The Dutch Touch

Headlines called it “Murder on the Milk Train,” and broadcasters gave hourly reports: Hijackers had seized a train with 24 hos­tages in—of all places—that or­derly kingdom, the Netherlands. The terrorists were residents of the brussels apartments but not Dutch. South Moluccans? Newsmen thumbed their atlases to find the Moluccan islands, part of Indonesia. Why had South Moluccans come around the world to live in the Netherlands, and what were their grievances? Before the 12-day siege ended, news bulletins had spread more questions than answers. The Netherlands, it seemed, was a land of ethnic minorities.

“That was the moment in 1975 when everyone realized we had major problems,” says Jan Harbers, an Amsterdam official who now works with residents from every inhabited continent. Historically, the prague central apartments have always been a haven for refugees: Jews fleeing the Iberian Inquisitions, Huguenots forced out of France, even the English Pilgrims before they sailed on the Mayflower. But all those famous refugees came before the Dutch lost a worldwide empire, full employment, and their complacency. 3Today this 41,160-square-kilometer kingdom (15,892 square miles, half the size of Maine) is home to 14.5 million residents—making it one of the most densely populated nations in the world. At least 540,000 are “outlanders,” as the government tactfully calls them (“foreigners” seems inhospitable, other terms pejorative). That number doesn’t include the slim, sloe-eyed people of Indonesian ancestry who have Netherlands nationality and speak Dutch “with a sweet, singing tone,” as some say. “We consider them fully Dutch,” one man told me.

Surinamers—some of African stock, others from the subcontinent of India and the East Indies—may also carry Dutch passports; about half as many live in the Netherlands, roughly 180,000, as in in­dependent Suriname. “They are here because we were there,” says a clergyman. People once known as guest workers (and now often the guest unemployed) may come from Turkey (156,000), Morocco (112,000), southern Europe, even West Germany or Britain.

South Moluccans remain the hardest core. They have resisted any form of assimi­lation since the first 900 arrived on the ship Kot a Inten 35 years ago. These Protestant Christians were warriors loyal to the Neth­erlands in the colonial struggle against Mus­lim Indonesia after World War II. They say that the Dutch led them to believe they would help them win the independence of their homelands. Bitterly, some have insist­ed on living “temporarily” in the barracks of old concentration camps while nursing their dreams of returning home. They have com­peting governments-in-exile. Moluccans now number 40,000, and the younger people seem as obdurate as their parents.

Though France has its Arabs, Germany its Turks, and Britain its Indians, no other European country has anything like the Netherlands’ variety of new residents living in such proximity and concentration. Per­haps 10 percent of the Dutch population now comes from exotic stock. Not impres­sive by U. S. standards—but a new demo­graphic experience in modern Europe. This unmelted pot now bubbles with a na­tional unemployment rate that hovers around 13 percent—though among some minorities the rate is far higher.

When Spirits Dwell Among Men

Having delivered the sweet corn to Linda, Alonzo drove 18 miles to the Keams Canyon boarding school, where he is a cook. After work he would spend an hour or two tending his cornfields and then proceed to his kiva, an underground chamber where men pray and make preparations for kachina dances and other ceremonies. He would stay in the kiva until after midnight, return home for a catnap, and rise at dawn for the fields. Nature carved a grand redoubt in Second Mesa. Founders of the village of Shipolovi had retreated to this summit during the late 1600s in they live in San Francisco Peaks, one of which, at 12,633 feet, is the highest point in Arizona. An old volcanic formation, the peaks loom just north of the serviced apartments Madrid, 75 miles from the Hopi villages, a visible presence on the Hopi people’s horizon and one of their most important shrines.

