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kootenaygoon · 6 years ago

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So,

At first, I was nervous about tackling news stories.

I knew the stakes from my summers at the Whitehorse Star, had seen how small fuck-ups could have large consequences. Telling someone else’s story is a huge privilege, a power you have over them, and it can be intoxicating. But if you do it wrong, you will hear about it. I preferred the lighter elements of the job, like taking pictures at the Pride Parade or typing up an exhaustive feature on the Capitol Theatre’s production of Chicago. I was a hype machine, excitedly Photoshopping my images and then sprawling back in my desk chair with the newly printed paper’s pages flung open to reveal my handiwork. I floated through the summer of 2014 high on the experience of it all, letting myself fall in love with each new artist I interviewed.

Some people believed the proliferation of artists in the Nelson area was thanks to the town being situated on a bed of magical quartz, but I figured it was more a case of kindreds being attracted to one another. People were looking for a life less ordinary, far from the city. Most locals had some sort of regular job and then spent the remainder of their time investing in creative endeavours, whether that meant painting a mural, starting a food truck or playing in an 80s cover band called Val Kilmer and the New Coke. I started learning the names of local authors, meeting up with poet Tom Wayman and short story writer Myler Wilkenson. I wrote a feature about a photographer named Ryan Oakley who had crowd-funded a book called Humans of Nelson, based on the viral hit Humans of New York. It featured daily portraits of people he met during his lunch breaks, along with a pithy quote that captured their essence. One young singer named Anilah had just landed her Enya-esque tracks on some TV show, a spoken word poet named Magpie Ulysses was releasing a chapbook and a popular saxophonist named Clinton Swanson was playing relentless gigs around town. I giddily funnelled their stories on to Facebook and Twitter, where I obsessively watched the engagement numbers climb. Within a month or two our web presence had exploded, and pretty soon Calvin was bragging that we had the best social media numbers in the Kootenays.

But every now and then, things got dark. The first heavy story that landed on my desk involved a quartet of teenagers who had gone missing the day before I arrived in town. It was eventually discovered that they’d commandeered a canoe and gone adventuring right into a windstorm on Slocan Lake—a body of water so enormous it almost looks like the ocean in places. Authorities were able to recover the canoe pretty quickly, and found a young girl near death. Though they rushed her to medical services, she died in the hospital. There was no trace of the others, three dudes ranging in age from late teens to early twenties. The grief was heavy in the community, and right away I felt it settle in my chest — a clenched fist of empathy. I interviewed the RCMP as they conducted a large-scale search, checking in each day to hear if there was anything to report. At one point it looked like they were going to call it off, but then the families hired a husband-wife duo from the U.S. who had a submersible specially designed for these sorts of retrievals. Within a few days they’d located the boys, down in the darkness, and dragged them back up into the light. I shuddered when I thought of how they must’ve looked after that long underwater, after being cradled to the surface with a claw. The people I interviewed talked about the closure that brought to the families, and I quoted various people silver lining it, but it was the sort of tragedy that was so random it felt cruel on a cosmic level. Like a deity reaching down from heaven to smudge out a few people with his thumb.

“We cannot presume what happened. Our best speculation is misadventure. It wasn’t a very big canoe,” RCMP officer Darryl Little told me.

“It was more of a swift water canoe than a lake canoe. There wasn’t much space below the gunnels and we figure the wind came up and that was it.”

During those weeks I kept running into people who knew the kids, and saw the impact plain on their heartbroken faces. One woman burst into tears while I was renewing my car insurance. I decided to interview the school district psychologist, Dr. Todd Kettner, to get his insights into the community’s grief process. We met at Lakeside Park and shot a video of him sitting on a park bench, calling out the provincial government and Premier Christy Clark. They had docked his pay during the teacher’s strike, right while he was in the midst of putting in overtime to coordinate a critical incident crisis management plan for the Slocan community. He was the only psychologist for the district, which according to him was chronically under-funded. For him it wasn’t about the dollars they took off his cheque, it was the overall neglect rural schools were receiving that really set him off. In an online open letter that went viral around the province he laid out some of the routine cases he was dealing with from day to day, underlining the ways the community was failing to support students with mental health issues.

“I was awakened Sunday morning by a phone call informing me that a student at one of the 21 schools I’m responsible for was on life support in ICU after an accidental drug overdose,” he wrote.

“Monday morning, while continuing to support the staff at the school where the hospitalized student learns, a dedicated and caring school administrator and I were informed that we were needed at another school to help the staff there prepare to gently inform their students that their classmates’ parent had been killed in a tragic accident.”

