mass grave.

The courage of the men and women during those terrible days is exemplified by the actions of nurses who were evacuated shortly before the British surrender. This is excerpted from The Battle for Singapore.

“One of the surgeons, Colonel Thomas Hamilton, waved goodbye to the remaining nurses who were leaving…that day in HMS Vyner Brooke. None of them had wanted to go. ‘Smiling wistfully, they fluttered tiny handkerchiefs to us from the open doors of the ambulances as orderlies and doctors lined the drive to cheer them on their way,’ he says. …. From the hospital lawn that night he watched the Vyner Brooke, an ugly little coastal freighter, sail out of the harbor against the backdrop of a vivid scarlet sunset.”

[The captain managed to elude the Japanese for a couple days, but on the 14th of February his ship was spotted by 6 Japanese planes. The ship was bombed and machine-gunned despite displaying the red cross of a hospital ship. On one machine-gun run, the nurses ran to the deck and threw themselves over the wounded soldiers who could not move. All survivors had to abandon ship. Vivian Bullwinkle, 26-years old, from South Australia, kept a diary from which Mr. Thompson gleaned some of his descriptions.]

[A great uncle, brother of my grandfather, was a medic whose hospital ship was strafed and sunk, along with hundreds of wounded soldiers and a score of nurses off the Philippines in 1942 — RMB]

[Matron Drummond was another survivor, who had been wounded, but helped ashore. The survivors were joined the next day by 20 British soldiers from another stricken vessel. “Without food, clothing, or medicine, the group elected to surrender….” A naval officer went off in search of a Japanese patrol.]

“On 16 February the naval officer returned with a Japanese patrol…. The Japanese officer ordered those who could walk, including Chief Officer W. S. Sedgeman and Second Engineer J. J. Miller, to march around a small headland, where they were bayoneted. The wounded were then bayoneted on the beach, although one English private crawled unseen into the undergrowth after being stabbed through the chest.

“The 22 nurses, including the wounded Matron Drummond, were ordered to walk into the sea. It was around midday and the water was warm and tranquil, the palm-fringed setting idyllic. Matron Drummond, supported between two nurses, said, ‘Chin up, girls, I’m proud of you and I love you all.’ When the water reached waist height, the Japanese opened fire with a machine gun, raking them back and forth from behind. All of the nurses were killed except Vivian Bullwinkle, who was shot above the left hip. The bullet knocked her over and she floated for some time before raising her head. ‘All my colleagues had been swept away and there were no Japs on the beach,’ she says. After passing out again, she came to on the beach. ‘I was so cold that my only thought was to find some warm spot to die. I dragged myself up to the edge of the jungle and lay in the sun where I must have slept for hours….’

“The following morning Vivian had just enough strength to find fresh water in a spring close to the beach, which kept her alive for the next 48 hours. On the third day, she went down to the lifeboat, looking for food, and heard a voice call out, ‘Where have you been, nurse?’ Private Kinsley, already wounded by shrapnel, had been bayoneted in the chest but the blade had missed his heart. Vivian dressed his wounds and helped him into the jungle.”

[They eventually made it to Muntok (Sumatra, south of Singapore) and, making sure their wounds were covered, they told the Japanese they had been shipwrecked, arousing no suspicions. They were imprisoned and, in hushed tones Vivian told her story to a few other nurses. She knew she would be executed if the Japanese discovered she had survived the massacre. Private Kingsley was placed in a crude hospital but died a few days later.]

Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher visits Kranji in 1985 (Source: Ministry of Information and the Arts)

Young man dead at 22 in 1943. Memorial at Kranji Cemetery

Kranji Memorial and Cemetery, Source: Wikimedia

Singapore is on the top left; Muntok is not listed but was on Banka, the small island off the coast of Sumatra, to the south of Singapore.

Singapore I

Richard Barnes

“Disneyland with the death penalty” is how one wag described this beautiful island nation state at the southern tip of the Malay peninsula.

This is the first of two posts sourced from notes I took between 2013 and 2015 when traveling there on business. Similar to my notes on Zagreb, enough time has gone by to allow publication and, again, much has happened in the intervening years to grant a bit of perspective as to how much has changed and how much remains the same, particularly when it comes to human nature.

