West with the Night

 

Michael - Alternate Thursdays

This story is really more up Annamaria’s street. It takes place at the time of her Africa novels - early twentieth century – and takes place where those novels are set – colonial Kenya. It’s the story of a truly remarkable contemporary of Karen Blixen – Beryl Markham. She was an aviator, a racehorse trainer, and a serial lover of such celebrities as Baron von Blixen himself, Denys Finch Hatton (of Out of Africa fame), and she added the Prince of Wales and his younger brother to her tally. She was married three times, but that certainly didn’t interfere with her affairs. Kenya was full of remarkable characters in the White Mischief era.

The main reason that Beryl Markham is remembered is not because of her sexual exploits, but because she wrote an extraordinary memoir titled West with the Night. The title comes from her feat of being the first person to fly solo from England to North America, flying west away from the sun into a long night. In fact, that adventure – during which she nearly died – occupies only the last chapter of her book. Most of it relates to her life growing up, training racehorses, and flying small planes in colonial Kenya.

The book didn’t attract much interest when it was first published. It did well enough while people remembered her record flight, but then sank into obscurity. Perhaps the fact that it mentions none of her husbands or her affairs disappointed the everyday reader who was looking for something more salacious. Ernest Hemingway, however, appreciated it. He wrote to a friend:

“Did you read Beryl Markham's book, West with the Night? ... She has written so well, and marvellously well, that I was completely ashamed of myself as a writer. I felt that I was simply a carpenter with words, picking up whatever was furnished on the job and nailing them together and sometimes making an okay pig pen. But this girl, who is to my knowledge very unpleasant and we might even say a high-grade bitch, can write rings around all of us who consider ourselves as writers ... it really is a bloody wonderful book.”

The friend was so taken with the book that he persuaded a US publisher to pick it up and republish it in 1983. The book became a best seller, and there was even some speculation and claims of (at least) co-authorship. None of those have ever been supported by the facts. The success of the book rescued Markham not only from obscurity but also from poverty in her old age. (She lived to 83.) It was a fitting ending to her story.

I reread the book recently and was again struck by the breadth of it, and by the almost cinemagraphic images. Here is a scene from her childhood that gives a flavour of both her writing and the Kenya of those days. It seems that people at the time seemed to think it a good idea to keep their own “tame” lions wandering around on their farms. Her father’s friend, Jim Elkington, had one.

“I was within twenty yards of the Elkington lion before I saw him. He lay sprawled in the morning sun, huge, black-maned, and gleaming with life. His tail moved slowly, stroking the rough grass like a knotted rope end. He was not asleep; he was only idle. He was rusty-red, and soft, like a strokable cat.

I stopped and he lifted his head with magnificent ease and stared at me out of yellow eyes.

I stood there staring back, scuffing my bare toes in the dust, pursing my lips to make a noiseless whistle – a very small girl who knew about lions.”

She holds her courage and walks past the lion, singing a defiant song.

“What lion would be unimpressed by the marching song of the King’s African Rifles?

Singing it still, I took up my trot towards the rim of the low hill which might, if I was lucky, have Cape gooseberry bushes on its slopes.

The country was grey-green and dry, and the sun lay on it closely, making the ground hot under my bare feet. There was no sound and no wind.

Even the lion made no sound, coming swiftly behind me.”

Obviously she lived to tell the tale, but not without scars to tell it for her.

“The lion had lived and died in ways not of his choosing. He was a good lion. He had done what he could about being a tame lion. Who thinks it just to be judged by a single error?

I still have the scars of his teeth and claws, but they are very small now and almost forgotten, and I cannot begrudge him his moment.”

It’s a wonderful autobiography, whatever its biases or omissions.

 

Singapore Slings, Peanut Shells and Singapore Crime Fiction

Ovidia--every other Tuesday

I’ve been working on a piece about Singapore crime fiction for an encyclopedia of Global Crime Fiction and it's driving home to me how little I know on the subject. Plus I have to admit that none of my current 'fun' reading books originated here in Singapore.

One is A Quiet Place by Seicho Matsumoto. The other is a slim German for beginners krimi, Die Dritte Hand. But I do have an excuse--we read to get encounter broader experiences, so I'm getting to visit Japan and Germany in my down time.