Kettner was eventually reimbursed for his pay cut, but didn’t see any change at an institutional level. At the end of the day he was still doing his job the best way he could in seemingly impossible circumstances. In the newsroom Tamara filled me in on the realities of SD8, and the issues were deeply systemic. The whole system was cash-starved because the undeclared income of the cannabis industry meant that, on paper, it was the poorest district in the province. The local high school was past capacity, there were multiple elementary schools that should have been demolished years ago, and sitting through board meetings meant hearing about financial snafus of the highest order.

“Those school board meetings, Will? Worst part of my job, easy. You wouldn’t believe how boring they are. All the ‘motion to accept this’ and ‘motion to accept that’. Makes me want to blow my brains out,” she said.

“The key is, you have to get to know the trustees, the superintendent. Once you have them as a connection, they can pretty much talk you through anything.”

“You think the strike will last much longer?”

“Shit, I don’t know. Those teachers are pissed, and they’re not going to back down.”

Around this time I came to an instinctive conclusion about the type of reporter I wanted to be: not aloof, or unfeeling, but the type that engages to an almost scary degree. If I was going to write a story, I wanted to understand it on a far deeper level than I needed for the paper, I wanted to be the guy in town that was the ultimate expert on that topic — right down to its human nuances.

The story commanding my most fervid attention was the trial of Andrew Stevenson, the bank robber that Cass had told me about. Calvin, Tamara and I spent a good half an hour scouring through Facebook trying to find a photo of him and his co-accused, Krista Kalmikoff, so we could have something to illustrate Greg’s stories about the court hearings. We were unsuccessful. The guy was being charged with seven robberies over the course of about six months, of both banks and pharmacies. The NPD had identified addiction as the driving force behind the crimes, and had been able to predict the exact day of his last robbery: April 25, 2014. In my free time I interrogated anyone who knew anything about what happened, picking up scraps of information here and there. A drunk woman at a party described seeing him come careening out of the bank’s parking lot on a bike, cutting in front of city hall and hurtling down towards the lake as cops sprinted after him. I wanted, so badly, to know what this guy looked like. Calvin sent me down to the court to get a shot of him walking in handcuffed—a goon shot—but then it turned out he was appearing by video link. Foiled!

As I got to know the NPD cops, attending one of their award ceremonies, I met a soft-spoken sergeant named Nate Holt. He had thickly muscled arms, a neatly trimmed blond beard and spiky hair that was nearly white. Not only was he holding an award for bravery, he was also one of the guys who was at the bridge that day, with Andrew Stevenson's stolen money raining down from the tree like confetti. I pictured the bank robber squirming on the rocks, trying to crawl away, while they descended on him like blue wraiths. The thing about Nate was you could feel the toll his work took on him, and you could see it in the way he carried himself. He was piggy-backing a lot of sadness. One suicidal dude came at him with a butcher knife and Nate didn’t even pull his gun. No, he got close enough to tackle him in a bear-hug, wrestle the knife out of his grip and save both of their lives. Sometimes I thought about those two men, rolling on the Baker Street sidewalk in that guy’s blood, while shocked residents looked on. I couldn’t believe that someone could have an experience like that and return to work the next day. But that’s exactly what he did.

Before Paisley moved into our new place, Muppet and I got a few days of lackadaisical meandering. I took her to Kaslo May Days with me, slaloming along the highway up Kootenay Lake in a state of giddy bliss, thinking yes I think I made the right decision while I gazed out at the water. I spotted a weird gargoyle sculpture on top of a house on Front Street, and wondered to myself what the deal was there. I spent a lot of time wandering through parks with my camera, approaching strangers and asking to take their photos. Cass would later jokingly call these spreads “All the people Will met at the park the other day”. Eventually I decided I had to see this bridge Andrew Stevenson jumped off, so I got on the highway out to Castlegar and went looking for it. We turned off the highway and followed a switch-back down to the Columbia River, just a few kilometres up from a massive hydroelectric dam. I parked at one end of the bridge and walked Muppet out across the dusty concrete to the middle so we could see the spot it happened. It was a clear, sunny afternoon, and I eventually identified the small cedar he’d attempted to jump into. Below was nothing but a rocky slope to the river, twenty feet further on. This was where it all ended for him, after evading the cops six times. Maybe it was the new pot I was smoking, or maybe it was something else, but I was feeling an electric need to understand this story. I’d been struggling for years on a novel that wasn’t coming along, partially because I was finding it difficult to invent new parts of the narrative, but here was a true fucking story that I could actually throw my weight into. I stood there for a long time, while cars rocketed by in the distance and wind hurtled through the canyon. The air smelled delicious.

I stood there drinking a Slurpee while Muppet panted happily.

