◐乞力马扎罗的雪◐

　Glimpses of flanks and froth. Occasional thwacks as they hit the water after aerial jumps he can no longer see but clearly visualises. Meaty impacts that send washes slapping onto the concrete rim. Someone said there were six: four females and two males, all whipped into a frenzy by their midnight visitors. Judging by the splashing and muted squealing, at least a dozen of Miles’ party are now also in the water.
　　
　 　The wind finally pushes a great galleon of cloud aside, restoring the moonlight and general shape and content of the pool. Heads bob in the water and black fins and pod-like bodies duck and dart. Behind the pool, a frozen Ferris wheel and roller coaster rear up against a gothic sky, sinister in their immobility.
　　
　　One of the swimmers is moving lazily towards him, floating on her back, staring at the sky, arms trailing, propelled by tiny kicks. Her indolent manner seems a disdainful riposte to the high jinks all around. He hides his camera as she draws closer. It seems she will crack her head on the wall, but at the last moment she rolls onto her front and sinks into a crouch, bobbing gently. He recognises her now that her face is the right way up. The dark skinned girl from earlier. They haven’t been introduced, but as a fellow trespasser he feels an immediate kinship. She is looking up at him and he waits for her to speak. Moments pass and she turns away. Perhaps she is myopic and hasn’t seen him.
　　
　　“You don’t seem very excited by it all?” he ventures, standing up on the pool’s rim. “How come you’re not out there bonding and connecting?”
　　“The man with the big lens speaks. Actually I’m not sure if I want to be friends with anyone here.”
　　Plummily enunciated with a twist of something un-British.
　　“Even the dolphins?”
　　“Most especially the dolphins.”
　　“Is the water deep?” he asks.
　　“Just wet. Why are you lurking in the bushes, pointing that camera at people? What are you…some kind of peeping Tom?”
　　Betty, his absent partner, recently accused him of the same.
　　“No. Actually I’m a photographer. Here on a small assignment. But don’t tell.”
　 　"Golly gosh," her voice sarcastic but not cruelly so. She turns to look at the concrete stage that meets the concave edge of the kidney-shaped pool. Though some 25 meters away, it is now clearly visible, illuminated by the unimpeded moon. The group have set up camp here. A few are sitting on the faux rocks that form a backdrop. Others are clambering in and out of the water, giggly and skittish as school kids playing truant. He has been introduced to most of them: James the architect, an Australian fresh off the sheep farm; Sally the bond trader, a willowy Finn; Dermot and Finnoula, graphic designers from County Mayo; a Japanese interior designer from Nagano whose name he missed; Florence and somebody, a lesbian Cantonese couple who run an art gallery; his friend Ernest, a.k.a. the earnest journalist, in the thick of things trying to ferret out a story. The girl he is now speaking to had joined them as they were trudging up the hill. She seems well acquainted with the captivating Miles, around whom the evening has revolved. Though many brought swimming costumes, most—in the rakish spirit of the evening—have shed everything. As if for their benefit, James heaves himself out of the water just a few yards away and stands glistening in the watery light, the shag of his genitals and absurdly white buttocks proudly visible.
　　“What is it about dolphins?” his companion snorts. “People start behaving like it's sodding Scandinavia.”
　　“I’ve managing to keep my kit on so far. And…? Are we au naturelle tonight?”
　 　"What do you think? Don’t you dare point that big camera anywhere near me. I don’t want to end up on the cover of some magazine in the buff. Aren’t you coming in? Or just being bashful with me around.”
　　Her snootiness is provocative.
　　A dolphin pulls up and tries to nuzzle her with its snout..
　　“Bugger off, you” she says with no real bite and pushes it away.
　　Her head slips below the surface and with a kick she launches out into the pool and the riotous fun.
　　
　 　Piqued and intrigued, he steps out of his clothes and balances on the pool edge. The fluctuating moonlight gives everything a black and white feel. Whimsically, he imagines himself as an athlete in Leni Rieffenstahl’s Olympiad, her documentary film of the 1933 Munich Olympics, that he is currently much enamoured with. He makes several imitations of a discus thrower, and wishes that he could infuse his own shots with a Germanic retro quality. The balmy air plays on his scrotum like a lover’s breath. He watches the two Chinese girls high five each other, cast off their bikinis and skip naked into the pool. He tingles like a tuning fork, the feeling far beyond the merely sexual.
　　
　　Having completed a circuit, his companion is back in view, arms threshing the water with a machine-like backstroke.
　　“Ahoy! I’m coming in,” he shouts.
