Thursday, April 26, 2018

Fake news - or is it?

Stanley - Thursday

On April 2 this year, Forbes reported that on March 19 a large crack had suddenly appeared on the earth’s surface in Kenya.  It was several kilometres long and 15 metres wide and 15 metres deep in places.  And it continues to grow.  You can watch a short video about it here.

It cut the busy Mai Mahiu-Narok road in two and split apart houses, including the home of a 72-year-old woman who was eating dinner with her family.  At around the same time, there were reports of earthquakes in the area.





The Forbes article postulated that Africa was in danger of splitting into two parts because the crack and quakes were compelling evidence that the eastern part of Africa was headed to the sea to become an island in the Indian Ocean.

This part of Africa could sail away.
This is what it may look like.
Don’t worry, though.  The estimated time of departure is millions of years away.

The eastern part of Africa has the famous Eastern Rift Valley extending 3000 kilometres from the Gulf of Aden to Zimbabwe. Formed over millions of years, it is the result of the slow separation of the Nubian and Ethiopian tectonic plates. These plates continue to move at the rate of a few millimetres a year, which will eventually result in the sea filling the valley, creating a huge island.

The Great Rift Valley in Tanzani
A number of news publications around the world jumped on the band wagon and reported similarly.  Soon millions of people knew about what was happening.  However, as far as I know, no one rushed to buy future seaside property in Nairobi.

Then, on April 6, The Guardian came up with a different explanation.  It acknowledged, of course, that the two tectonic plates were slowly moving apart, but reported that the new chasm was likely the result of underground erosion rather than tectonic shift.  

There were no scientific reports of even mild earthquakes in the region, and satellites failed to detect any surface swelling that would result from hot magma pushing upwards.  And a visual inspection of the cracks showed that the two walls didn’t fit into each other as one would expect if the ground was splitting.

What the satellites did show was evidence of erosion caused by flash floods both historic and present.  Some of these eroded the ground under the surface, which subsequently collapsed following heavy rains.  The result was the sudden appearance of these large cracks.

So which of the two explanations is correct?

I find this whole episode very interesting because I could buy either explanation.

First, many people immediately jumped to the conclusion that tectonic shift caused the cracks.  That's understandable because of the fact that the tectonic plates meet in the area and that the cracks appeared overnight.  But sloppy reporting meant that there was little or no due diligence by investigating competing theories.

Putting two and two together, in this case, looks as though gave the reporters an answer three.  

Second, it is disturbing that so many other publications, many of which were prestigious, passed on the tectonic-split explanation without checking or questioning it.  So, within days, people all over the world thought that the cracks were solid evidence that Africa was falling apart.

Extrapolating from this little story, it has become increasingly difficult for me to believe anything I read without extensive checking – and I generally don’t have the motivation nor the time to do that.  

Fake news is a scourge, whether it is intentional, as is so often the case in politics, or unintentional, as a result of sloppy reporting. In either case, it is fake and people are misled.

That’s sad.  

Wednesday, April 25, 2018

India Underfoot

Sujata Massey




It’s too easy to twist your ankle while walking through India. Streets and sidewalks have irregular surfaces, and there are many distractions, ranging from speeding cars and motorcyclists creating their own laws to horses and goats.

So I only feel like my footing is truly firm indoors, and I am always glad about the safety of a smooth tile floor.

In Fort Cochin, I stayed in the historic Brunton Boatyard, a hotel built on the grounds of a Victorian shipyard. The narrow red clay tiles on the first floor appear to be strictly business. These tiles have an industrial look and are still holding up after centuries of heavy rolling carts—and now, suitcases.





Nineteenth century Indian royals, on the other hand, used tiles in a grand manner that they’d seen themselves on European tours. Palace tile that I’ve seen is typically giant blocks of pure black and white marble. Not especially original—but very silky underfoot. When I checked into a guest room in Shiv Nivas, a hotel housed in the old guest wing of Udaipur’s City Palace Hotel, the floors felt cleaner than anything I’d ever stepped on, and probably a lot of it had to do with the contrast in air temperature and marble’s natural chill. Before the days of air conditioning, floors were an important cooling element.