The Kootenay Goon

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jessesteele · 3 years ago

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Taiwan's Prejudice of Foreigners Taught Me Black Systemic Racism Is Real

[中文]

College was my first exposure to American Black culture. I’m a far better man for it. Moody was less than a block from Cabrini Green. I taught Pierre how to swim and he taught me how to forgive. My room mate, Ronnie, was president of African Awareness Fellowship. Three years, he tried to tell me that the problem was with “the system”. “It’s the system, Jesse. It’s hidden in the system. I know you don’t see it. But, I see it every day.” I listened, but I still couldn’t see.

Ten years in Taiwan opened my eyes. Ronnie, I’ve seen it. I haven’t just heard about it, I’ve finally seen it with my own eyes. Others don’t see it, especially if they’re part of it. I’ve seen that too.

If a man thinks his unjust actions are acceptable, there is no way to tell him that he is unjust in a way he will find acceptable. I know how Rosa Parks felt, in a way. I wholly agree with Dr. King in his Letter from the Birmingham Jail.

Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere.

Never again can we afford to live with the narrow, provincial “outside agitator” idea.

We readily consented, and when the hour came we lived up to our promise. So I… am here because I was invited here. But more basically, I am [here] because injustice is here.

The Taiwanese need Westerners. They welcome Westerners at their airports and in their marketing. They need Western-trained, Western-thinking engineers to build their own defense weapons against a large aggressor in the region. They need English teachers—and more importantly English speakers to interact with in the every day world. But, from fear of the large aggressor in the region, and from hurt over foreign occupation in the past, Taiwanese made laws that restrict all foreigners, including Westerners. So because of the past, Taiwan turned away the friends they needed for the future. Haven’t we all done the same?

Bear with me the boring details. In America, a work visa gives residence. After five years, the foreigner becomes a citizen. America makes it simple. In Taiwan, they place strange restrictions—not one day between jobs, not one speeding ticket, and all work permits which the government never delivers. Even then, you can’t become a citizen unless you renounce all citizenship elsewhere.

My story began twelve years ago when my boss wouldn’t give me my work permit, which he is legally required to and never forced to. I folded it up and sneaked it out in my tie, then went home and cried. The next boss never gave me my work permit. I called Immigration and told the officer; the officer shouted, “They must!” then slammed down the phone. There was no follow-up.

Soon, the local Labor inspector found me at the wrong school—I worked for a chain. I had no Idea where I was supposed to work. The address was written in Mandarin on the work permit, which I never received. I got a summons from Labor; the boss was worried and told me to lie to the government. We even had a special meeting to coordinate our lies. The bigger boss gave me a strange handshake; I thought my life was being threatened. The company would pull strings “high up” in government to get out of the ordeal. While I sat with my boss, lying to the Labor inspector—a very good person with extremely limited power, mind you—the bigger boss walked into the Labor chief’s office, feigning benign chit-chat. The Chief looked scared. I rolled my fingerprint to certify the lies told with a knife to my back and we left without so much as a hiccup.

Weeks later, I learned that the strange handshake was a request for sex. I had been sexually harassed—they would only call their gangster buddies to get me out of their lying to the government if I lied to the government and had homosexual sex with the big boss. No. Maybe that’s why they tried to fire me a couple months later. No. Firing requires compensation, which the company refused.

Then came an in-class evaluation two weeks before the contract ended, with a promise not to renew the contract regardless of the evaluation. The boss insisted based on me having voluntarily reported I was one page behind in the schedule. Most teachers were three pages off schedule on any given day.

The boss is legally required to accept my resignation with a stamped letter. The boss refused. I went to the police station twice, the police never forced the boss to send the letter. Then, the boss reported me as MIA, which is illegal for a foreign employee. But, being wise, I had already notified Labor of my desire to resign. I’d sent certified mail, with return proof of delivery confirmation, a full confession of perjury to the Labor inspector—a very good person with extremely limited power, mind you. I included a CD with the recording of the boss saying, “I hate foreigners.” The inspector scheduled a mediation meeting and called my phone, urging me to bring a Taiwanese friend to translate.

The meeting lasted three hours and the boss accepted my resignation. That was a first. I mean, this was a breakthrough. Tainan had never seen a successful agreement in a dispute between an employer and foreign employee. They always last forty minutes, then go to court or deportation. I was the first to reach peace.

I asked my Taiwanese friend, the one who accompanied me to the mediation, why my boss had lied about the address on my first work permit. There was no reason. Why lie first when the truth wouldn’t hurt? “Because of the Cultural Revolution in China,” he explained. “People about forty years and older are still influenced by Chairman Mao’s thinking, including that lying is okay.” He also told me that the big boss controlled a kind of local “ESL mafia” in the city.