　　The wind milling stops and she turns to look up at him.
　　“Bully for you.” She languidly rolls over and breast-strokes away, turning her back on his grand entrance.
　　
　 　Unsure of the depth, fearful of colliding with a dolphin or a swimmer, he nonetheless dives recklessly into the pool determined to defend his honour. A woosh of bubbles and the peppery shock of seawater forced up his nostrils. The chlorinated swimming baths and freezing beaches of childhood are perfectly recalled for a second. And for a moment, the old fears—that he will break the surface and find himself utterly alone…everyone else in the world gone. Humanity, thankfully, is very much around him when he surfaces.
　　
　　Launching into a showy burst of crawl that lasts a mere dozen strokes, he down-gears into a snatching breaststroke, already weak and winded. A dolphin draws alongside him, wiggling like a spaniel. He touches its flank, cold and taught. Mirth bubbles within him. Tabloid stories recalled of hopeless depressives finding hope and meaning through cavorting with dolphins. He is now inclined to believe the rapturous accounts of sad souls saved from despair by the Dingle Dolphin. Perhaps these creatures really are spiritual intermediaries — nature’s angels — able to reconnect land-bound melancholics with the weightless, water-borne rapture of the time before we left the sea.
　　
　　Inspired by this notion he ceases struggling with the water and lies on his front, holding himself afloat with small circling hand motions, turning slowly. Scanning the surface like a U-Boat captain, he searches for his contrary siren among the shrieking swimmers and dolphins crisscrossing the pool. On the second revolution he sees her, clambering out of the pool, visible for an instant before skipping into the murk. She is wearing a black swimsuit. What a cheat! He will rib her for her prudery.
　　
　　 Miles started it all. Discovered a way under the perimeter fence and the scandalous lack of security inside the marine and amusement park. Every second or third night for over a fortnight, he has been leading carefully invited friends (and their friends) in for midnight swims, revelling in his role as the guide and mentor who alone knows the trail to the sacred dolphin grotto. Tonight's group is the largest yet. News of these illegal forays is spreading fast. Everyone knows the game will soon be up. If not tonight then some night soon, police will arrive and revellers will be cautioned, fined, perhaps arrested. Surely the trainers will notice something amiss? That on certain mornings their charges are less frisky and more disobedient. The Ernest Journalist had enlisted Ezra that afternoon. Ernest was writing an exposé for a local newspaper and wanted some juicy shots of dolphins with nude swimmers. To help Ezra penetrate the darkness, Ernest borrowed a massive night vision lens from a bird watching friend.
　　
　　Forgetting his photographic duties, Ezra succumbs to the blood warm water—sinfully sensuous compared to the puritan chill of outdoor British bathing. Standing on the inner ledge, the water reaching his chest, he watches the group in the viewing gallery and those in the water. He begins stroking passing dolphins — exploring pliant, rubbery skin, cold and taught as a medicine ball. So dead to the touch yet conserving such jubilant life in their warm cores.
　　"Hold onto the dorsal fin and they'll tow you."
　 　It is the snooty voice of his companion, more a command than a suggestion. Now fully dressed, she looks down on him from the pool edge. He can make out little of her face, just flashes of eyes and teeth.
　　"I'm worried about hurting them."
　　"Oh they're tough as car tyres."
　　"Shouldn't they be sleeping now? Do they sleep?”
　 　"Yes, they’d be sleeping but for this rabble. Of course they only half sleep. Half their brain stays awake and they keep one eye open. Being mammals they have to keep coming up for air so they can never totally zonk out. A sort of somnambulism."
　　"So what do dolphins dream about?"
　　"Hunting herrings…humping each other,..electric sheep…how the hell should I know?"
　　 "You seem quite the expert."
　　She pauses.
　 　"I’m not very up on marine mammals. Fresh water fish, cephalopods…the cold-blooded species are more my line. Go on, catch that one."
　　 Grasping a fin with both hands, he is off, hitching a ride with a projectile that flexes its torso like a galloping horse. An elemental creature with a frisky dog’s sense of fun. It pulls him half the length of the pool before the fin slips his hand, and he is adrift in deep water. He catches another dolphin and lets it tow him back into the shallows. Cartoon creatures Walt Disney might have designed, with the speed of a shark and a brain bigger then Einstein’s. Clicking like Geiger counters. He could folic with them all night, yet wants also to become better acquainted with his new terrestrial friend. He leaves the pool, dresses and joins the group.