My knowledge of Singapore was thimble-sized, limited to her fall to the Japanese early in the Second World War (WWII). Sure enough, WWII is “everywhere” and, yet, “nowhere” in Singapore. 

Do a Brave or Duck-Duck search for “things to do in Singapore” or “Tripadvisor.com” and you’ll be regaled with botanical gardens, the Singapore Flyer, fine dining, shopping, city tours, boat tours, and walking tours. You’d have to really dig deep to learn where you can go to visit WWII landmarks.

This is understandable as the experience in WWII was supremely harrowing.

I sought opportunities to visit some of these over the years. My recollections follow.

The Old Ford Factory is the “site of the historic surrender of the British to the Japanese on 15 February, 1942, at the end of the Battle of Singapore. It was here that the meeting between Lieutenant-General Arthur Ernest Percival and General Tomoyuki Yamashita was held and the surrender document signed. Then British Prime Minister Winston Churchill referred to that event as the ‘worst disaster and largest capitulation in British history.”

The factory did produce cars beginning in 1941. It was Ford’s first motor car plant in SE Asia. As the Japanese made their way down Malaysia, the Brits converted the plant into a fighter plane assembly plant. But these planes were flown out of Singapore once things looked hopeless to them.

It is interesting to note that, unbeknownst to the British, the Japanese were outnumbered by almost 2 to 1. I also saw testimonials of locals back then who felt the Brits stationed there did not take the war seriously until it was too late. In addition, the same Churchill quoted above, also refused to send material help to SE Asia, because such was needed for Europe. Indeed scholarly research does point to the correctness of Percival’s complaint that allied help was being provided to the Communists in the Soviet Union to the neglect of the British here.

During the occupation, Nissan took over the plant and assembled military trucks for the Japanese.

After the war, Ford resumed operations there in 1947 and operated until 1980 when it was shut down and abandoned, only to be re-opened as a historic site in the first decade of this century.

I had to walk through it rather quickly since I had no free time other than lunch or late afternoon. However, even walking rather briskly, if the visitor focuses, he will come away having seen haunting photos, artifacts, and mementos; he will also have learned of heroic men and women, such as Dr. Monteiro, who developed an anti-diphtheria serum which saved many lives.

One is reminded of the depths of depravity man is capable of descending to; but also how, in the midst of death and deprivation, man seeks what’s truly is important: as death comes near and takes many whom we knew and loved, we are reminded to turn to Him Who is from everlasting to everlasting. There were several photos of church services the Japanese, surprisingly, allowed in the Changi prison camp. 

The first photo has stayed with me ever since. No commentary needed.

The second photo is a reminder that the movie, The Bridge on The River Kwai, is based on fact. It was known as the death railway. Many whom the Japanese conscripted from Singapore to go build it, never returned. 

One British survivor said, “Unlike the well-fed extras in the movie, the POWs were too weak to whistle the Colonel Bogey tune. Nor did they have any semblance of uniform…. We were routinely and barbarically tortured and many, many of us died, most cruelly.”

The third photo reflects in what condition those detained by the Japanese were found. Those who survived, that is.

The spartan nature of the Changi POW landmark is like a kick in the gut as it confronts the visitor with unspeakable suffering and horror. And, conversely, he is also confronted with faith in God even in the darkest moments: building chapels; celebrating services; praying; seeking God; painting beautiful murals which were lost for decades until someone noticed some color behind white paint. 

All this, and more, in the midst of starvation, torture, cholera, dysentery, rapine, and death.

A kind lady working at the bookstore, sought my attention and proceeded to tell me the following story:

A few months before, she had seen an old man looking at the books. He turned and asked her for a specific book. She suggested he walk through the exhibits first and then determine what book to buy. He, almost in disgust, said he had no interest in walking through. She asked why. “I was a prisoner,” he said.

She was a little surprised because, although he was old, he didn’t seem that old to have been a civilian or soldier in 1942. She recalled a gentleman who has come by twice already. He is 102 now [2014]; and he had been a prisoner. But this gentleman who now talked to her would have been a child.

And that’s precisely what he was at the time: an 8-year-old boy when he and his family were imprisoned. 

Well, eventually, he decided to walk through. While he did so, she looked into a book which contained the names and some of the records of the POW’s and, sure enough, she found not only his name, but the name of his father, mother, sister, and younger brother. All perished. 