Later, I was told by a coworker from that chain that the inspector, seeing how that boss treated me, continued inspection; three locations of that ESL chain were closed. The school suddenly started treating him with respect, which was good for him. They had tried to fire him also. I’m glad it worked out for him.

My immediate supervisor quit her job over how they treated me. She went to work in a factory for more pay and less stress. I’m glad it worked out for her.

My next employer told me that they had to let me go because they were getting harassment from that previous boss. I couldn’t work. Looking back, I don’t know how I financially survived. I guess God wanted me here, so I stayed while He made a way.

Officers at Immigration, city government workers, and aides of two different legislators asked me why I stayed in Tainan. “Why don’t you just move to Taipei where there are more jobs and your boss can’t chase you?”

See, there’s the plight of the Taiwanese! Every time there is a bully, they just bend over. They were beaten down by Chiang Kai-Shek, like Israel in the desert after Egypt, afraid to enter the Promised Land. “No way!” I’d say kindly, strongly, and reassuringly. “There is no law saying an American can’t teach English in Tainan. So, the government can protect an American willing to stand with the Tainan people! Their English is bad and they need the practice more than Taipei. I suffer because I love Tainan, and Taiwan’s government still won’t help me.”

The only meaningful help I received was from a person who understood the trouble, but never spoke to me: the Labor inspector—a very good person with extremely limited power.

The people who ask why I never moved to Taipei ask with childlike innocence, not knowing that they imply discrimination against not just myself, but also against the people of Tainan. Many Westerners live in Taipei in the populated north, but Tainan has many delights in the south. Taiwanese anecdotally believe Westerners prefer Taipei because it is the “big city”. Actually, it is because the Ministry of Labor places hefty financial burdens on the small ESL schools of the south—the same requirements the rich ESL schools in the north can afford. Most Tainan ESL schools aren’t rich enough to hire an American legally. So, they need help from a black market, which my former boss was rumored all too happy to oblige. Albeit, the laws are written in Taipei, in the north, where there couldn’t possibly be connection to black market interests in the south. But, I saw something more important: Westerners avoided Tainan because its ESL community was gripped by an invisible black market. And, it didn’t just hurt me; it hurt the Taiwanese, who remained oblivious.

That was when I started to see how a system can oppress one people, without the people across the street even noticing. In fact, Taiwanese didn’t even know how their Labor laws crippled English learning in Tainan. Taiwanese were victims of systemic prejudice as much as I was. All this rigmarole hurt their highly-coveted English skill. None of this would be a problem if Taiwan simply extended the same rights and protections to Americans as America extends to Taiwanese. That way, many Americans would be Taiwanese dual citizens who could work anywhere, including the poorer ESL schools in the southern, delightful city of Tainan.

But, Taiwan’s government won’t allow it, even after eleven years of petition. And, yet Taiwan cries for global help when countries break diplomatic ties. The Taiwanese people don’t even know what trouble Immigration and Labor laws create for them on the global stage.

The juicy part of this story is that my former ESL chain receives public funding from America’s government. I called their American office to report the incident. They hung up the phone on me without a word. I won’t reveal the name because all evidence of human rights violation is illegal within the jurisdiction it is collected. I prefer to stay with the Taiwanese people, helping them survive dishonest business practices toward which the Taiwan government turns many a blind eye and deaf law. And, I still hope for a peaceful answer from Taiwan, even after twelve years.

For the last seven years, I’ve written editorials every Monday, looking at Taiwan objectively, respecting the status quo Taiwan has as a de facto sovereign country. I’ve been objective and constructively critical, but at times, I admit, favorable. I hailed Taiwan’s police for not bloodying students who entered the Legislature in 2014—a stark contrast to police in Washington DC. Students who entered the Executive branch weren’t so fortunate. I know; I was here in Taiwan. When Taiwan President Tsai said, “Taiwan is a vibrant democracy; it has many problems, but it is worth saving,” with permission, she was borrowing my words from one of many supportive letters to US Congress.

In the last twelve years, I never went public with the name of my accusers nor did I publish related articles where I am syndicated. Peace was my goal. Taiwan needed time to change, but I have seen no change. Work permits still pass through the hands of a gate-keeping boss. Rights of dual citizenship remain non-existent.

I’ve applied for permanent residence twice. The first time, the committee voted “no” on matters unrelated to my application; the meeting was out of order, which I can prove because Taiwan’s unabashed government sent me the minutes of the committee meeting to show me I was wrong. The second time, I applied based on my favorable coverage of Taiwan in the press, given their unredressed grievances and my patience and, most importantly, my silence. The application response deadline is 90 days; Immigration hasn’t given an official response of their committee’s vote in over 200 days.