     Most have been swimming and all are abuzz with the experience. Careerists in their twenties and thirties, a few in their forties, and Miles well over fifty. Until recently, Ezra would have been prickly and resentful in such company. Would have sneered at their professional success as part of his defensive posture. In his recently assumed guise of photojournalist he feels their equal. Not that he wants to reveal his current assignment, a magazine expose that will surely lead to Miles’ midnight tours being put out of business.
　　
　　They chatter excitedly about their experiences; everyone now a minor expert on the dolphins. Each convinced that in some important way they have forged a connection with these evolutionary cousins, bonded with certain individuals even though — to Ezra — they all look the same in the moonlight.
　　"The big one has such a sense of humour."
　　"I know the one. A real practical joker."
　 　"One of the small guys loves being tickled. Miles says it's a she. Keeps nuzzling up, pushing her nose into my arm. I've christened her Nosey."
　　
　　"Today's my birthday," says Finnoula in her airy brogue, "and tonight was my surprise. …I thought Dermot was taking me to dinner and we ended up here. You can't top this for a birthday gift. Now can you?"
　　The group have come together in a circle. Wine and beer are being shared. This is the apogee of wild living for these urban sophisticates, the wheeze of the year — part fratboy prank, part spiritual encounter with a creature second only to chimps as nature’s most endearing envoy. Ezra is ready to admit that tonight is beginning to rival the most outlandish of his celebrated London hoots. After lacklustre beginnings, Hong Kong is starting to eclipse his beloved city. Tonight, without Betty to hold him back, he wants to fully immerse himself in this increasingly seductive world.
　　
　　Finding Ernest, he asks about his new found companion.
　 　“Oh her. Neroli. What a princess. From Zanzibar or somewhere…so she claims. Apparently she’s been round the block once or twice. That’s what the guys say. Nothing verified though.”
　　Ernest, as always, a magpie for human frailty.
　 　“I seem to be the only one not trying to get into her pants,” he adds with a sneer, as if only distaste is preventing him mounting the saddle.
　　
　　A new age tone steadily colours the conversation. Ezra finds it cloying, even though he feels mildly transfigured by the experience. Some speak as if just baptised, a watery rite of passage that will forever mark them. For all their hushed piety, a current of one-upmanship steadily creeps in. Each new voice wanting to outdo the previous speaker in frankness and self revelation. Deftly snatching the baton, Sally, the Finnish bond trader, delivers her confession in precisely accented English:
　　"I know it sounds perhaps hokey. But I would very much love to have conceived here tonight. I wish my Uli was here. Uli and I — we been trying for months. These dolphins…they wake up very deep feelings in me. I’m sure I could conceive better here. Anyone get that feeling?"
　　Surely Sally has gone too far, yet Finnoula in her sweet brogue ups the ante.
　 　"Actually Dermott and me made love up there in the stands tonight. We tried in the water, but it was too cold for Dermot. A grand birthday present, I can tell you. Won’t it be something if I’ve conceived. Won’t that be something to tell my child when it’s older?"
　　Respectful murmurs and a supporting comment from Miles:
　 　“It’s quite possible that dolphins can tell if you’re pregnant, by scanning you with their ultrasound. They can probably tell the sex of the baby. There are even stories of them warning people of cancer tumours.”
　　Murmurs of approval. The devotees continue recounting their experiences with Miles regularly interjecting to endorse, amplify or occasionally contradict. He must have swotted up on cetaceans for he liberally drops in references to scientific papers and studies. This is his party and he has set himself up as the final authority: the Grand Wizard. A few hours before, the group assembled in the garden of his ritzy townhouse that backs onto the theme park. He led them up the side of a hill, over a wall and into a drainage pipe that ran under the main security fence. Inside the deserted park, they tiptoed past exhibits, foodstalls, fairground rides and into the dolphinarium. He allowed his audience to settle down. Spent a few minutes with each of them. Then like a ring master, stood before the roofed pens where the dolphins rested, clapped his hands and declaimed: “Swim my lovelies.” With a flourish he pulled up the netted slats that blocked off two of the pens, releasing salvos of frisky torpedoes.
　　
　　Ezra knew something of Miles through his regular appearances in the local press. The Ernest journalist had filled in more of the background. A successful financial trader, Miles made a packet, retired, then metamorphosed into a lifestyle consultant, spokesman for disparate causes, general pundit and mischief maker. Well over fifty, though he looks younger, Miles is trim of figure, shaved of head, and speaks compellingly in a sonorous New Zealand voice. An absence of neck gives him a Bela Lugosi aspect, accentuated by the black polo neck he wears.
　　
　　“Are you all glad you came tonight? Has it lived up to expectation?”