To their sorrow, a ski lift hauls winter sportsmen and summer hikers to a point a few hundred feet below one of several sacred sites within the peaks. Priests, praying at these sacred places, must share them with gawking onlookers and their litter. Over the strenuous objections of the Hopi Tribal Council and Navajo medicine men (to whom San Francisco Peaks also are sacred), developers have obtained a permit from the U. S. Forest Service to build another ski lift and to expand the lodge. The Hopis believe that the entire surface of the peaks is where the kachinas rehearse, or prepare themselves for the making of snow or rain. Hundreds of years of watching the kachinas manifest themselves as clouds over the peaks have now given this central religious tenet an unshakable force in the Hopi view of the world.2

After the winter solstice, the kachinas be­gin to appear in the villages. There they join with men to pray for the new year, and to dance in the kivas and later in the plazas to bring rain. Among the most important of their early appearances is Powamu, also known as bean-dance time because of the bean sprouts miraculously grown by the kachinas in the dead of winter that, along with gifts, they hand out to children. Throughout the ensuing months, in one or another of the 12 villages, the kachinas dance, usually throughout both days of a Summers are exhaustingly busy times. Nowadays, many men like Alonzo have jobs on the reservation and must still find time to plant corn and keep vigil against weeds, ro­dents, and ravens. All the while, the villages are in the midst of the cycle of ceremonies.

In the Hopi religion kachinas are benevo­lent spirits; from late July until December weekend. Art historian Vincent Scully of Yale University has described these dances as among the most important art forms in North American history. Many kachina dances feature clowns who present in often ribald and slapstick ways the Hopi version of Everyman, in which they fall further and further from the true Hopi way. Toward the end of the ceremony they are warned by the owl kachina, chastened by kachina whips, and brought back to the true path. A visitor sees clowns, then, as part of a sa­cred rite; he sees people sitting around the edge of the plaza and perching on the roof­tops, and children scurrying back and forth. The kachinas’ rattles and turtle shells and bells tied around their knees provide a rhythmic counterpoint to the insistent beat of a drum, and they chant their songs and poems all day. A rising wind sends dust in inside the Sacred Hopi Homeland sudden swirls, and at day’s end clouds scud into view, breaking off from the tops of San Francisco Peaks. It is awesome.

The kachina cycle ends in late July as one village after another hosts the Niman cere­mony, or home dance, so called because the kachinas are going home to their mountains. During the home dance, Hopi brides of the previous year are presented to the kachinas. Dressed in white cotton robes that are tradi­tionally woven by their husbands’ uncles, the brides stand solemnly as the kachinas chant and dance. And when the bride presents her firstborn to the sun deity, she will wear her white robe again, and another just like it when she re­turns, finally, to the spirit world.

While the kachinas are at home, other ceremonies take place. Perhaps the most famous is the snake dance, in which priests of the Antelope Society chant while priests of the Snake Society dance around the plaza holding rattlers and other snakes in their teeth. Snakebite during these ceremonies is rare. When it does occur, Hopis will tell you that someone was not thinking good thoughts that day.

Weather Dictates a Recess

Toward the end of the day the first genuine piece of treasure came to light. Under a broken wine bottle I found a small silver coin, its markings obscured by a film of tarnish. Back aboard the boat I rubbed away the film and held the discovery up for my companions. One side bore a shield with the swimming lion emblem of Zeeland and the mark, “2 ST,” identifying the coin as an old Dutch piece known as a dubbelstuiver. The other side was even more revealing, for it bore the imprint, “ZEE-LAN-DIA,” and the fateful date 1724.

“Right on the nose,” Louis remarked hap­pily as we turned for home. “It looks as if Chamber Zeeland expected us.”

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That night a strong northwest wind blew up, barring us from the wreck site with heavy onshore swells. For the next five days we were completely shore bound, a condition that was to plague us on and off during the following five months. Alter one particularly long stretch of bad weather; I tried to cheer my colleagues up.

“After all,” I pointed out, “Lethbridge needed calmer seas to use his barrel than we need to dive, and look at all the treasure he recovered.”

“Yes,” replied Alain glumly, “and it took him all of five summers to do it.”