In Calcutta, zamindars (landowners) had magnificent homes in North Calcutta built throughout the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. When I visited a friend who lived in such an aging treasure, I marveled at the veining in the fine marble tiles in the bedrooms.





The most joyful tiles that I’ve seen to date are the encaustic (hand-made cement) tiles from the late 19th and early 20th century in Western India. The first encaustic tiles used in India were Minton Company tiles exported from England.  The British government wanted Indians to buy their tile (as well as most other products) from England. Wanting to suit freedom-minded Indians who still wanted modern tile floors, a Parsi businessman, Pherozeshah Sidhwa, started Bharat Flooring Tile Company in Maharashtra in the early 1920s. These tiles had tremendous patterns crafted to exacting standards, and the backs of the tiles had a map of undivided India stamped on them.




Bharat Tiles are firmly cemented in some of the favorite places I’ve stayed in India, like the Royal Bombay Yacht Club, above.





Wilson College in South Bombay, pictured above, is full of original detail. The school was founded by a missionary, and I don’t know if the tiles are Indian or English.

I’ll make an educated guess that these encaustic tiles in Mahatma Gandhi’s Bombay residence are Bharat Tiles. After all, Gandhiji was the founder of the Swadeshi movement encouraging Indians to buy Indian-made products.




When I recently traveled to Ahmedabad, in the western state of Gujarat, I stayed at the House of MG, a boutique hotel carved out of a grand old residence of the textile merchant, Mangaldas Girdhardas. Mr. Girdhardas expanded his original 1924 residence to have two large wings for his sons and their families. The original wing has black and white marble tile floors; the sons’ sides have brilliant, geometric-patterned encaustic tiles.



















When I toured Ahmedabad, I visited more historic havelis, such as the one above, and saw plenty of vibrant cement tile. By now I’d noticed that the prominent colors for all these tiles were golds, reds, and blacks. Yet that color scheme did not determine decorating. Indians decorate in many color schemes atop the harvest-colored floors.

It’s heartening that Bharat Flooring Tile Company managed to create such an industry disruption in 1920s Bombay that the British themselves paid to have many public buildings fitted out with Bharat tiles. And the company lives on today under the same name. They have reissued old patterns and seen them go into old buildings undergoing restoration and new restaurants.

From the British colonial days through independence, Indian tile floors are too tough to show evidence of all who’ve stepped on them. Yet I feel that history surround me every time I go through a door into a hotel or school with a patterned tile floor. 


Tuesday, April 24, 2018

little delights Paris style

Let's forget the strikes and les politiques and visit some of the little delights of Paris. There's so many and lots are free, or the price of an apéro or a ticket on the Metro.

Being a flâneur - loosely defined as a walker with no particular destination - is free. It's all about the discoveries one makes à pied.
 Off the beaten track one finds a gate open
Or stumbles into an alley of charm
Or walking here along the Seine in the early morning
Or in the Luxembourg Gardens in the afternoon
For the price of a Metro ticket it's always worth 
taking line #6, one of my favorites, for the view. It zips along above and below and ground - big selling points are the apartment windows you can look in and the view of the Eiffel tower as it trundles over the Seine.
And for the price of an apéro,

sit down here.

 
or plot your way here
Cara - Tuesday 

Monday, April 23, 2018

How to Describe the House of Representatives

Annamaria on Monday

I am on deadline and at the nail-biting stage.  I cannot force myself to think of anything except my story.  So I offer here a blog I wrote in the past for another Blogger venue.  I originally published it on 6 March 2013.  It was satire then.  I am not sure it still is.

But here I offer my handy tool for speaking or writing about my (or probably any) nation's governmental tool bag:





Let’s have some fun with our wordsmithing.  The situation our country finds itself in may defy description, but we can do our best.  To aid you in your attempts to express your feelings, I have devised a handy tool.  The following three columns will yield the most elegant and descriptive phrases for your discussions of the United States House of Representatives.   Just choose one word from each column.
If you have trouble picking, just think of any three numbers from one to ten.  For instance, my birthday, 3.17 yields “Infuriating farcical gasbags!”  666, the number for Satan yields “Shameful feckless bloodsuckers.”  Today is 4.23 or "Grasping mule-headed twits." You get the idea.