When he came back out, he was more subdued. She gave him the book as a gift and pointed him to the names.

“Did you like the museum?” she asked.

His reply was a flood of uncontrollable tears.

The lady told me her story in hushed tones. I thanked her and expressed my gratitude for her service in honoring the memories of those now gone. And then I left, deeply moved and lost in thought.

The Changi chapel has a brass cross made in 1942 by a British POW, Staff Sergeant Harry Stogden. He painstakingly crafted it from scraps of brass and a used 4.5 inch howitzer shell. The cross was designed by the Reverend Eric W. B. Cordingley for St. George’s Church, which he had set up in an abandoned mosque in the India Lines section of the camp. Cordingley had taken the cross with him to the Death Railway, and also to Changi, setting up new churches wherever he went. After the war, he took the cross back to the UK.

Meanwhile, Staff Sergeant Stogden has succumbed to the brutal conditions and was buried at sea after the end of the war, having died onboard an American hospital ship. His wife had also died in 1942, leaving their three young children to be reared by relatives.

In 1997, Bernard Stogden, a son, learned of the cross, which by that time Reverend Cordingley’s daughter had returned to Singapore. When the current museum opened in 2001, Bernard was invited to come and place the cross in the chapel where it is today.

Finally, below is the story of Chen Kwan Yu, a civil servant. His story is representative of many.

“The trucks set off in a convoy, heading east. No one spoke … but as the grey concrete guard tower of Changi Jail came into sight, one of the men remarked that it looked as though they were going to prison. The trucks passed the jail, however, turned to the right, and continued on to the sands near Changi Beach.

“The men were told to get down, and were then tied into groups with lengths of thin telephone cable. ‘We were next told to move off towards the beach,’ Cheng says. ‘I saw a pillbox erected on the seawall of a demolished bungalow and in the slit of the pillbox one or more machine guns. When the lot of us were all on the beach, about 400 of us, the machine-gunning started. I was at the end of my group. As my companions were hit, they fell down and pulled down the rest of us. As I fell, I was hit in the face.’

“The machine-gunning stopped, and Japanese soldiers moved amid the carnage, bayoneting anyone who was still alive. Cheng shut his eyes. He had been hit on the nose and his face was covered in blood. He felt a soldier step on his body to bayonet his neighbour who had shown signs of life, but he did not touch Cheng.

“Cheng kept his eyes closed until he heard the trucks drive off. It was already night and in the moonlight he saw a lump of coral a few inches away and wriggled towards it, pulling against the bodies to which he was tied. He rubbed his wire bonds against the coral until they snapped, then sawed through the rope and freed his hands. He crawled out of the sea and staggered onto the beach.

“For two days, Cheng hid in the undergrowth, bathed the wound on his nose and drank from storm-water drains. He finally encountered a group of British soldiers sitting under a tree near Changi Jail. The soldiers gave him a biscuit and examined his wound. An officer scribbled a note on a piece of paper and told him to give it to the first ambulance that came along the main road. The officer gave Cheng a raincoat to sit on while he was waiting. The ambulance took Cheng to an Indian Army field hospital. ‘There my wound was dressed,’ he says, ‘and I went home.'”

There were many such stories of courage, faith, and amazing bravado. If you ever visit Singapore and have a choice between the nightlife and these landmarks, choose the latter.

One of several haunting photos in the Old Ford Factory Museum. This one has stayed with me for life.

The Bridge on The River Kwai was based on this, The Death Railway, built by thousands of English, Australian and other Allied POWs. Many who were sent, never returned.

Australian POWs after their release from Changi POW camp in Singapore.

A prisoner, Stanley Warren, a British bombardier, drew these magnificent images of the life of Christ. They were an inspiration and beacon of hope to many prisoners. These were eventually painted over and forgotten. Then, years later, someone noticed colors beneath the paint and discovered the treasures. Warren was eventually found and, after much persuading, returned to Singapore to renew the originals. His advanced age did not permit him to finish, but others were commissioned to do so.

The cross designed by Reverend Cordingley and crafted by Staff Sergeant Stogden.

