Critical Mass

All that is necessary for the triumph of evil is that good men do nothing.

I don’t make a habit of quoting the father of modern conservatism.  But, being a lazy toad, I occasionally remind myself of the wisdom attributed to Edmund Burke.  Otherwise I’ll spend all my time on my lily pondering, too seldom taking the plunge.

When we choose between bikes and cars, there’s little doubt it’s two wheels good.  Make all the excuses you like, but there's no neutral:  either you drive a car, and say “despite all the bad things about cars I choose to drive one anyway”.  Or you get on your bike (or bus or train or whatever) and say “I choose to do the right thing”.

Ok, so I’m a smug cyclist, Ghandi-like being the change I want to see in the world.  Sickening eh? 

But don’t worry, I’ll give myself a hard time even if you can’t. 

For a start, my choice is based largely on self interest – cycling isn’t just greener, it’s also cheaper, healthier and bunches more fun than fuming in traffic.

More challengingly, whilst giving up the car and getting on the bike is a necessary first step, what’s the point of taking the steep and thorny bikelane yourself, just to idly wave selfish motorists up the primrose path?  Like any good evangelist (or zealot), it’s not enough to do the right thing myself - I have to help save others from the triumph of dirty, dangerous cars!

But how?  Well, here’s a start:  on the last Friday of every month, in over 300 cities worldwide, people are joining together to ride their streets.  They bring whistles, music, banners; they slow the motorists, they show how wonderful it can be when people reclaim the streets as their own.  It’s called Critical Mass. 

As a student in Edinburgh in the late 1990s I took part in the city’s first such event, one of around 20 shivering ideologists who circled the city centre in horizontal sleet until an unreconstructed police car screeched up and ordered us all home.  I was irritated, but saw how challenging it was for plod:  they do protests, but this ‘organised coincidence’ caused much helmet-scratching.  A decade later I saw the London version, and was delighted that it had not only grown in size, but was also so normalised that by now even the police came along – on bikes!

And so to Oxford in 2012 – surely huge potential in this city of students and greenies?  In truth our numbers were small, just a dozen or so enthusiasts (does that even count as a critical mass?).  But what we lacked in size we made up for with enthusiasm - persistent grins, vigorous waves and thumb-numbing tinging; a super selection of bike-related tracks from the wheeled sound-sytem helped make it a celebration as much as a protest.

The best bit was cycling round and round the notorious Plain roundabout.  I loved feeling safety in numbers, just for once the streets were ours and we couldn’t be bullied by the cars.

Reactions varied – the odd angry taxi and four-by-four, but also plenty of smiles and waves - most people seemed gently amused.  Most importantly, they noticed.

But it couldn’t last for ever, and after a couple of good runs up and down the Cowley Road we made a tactical retreat to the Magdalen Arms.

“Whenever I see an adult on a bicycle, I have hope for the human race” – it’s ironic that it took the father of science fiction, H G Wells, to recognise this.  But I hope that even in the here and now, in our own small way, we gave the people of Oxford something to think about, and some hope. 

And for me, at least I won’t feel quite so much like one of those good men who does nothing. 

So what will you be doing on the last Friday in July?

A Picture of Africa

A warm, red sun rises over flat-topped acacias, revealing a magical landscape of elephant, buffalo, rhino, lion.  Colourful, exotic cultures – over forty different tribes and languages in Kenya alone.  Amazing wildlife, varied peoples; it’s my ideal picture of East Africa.

There is another view:  fuming gridlock, desperate hawkers, the simmering insecurity of modern Nairobi.  My friends Zia and Madeleine, lifelong residents, constantly seek moments of solitude in their hectic urban lives.

One escape is to the coast, where my latest visit begins - people and wildlife, but very different from the city and plains inland.

This is the centre of gentle Swahili culture, clean sea air and stunning white Indian Ocean beaches.  Here is yet another vision of Africa:  camels amble the pure sands of Dhiani beach, spicy masala and coconut rice aboard a wooden dhow, the call to prayer fades over Mombasa old town.

And no lack of wildlife:  mighty giraffe, buffalo, antelope, and majestic sea-eagle, heron and stork, balance the maligned mongoose and misunderstood warthog; a marvellous white kingfisher and Egyptian goose weigh against malicious snakes and crocs – even the modest Haller Park reserve boasts an astonishing balance of fauna.

Yet numerous snaps on Katja’s new Canon show the idyllic picture rather undermined by concrete and cement – fish tanks, walls, even paths.  The camera never lies:  this former limestone quarry turns out to be bankrolled by multinational mining conglomerate Lafarge, itself attempting to weigh profit with environmental impact.

In truth you do what you can with what you have – the park even showcases a life-size sperm whale crafted by local villagers from jettisoned flip-flops.  This is a dignified if futile attempt to counter-balance the tonnes of debris despoiling parts of the once-pristine coastline, as highlighted in Elspeth Murray’s playful poem Flip Flotsam and Simon Reeve’s BBC series Indian Ocean.