　 　“I didn’t think it would be quite this…moving.” answers a blond British girl. “I felt so comfortable with them. They’re so trusting of us.”
　　“I know,” says James. “I just felt an implicit goodness. They’re deeply intelligent yet…innocent. Out there I felt like I was a young child again. Or does that sound like ?”
　　
　　“Not at all James. Maybe dolphins are a voice of reason and innocence. A trustworthy voice that the world needs,” responds Miles sagaciously, cross legged among the faithful. Ernest, who had warned that a sermon from Miles would be the price of entry, is now winking at Ezra who is more interested in catching Neroli’s eye.
　　
　　“Isn’t it pure chauvinism that we make decisions on behalf of all the animals on the planet. Shouldn’t we at least consult with the higher mammals? At the very least dolphins are our intellectual equals. Just maybe they are our spiritual superiors. Just maybe they might be the key to saving us from ourselves. Intermediaries that all faiths and creeds can learn from? Don’t they make us all feel flawed and greedy and agressive? If we just took the time to learn their language. Or the songs of the whales…”
　　
　　“And let’s not forget the sea lions and walruses and narwhals. Oh and the killer whales and manatees. Come on Miles, you’re talking bilge.”
　　Shiftings and murmurings among the disciples. The Zanzibar princess is challenging the high priest.
　　 “Thank you Neroli. What exactly are you objecting to?”
　 　Miles speaks gently, as if to an old friend, studying her with benign, superior amusement. Others look uncomfortable and upset. Squatting on the rocks, or draped along the concrete stage, many are still naked—Eden before the fall.
　　“You think dolphins are like ET and the Dalai Lama all rolled into one. Well Flipper’s got a dark side that’s at least equal to our own. I fully accept that they’re extremely intelligent with advanced language skills and social structures. That occasionally they show wonderfully altruistic behaviour. But these guys also have a few things in common with Charles Manson.”
　　“They’re sex junkies. Agreed. But psychos..?” says Miles, glowing with amusement. The moon has found another hole in the clouds. Ezra can half see her face, though can’t decide what nation or region her physiognomy bespeaks: Middle Eastern, Pakistani, Indian? A bush of gipsy hair in grungy ringlets — murdered by the salt water, just as Betty’s curls would have been slaughtered tonight had she gone swimming. In the flickering light Neroli’s big featured face evokes an androgynous seventies’ rock singer, all jutting jaw and drawn cheeks: Ronny Woods’ biker sister.
　　
　　“Take bottlenoses like these,” Neroli continues. You know what one of their favourite games is? Aside from rescuing shipwrecked sailors and reading people’s auras and jumping for fish in circuses like this?”
　　She glares at the semi circle of faces, challenging and provoking them.
　 　“Well, Mr friendly bottlenose likes nothing better than to go murder a porpoise. I give you a well documented example. It’s in the natural history books. A couple of adult males are out swimming when they find a porpoise on its own near the shore. What do they do? ‘Tallyho, time for a bit of fun boys.’ So they corner the porpoise, and start ramming it into the rocks, butting it with their beaks. They fracture its ribs, crush its internal organs, puncture its lungs. Finally they break its spine.”
　　“Bottlenoses?” someone whispers disbelievingly.
　　“Too bloody right. Behaviour like this has been repeatedly recorded among bottlenoses. And there’s no obvious practical gain. Porpoises eat a different kind of fish. They’re half the size of bottlenoses. They don’t threaten or compete with them in any way. So why? How do these morally advanced beings with their Mensa IQs explain themselves?”
　　“Maybe it’s just a one off. Or they were driven mad by American anti-submarine sonar?” counters Miles wryly.
　 　“Come on Miles. The evidence is overwhelming. I know of a documentary film that shows two bottlenoses doing in a bottlenose calf. Their own species, for God’s sake. For almost an hour they play football with it. Tossing it back and forward out of the water till the poor little blighter’s dead.”
　　Ezra recalls a movie about a gang of killers who all wear cartoon character masks.
　 　“And you can’t even blame it on drink or drugs or communism or religious zeal. Anything more you want to know? I don’t think Miles is telling you the whole story.”
　　
　　“Well thanks for trying to spoil a precious experience,” says Finnoula tartly.
　 　“Just providing a little perspective. Anyway folks, enjoy the rest of your evening. I’m getting get out of her…before you duck me for witchcraft.”
　　She pecks Miles on the cheek. Finding Ezra, she crouches and whispers in his ear.
　 　“I hope you publish your photos and close this circus down. These people are so sham you could poke a finger through them. It would have been nice to know you.”