But it feels a bit like betrayal because there are local books I haven't yet read... which is a huge change from how it was forty years ago when I started writing. In those days I didn't just read pretty much all the locally published (in English) books, I believe I attended most of the book launches or at least spoke to the authors!

And maybe it's a great, glorious thing that my reading can no longer keep up!

But what is Singapore crime fiction?

It made me think about what we tell visitors who ask about 'real Singapore food'.
We bring them for a Singapore Sling at the Raffles Hotel and introduce them to yellow chicken curry or Nonya laksa.
But what do we eat when left to ourselves?
Something like prata for breakfast, maybe Mala hotpot on a rainy day like today and some sushi or ramen for dinner; food that was originally Indian, Chinese, Japanese, but tweaked to please local tastes and a big part of our lives here.

And maybe our reading habits evolved much the same way.

Because if I’m honest, my reading taste—especially when it comes to my beloved mysteries—was formed by books from our former colonial masters. And after getting hooked on glorious British golden age mystery sleuths I met Americans like Nero Wolfe and Ellery Queen and there was no looking back.
They still remain the chicken rice and satay of my writing, even as Indian, Japanese and Scandinavian sleuths have become part of regular reading life and I suspect I’m not alone.

All of which just adds to the difficulty of figuring out if there's really such a thing as authentic “Singapore crime fiction”?

Singapore's often described as one of the safest cities in the world,thanks to low crime, strong laws, hyper efficient policing and internalised social order. Not the most obvious breeding ground for murder and mystery.

But we have Shamini Flint’s Inspector Singh--grumpy, overweight but persistently effective. And the wildly successful Sherlock Sam series by A.J. Low (yes I know they're for younger readers but I still like them!)

While these books clearly fit into global crime traditions, they are clearly rooted in Singapore's characters, food, language and geography.

In Singapore we automatically switch between languages, registers, social settings and religious sensibilities on a daily basis. We read Richard Osman, Vaseem Khan and Uketsu, watch The Frog and Mercy for None (Korean thrillers) on Netflix and and scroll through American true crime/ news reports, on an island that's very different (at least on the surface) from the realities they present.

And, perhaps most importantly, we absorb, adapt and rework what comes in.
That's what I'm hoping to do with my own crime fiction, now that literature ('Poetry' in LKY's words) is no longer a luxury we cannot afford.

Think of it as having a Singapore Sling at the Raffles Hotel. Not even the most 'authentic' Singaporean does that on a weekly or monthly basis, but it's nice knowing there's a space here where you can drink, tell tall tales and crush peanut shells underfoot without getting fined.

Farewell to an Inspiration: Sister Mary Vertucci

Annamaria on Monday

A woman who was a great inspiration to many has passed a few days ago. 

 Here is how the people who worked with her describe her: 

With both heavy hearts and deep gratitude, we share with you the passing of our beloved Founder and Director, Sr. Mary Vertucci, MM, on April 30, 2026.

Sr. Mary was more than a leader—she was a guiding light, a mentor, and a steadfast advocate for the dignity and potential of every young woman. For over five decades in Tanzania, she devoted her life to ensuring that girls, especially from pastoralist and hunter-gatherer communities, could access education and discover their own worth.

Through her vision, the Emusoi Centre became a place of hope—where young women are nurtured, empowered, and given the opportunity to build a brighter future. Her legacy is alive in every life she touched and in every dream she helped make possible.

Decades ago, a brief article in the Alumna News of the College of St. Elizabeth, our shared Alma mater, introduced me to her work. We had not know each other in school; she arrived there the fall after I graduated.  I got in touch with her then because I have cousins named Vertucci.  Little did I know that, though we did not share genes, she would change my life in significant ways.

Mary's work in Tanzania awakened me to the importance of her goals.  Before long, I had the great pleasure and privilege to visit her in Arusha.  There at the base of Kilimanjaro, I saw first hand the importance and urgency of her efforts, but also of how much joy Mary and her fellow missionary sisters took in their work.  Visiting there then and afterwords aways also filled me with joy.

Some readers of MIE may remember my story of the Italian who carved his name on a rock in Tanzania.  Sister Mary was the one who made it possible for me and my friend Nicoletta see that monument in person. 

