A Flying Cigar and Strong Coffee

Caixa Postal 4216 -ZC-05,

Rio de Janeiro, GB., Brazil

February 20th, ‘64

Dear Mother and All,

No news yet though Audrey wondered if she would make it through the night two days ago. We are definitely hoping for a girl, especially as we are having real difficulty in selecting a suitable boy’s name. Michael is quite certain that the ‘likkle baby’ will be a girl. If we do get a boy and he turns out to be no worse than either Michael or Andrew, we shall be more than satisfied.

It was Monday when we finally got out to see Dr Kerr and we couldn’t help smiling when, after questions and examination, he decided that the baby should have come on the 13th! That was the day we travelled from Cuiaba to Rio. We left Cuiaba at about 7am and reached Rio at about 7pm. We could have come on a faster plane but we decided to save the 25,000 cruzeiros that represented the difference (about 8 pounds). We came on a rather old plane that resembles a flying cigar and which seems to bump a bit more than its cousin the DC-3. We had fairly bad flying weather the whole way and Michael felt sick on a number of the descents. However, everything palled into insignificance compared with the storm we encountered near Rio. Had this been my first flight in an aircraft, I think I would have been really scared. We pitched, rolled, rocked and jumped like a little boat in a rough sea. People seemed to jump up in their seats despite the fixing of seat belts. The pilot’s door swung open and it was reassuring to see him calmly smoking. Obviously he wasn’t worried. When we reached Rio, the airport was closed because of bad weather and so we circled for a while. When we finally got a taxi and reached the Alto House through Rio’s traffic congestion, we were very tired and very hungry. This cheap flight only serves strong coffee and our last meal had been at 10:30 am.

As usual the boys have taken the move in their stride and settled here very happily. The house is really quite empty at the moment and so we are enjoying the extra space and stretch around the house. Besides ourselves there are the Leidtkes and Mullens and two single fellows.

We will need your prayers especially for the boys during these potentially unsettled times. Michael won’t like it very much when I go back to Kaiwana alone. Then there will be the further traveling - we cross the Andes four times! - and the stay in Peru. We’ve discovered that in times like this there is no alternative but to spend extra time with them, because we are their security rather than some special bed or room. Will close now and go to bed.

All our love, JAMA * (*John, Audrey, Michael, Andrew??)

C.P. 2221

Brasilia, D.F.

April 16th, ‘67

Dear Mother and All,

It is Sunday afternoon here, the children are abed and the lake, in one of its loveliest moods, lies before me through the windows. The children seem to have settled very happily here. Anne, after a long time in the wilderness when she seemed to be so often fighting and contrary, is like her old self again. Her diction, though full of childish errors, is so animated and her eyes open so wide that folk just sit and watch her with fascination. Andrew has still not begun to grow. Since Anne now has a trike, Michael and Andrew got a bike last Saturday. The only chore is transporting it up and down stairs. We live on the top floor and there is no elevator - I mean, lift. Audrey is kept busy with teaching the two boys in the morning and running the apartment. Life continues busy, but it is a help to have a stable home life.

The Group bought some land off the North Wing some years ago and now we know that it really belongs to the National Park and that the original sale was illegal. Legal squabbles could continue for years. Meanwhile we stand either to lose the plot with no remuneration or to be charged with a further illegal sale if we try to sell it again. It is very difficult to know what we should do. We don’t need the land now, but we would really like to recoup our investment.

About the end of the month, you should receive from me a glass case with a pair of broken glasses, at least one lens is broken. It is difficult to replace the lens out here and so I hit on the idea of sending them home. My glasses situation is fairly desperate since I am using a very old pair with scratched lenses and wobbly frames that have to be glued now and again. These particular glasses were broken just after Conference on the volleyball court.



Love to all, John

A New Country at Each Stop

Caixa Postal 4216,

Rio de Janeiro,

Brazil.

November 22nd, 1959

Dear Mother and dears all, 

Here we are safe and sound in Rio! It seems strange to look back and see how quickly and comfortably this great journey was completed.  Finding a new country at each stop takes some getting used to.  We were very well looked after in Miami and then duly transported to the airport at about 10 pm.  Owing to a late arrival the plane did not leave until about 1 am, and we shared the time between listening to Portuguese from the tape and walking the baby up and down this super new modern terminal.  Poor little mite - he got a wee bit overtired and fretted a little until the motion of the plane rocked him soundly asleep.  For the rest of the journey he caused us almost no trouble at all - in fact when we landed he slept right through immigration, customs and a zigzaggy taxi ride up to our mountain home.  The plane was less than a third full and so we had no difficulty in securing three seats in a row.  The carry-cot proved to be ideal for the circumstances.  We put one end on the seat and then extended the legs of the other to the floor. This was very comfortable for him and also gave us plenty of leg space.  The stewardesses saw that his bottles were kept on ice and then warmed up at the appropriate times.

