The homing pigeon that refuses to go home (Czech Republic)

Vláda found a pigeon sitting on the Hutĕ village green one day, apparently injured, with a bald patch in the neck area.

It was a young bird, he could tell, and had a ring tag, so it must be a homing pigeon.  Vláda put it in a coop up in his loft, which is warm, fed it some grain and left it to recover.  It did, after a couple of days.

That was a fortnight ago.  Since then, the bird has been following Vláda around, obviously associating him with food, and is refusing to go home.  Or it’s too young and doesn’t know its way home, which is perhaps how it came to be on the village green in the first place.

There’d been two other pigeons found on the village green last year.  One died of exhaustion.  Vláda put up a notice on the internet about the second one, and a week later its owner called from Brno (about 100km away) to say it’d arrived home safely.

(Journal) Update, Monday 150811:  This current pigeon was last seen on Friday morning, 120811, so we assume it’s plucked up the courage and gone home.  Perhaps it’s the food on offer here (i.e., not good enough).  Perhaps it’s the constant presence of Tiapka the cat.  (Tiapka means ‘paws’ in Czech, and she is so named because she has two-toed paws.)  I have suggested to Vláda that he check out Tiapka’s tummy contents but he prefers to think the pigeon’s checked out of Hotel Hutĕ.

(Journal) Update, Wednesday 170811:  Vláda says he’d gone to the trouble of getting hold of the contact number for the pigeon fanciers’ association, to whom he gave the pigeon's ring tag number, and they tracked down the owner.  Vláda then got in touch with the owner, who suggested Vláda drive the bird to a place nearer his house, then release it for it to fly home on its own.  Maybe the bird got wind of this, which is why it suddenly disappeared from Hutĕ—the reason it ran away from home in the first place was it didn't like it there, and now Vláda had actually traced its owner and was going to deliver it home (well, part of the way anyway).  Vláda also said that for the whole of the fortnight in Hutĕ, the bird had never uttered a single sound, but on the morning it disappeared, it sat on the eaves and cooed at Vláda.  We both think it was saying goodbye.

See also:  The homing cat:  https://piccola-chinita.blogspot.com/2011/11/homing-cat-that-refuses-to-go-to-his.html 

The unconventional passenger (Czech Republic)

Jana’s mother, who lives some 25km away from Hutĕ, Vláda and Jana’s tiny village of eight households, is 80 but is up with the sun and off into the woods to forage — for mainly blueberries and mushrooms at this time of the year — on her 50cc moped.

On one of my visits, Vláda said one day, “Fancy walking down to the junction to meet the bus from Prague [120km away]?”  The junction is 1.3km’s walk away, down a road that might see half a dozen cars a day if it was lucky, and past some ponds and houses — all with their own vegetable plots and flower beds, the Czechs being keen garden tenders.  At the junction stands a cherry tree barely taller than I, yet bears more fruit than I can eat in one waiting.

The bus approached, slowed down and came to a halt.  We walked up to the passenger door as it opened.  I was expecting a visitor.  Instead, there was a basket of blueberries sitting on the floor right by the driver, which he then proceeded to hand over to Vláda.  Since then, Vláda would call that junction The Blueberry Junction as a point of reference for non-Czech-speaking me.

Apparently this has been the arrangement for the last ten years since Vláda and Jana moved full time to Hutĕ, a village of six terraced houses and one big house that were home to the workers and the manager of the glass factory nearby.   That was more than 100 years ago now, back in the days of the 19th century, before the glass industry in the area went into decline around 1850s–1900s when they ran out of trees to burn for their furnaces, Vláda said. 

Jana’s mother would fill her baskets by 8am, then flag down the long-distance bus from Prague and persuade the driver to take them — often filled with blueberries or mushrooms, but sometimes potatoes or apples from her own garden, and even occasionally complete with pastry ready-made (by her) for Jana to pop straight into the oven to make an apple pie.  

Bags are charged additionally on long-distance buses here in the Czech Republic, but this is the first time I’ve heard of a basket of fruit travelling alone — regularly.

(Czech Republic, 2011)

Did you come here to die? (Sydney, Australia)

A secondary school friend, Ay Ling from Indonesia, arrived in Sydney in the early 70s.  As she got into a taxi at the airport, the driver asked her, “Did you come here to die?”  She was shocked to be greeted with such a question, and set him straight, “No!!  I came here for a holiday!”  It turned out the driver meant “today”.

A Chinese teacher's status (London)

I was told one day that I’d been assigned a new student from the FCO* who was not a beginner.  So the first thing I did upon meeting him was to try and establish what his level was, what his learning and assessment needs were, so that I could prepare him accordingly. 

After questions like, “When did you last do any Chinese?  What level did you get up to?  What textbooks did you use?  What exams are you doing?” he stopped me with, “Before you go any further with this line of questioning, let me tell you now that I don’t need to do any exams, because I’m the new boss.  But my post has not been confirmed yet, so please keep this to yourself until it’s formally announced.”

I said to him, “OK, since you have not been officially confirmed as the ambassador, I don’t have to address you as géxià [阁下 / Your Excellency].  You will have to address me as nín [您 / respectful form of ‘you’], however, as I’m your teacher.”  

I added, “And by the way, a teacher is a nín for life in the Chinese culture.”