What may I conclude, but love? I can’t hate Taiwan for being systemically prejudice. Black Americans don’t hate me for my systemic racism. I didn’t know what I did to Black Americans—I still don’t because I don’t see systemic prejudice when it favors me. We can’t make excuses for ourselves, but the Black Man isn’t complaining about any “big nothing” as some purport. I was raised a White Republican. I must learn to listen to Black Americans just as I know Taiwanese can only understand by listening to me.

This was a message I eagerly wanted to tell Americans: invisible injustice in our systems cause poverty! But, I couldn’t tell that story without hurting the Taiwanese people. Now, after 200 days of waiting for a 90 day deadline, it’s safe to say that Taiwan’s Immigration Agency won’t mind.

Of course, I have many Taiwanese friends whom I don’t deserve, many of the skateboarders. Why would I choose Tainan, a city with the most restrictive skatepark and skateboard laws on the island? Tainan has talented skateboarders as eager and gifted as anywhere else. Injustice in any system affects every sector. I don’t run from problems no matter how small, no matter how scary. It’s hard to leave friends, especially when their patience has changed my life. Taiwan opened my eyes over the last twelve years to understand the plight of the Black Man. I understand my first country better because I kept reaching out to the hand that slapped me back. And, I kept taking the many hands in Taiwan that reached out to me.

I can’t reject the Taiwanese. They’ve taught me too much.

Taiwan’s Prejudice of Foreigners Taught Me Black Systemic Racism Is Real from Jesse Steele

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cuteness--overload · 4 years ago

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Red-Eyed Vireo I saw on the weekend - Big Knife Provincial Park, Alberta

Source: https://bit.ly/31kpk9H

#aww #cute #bird #birds #kuş #kuşlar #animals #cute overload #cuteness overload

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bwenvs3000 · 7 years ago

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Have you ever been lost in the woods?

What role does “privilege” play in nature interpretation? Define privilege.

My friend’s definition (he’s a philosophy student): “An inherited advantage over those around it. Something that is always relative.”

My attempt at a definition: “The ability to experience something in a very fortunate manner which is exclusive to some or one being.”

The ability to perceive nature in a calm, often romanticized way is most definitely a privilege. For some people nature is not something of beauty. It can represent fear, danger and the unknown.

I remember taking an educational course once and the instructor asked the class a question:

“who here has gotten lost in the woods?”

About a quarter of the class put their hand up.

The instructor then clarified his question:

“I don’t mean lost for an hour or two, or went off the trail for some time. I mean who really has been lost in the woods? Who here has gotten lost in the woods for as long as having to stay the night?”

Everybody’s hands went down.

Acknowledging this, he explained further:

“I have. I have spent nights where I’m cold, everything is pitch dark, there are sounds of coyotes and wolves around me and all I have for comfort is my knife and my gun. I have gone to sleep clutching my gun and it’s scary.”

He then proceeded to talk about the importance of being prepared in the woods.

Nature can be quite brutal and it’s a privilege to experience it from safety. Some people and animals don’t have that luxury. Some may view a fruit in the forest as a primary food source that needs to be eaten to survive. Others might see the fruit as something decorative, or something they would like to grow in their personal gardens at home.

Some people don’t really get to experience nature much at all. This may be due to working all the time, maybe they live in a city where they aren’t as exposed to nature, or maybe it just isn’t a big part of their beliefs, culture, traditions and family values.

Nature interpretation seems to be a hobby and there is absolutely nothing wrong with that. Since it is a privilege, I think we need to respect the privilege through conservation and preservation. Passing on the “torch” to other people and the next generation to spark their interests,

can be a key way to prevent people from abusing nature. I went to the Petroglyphs Provincial Park this summer and something that resonated with me was learning the Ojibway (Nishnaabe) people wouldn’t even leave their tipi on a patch of grass for more than a few days. They believed the grass had a right to grow. Think about what we do differently in today’s world.

A privilege becomes a right if you give it to all. I think it would be nice for everyone to be able to experience nature in a romanticized way for the conservation and preservation of ecologically important natural areas. People care about their interests and are willing to go through great lengths to save their passions. In a world of concrete cities, grocery stores, mass production etc. there isn’t that same connection to nature where people rely on being “out there” daily to survive. The caretakers of the natural environment are nature enthusiasts, photographers, forest and stream rehab groups, bird watchers, hunters, anglers, scientists/researchers etc. These are the people who are preventing nature from becoming irrelevant.

So, bring friends outside and teach them about something interesting, show them how to fish, how to camp, how to take a beautiful picture, show them how to spark their own passions for nature. It’s the way people are going to start caring for the natural world. Within these passions they often become humbled and realize they may not be the focal point in this world.