Zagreb II

Richard Barnes

This is the second of two posts from my journal entries from 2015 when I visited Croatia. The European Union is much in the news these days, especially Hungary, which shares an extensive border with Croatia and whose histories intertwine. Zagreb is about a 200 mile drive from Budapest. During my visit the folks I met reflected an ambivalence towards the EU’s thirst for sovereignty over their country: some were nonchalant about it; others in favor; others, against.

Below are my observations of nine years ago.

It’s a European city.

And I say that as a compliment. It’s “old” but clean. And it has suffered much, as has this entire area.

Remember that the Ottoman Turks had overrun this area all the way to the gates of Vienna back in the early 16th century (see the map and you’ll see the proximity between Croatia and Austria). 

Repulsed at Vienna, the entire region then became a battlefield even into the late 20th century when the media was regaling us with “ethnic Albanians” stories.

The people are handsome and serious, and yet reflect more “joy” than what you see in the Middle East. Yet, it’s more of a subdued joy — hard to explain.

“No. None of my family was killed during the war. About 7,000 civilians — men, women, children — died. But in Serbia it was about 50,000 and in Bosnia it was 100,000. But, maybe one of us was killed after all. My father was 57 when this was finally over. But he had nothing left to live for. He lost everything: his land, his river, his life. He lost his life. He had to leave Bosnia and was settled here. I was working in Switzerland at the time and was able to help us rebuild here. But my father just ate, and drank, and did not care. He just wanted to be left alone and die. And he died at 67.”

“Dr. [name redacted] is a Geospatial engineer. Much demand for this type work in this security conscious age. He has contracts with Nato as well as Middle East countries. His office has an exercise machine (I see the handles “sticking out” behind the plants). He also has a large boxing bag and gloves…. But he’s not a boxer; he’s a karate master. His comments about the wars reflect the experience of many.

Oh. And bookstores. Must not forget the bookstores. Maybe a few more caffes than bookstores, but not by much. One of the bookstores had the [controversial] cartoon on display. I took out my phone to take a photo, but then thought I’d better not, as I might be mistaken as [someone] casing the joint.

Europeans have always been known to read much. That may be part of their problem. Socialists usually make better writers.

I entered one of the many caffes. Most of them have outdoor areas, which, believe it or not, are being used even in this weather [it was winter]. The folks are clearly accustomed to this. The coffee was very good. The ambience was great. The service was friendly. And they spoke English. It was like stepping back to the 1950s when life was a bit slower paced and folks could sit and talk and not worry about glancing at their phones.

Oh, and that’s another thing: in sharp contrast to China, I hardly see folks hunching over their phones. They have them, but are more courteous in using them when in public or when in the presence of other folks.

Folks eating or snacking indoors or outdoors, even in winter is a common sight. I noticed that many of the outdoor bars had portable fireplaces which helped keep folks warm. It was all quite cozy and “familiar”.

Haven’t seen a Starbucks yet; but they’d have a tough go, in my view. These places not only serve outstanding coffee, but bread, bakeries, wines, beer. They are different sizes, but all could pass for “mini-groceries” and so clean and cozy and inviting.

I “ran” out of the hotel for a power walk (is that what it’s called?). I sort of positioned myself from my hotel window view and headed out towards the cathedral. I kept getting calls and emails and SMS’s and WhatsApps, but was still able to hit several high points before rushing back.

(By the way, “everyone” in Croatia speaks English. On my last day, I asked the cab driver about that. He said that Croatian education requires that each student select a foreign language to learn and that just about everyone picks English. I mean, even the waiters and janitors had no trouble communicating with me or me with them.)

The food here is Mediterranean and well seasoned. [I had] a grilled veal plate [which] tasted as good as it looked. The wine was local and very good. Croatia has very nice vineyards, going back to the days before the birth of our Lord. During the Muslim occupation wine almost became extinct because of [a] pagan view of wine. However, the churches were finally able to persuade the Ottoman Turks, who were tolerant of Christianity, to at least allow its production for communion services. The Muslims recognized that wine had been used for church services for centuries, and decided to allow it for communion. 

Hence their wine production continued. Else it would have been lost forever. Since the defeat of the Ottomans in the 18th century, wine production again flourished. But under the communists (Yugoslavia) small vineyards were stamped out in favor of big cooperatives which pushed quantity versus quality. After the fall of the communists, wines began to recover again. But then the wars of the early 90’s hit them again. Now small family farms are once again producing, emphasizing quality anew.