But sometimes balance is found: here is the setting for the heart-warming tale of Owen, a lonely, orphaned hippo, who meets a most unexpected foster-mother, a 150 year-old giant tortoise named Mzee.  Even shaky starts can end in stable, equal friendship.

We return to Nairobi for the highlight of our trip:  the honour of attending the first ever exhibition of Zia’s photography.  He speaks passionately in defence of redressing the drift from fine art, analogue values and black and white images. 

And it is inspiring to hear from the charities who benefit from this exhibition.  Kuona, who help local artists to advance themselves and the role of visual arts in Kenya, stress the importance of art as both a counterpoint to and commentary on the poverty and corruption which still undermine this country.  And for Friends of Nairobi National Park, Dr Paula Kahumbu (incidentally the co-author of Owen & Mzee) speaks with passion and equanimity of preserving Kenya’s natural heritage in face of human-wildlife conflict, the opposition of such strong, equal forces who both lay claim to this precious land.

I’ve had the pleasure of seeing Zia’s photographic talent develop over the last 20 years, but it is still nothing short of breathtaking to see his beautiful images collected in one gallery.  The restful and perfectly-balanced monochrome seascapes are such a welcome counter to the usual noisy, garish spreads of African animals and people.  The compositions are striking, and the success in capturing movement in still images quite remarkable.

Appropriately, the exhibition is simply titled Equilibrium: a moment in solitude.  Well done Zia – your fantastic debut exhibition strikes exactly the right balance.

Something Worth Celebrating

Bunting out.  Crowds gather.  Brollies at the ready.  Most importantly, brass bands are playing.

Whatever happens elsewhere this weekend regarding our unelected head of state, any true citizen of the republic of Saddleworth – and I regard myself as one, despite my extended and ongoing  exile – will be right here on this, the most important day of the year.  

It’s lovely to come home at any time.  The Christmas Messiah features friendly faces.   The Rushcart offers sozzled morrismen heaving a quickly-sobering mate atop a cart of reeds.  And the morneful factory horn breaking the Remembrance Sunday on Pots and Pans was always as poignant as any Last Post.

But this weekend is when all prodigal sons return come rain or just showers.  As local poet Ammon Wrigley explains:  It’s good to be in Saddleworth, o’er the green miles and the grey, There’s no better earth for roaming, and no better folks I say;  Up and o’er the top of Wharmton, in the keen life-giving air, For whoever tramps in Saddleworth, says good-bye to every care.

Whit Friday starts carefully enough.  By ten in the morning, crowds gather in the larger of the dozen or so Pennine villages.  For one blissful day the streets are reclaimed from brutalising cars.  Led by the band, churches and scouts brandish banners, and the village people tramp after them.  Everyone joins in:  from pram- to daisy-pushers; the lapsed to the happy clappers; residents and returnees.  The band marches past to Hail Smiling Morn; we all know this is where we belong.

After morning walks, children’s sports.  Previously run by churches, my local Village Association and Mountain Rescue now keep the afternoon races alive.  To those of you familiar with my own busy-body tendencies, it’s no surprise to find my parents at the thick of it, along with village stalwart Jill and expert marshals Janet and Morris (who called his first-ever false start!).  This year, the chaotic ‘wheelbarrows’ and three-legged melee were eased by Katja’s teutonic efficiency and my loudly hailed, rapidly-flattening vowels.  Stickers and lollies were presented, adult competitiveness contained, an important tradition sustained.

And so to the evening.  Anyone who knows the north understands the importance of brass bands, the very fabric of many post-industrial communities.  And if you’ve seen Brassed Off you’ll know that the Saddleworth Whit Friday contests are a highlight of the banding calendar.  Brighouse and Rastrick.  Black Dyke Mills.  Grimethorpe Colliery, of course.  Plus bands from as far away as Switzerland and Germany.  As we reach the top of Lark Hill wisps of Senator, Ravenswood  and Knight Templar reach us from three separate villages nestling below.  Nick turns to us and states, without exaggeration, “that experience will always be unique to Saddleworth”.

But not everything has stayed the same:  my brother reminds me of trying to hit the bass drum with black peas, but now there’s not a peashooter in sight.  Not that I’d risk it – on one famous occasion an enthusiastic joker got a little too close to the quickstep and the drummer swiped him out of the way with his stick on the upstroke, without even missing a beat! 

Gone too is the morning after’s Beer Walk – it was good for charity, but more than enough beer is consumed by the audience (and the bands) on the Friday.  These days the weekend proceeds with a more sedate ‘scarecrow trail’ (this year with a royal theme), and Sunday’s school duck race. 

But Whit Friday is the core of the celebrations.   

So pass on the pageant, snub your street-party, jilt the jubilee.

Rather, to almost quote our local bard:  Come out along the hilltops and stretch your legs with me; Where northern winds are longing to blow the dust off thee; Give me the gipsy moorland in ragged heather shawl, And you can keep your pageant and your fancy barge and all!