If you think this blog post has nothing to do with international criminal activity, I want some of your medicine.


Annamaria's upcoming event:

Malice Domestic 30
Bathesda Marriott Hotel
Bathesda, Maryland
April 27- 29


Sunday, April 22, 2018

Writing out of Corners: the perils of a prequel

Zoë Sharp

Last year I decided I was going to write a prequel to the Charlie Fox series. Partly this was because I wanted to be able to give something to my loyal readers who waited so patiently for me to write the latest book in the series, FOX HUNTER. Personal circumstances meant this took me far longer than I expected it to.

Also, I wanted to tell the untold story of what happened to the character way before the events of the first novel, KILLER INSTINCT. At the point that book is set, Charlie has been out of the army four years. She admits she’s drifting, career-wise, and is making a living teaching women’s self-defence classes around the local area and working in a gym.

You don't expect me to show you
everything at once, do you?

I chose that initial jumping-in point for her very carefully. I knew she had a traumatic incident in her past. She was the victim of rape by four of her comrades back when she was in the army before being vilified by authority and savaged by the press. What happened in that first book would reawaken unwelcome memories as well as forcing her to overcome any lingering doubts about her own abilities. It would throw her in at the deep end and she would have to dig deep in order to swim and survive.

Her past and the effect it’s had on her has been a continuing thread throughout the twelve books so far. We are all a product, to some extent, of our experiences. Charlie’s experiences to date have been harsher than most of us have to face in a lifetime, and I’ve kept on shoving her up trees and throwing rocks at her ever since.

And all the way through, I’ve given snippets of her backstory in the form of flashbacks and conversations, and in the awkward relationship she has with her parents. In the later books, her work in close protection even brings her back into contact with some of the men who attacked her. No coincidences there – often the only work open to former Special Forces soldiers is as a bodyguard or mercenary.

OK, here's a bit more.

Various people have asked, over the years, when I was going to write the book about what happened to her before she was thrown out of the military, but I was reluctant to do so. For one thing, I think I’ve covered that story enough in dribs and drabs in the other books. (I try not to repeat the same flashback scene twice, but to give a slightly new slant on her past each time.)

And for another, I didn’t want to write something where I knew it was going to have such a downbeat ending. Charlie is made a victim, both by the men who attack her and by the system that is supposed to protect her and provide her with justice. It would be just too unrelenting. Indeed, one of the very reasons I chose the start point I did for KILLER INSTINCT was because it’s the point at which she turns the corner, finds herself again, and begins her fight back.

So I looked for other aspects of her life which I thought might be intriguing for the reader, and add something to the character’s story. I realised that, although I had gone into detail about how she had been dismissed from her training course, I had never said what she did to get her shot at Special Forces in the first place.

After all, at the time women were not allowed in forward combat roles in the military – they will be able to apply starting from next year – and are still not eligible for SAS or SBS Selection. To get the opportunity to apply, in any capacity, would have taken some exceptional behaviour. So, what had she done?

A bit more still ...

The prequel would take place when Charlie was still in the regular army. Younger, more naïve, not nearly so cynical, and – most importantly – not yet having acquired her hard-won ability to kill without hesitation.

Because timelines are a little more elastic in fiction than in reality, it’s not beyond the bounds of possibility that, while she was still in, the British Army could be on operations in Afghanistan. I have never mentioned a specialty for Charlie during her military service, which was a shame as making her a medic would have given a great excuse for her to be in the thick of it when perhaps she shouldn’t officially be there. Instead, I made her a signaller.

That got me out of the first corner I’d painted myself into.

The next one wasn’t quite so easy. I stated that the first person she killed, up close and personal, was during the events of KILLER INSTINCT. So, in proving to the Powers That Be that she has what it takes to go in for Selection, I wasn’t able to have her actually shoot anyone dead. This despite the fact that she is noted as the best shot in her unit – during target practice on the ranges, at any rate.