The Zagreb National Theatre was built in the mid 18th century, and the Astro-Hungarian emperor, Franz Joseph I was present at the unveiling. The hotel front desk lady was quick to tell me that Croatia was an important area of the Astro-Hungarian empire. I told her she ought to be very proud of that. She was.

I was intrigued by the Ban Josip Jelacic Square and statue. Josip is … on [a] deadly steed, with a sword pointing to the heavens. In Croatia he is considered a hero, a brave leader of many military campaigns in the mid 19th century. The Austrians considered him a rebel and viewed him with suspicion. The Hungarians considered him a traitor. You’ll have to Wikipedia him and decide for yourselves. 

But the fact the communists tore down the statue in the late 40’s tells me he was probably an all right guy. The curator of a gallery was somehow able to persuade the Commies to allow him to store the statue in a cellar. Must have been some cellar! This statue is big; even dismantled. Anyway, after the fall of the iron curtain, the Croatians put him back in the square where you see him today.

There is a fountain in the square which was set up in the late 1980s. A part of the Medvscak Stream, which had been running under the sewers since 1898, was uncovered by workers as the city prepared for the World University Games held in Zagreb in 1987. This part formed the Manduševac fountain that was also covered in 1898. Amazing how things are covered and then forgotten for generations until discovered again.

Like other European cities, Zagreb has many Dickensian alleys, which intrigued me and which always tempt me to enter. I entered them in Toledo, but never had the time to do so again. In case any of you get any ideas: never enter them alone. In Toledo I was accompanied by 4 men, including a university professor who knew Toledo like the palm of his hand.

The building of the cathedral began in 1093 and was completed in 1242. I am always impressed by folks who begin something they know they will never see finished, but who believe their children and children’s children will see completed one day. It has been undergoing renovations and structural strengthening for the past 25 years. 

The cathedral grounds used to be some kind of fort in past centuries, but I had no time to look into that.

The bells ring every morning at 6 AM and, believe me, it [is a sweet sound]. 

The famous Mimara museum with over 3,000 works of mostly Christian art by Dutch, Spanish, English, and German masters. I would not be surprised if Bob Jones, Jr. visited this museum, since he was quite a connoisseur of fine art. I wanted to visit, but long hours at work simply did not permit.

It’s been rainy and misty. No snow, but about 40 degrees or so. And yet … it’s OK. I felt fine walking around at night.

The Croatia National Theatre hosts performers such as Michel Legrand, who will perform 2nd of February. The Swiss symphony also will perform soon, etc.

Regret I was not able to visit any single place. No time. Maybe one day.

Mimara Museum

National Theater

Ban Josip Jelacic Square (statue seen on far right)

One of hundreds of caffes

Zagreb I — A True Zagreb Story

Richard Barnes

Enough time has passed to allow my posting on my visit to Zagreb, Croatia in 2015. This and the next post are journal entries made when I visited in 2015. Croatia is a member of the European Union (EU) but its positions are not consistent across the board which reality, I believe, reflects the ambivalence of its people with regards to the EU’s obvious intentions to control the internal politics and policies of its member nations as well as to the “official” EU stances on issues ranging from forced injections to the war currently raging in eastern Europe.

This first post relates an incident which readers may find amusing as well as instructive.

My colleague’s friend’s mother for a long time had wanted to drive to Venice but her husband was reluctant because their car was old and he feared it would not make the round trip. But he did not prohibit her from going. So, on his next business trip, she went, having assured him that all would be well and expressing her confidence that the car would do just fine.

The trip, which is quite scenic, went very well indeed.

However, approaching Venice, a truck (meaning an SUV), swerved onto her lane and crashed head on with her. Providentially, the speeds were low and she was stunned, but not badly hurt.

Actually, she was more worried than she was stunned or hurt. She sat behind the wheel, worrying about what she was going to tell her husband. Clearly the old car was badly, badly damaged. It is their only car. They are not well off. And now, it turns out the car really did not make it to and from Venice after all, as her husband had said. Although, surely, he was not thinking about an accident!