We got on famously after that because he found my irreverent sense of humour refreshing.

(London, 1993)

*Foreign and Commonwealth Office [UK’s Ministry of Foreign Affairs]

I cannot say (London)

My new British ambassador student, Sir Leonard Appleyard KCMG, asked me during a tea break one day, “I understand you teach evening classes as well.  What are your evening students like?”

“Well," I said, "when I first started in the mid-80s, we used to get mainly OAPs* who wanted to learn the Chinese language more because of their interest in the culture and the poetry — to help them read Chinese literature in the original — than for using the language itself out in real life.  It also got them out of the house, gave them a social life and, from what I heard, saved them a bit on heating in the winter months.  A decade later, we started to get younger types:  people who’d either come back from time out in China, were about to go out, would like to get a job out there, or who’d married Chinese spouses.

“Let me tell you about an interesting one.  He’s just retired from the MOD**.  When you asked him, for oral practice, things like what his job was, where he worked, what his telephone number was, his answer was always: ‘我不能说 / wǒ bù néng shuō / I cannot say.’”

My ambassador student got quite interested, “MOD, eh?  And just retired, eh?  I might know him.  What’s his name?”

In reply, I said, “我不能说 / wǒ bù néng shuō.”

(Event happened 1994) 

*OAP = Old Age Pensioners

**MOD = Ministry of Defence.

Hold the plane! (Jakarta, Indonesia)

My three weeks in Indonesia had come to an end and I was driven out to the Jakarta airport good and early for my Singapore Airlines (SIA) flight back.  After checking in my bags, I went up to the viewing gallery as there wasn’t anywhere else to go — this was January 1974. 

The announcements over the tannoy were muffled at best, with even the Indonesian ones being incomprehensible to my Indonesian students, never mind the English ones.  On the tarmac I could see an SIA plane, presumably mine.  Then, to my horror, I saw my fellow passengers walking out towards it.  I dashed down from the gallery as fast as my ex-athlete’s legs could go.

The passport control man, however, did not share my sense of urgency.  He asked me if it was my first visit to Indonesia.  Fair enough, they always asked that.  Yes, I said.  Did I like Indonesia?  Yes, yes, I did, and please, please, my plane’s about to leave.  “Don’t worry, it’ll wait.  And did you have a good time here on your first visit to Indonesia?”  Yes, yes, I did, and please, please, please, the plane will leave without me if I don’t go now.  “Don’t worry, don’t worry.  And do you think you will come back again?”  Finally, he released me.

After my first few big strides towards the plane which was about 100 metres away, the plane’s propellers started churning.  I hitched up my ankle-length batik dress and started to run.  Trust me to choose to wear my new purchase of a long and tight'ish dress for this occasion of all occasions!

I could see the pilots in the cockpit, so I waved to let them know I was bound for their plane — there were no other planes in the immediate vicinity, but I thought I should indicate my interest all the same, just in case.  They waved back, but the propellers carried on whirring.

They then started pulling away the front (first class cabin) airstair, so I yelled and hitched my skirt up higher — to attract the attention of the men dragging off the airstair, as well as to run faster.  It worked, for they noticed me, and pushed it back into place.  

As I clattered my way up the airstair, the air stewardesses and stewards were lined up on both sides, looking like they were receiving royalty.  Except that they had their hands on their hips, wore a cross look, and chided, “Why so late??  Why so late?!!”

Typically, I’d chosen a window seat, so I had to squeeze past two passengers to get to my seat.  I’d barely clunk-clicked my seatbelt into position when the plane took off — it’d already started taxiing the moment I got on and they shut the door. 

The American woman next to me, Sally (who remains a friend to this day), said, “The whole plane was watching your progression with great interest through the windows, wondering if you were going to make it.  My, you can really run!” 

(Jakarta, Indonesia, 1974)

Circumstantial evidence (Czech Republic)

The Red Currants next door in the tiny village of Hutĕ are in their 70s.  He's a wizened little chappie, just scraping in at 5ft (or 1.52m), but is very fit—goes cycling annually around the Czech Republic with his four siblings, the youngest of whom is a sister at 65.

On that particular day, Mr Red Currant* had gone up to Prague for the day and was not due back until 10pm at the earliest.  I nipped over to his house to give his wife her second massage, but in spite of knocking on the door and calling out "Ahoj!" (pronounced "ahoy"—Czech for "hello") several times, each time waiting in between for a response, nobody came to the door.  

I was turning away after the 4th or 5th time when the door was opened by Mrs Red Currant who gestured me into the living room, which is at the back of the house through the kitchen, where, to my surprise, I found Mr Red Currant.  But he wasn't due back until 10pm and it was only 6:30pm!  And he was in the middle of doing up his trousers.  Had I interrupted something??!!

Just as I was wondering if I should go, Mr Red Currant piped up, "My wife is very satisfied."  Oh dear.  I didn't know him well enough for this sort of confession.  I don't even talk to my sisters or female friends about such delicate matters.  He went on, "My wife's very satisfied with your first massage.  Her back is so much better now." 

Looking back, I think now that he'd just got in from Prague and was changing out of his outdoor clothes into his at-home clothes.

(Czech Republic, August 2010)


*I call him Mr Red Currant because I'd once helped him pick redcurrants for his wife's cake, his Czech surname being less manageable for me.