*girlfriend and I kayaking through the flats in Florida, looking for snook, redfish and jacks to catch*

Long story short, to have a passion is to be privileged enough to develop an interest on your own terms and time. This seems to be the basis of nature interpretation: experiencing nature for yourself, on your own time, for your interest in nature.

September 29th 2017 1:52 pm

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calgarybride · 5 years ago

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auskultu · 7 years ago

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South Viet Nam: The Versatile Enemy

uncredited writer, Time, 14 July 1967

Communist forces in Viet Nam are not only better equipped than ever, but are using their men and arms with increasing versatility. Last week, in the course of a few days, they proved just how effective their range of tactics can be. In two cunningly prepared ambushes, they killed 69 Americans in the Central Highlands. In a rocket onslaught on the huge air base at Danang, they killed eight men and did about $80 million worth of damage to U.S. planes. And, in a guerrilla-style raid that they have honed to near perfection, they swarmed over the provincial prison camp in Quang Nam province and released 1,220 prisoners, most of them Viet Cong suspects.

60,000 Garbage Cans. Just after midnight, the rockets began falling on Danang from the hills northwest and southwest of the base, the citadel of the U.S. Marines in Viet Nam and a major launching pad for the air war on the Communist North. In scarcely more than five minutes, the Communists fired at least 50 122-mm. rockets, dropping them among the parked planes with pinpoint accuracy. Several Air Force 4-FC Phantoms and Marine F-8 fighter-bombers, caught fully fueled and with their bomb racks loaded, were blown high into the air by the explosions. One rocket crashed into an ammo dump, exploding the 500-and 750-lb. bombs in a giant fireball that was visible many miles away. Five base firemen were killed when a bomb went off on a burning Phantom.

Several rockets crashed into the barracks area, destroying three buildings. "You could hear the shrapnel hitting the roof," said an airman. "Then one landed on the barracks next to us like 60,000 garbage cans hitting the floor." When the sun rose, aircraft and barracks were still smoldering. Two big craters pocked the west runway, and the east runway was scattered with debris from wrecked aircraft. In all, eleven planes—Phantoms, Crusaders and C-130 transports—were destroyed and 31 damaged. Besides the dead, 173 people were wounded.

Just a few minutes earlier and 20 miles to the south, Viet Cong platoons had blasted their way into the Quang Nam jail with satchel charges. They killed the superintendent and wounded five of his men before fading back into the jungle with the freed prisoners, of whom 190 were later recaptured. While launching their attacks at main targets, the Communists did not neglect their campaign of terror and harassment against South Vietnamese villages and hamlets. A Viet Cong force overran the coastal hamlet of Guan Co, also near Danang, just before dawn, inflicted heavy casualties on the little Vietnamese milita post guarding the town and burned down 44 dwellings.

Bare Hands. The resurgence of fighting in the mist-shrouded Highlands came after a company of the 173rd Airborne Brigade made contact with North Vietnamese regulars who had been waiting in sanctuaries across the border in Cambodia. When the Americans brushed into a small knot of the Communist forces, they pursued their quarry up a muddy hillside in the jungle near Dak To, seven miles from where the frontiers of Cambodia, Laos and South Viet Nam meet. The U.S. troops were led right into a torrent of machine-gun fire from 30 sandbagged bunkers atop the slope. By the time the shooting ended, 25 Americans had been killed and 35 wounded. Other Americans took the hill unopposed the next day, found nine Communist dead.

About 1,000 Communists swarmed just as suddenly over a company of the U.S. 4th Infantry Division near the Ia Drang Valley 40 miles to the south. The fight began after a cluster of NVA troopers decoyed the Americans into a trap two miles from the Cambodian border. The North Vietnamese concentrated on one platoon at a time and succeeded in cutting off each in succession. The American company commander fell in the first minutes of the battle. The fighting was at such close quarters that one U.S. squad leader strangled a Communist soldier with his bare hands and plunged his bowie knife into the chest of another. In all, 44 Americans were killed and 27 wounded; the North Vietnamese lost an estimated 156 men.

The North Vietnamese are also using ambushes, in conjunction with skillful conventional artillery fire, on the plain just below the DMZ. After digging in with their guns, they lie in wait for the Marines they know must eventually come to try to root them out; that is how the leathernecks ran into the bloody ambush just north of their base at Con Thien three weeks ago. By burying some of their guns in deep holes and caves and moving others from place to place, the North Vietnamese have kept the Marines under continual pressure. Last week they took some heavy pounding themselves. After two months in which they stayed away from the DMZ, largely because of SAM missiles entrenched there, the Air Force's big eight-engined B-52s returned to pound Communist installations in the northern half of the zone.