As she sat there, behind the wheel, her mind going a mile a minute, the driver of the truck had gotten out and was walking to her. He came up to her window and began speaking to her, “Madam, please let’s not call the police. I promise that I will take care of this situation for you. Please trust me. As you probably know, the Italian police are horribly bureaucratic. If we go to the police with this, I will be tied up for weeks. And I cannot afford that, I cannot be tied up in police stations and Italian courts. Please allow me the opportunity to make this right,” etc.

While he spoke, his friend had gotten out of the passenger side and had come over and also began speaking to the surprised lady, “Madam, my friend is telling the truth. I vouch for him. And I promise that I too will help him make this right. We will fix your car and leave it as new, I promise you.” Etc.

She really had no choice but to believe these Americans.

So they drove her to her hotel and took her car (or had it towed away).

A day or two later her car was delivered to the hotel. Only it was not her old car; it was a brand new automobile. The Americans called her and explained that her old car was totaled (a typical American term) and could not be repaired. So they happily bought her a new one. They had to assure her that they were not joking.

So she wished the driver, George Clooney, and his passenger, Brad Pitt, a very happy visit and all the very best and a thousand thank you’s and she said good-bye and began her drive back to Croatia.

True story. But her husband still doesn’t believe it!

This happened to the mother of my colleague’s best friend. And they now do have a new car. The timing fits: The Clooney’s were married in Venice, Italy in September, 2014, which was when she drove there. No photos were taken and she was too shocked to think of asking for an autograph. And she is not known for having an imagination that would make up something like this. 

I believe my colleague; however, she may have confused Brad Pitt with Mat Damon. Even so, her story has the ring of truth.

George Clooney and Amal Alamuddin celebrate their wedding in Venice, Italy, September, 2014.

When Leaving, Go Via London

Richard Barnes

When on work assignments, I’d often write journals, hoping to share with friends and family later on in life.

At the end of an assignment in the Arabian Peninsula, my departure took me via London. Having seen recent, disturbing reports from there, I thought you would like to read my personal impressions and interactions as I returned to the United States in 2015.

London, 2015:

The cab driver said, “I’m sure Dallas is a fine city. But I’ve travelled much, and I’m even what most would call ‘a right winger’, but, to me, London is the best city in the world.'”

You do not have to agree with him, but you certainly can understand his sentiment. We can at least agree that London is a fine city, whose Christian capital has endured far longer than I would have estimated. I cannot imagine it can last much longer, absent another Reformation. But, for now, if you gave me a choice between Dubai, New York, Singapore, and London, I’d go for London.

I’ll have more about my conversations with two cab drivers further below.

Visiting the famous Burlington Arcade I saw that several stores had “disappeared”, including Pickett, the fine leather goods store. However, I was happy to learn that Pickett had merely moved outside, between the Arcade and Regent Street. I bought a portfolio there. The one that Arthur Andersen had given me finally bit the dust after 33 years of service. Good things, if cared for properly, will last half a lifetime, or more.

Regent Street is known as a “shoppers paradise.” Since I am not a shopper, it’s not paradise to me, but it is a nice street to walk and observe peoples from all over the world and laugh at little children tugging at their parents to get out of Burberry’s and go to Hamley’s.

Hamley’s, founded in 1760, is five stories of toys. Being Saturday, it was pandemonium. On the fourth story they had “snack bars” of cotton candy, sweets, chocolates, shakes — just the sort of thing to keep the little kiddies quiet for Mommy and Daddy. It was a circus: vendors loudly proclaiming the wonders of their flying machines, magic lights, boomerangs, plush animals. They should have filmed Jingle All The Way here.

One major disappointment, though not surprising: almost everything was made in China. Even the London double decker toys and the England history toys and the die cast English vehicles. I saw a few things made in Belgium and one thing made in France. But nothing made in England. Of course, I did not check “everything” (I would have still been there!); but it was sad. What? Westerners can’t make toys anymore?

When you say “Let’s go to the food court” to an American, they’ll imagine you mean the Dallas Galleria, or, when in Puerto Rico, the Plaza Las Americas. However, to a European, “Food Court” conjures up a completely different scene. I had a light lunch at a sidewalk cafe in a food court off Regent Street: caprese salad with homemade bread dipped in olive oil.