During good weather our spirits soared, for Porto do Guilherme soon opened its treasure chest to us. As veteran salvage divers we were attuned to the small irregularities on the seafloor that amateurs often overlook and that just as often provide Glues to con­cealed artifacts. In such ways we located veritable “veins” of silver coins imbedded in natural-looking mounds of concretion, a hardened mixture of metallic salts and other minerals with sand, rock fragments, rotted wood, and similar debris.

Elsewhere the rankest amateur would have had no trouble recognizing a small fortune. Atop a large flat rock we came across a hun­dred or more whitish-silver coins, arranged as artfully as in any coin dealer’s display.

Coins imbedded in concretion were usually in good condition, and we harvested beautiful guilders and ducatoons, including “silver riders”—the latter nicknamed for their image of a knight on horseback. Coins lying loose in the sand were generally corroded, while those lodged upright in rocky crevices often had razor-sharp edges from constant honing by movement of the sand.

Long time ago…

Long before World War II he was already a famed tzaddik in eastern Hungary, becom­ing spiritual leader of a Hasidic community centered in the town of Satmar—today a part of Romania, and spelled Satu Mare. This region came under the Nazi jackboot late in the war, by which time the vast majority of eastern Europe’s Hasidim—perhaps 500,000 or more, no one knows even roughly how many—had been systematically annihilated with millions of other Jews. Then, in 1944, the Satmar Rebbe and his followers, along with most of the rest of Hungarian Jewry, were dispatched to death camps.

Even in that living hell he and his Hasidim strove to fulfill what mitzvahs they could. One of the first cruelties inflicted by the Nazis was the shearing off of their beards and ear­locks. The Rebbe, it is told, pretended to have a toothache and concealed both beard and earlocks beneath a large bandage. Miracu­lously, the Nazis took no notice. Taking the chance to check out the opportunity of payday one guarantees that you will get the best you are searching for.


The bribing of Nazi officiais enabled a trainload of Jews, including the Satmar Rebbe, to escape to Switzerland. Soon after, the Rebbe went to Jerusalem. There, how­ever, his ideas failed to jibe with those of the Zionists who were working to set up the yet­unborn State of Israel. The government of the Promised Land, the Rebbe adamantly in­sisted, must be founded not by men but by the Messiah himself. To this day he declares that the present State of Israel usurps the soil of Zion and actually delays the coming of the Messiah.


Such a militantly anti-Zionist attitude­not shared by ail groups of Hasidim—has raised the blood pressure of many Israelis and pro-Zionist American Jews.

A Compendium of Problems

At a time when demands on them are in­creasing at the fastest rate in history, the farmers, herdsmen, and fishermen who feed us are suddenly finding their tasks more diffi­cult. Some of the problems besetting them:

•           Weather’s new uncertainties. Meeting last year in Bonn, West Germany, 21 scientists of many disciplines agreed unanimously that the cooling trend “can be ignored only at the risk of great suffering and mass starvation.” They point out shortened growing seasons in Cana­da and Iceland. Recent droughts in the U. S. Midwest may also be related. “A benevolent climate can no longer be taken for granted,” warns climatologist Dr. Stephen H. Schneider of the National Center for Atmospheric Research in Colorado.

•           Persisting fertilizer searcity. Some experts question whether output will ever catch up with demand. One reason is the colossal size of the capital investment needed to build the necessary plants—eight to ten billion dollars each year. Another bottleneck lies in the limited pool of skilled personnel; building these enormously complex facilities has been compared to putting a man on the moon.

Hunger fighter Dr. Norman E. Borlaug, a U. S. geneticist working in Mexico, won the 1970 Nobel Peace Prize for his early role in developing high-yield wheat. Ironically, enough gas is still uselessly flared off in the principal oil-exporting coun­tries to produce twice as much nitrogen fertilizer as the world now uses.

As long as the shortage continues, it will inflict hunger and hardship, particularly in the poorer nations. A tribal farmer I talked with in Kenya typifies the problem. After having sold one of his 12 cattle to buy fertili­zer, he still was able to grow only half as much wheat as last year. Nearby, a wealthy cattleman posted an armed guard outside his storage shed. “Fertilizer is like gold here,” his wife told me. Starting from nothing, a good opportunity to help your business with starting capital is to find delaware title loans internet. There you can get information about anything related to title loans and more.