#1960s #1967 #60s #air war #da nang #military action #sixties #viet cong #vietnam war

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jimdsmith34 · 8 years ago

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British and Irish Lions tour 2017: All you need to know

(CNN)Four nations, one rugby team. One goal — to win a Test series against the mighty All Blacks of New Zealand.

The 2017 British and Irish Lions tour is approaching, one of the most anticipated events in world rugby.

It happens every four years, and the privileged players to be selected for this summer’s party are set to be announced Wednesday.

Find out all you need to know about the legendary Lions.

What are the British and Irish Lions?

The Lions is a composite squad formed every four years from the cream of players from England, Wales, Ireland and Scotland.

They rotate tours around the southern hemisphere’s big three rugby union nations — Australia, New Zealand and South Africa.

The Lions concept grew out of combined British and Irish touring rugby sides from 1888.

For hordes of traveling fans dressed in the team’s replica red shirts, a Lions tour is a huge multinational jamboree.

Where are the Lions going in 2017?

New Zealand, land of the Long White Cloud. Land of the All Blacks.

The famous Kiwi side is the no.1 ranked team in the world and in 2015 became the first team to win back-to-back World Cups.

What soccer is to Brazil, rugby is to New Zealand.

Given the Lions is a scratch side coming together every four years, victory is hard to come by.

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In 11 Lions tours to New Zealand stretching back to 1904 (the first six tours were to both New Zealand and Australia), the visitors have triumphed once, a 2-1 victory in 1971.

On their last visit in 2005 the Lions suffered a 3-0 “blackwash.”

In all there have been 38 Tests between New Zealand and the Lions, with the Kiwis winning 29.

Four years ago in Australia, the Lions won the three-Test series 2-1, the first victory since 1997.

This time there will be seven warm-up games against provincial opposition and three Tests against the All Blacks, between June 3 and July 9.

See below for full fixture list.

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Squad

The squad of about 37 players will be named on April 19 in London. The identity of the captain will also be revealed by head coach Warren Gatland — the New Zealander is the Wales coach on a sabbatical for his second stint with the Lions.

Picking the make-up of the squad is the main challenge for the coach and his backroom team. How many players in each position do you take? How do you balance accusations of bias against different nationalities?

In 2005, England’s 2003 World Cup-winning coach Sir Clive Woodward was in charge and picked 25 Englishmen in a giant 45-man squad. Gatland’s smaller squad for Australia in 2013 featured nine Englishmen, 15 Welshman, 10 from Ireland and three from Scotland.

Occasionally, some big-name players miss out.

Being selected for a Lions tour is one of the highest honors in the game. The ultimate is making the Test team.

“Well as far as I’m concerned, it’s the greatest honor a British or Irish rugby player can get,” former Scotland captain Gavin Hastings told CNN.

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Hastings, widely considered one of Scotland’s best ever players, was part of two Lions tours: one victorious, one a narrow defeat.

“They were great experiences and you can look back at them with a lot of positive memories and for me that’s what it’s all about.

“I think it’s a recognition that you are one of the best players amongst your peers and the four home countries.

“You’ve got an ability and an opportunity to go down with the Lions and play one of the very best sides in the Southern hemisphere and try and win a test series. The challenge is massive.”

England’s 2003 World Cup-winning captain Martin Johnson echoes Hastings’ comments, describing the Lions tour as a “mystical” event.

“It’s a very special thing — it doesn’t exist in most sports to have an amalgamated team of Great Britain and the whole of Ireland to go on a tour,” he told CNN.

“It’s very special, having the best of the best in any given period. Some guys make their name and they’re more famous as Lions than anything else so it is a great thing to do.

“They are part of the history of the game — real part of the history of the game, so it is very special.”

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Lions lore

How to turn four nations into one and forge a spirit of unity in a week before setting off on tour is the crux of the Lions. In the old days, a good old-fashioned knees-up did the job.

Before the successful 1997 tour to South Africa, which the Lions won 2-1, the squad frequented a local pub near their training base in Hampshire, England.

“That is what won us the series, that week before we got on the plane,” ex-England scrum-half and three-time Lion Matt Dawson told BBC Sport.

“It involved a couple of nights of just sitting in a room with a keg of beer, telling stories, and just getting to know players. That relationship just blossomed as the tour went on.”

Four years later, a more corporate approach to team building was in vogue. After a fitness boot camp, the Lions took part in dragon boat racing, high-wire assault courses, trust-building problem-solving exercises, and playing a variety of musical instruments in a pop-up band.

There were even deep discussion sessions where players were asked to bare their soul. Martyn Williams told of the death of his brother. Dawson discussed a recent relationship break-up.

In 2005, Woodward had his players paint pictures for a giant collage, and perform sketch shows in front of teammates.