Getting around that one took a lot of head scratching, but I finally managed it, with a bit of input from a couple of ex-military mates and a lot of watching dubious YouTube videos. And if you want to find out how, you’ll have to read the book!

 
And finally, the whole cover.
Sparkly, isn't it?
I’m planning to bring the prequel, called TRIAL UNDER FIRE, out next month, possibly in time for the CrimeFest event in Bristol (May 17th – 20th), although initially at least it will only be available to subscribers to my email list. Definitely time to say thank you to all those readers who’ve stuck with me over the years.

This week’s Word of the Week is kakistocracy, meaning government by the worst, least qualified, or most unscrupulous or incompetent citizens. From the Greek kakistos meaning worst and although it may seem custom-made for our times, it actually first came into use in the early 19th century.

Zoë’s upcoming events:

Thursday, May 10th @ 2:00pm
Author talk at Ellesmere Port Library
Civic Way
Ellesmere Port
Cheshire CH65 0BG

Thursday, May 10th @ 7:00pm
Author talk at Upton Library
Wealstone Lane
Upton
Cheshire CH2 1HB

Saturday, May 19th @ 9:00 – 9:50am
Marriott College Green
Bristol
‘W Is For Woman – Something To Prove?’
Sharan Newman (Moderator)
Jane Casey
Niki Mackay
Christine Poulson
Zoë Sharp

Saturday, May 19th @ 2:00 – 2:50pm
Marriott College Green
Bristol
‘Kiss Kiss, Bang Bang: Classic Thrillers’
Jake Kerridge (Moderator)
CJ Carver
Lee Child
Mike Ripley
Zoë Sharp

Sunday, May 20th @ 9:30 – 10:20 am
Marriott College Green
Bristol
‘The Indie Alternative’
Zoë Sharp (Moderator)
Ian Andrew
Karen Millie-James
Alison Morton
Debbie Young 

Saturday, April 21, 2018

A Lost in Translation Story Told An Athens Insider




Jeff—Saturday

If you’re interested in good news about what’s going on in Greece, and specifically in its capital city, Athens Insider Magazine is for you.  Slick—in the finest sense—and always on top of the City’s latest cultural and lifestyle happenings, it’s the perfect counterpoint to the many harsh things Greece endures and of which so many write and report, including yours truly.  

A while back, the Publisher-Editor of Athens Insider asked if I’d be willing to contribute to their magazine. Of course, I agreed, and in keeping with its tone, the first article I submitted dealt with the lighter side of murder mystery research in a foreign land.  That article appears in in the current issue of the magazine, and I thought you might enjoy it. If you don’t, please complain to me and leave Athens Insider out of it. :)


Researching a new murder mystery can be fun.  Especially when it’s placed in Greece and you’re looking for the perfect spot to do the deed. Or find the corpse(s).   Deep blue seas, wispy white clouds, green-brown hills, blood-red blood.  Yes, finding the site is fun.   Mainly because it’s something you can do without confiding your purpose to a soul beyond your own. 

Saying, “Hi, can you suggest the perfect spot for a dismembering moment,” is not likely to get you the same sort of warm response as, “Your spanikopita are the best spinach pies I’ve ever tasted.”  [Note: On the off chance that it does, take a hint from Sweeney Todd and dine elsewhere.]


In that spirit, I’ve taken to fading in among the anonymous tourists driving and hiking about Greece until the moment I come across that spot my deep, dark mysterious mind always told me must be out there.  Then, voilà, let the mayhem begin.

Having said all that, some plot elements can take hold of your mind that by their nature necessitate a far more adventuresome sort of exploration.  Like when a little voice in your head says, “Hey, genius, why don’t you make the robbery of the millennium pivotal to your story.”

When will I ever learn that the most dangerous voices are the most flattering ones?   And of that lot, the worst by far are those blithering away inside your own head—even more so than that of an agent hot to represent you.

But the trouble with imagination is that once it takes hold the most difficult aspirations turn irresistible.  I’ve been told that Quixotic characteristic passes with maturity. 

To get to the point of all this, my fourth Chief Inspector Andreas Kaldis novel, Target: Tinos, required a detailed understanding of security surrounding one of the least known treasures in the world—if you’re not Greek—in order to make the leap from reality to the impossible not that far.