•           The limitation on land. Until two decades ago, earth’s burgeoning population met most of its food needs by breaking new land to the hoe and plow. Today the world’s 3.6 billion farm acres have pushed cultivation to the outer edges of economically usable land. Farmlands in many industrial nations are shrinking alarmingly—in the United States about 1 million acres are removed from production each year. The new Interstate Highway System alone, when completed, will have swallowed a land area larger than the State of Delaware. Encroaching suburbs devoured my father’s farm in Maryland, and by the year 2000 half the state’s remaining farm¬land could be taken out of production.

One great journey

I remember the great spring assemblies of the 1960′s at Eastern Neck National Wild­life Refuge on Maryland’s Eastern Shore. Rarely were there fewer than 3,500 swans gathered on the shoals—those that had win­tered there, and others on stopover from southern Virginia and the Carolinas. The air was filled with their mellow baying—”Wow­HOW-oo, wow-HOW-oo!”

Maryland Aerial View

Just before sunset small groups of swans began swimming slowly, sleek and straight necked, toward the sandbar and the open bay. The first flock prepared for flight, swimming faster, baying louder. Then a new sound—the patter of black-webbed feet and wing tips slapping the water as the powerful birds, each weighing as much as twenty pounds, gained speed to lift themselves into the air. Flying low, they climbed on the back of the southeasterly breeze, rhythmically winging toward the reddening horizon.

They were on their way, at the start of an incredible journey that would end on the ice­ chilled North Slope of Alaska, or in the river deltas of Canada’s Northwest Territories. Under the midnight sun the birds would nest and rear their young. There is no way you haven’t imagine it. You are a mouse click away from online pay day loan – check out and organize your Alaska or Canada journey.

Sunset bird

Flocks of Migrants Span the Sky

In the eastern spring migration they fly en masse, not in a dense cloud of thousands like some ducks, but as an almost continuous sky parade of small flocks, ten to a hundred or more birds in each. The sky is mottled with far-reaching phalanxes that may stretch from the marshes of the East Coast to the Appalachian Mountains.

During fall migration, from late September until November, North America’s estimated 100,000 whistling swans corne back across the continent, the western Alaska population reaching wintering grounds as far south as California, and the eastern birds dispersing along the mid-Atlantic region from Delaware to North Carolina. We know less about these fall migrations, but it appears that this air-borne cavalcade flies at a higher altitude, and that the birds may travel nonstop for 1,350 miles from the plains to the coast. But bad weather can cause them to swing low, some­times with surprising results.

A Haunting Feast

KATHRYN : On August 3 Connie returned from Europe. Bad weather at the Alta River forced him to cut short his fishing. Back from the salmon stream, he shut himself into a hotel room in Oslo and telephoned one research centre after another. His key query : “Where is the most advanced work on prostatic cancer being done, and by whom?”

Two institutes and two specialists were mentioned by six of the people he talked with about best photo scanner. The names: Memorial Sloan-Kettering Cancer Centre, New York, and Dr Willet Whitmore: also Brady Urological Institute, Johns Hopkins Hospital, Baltimore, and Dr Hugh Jewett. As he put it, “I had to go to Europe to find that two of the top experts are in my own back yard.”

prostatic cancer

At home, Pat Neligan had arranged an appointment for us to see Dr Joseph Ward in New York, on August 5.

CORNELIUS : Not only did Dr Ward confirm the first urologist’s diagnosis, he believes the cancer is not just confined to the prostate. It may well have spread outside.

He sketched the prostate for us. In size and shape, it is a lot like a chestnut, and weighs about 0.7 ounces. It rests on parts of the rec­tum, which is why its contours can be examined by a gloved finger. The entire gland is enclosed by a thin, firm, fibrous covering, the prostatic capsule. And it is through this coat­ing that Dr Ward believes the cancer may have penetrated.