Mary's work lives on in Emusoi in Tanzania and also in the generations and the progeny of Sister Mary's students.  As they go our into the world, her efforts and devotion continue to improve their lives and the lives of those around them.  The Emusoi girls become role models and champions for all the people of Tanzania and beyond.  

If you would like to contribute to the continuance of Mary's work, you can do so here.

• 
  Remembering Sr. Mary Vertucci: A Legacy of Faith, Education and Empowerment

  Every girl saved from a life of misery, who has instead a chance to develop and make something of herself may then go on to inspire others. You can help them along.

Birds of Feather

Sara Johnson, 1st Sunday

 

‘Chirp-chirp-chirp. Cackle. Wheeze. Squawk.’ This is the opening line of Chapter 12 in Molten Mud Murder, my first Alexa Glock forensic mystery. Alexa muffles the dawn cacophony by burrowing under her pillow.

I heard a similar sequence of calls, followed by a chortle, chirp and a throat-clearing aaggggh the first morning my husband and I spent at Cooper’s Beach on the North Island of New Zealand. Unlike Alexa, I jumped out of bed and ran to the window. I was unable to find which bird sounded like a broken cuckoo clock and later asked the neighbor.

“That’s a tūī, luv,” he said. We stared up into the tall pōhutukawa tree. This time I spotted the glossy blue-green bird. It had a funny white pom pom at its throat. “Going after the nectar. They can be really scrappy bullies.” Then he crooned a folk song he remembered from primary school.

“When the Tūī sits in the Kowhai tree
and the sun tips the mountain tops with gold
when the Rata blooms in the forest glade,
and the hills glow with sunny tints untold.
I love to roam through bush and fern
and hear the Bellbird sing
and feel the touch of the wind on my face
while the joy in my heart does ring.”

                                'Tui in Flame Tree' by Jane Galloway

I heard this amazing vocalist (the bird, not the nice neighbor) in many places over the next nine months. The widespread and endemic tūī can mimic human words. One legend proclaims the Māori kept them in cages and trained them to give welcome speeches. Tūī have the ability to sing two different notes simultaneously and discordantly. (Ouch!) The adorable white tufts under their chin are specialized feathers called a poi and are used to attract mates.

Other birds show up in Molten Mud Murder, which is set in the Rotorua area on the North Island. Alexa and recurring character Detective Inspector Bruce Horne share their first meal together at Alexa’s tiny rental cottage on the banks of the Kaituna River. (The final photo in today’s post is my husband and I rafting on the exuberant Kaituna!) They sit on the porch eating carrot cake (don’t get me started on the to-die-for carrot cake in New Zealand cafes) discussing the night sky of the Southern Hemisphere, which is unfamiliar to American Alexa. A high-pitched screech makes her drop her fork.

Horne laughs. “It’s a ruru.”

“A what what?” Alexa asks.

“Our only surviving native owl,” he said. “It’s a good one to hear. The Māori knew when they could hear a ruru that no enemy was approaching.”

Some Māori consider the ruru as a messenger between the physical world and the spiritual world. While I write, I listen to a New Zealand songwriter known for his work towards the revival of Māori culture. Hirini Melbourne’s short song entitled “Ruru,” sung in te reo Māori, is lovely and haunting. I could not find an English translation, but Melbourne introduced the song this way, “This is a song about birds...about owls. The owl is a bird that scares many Māori. The Pākehā knows this as an intelligent bird. To some Māori as well, it is the guardian of their families.”

I’ve written to my best ability when I make myself laugh or cry or feel afraid. The latter is what happened when I wrote the opening of Chapter 15 which introduces a third native New Zealand bird: There was a dead bird in the cottage, right in the entry, its wings spread in a feathered fan behind its little body, arranged just so.

Alexa knew there was no dead bird in her cottage before she left. It’s cold and stiff. Rigor mortis is maximum. Someone left it in the cottage while she ran an errand. She stiffens, like the bird, and searches the rest of the cottage. There’s a scary shower scene where she has to whip back the curtain. The police officer who later investigates the incident recognizes the bird.

Pīwakawaka,” he said. “Or tiwaiwaka. Māori have lots of different names for fantail.” He adds, “You know, in Māori culture, a fantail in the house is an omen of death.” Alexa has an uneasy night, long in tooth and full of Māori warriors and angry birds.