To do that, I needed to speak to an insider, someone with intimate knowledge of the target.   And so, at the beginning of this week I set off on my quest with a friend (let’s call him Sancho) who knew such an insider (let’s call her Dulcinea).  My friend had read all of my books and knew I was working on a new murder mystery, but had no idea why I was interested in learning about the treasure.





“If Dulcinea wants to know the purpose of the meeting, tell her I’m an American writer working on a book about the hidden charms of Greece and could not possibly write such a book without including their priceless treasure.” 


I had my questions and my approach all prepared and worked out in advance. Sancho assured me that Dulcinea spoke perfect English because my Greek could not carry off the type of in-depth, subtle fishing expedition I had in mind.

“Perfect,” I once again learned, was an imperfect word.  Dulcinea’s English was as perfect for getting around an English language country as mine was for ordering a gyro in Greece.  Within thirty seconds Sancho was serving as interpreter.  I told him to translate my questions and her answers exactly as they were spoken.  He assured me he would.

I began with carefully phrased general questions of the type intended to make everyone comfortable.  They would run on for several sentences, Sancho would nod and say four words to Dulcinea who’d give him a two-word reply, followed a several-line editorialized answer from Sancho to me. 

I was getting nowhere fast.

After ten minutes or so, Dulcinea suggested we leave her office to see the treasure that was the purpose of our visit.  Let’s make the image simple: think breathtaking, spiritual, priceless and very portable.

As we stood in front of the treasure, I tried a few more subtle questions, all with the same result.  So I switched to a different tack.


Me:  “Where do you keep the treasure when it’s not on display?”

Sancho to Dulcinea to Sancho to Me:  “In a safe over there.” She pointed to a two-meter tall, cloth-covered rectangle.

I walked to the cloth, pressed my hand against it, felt the steel, moved my fingers to the hinges and then the handle.  “Is it bolted to the floor?”

S to D to S to Me:  “Yes.”

I asked if I could take few photographs and Dulcinea said, “Yes,” a rare honor according to Sancho.  I nodded and smiled to Dulcinea then began photographing the skylights, windows, doors, and floor.

Dulcinea said something to Sancho, “She wants to know what you’re doing.   The treasure is over there.”

I said, “Sorry,” and quickly took a few of the treasure.

Sancho said, “Are you done yet?”

“There must be more security for the treasure than just that safe.  Ask her.”  Sancho hesitated.  “Just ask,” I said.

This time it was Dulcinea who gave the lengthy answer and Sancho four words back to me.  “A lot, plus guards.”

“What time do the guards change shifts?”

Sancho said to me in English, “Are you out of your mind.  Don’t you know what she’s thinking?”

“Just ask her.”

He did. Dulcinea’s answer was quick and guarded.  “It varies.”

Sancho and Dulcinea looked like two bank tellers waiting for the masked man to hand them the note.

I smiled, “Can they be bribed?”

This time it was Sancho who went on for a full minute.  Dulcinea smiled and held out her hand to me.  She was thanking me for my lavish praise of her kind assistance and wishing me the best of luck with my new cookbook.

I’m still laughing.

—Jeffrey

Jeff’s Upcoming Events

Friday, May 18 @ 12:30 PM 
CrimeFest
Bristol, UK
Moderating Panel titled, “Power, Corruption and Greed—Just Another Day at the Office.”

Saturday, May 19 @ 2:50 PM
CrimeFest
Bristol, UK
Participating in Panel moderated by our Michael Sears titled, “Getting Personal—Private Lives of Characters”

Friday, April 20, 2018

Stereotypes? Ye or nae?

There’s a song by the Specials with lyrics that go something like ‘he’s just a stereotype, he doesn’t really exist’. It goes on about this lad who claims he has loads of girls every night, drinks his own body weight in pints  and is the 'great bloke' that  many aspire to be. By the end of the song, the mum is wondering where her son is and of course he’s wrapped his car round a lamppost.
Do stereotypes exist?
When I do a character workshop, I ask the ‘class’ to shout out words to describe an ‘accountant’. I  write each suggestion on one of two pieces of  A 1 paper. Inevitably two types of accountant appear.