After watching the lights of Miami disappear behind us, we snoozed through what was left of the night and first light found us just in sight of land near Panama.  We didn't see the canal but we enjoyed stretching our legs in the morning sunshine.  Soon after leaving, we began to climb over the foothills of the Andes to Medellin in Columbia. Since the plane belonged to a Colombian line, this was where some of the crew lived.  They accordingly went home and we changed to a new plane.  With two long jungle hops ahead, the pilot waited about half and hour until he was quite certain that one of the engines was in proper working order.  Knowing that the vast stretch of Amazonia lay ahead, we didn't feel in the least impatient!

We flew high but through the clouds we had superb views of the great green carpet of trees, broken only by meandering rivers and oxbow lakes.  Sometimes too, we could just pick out a tiny Indian village perched on the bank of the Rio Negro.  It seemed strange to think that people actually lived in this vast wilderness.  We crossed the equator wrapped in blankets, but really felt the tropical heat on the ground at Manaus.  The final 9 hour trip to Rio was made in the dark.  They say that this is done on purpose in case folk get scared by seeing nothing but jungle for nearly 2,000 miles.  

We glided down over Rio harbor- the best way through the surrounding hills - and punctured a tyre as we landed.  The only result of this was that the kitchenette was thrown into chaos and we had to wait nearly half an hour while the ground staff wondered how to get the steps out to the plane which was a mile from the normal unloading point.  Finally we were driven from the plane in a couple of Volkswagens.  Apparently 4 am is a good time to pass through customs because they didn't open our bags or charge us a cent for the tape recorder.  Now we are in a beautiful house up in the hills with a gorgeous mountain view, all set to plunge into Portuguese.

As I write to you the sun has just broken through after heavy rain and through our windows we can see so clearly the different shades and colors of the trees as they climb up the mountainside.  There are still wisps of cloud but the highest peak, between 3 and 4 thousand feet, is now clearly etched against the bright blue sky.  

The baby is settling in fine and has already started on a little mixed cereal. 

This had better be all for now, so goodbye and God bless.  Much love to you all from the family and a special kiss to Gran from Michael.  John

The Magic of Kew

The Royal Botanical Gardens at Kew were founded in 1840, and I have visited them numerous times since childhood.  So why have I never written about the experience?  It could be that my visit there this July was under different circumstances that brought out a different beauty and appreciation for the grounds. 
I can't remember the last time I visited in summer. The rose garden, kitchen garden and rock garden are all in bloom.  I recognized some of the very same plants in my garden back in Minnesota, but without the weeds.  There was so much to see, smell and take in.  The gardens are planned, but still informal with groupings of perennials that complement each other in height, color and texture.  Lavender grows beneath the fruit trees and passion fruit climb over the vegetable beds.  The grapevines provide shade for the tea drinkers.

 There were notable absences as well. None of the beds that are carefully planted out with bulbs and spring annuals were blooming.  Some were left bare earth, others were planted with mustard to compost and enrich the soil.  I was surprised to find that not every inch is used year round.  Of course, there is so much else to see, with many new plantings and often an art exhibit. 
Kew has Europe's largest compost heap which is mainly used for the gardens, but is also occasionally auctioned off as a fund raiser!  There is a horticultural school and student beds.  The composting and experiments are hidden from the public, but are just a small part of the botanical knowledge to be gained from the gardens.

I also noticed the fewer numbers of people people, the 'Closed for your safety' signs and strictly enforced path ways to follow that meant many parts of the gardens were not open to visitor.  Because of the pandemic, the gardens have only just reopened, and all visitors must prebook online to enter. There is no inside dining in the Orangery,  and the orchid hothouse is closed.  That meant I had less options, but came across some hidden gems nonetheless. I found the carnivorous plants and a very interesting beehive ginger whose waxy leaves resemble a large pine cone and hold water.  A peacock was posing in the Japanese garden, delicately patterned leaves climbed up the palm trunks, and Love-lies-bleeding made a soft curtain of hanging blooms.  At a certain point I stopped trying to photograph everything, and let myself just take in the refreshing experience.