My husband and I met fantails on our many hikes. They are acrobatic fliers and use their fanned feathers to change direction quickly while hunting insects. They aren’t shy and sometimes approached us, ‘cheet cheet cheeting,’ landing a tree away and spreading their tail feathers. “Pick a card, any card,” they teased.

Alexa Glock uses forensics to solve crimes. In Molten Mud Murder she wonders if she can lift a fingerprint from the bird to identify the gift-giver. Her wondering is of course my wondering, and during the research for Molten Mud Murder I read a 2015 BBC science article entitlted “Fingerprints ‘breakthrough’ for wildlife crime investigators.”

From the article: A team from Dundee (University of Abertay, in Dundee, Scotland) has been able to recover fingerprints from the feathers of birds of prey, which are under threat from illegal poisoning, shooting and trapping. If the birds have been handled, the incriminating marks could help police to identify the suspect.

Alexa, whose bedtime reading alternates between romances and scientific journals, geeks out over the article. It reveals that red and green magnetic fluorescent fingerprint powder was the key. She hightails it to the lab, the fantail – dubbed Fanny – riding shotgun. After dusting the bird’s small breast, she turns off the lights and turns on the UV lamp. You’ll have to read MMM to see what wonders are revealed.

The avifauna of New Zealand is vast and enchanting. Kiwi, robins, kaka, kererū and gannets help me tell stories in subsequent books. I’ll leave you with the lyrics of another Hirini Melbourne (photo below)  song and in hopes that your May is fair and peaceful.

‘Riroriro’ by Hirini Melbourne (1949-2003)

Whakarongo ki te riroriro, riroriro, ka mahi kai māhau

Rere riroriro rere rere runga kōhanga

Huri te uru hauraki hauraki 

He tohu kuraraki

Listen to the chattering of the grey warbler, and go and plant your food garden
The grey warbler makes her nest
If the entrance faces to the north wind,  
it is a sign the summer season will be fair and peaceful

Until next month, friends, 

Sara Johnson, 1st Sunday

Can You Name the Country?

 

As bit while ago as, I was pondering what to post, an email popped onto my screen from one of my best friends.  His plane had just landed in the United States and he couldn’t wait to tell me what had happened at the airport in his country of embarkation.

Knowing my friend as well as I did I couldn’t help but laugh, because I knew he was never concerned for his safety and most likely playing the other characters in his tale along until the ultimate moment of enlightenment showed them the error of their ways.  But then it hit me: if he hadn’t mentioned the name of the place where it all went down I’d never have known, because it could have happened in any number of countries—and does.  So, my question to you is, what’s your best guess on the scene of the (attempted) crime?

Here’s the story as told in the first person by a tall, fit, fifty-year-old man who looks like the quintessential American businessman, flag in the lapel and all.  The only changes I made were to references that would give away the country…in order to protect the non-innocent and make this piece a mystery (of sorts). 

Just arrived at the Charlotte airport.

It was a crazy trip. Going through [the foreign country’s] departure process they checked my briefcase and saw a lot of cash (I won the tournament and a bunch of $$$).

My [foreign language] was about as good as their English so it wasn't easy to communicate.  After going through my briefcase three times I wound up in a back room with five agents. 

They took turns going through my bag another couple of times stopping each time to finger the cash that was in a travelers checks plastic wallet. Then they asked me to count it.  I was then frisked and when they touched my cargo pants front pocket they asked what was in there. 

I told them it was my wallet.  They told me to take it out.  I did and flipped it open.  “Police!” they said [in their language] when they saw my badge.  Then they laughed, gave me back my stuff, had me sign a release that my stuff had been inspected and that I had in no way been intimidated. 

They then escorted me through the VIP line, gave me a big handshake, and wished me a great trip. 

Lucky that I'm a sworn officer of the law or at best I'd be a few dollars lighter today. 

Sent from my iPad.

Perhaps the moral to this story is that we all should make a stop at a toy store before taking off for certain parts of the globe.  But, frankly, the part of the message I found most significant was that my long time PC buddy had gone over to the other side.  Yes, Mr. Microsoft was traveling with an iPad!  Almost makes this long time Mac-man want to get a new one before leaving for Greece.  But then again, I didn’t win the tournament. 

Yiasou, ya’ll.

Jeff—Saturday