Number one is an accountant who works for a firm of accountants; tall, handsome, strong good quality aftershave, BMW, gym membership, model like wife or girlfriend,   good suit, on his way up the career ladder.
Number two is an accountant who does the books in a bean factory, doesn’t drive, lives alone except maybe for an old cat, or an arthritic beagle, brown suit, egg stain down the front of his crumpled shirt, older, balding, might have some personal hygiene issues,  not very well off… and so it goes on.
Then of course, we start to play around with it….who has the old mother to live with him so she’s not in a home,  who is a terrorist, who is a serial killer, who lives in a house piled high with old newspapers, who accidentally killed their wee sister.
There is a no thrill unless we know what to expect – and don’t get it.
On my trip to Germany recently I met three people. I’d like to introduce you to  them.  They were great, I was so fascinated by them, I wanted to put them in a box so I could re examine them later to stick in a book. And make sure they were real.
                                                        
One was a beautiful man. I had to check that he was a man. More than once. He was cabin crew for a German airline, and he was beautiful in a Pete Murphy type of way, cheekbones that could cut a hedge. Finely manicured eyebrows and shiny hair cut to one length- the length longer than shoulder level. He dressed in his uniform ( impeccably pressed), including the cufflinks of the airline,  and had an arrangement of  coat with collar up,  his shirt collar down, some type of cravat round his neck. He had epaulettes to die for.  People did giggle at his safety demo as he was so stylishly dismissive….’lights will appear to guide you to safety, the emergency exits are located etcs’  were all done with a rather bored, pouting petulance, a flap of the hand, a toss of the head.  He was acting his role, and he was marvellous at it. If insouciance was an Olympic sport .......
                                                  Pete Murphy in the Maxwell ad.
                                                                  Mr Cheekbones.
I suspect he might have been a part time model, roughing it on a budget flight of German students.
His companion was a female Glaswegian, holding onto her thirties with her dying breath. She was orange, tango tanned to the extreme end of a Dulux Satsuma colour chart. Her uniform was a size 12, she wasn’t. Her make up was by Picasso,  waistline sponsored by Cadburys (Hershey for those readers  stateside). But it was her hair! Huge drug dealer doughnut hair  plus!  Our motorhome has a better chance of going  under a low bridge than her hair did. Get some straw, stick on top of a pumpkin  and pile it as high as you can--- you’ll be close.
 The contrast between them kept the passengers amused for the entire journey. If anybody  had been sick during that flight, she would have sorted it out. He would have been left in charge of her hair.
                                           

Then there was ….what shall we call him ‘Mr Mann’?  Last year, he caught our attention on the trip for being a potential pain in the backside. We had him fixed in our psyche, he didn’t remember us at all. He’s the  kind of guy that when he talks to you, you want to back away. Because he tells you things. Everything.  He even knows what side of the coach to sit on to avoid the sun. and at what part of the journey to change to the other side. Fair to say he was a large man, the kind who wears white socks under his sandals and Baden Powel shorts , all very Eric Morecombe. The weirdest thing about him was his wife, who he referred to as ‘wifey’ - all the time. In the third person when she was standing right in front of him. She wasn’t a long suffering person at all, at first I thought she might be deaf. Maybe his constant monologues of  crown green bowling scores and movements of Saturn  in the night sky around his  garden hut may have permanently damaged her hearing. But no, she bounced around with that cheery winsomness  found in newly recruited born again Christians, she wore flat lace up brogues and ….wait for it… American tan tights. Thick ones. Her clothes were circa 1974…  waist length straight grey hair pulled back in a clasp.   But there was two things unexpected about her-  she was passionate about wine, right down to the grape and the vineyard.
                                              
                                                            Morecombe and Wise, shorts and cream tea!
 And, the final thing. Her love of deep, red lipstick. Her face, unadorned by any other decoration or colour, always had lips beautifully filled and never smudged, never absent or smeared on her teeth. It was just perfect.
As my gran used to say, there’s nought as queer as folk, and that’s what makes them  wonderful!
Caro Ramsay 20 4 2018