 The water lily house had not changed, but reminded me of my last visit here, with family on my mother's 90th birthday. She loves Kew, and this house in particular. Unfortunately she was not strong enough to come on this visit. I hope to get her here soon, even if in a wheel chair, so she can feel the peacefulness of being amidst all this beauty.  Even without the ability to wander, one can feel the surround of living things, and benefit from the calming sounds and scents.  I am especially aware of the garden's healing effects as this visit comes at a stressful time of my caring for my mother.  My sister-in-law was the one who suggested the visit, her words:

I really felt that you needed a break somewhere beautiful like Kew with everything that has happened. I always find it healing and calming being in God's creation. Hope that this happened for you too.

I love to tend to plants in the garden, but they also tend to me - their seasons mirror my own.

“God made a beauteous garden
With lovely flowers strown,
But one straight, narrow pathway
That was not overgrown.
And to this beauteous garden
He brought mankind to live,
And said "To you, my children,
These lovely flowers I give.
Prune ye my vines and fig trees,
With care my flowers tend,
But keep the pathway open
Your home is at the end."

God's Garden”
― Robert Frost

A Day in the Travels of Fred Mitchell 1947

Fred Mitchell

September 21, 1947, Hong Kong: 
I had seen through the porthole that we were steaming slowly into Hong Kong harbour. On the one side was the mainland, with its port of Kowloon, and on the other the island with its modern city of Victoria. The city lies mainly on the narrow strip of land near the water, but then begins to climb in steep streets up the mountain behind. A railway takes one to the top of the peak if one chooses.

By seven we were drawing alongside the dock where officials and Chinese dock porters with their brown skins and bright red jackets, bearing the words ‘Dock Porter’ to distinguish them from others, appeared. On the starboard side small houseboats were drawing in and boys were soon diving for silver coins. At 7:45 our call to breakfast sounded and we left the decks. On our return the excitement was greatly increased and very soon port officers came aboard and turned the hose on the boats and boys and so drove them away. At the slightest respite, however, they came back again!

We now approached the British officers who had come aboard for permission to go ashore which was promptly given. The man who saw my passport, noted I was born at Scholes and told me he had lived for 15 years at Wibsey. I was glad to see a Yorkshireman again. There is a saying, as you travel, that Britishers consist of English, Scotch, Irish, Welsh and Yorkshiremen!


We took the ferry to the island and made our way to the Cathedral for the 11 am service. Walking along the streets we were suddenly disturbed by a cry after us. A police officer whom we found to be a detective, had seen a boy of 10 take Mr Griffin’s fountain pen and so caught the boy. There was a real scene; the boy crying to be free clutched Mr Griffin who would have been pleased to get away with no greater loss. But the police insisted on prosecuting so the boy was to be taken to the police station. The boy was then whisked into a taxi and driven away. A little later we called at the police headquarters and Mr Griffin signed for the pen, and we gathered that when the boy appears before the magistrates tomorrow morning he will likely get a good number of strokes of bamboo on his back. Will that cure him with such a background and home life?

St John’s University is a beautiful cathedral, fairly modern and of Gothic architecture. It was damaged by the Japanese but is now largely, though not completely restored. Certainly it was bright, for the chancel window was of clear glass and was kept cool by huge fans rotating horizontally all over the cathedral. The clergy, four of them, were in white, and there was a choir which hardly functioned of boys and girls, with a few men and women. The boys and girls looked angelic in their chorister’s dress. We noticed all the clergy bowed to the altar which was an unhappy indication of high church tendencies. The service, all in English, was mainly conducted by the Dean. It was reverent, but, alas, followed the Revised Prayer Book of 1928. The Te Deum and Magnificat were sung to poor, uninspiring tunes, and so was the Psalm, and I confess I felt keenly sympathetic with our American friends who are not accustomed to such kind of services. As one who greatly loves the Anglican service when well conducted, I could imagine any stranger attending this morning’s worship would be put off for ever.

Our visit to Hong Kong gave us an opportunity of seeing something of Chinese life for we walked through truly Chinese streets. As we passed we peeped into the poor homes, saw the food shops where numbers were sitting at round tables and using their chopsticks. Returning to our boat we watched the innumerable coolies loading and unloading. Life seems very simple to many of these people, though we should consider ourselves living at the edge of ruin. As one had this first view of China’s millions my heart was sad. Here they are only concerned, as far as one could see, with the obtaining of life’s necessities. One seemed to see the raw material in abundance and the products of grace at least in samples.

Fred's daughter Audrey Taylor
during her time with the Kaiwa tribe in Brazil

Fred's son Alan Mitchell, daughter Audrey
and granddaughters today