Sharing rooms with players from other nations, players’ committees, drawing up codes of conduct known as “Lions laws,” and secondary roles such as entertainments officers also help break the ice.

Motivational speeches before big games and inspirational oratories from coaches help instill Lions lore.

Forwards coach Jim Telfer made a stirring speech in 1997 that is still remembered with reverence.

Among his gems were:

“Many are considered, few are chosen.”

“This is your Everest, boys.”

Head coach Ian McGeechan delivered an equally moving message before the second Test in Durban in 1997.

“You will meet each other in the street in 30 years’ time and there will just be a look and you’ll know just how special some days in your life are.”

Controversy

All part of the fun of a Lions tour is the tittle-tattle that accompanies the circus. It starts with the composition of the squad and is always bubbling in the background.

In theory, the Test team is selected based on form in the warm-up games, but look out for murmurs of discontent from some of the “dirttrackers,” the name given to the players destined only to feature against provincial opposition.

Being a “good tourist” is one of the character traits looked for when initial selection is on a knife-edge. Midweek captain Donal Lenihan’s “Doughnuts” in 1989 were an example of a midweek side who knuckled down, won their matches and admirably supported the Test team.

The 1993 dirt-trackers were reportedly less disciplined and “went off tour,” arguably to the detriment of the Test squad.

Modern attrition rates, however, mean injuries are more prevalent. Often the eventual Test team bears little resemblance to most people’ s picks before the tour.

In 2001, Dawson got into trouble for a newspaper column he wrote criticizing the regime which was published in the Daily Telegraph on the morning of the first Test. He was nearly sent home, although captain Martin Johnson said if Dawson went, he would go too.

Later in the tour, Austin Healey found himself in hot water with a ghost-written column laying into Australia and lock Justin Harrison, calling him a “plod” and a “plank.”

On the ill-fated New Zealand tour in 2005, one of the charges against Woodward was the decision to appoint former Labour spin doctor Alistair Campbell as communications manager.

Then there is the on-field controversy. Over the years there have been many incidents of home sides attempting to take out key Lions.

Notable examples include Australian Duncan McRae pummeling Ronan O’Gara, who needed 11 stitches in his face, in 2001 and the double spear tackle on Brian O’Driscoll by All Blacks Tana Umaga and Keven Mealamu in 2005.

The most notorious tales come from the 1974 tour to South Africa and the infamous “99” call, devised by Lions captain Willie John McBride.

The idea was that if one Lions player was on the receiving end of illegal brutality, the shout would be a signal for everyone else to join the fray.

According to McBride, it was only used once, in a bad-tempered midweek game against Eastern Province. The mayhem lasted seconds, but the Lions had made their point.

When word got out the myth grew. The message was that these guys were not to be messed with.

Even so, the third Test in Port Elizabeth was dubbed the “Battle of Boet Erasmus Stadium” after a series of all-in brawls.

Lions in numbers

70,000 ($88,000) — The reported wage for playing on the 2017 Lions tour. Win bonuses for Test matches could take a player’s earnings for the six-week tour to close to 100,000 ($125,000).

17 — Most caps won by a British and Irish Lion, held by Ireland’s Willie John McBride on five tours between 1962-1974.

10 — Number of matches on the 2017 tour, including three Tests.

7 — The Lions will play in seven different cities against eight different opponents.

50,000 — Capacity of Auckland’s Eden Park, the host stadium for the first and third Tests and the midweek game against Auckland Blues.

37 — The All Blacks are on an unbeaten streak of 37 matches against any opposition at Eden Park stretching back to 1994.

4,600,000 — The population of New Zealand.

103,500 — the area, in square miles, of New Zealand spread across the north and south islands.

Fixtures in full

June 3 — Provincial Union XV v Lions — Toll Stadium, Whangarei

June 7 — Blues v Lions — Eden Park, Auckland

June 10 — Crusaders v Lions — AMI Stadium, Christchurch

June 13 — Highlanders v Lions — Forsyth Barr Stadium, Dunedin

June 17 — New Zealand Maori v Lions — International Stadium, Rotorua

June 20 — Chiefs v Lions — Waikato Stadium, Hamilton

June 24 — New Zealand v Lions — First Test, Eden Park, Auckland

June 27 — Hurricanes v Lions — Westpac Stadium, Wellington

July 1 — New Zealand v Lions — Second Test, Westpac Stadium, Wellington

July 8 — New Zealand v Lions — Third Test, Eden Park, Auckland

source http://allofbeer.com/2017/06/28/british-and-irish-lions-tour-2017-all-you-need-to-know/ from All of Beer http://allofbeer.blogspot.com/2017/06/british-and-irish-lions-tour-2017-all.html

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