And there is Berkeley Square, dating back to the 1700’s. Used to be only residential. Today only one residential block remains and it’s not cheap but flats rarely come up for sale anyway. No, I didn’t hear a nightingale, but I’m sure it sang in Berkeley Square, because Nat King Cole heard it there once.

The cab driver who drove me to London Center was of Indian heritage. We talked about how quickly subsequent generations forget their own history. His children know nothing about “the largest migration in history”, which occurred a mere 70 years ago, at the time of the partition of India. He said that about 130 million migrated from India to Pakistan or vice-versa. In addition, many hundreds of thousands, if not millions, left the sub-continent altogether. Including his own parents, who came to London, where he was born.

“And about 10 million were slaughtered,” I added.

“No,” he corrected me, “20 million.”

I do not know if his figures are correct; but I do know that is an ugly part of modern history of which we hear very little. It is also a blot on British colonial (mis)government. There was no need to succumb so quickly and so pathetically to calls (including calls from the U.S., I might add) for “de-colonization now!” But they supinely did so. And now they are criticized for mismanagement of the event. You never win in these situations.

But, back to London. The cab driver went on to tell me how the younger generations simply do not care. They’ll take fish and chips over Asian spice; English over Urdu; hip-hop over Punjabi; etc.

That last one is truly tragic. But I understood where he was coming from and sympathized with him.

“Even I myself have begun forgetting my history; not to mention my descendants. They forget their religion, their history, their food — now it’s fish and chips and Irish beef.”

As we drove by the Ritz, I noted, “I understand that Prime Minister Thatcher lived here towards the end of her life.”

“Yes she spent the last 6 months of her life here. She died here. But she was content. Many of her friends would come and visit her. She was content. She and Ronald Reagan were the best political partnership in our time.”

I also spoke with the cab driver who took me back out to the hotel in Terminal 5 at the end of my visit.

He too said, “Ronald Reagan and Margaret Thatcher were the best partnership ever. And George W. Bush and Tony Blair were a disaster from which we still cannot recover.”

He buys his shoes at Church’s, although he did not know they had been acquired by Prada. I warned him the shoes were now looking more and more “ritzy.” He was disappointed. He has been married 29 years and still uses the Church shoes he bought for his wedding day. “I always wait for a sale. Sometimes a GBP300 pair of shoes is down to GBP 90!” That’s about $480 down to about $234.

He’s been driving a cab for 29 years.

He owns a house in Cyprus (in addition to his home in London); he buys his shoes at Church’s; he visits Cyprus 3 or 4 times a year. And he has 4 grown children; all doing him proud. Yes, he and his wife are thrifty and his children too.

Earlier, upon arrival in early morning, I had breakfast at the Heathrow Terminal 5 lounge. Then I did a bit of work in the business lounge area and once again saw the TV preachers on screen. Their hair styles were cute and their smiles were sweet and, depending on their audience, one wore a neat leather jacket, like Marlon Brando in The Wild One, and another looked like he had just stepped out of Saks Fifth Avenue. The musicians gave the impression they were performing on some night show.

I remembered that as I pondered my conversations with the cab drivers.

The mass migration facilitated by our politicians, both in Europe as well as in the United States, can overwhelm and transform us negatively. But it need not be so.

The Church, the masculine Church, can also make it a great and grand opportunity, much as the Puritans did when the Crown was sending its criminal element to our shores. Our fathers would meet them at the docks and instruct them in the Bible and in colonial laws.

If later generations forget where they came from, as the cab driver said, then why can’t the Church tell them where they can head to, in Christ? We possess a great arsenal. We must use it to advance God’s Kingdom. And, simultaneously, we would be defending our own culture and country while also helping those who arrive.

Interestingly, both cab drivers I interacted with, one of Indian descent, the other, Anglo, had similar outlooks. Decent outlooks. I would proudly call either a friend and wish I had had more time with each.

I enjoyed dinner at La Belle Epoque, a fine restaurant at the hotel. It was not as expensive as others, but, again, we must note that elegance is not “ritziness.” It is simplicity; it is as little clutter as possible, even on the dishes.

Regent Street, London, 2015

Hamley’s, London, 2015

Food Court off Regent Street, London, 2015

Berkeley Square, London, 2015

Pickett, Outside Burlington Arcade, London, 2015