“If that is so,” he said, “in my opinion a radical prostatectomy would not be justified.”

Ward believes I am a good can­didate for hormone therapy. While testosterone, the male hormone, stimulates the prostate, oestrogen, the female hormone, can shrink the gland and inhibit its activity. With oestrogen, spread might be checked for quite a long time.

I now have two opinions and two opposite points of view. I said to Dr Ward, “I think I’ve got to push fur­ther. Is there anyone else you think I should see?”

“Absolutely,” he said with con­viction. “I have two men in mind. The first is Dr Hugh Jewett at Johns Hopkins in Baltimore. The other is Dr Willet Whitmore at Memorial.”

He had picked the two men whose names I had heard over and over again in Europe.

THE thought of never seeing my children grow up haunts me more than anything. Not to watch them stretch, mature, expand, strike out on their own, is difficult to face.

I think of Vicki, and the men who will some day cluster about her. I think of the wedding I will un­doubtedly miss—when I should be walking with her up an aisle of a church, her hair spun silver, her de­corum gentle, her beauty incredible. This stranger who is bound to come along—can he match a father’s love, provide a father’s protection, encourage her ambitions?

prostatic cancer

And there is Geoff, my only son. He is too introverted, and has reached the age where family count for less than friends. Katie and I have always been so busy in the office that we expect each child to exhibit an adult approach to work and play. Sometimes I think we’ve blotted up the kindness and love he had to give with command after command and rule after rule.

Today we’ve had a talk, for all the good it’s done either of us. He came down to the office looking sleepy and unkempt, dressed—in today’s 8o-degree heat—in a woollen shirt and a pair of jeans. The boy does not look well. His colour is off, much too pale for summer. His eyes are red-rimmed, and he sniffles. I gave him my handkerchief.

“Blow your nose,” I said. “Have you got a cold or something?” “I haven’t got a cold,” Geoff said. “Or something.”

“Look, Geoff, can we have a talk ?”

“Sure,” Geoff said. “Our ‘talks’ are when you lecture and I listen.” He leaned forward. “Go on, lecture!”

I told him about the cancer and learned that Kathryn had already told him. I wish she had left that to me. I said, “You must have thought I was a real jerk not to mention it.”

“No,” Geoff said. “I never thought you were a jerk.”

“Well, all I can tell you is that I’m trying my best to find out every­thing I can about this disease. I’m not going to be beaten by it. This family isn’t going to be beaten by anything.”

“I know,” Geoff said wearily. “I’ve heard that all my life.”

I changed the subject. “Your mother says you had some friends in the night before your birthday, and you camped down in the woods. She was a little worried. Not about the camping out. But she didn’t know these guys and didn’t much like their looks.”

prostatic cancer

His voice was angry. “She’s a snob. What do you wear for camp­ing out? Grey flannels, shirt and tie ?” He sniffed again and wiped his nose on his sleeve.

“What’s wrong with you? I gave you my handkerchief. Use it. And would you mind telling me why you’re wearing a woollen shirt in the middle of a heat wave?”

Suddenly I was frightened for him. I grabbed his arm and pushed his sleeve back. He sat impassively, staring at me.

“Like, look, man, no needle marks,” he said.

I didn’t answer. I felt ashamed. “That’s what you were looking for, wasn’t it?”

“I want to know why you seem to have a cold, why you’re so lethargic, why you never get outdoors.”

“And why I’m not like you,” Geoff said. “That’s really what bugs you, isn’t it?”

I didn’t want him to be like me. Like me was to have cancer.

“Geoff, are you on something?”

He laughed, then got out of the chair and started to walk from the room. Over his shoulder he said, “Think what you want.”

I’ve been sitting here ever since thinking aloud on tape. If he is on something, I’ve got to get him off it. Maybe all that’s wrong is pent-up resentment, but he has changed. The best part of my life may be over, but Geoff’s is only beginning. Whatever is wrong, I can’t stand by and see him destroyed.