　　Swinging a satchel over her shoulder, she disappears through a gateway next to the rocks.
　　The fragile, confessional mood is lost. Those who’ve been drinking most set a new aggressive tone.
　　“Uptight bitch.”
　　“Yeah. Cynical old cow.”
　　
　　Ezra is about to follow her when his phone rings. He is surprised it has taken Betty this long to call.
　　“Where are you? Still there? It’s nearly two you know.” Her sleepy voice, imploring as a spoiled child.
　 　“Yeah babes, still here at the park. I’ve a few more shots to do. I just hope some of them turn out. It’s been real difficult, shooting in virtual darkness.”
　　He can picture Betty swaddled in a quilt, air-con belching frigid air.
　　“Why didn’t you bring me? Come home now. I need cuddled.”
　 　It feels good that she is waiting up on him. Usually she was the one arriving hours late after delayed flights from her regular business trips. He sitting up uneasy, wondering if she was in a motel with a colleague for one last fuck before coming home.
　　“Still a few shots to get here, Betts. I’ll be home in a bit.”
　　“Come now. Come and pleasure me.”
　　“Later.”
　　“I’ll be asleep then.”
　　Ezra hopes so. The evening’s open spaces and moonlit possibilities are more appealing than Betty’s encircling arms.
　　
　 　Reconnecting with the scene before him, he realises that the carefree mood has altered. Everyone has gathered in silence at another point on the pool edge. A woman is crying. He walks towards the group, unease growing with every step. Ernest approaches him and says, “Get your camera ready. You gotta capture this.”
　　Reaching the group, Ezra sees what they are all staring at: one of the dolphins floating motionless in the water. James and the Finnish girl are swimming next to it. Other dolphins are swimming around them, occasionally nosing into the action. Miles squats on the pool edge overseeing everything.
　　“Oh Jesus, is it dead?” Ezra asks.
　　“Maybe. Certainly isn’t looking very alive. What a story. This really has to get out. Get snapping.”
　　“What happened?”
　　“Too much excitement. Or maybe it couldn’t take all the love and harmony.”
　　“I could put these guys behind bars if I put them in the photo.”
　　“Absolutely. Now get the goods.”
　 　Ezra has lost all stomach for the assignment. The evening’s encounter has ended in tragedy that he has no wish to make tabloid fodder. He takes a few snaps he has no intention of releasing.
　　‘It just moved!” shouts James.
　　‘Come on baby, come on.” urges the girl.
　　The dolphin
　　
　　
　　
　　“Sorry Ernest, the missus is calling me home.”
　　“Ezra, it’s getting interesting.”
　　He hears Miles, taking charge.
　　“We have to put the body back in the pens.”
　　“Oh you can’t do that,” Finnoula whines.
　　“If we don’t, the story’s going to get out and we could all be in shit.”

     He sets off across the park, hoping he can remember the route to the fence, half hoping the trail of the Zanzibar princess is still warm. He isn’t pursuing her, though would have stayed longer if she hadn’t left. He certainly isn’t seeking an affair or even a one-night stand. His relationship with Betty is sacrosanct. Part of him wishes Betty had been here to share the evening; she needs to reconnect with a more mellow crowd and her old game-for-anything spirit. Yet he is glad she stayed home. Everything would have unfolded differently, less pure: filtered through, evaluated and labelled by the joint committee of their relationship.
　　
　　He walks passed boarded-up fast food restaurants and gift shops, all in the style of a Grimm brothers’ village. The evening has unfolded like a mischievous and quirky treasure trail, irresistibly drawing him in, arousing his deepest instincts for satire, sensuality and something close to spiritual wonder. The midnight climb; sneaking through a tunnel into a walled-off kingdom; a secret communion with the imprisoned dolphins: all could have come from a psilocybin inspired children’s fable — a fantasy entered by falling down a rabbit burrow or stepping through a wardrobe. A big kitschy prank that reeked of undergraduate merrymaking. Encountering the Zanzibar princess has introduced another more intoxicating ingredient. Not that he has any intention of betraying Betty: he simply wants to pursue the final twists and turn of this whimsy before it fades. That is what he tells himself in his gentle pursuit of a shadow already gone.
　　
　　She finds him. He remembers much of the way back to the entrance before losing his bearings near the final stretch, hampered by his poor night vision. After several unsuccessful probings, he returns to the last sure spot and is removing the image intensifier from his bag.
　　
　　“Are you still playing with that thing?”
　　He hadn’t heard her approach, and for a second strains to make out who it is.
　　“I’m not that dark skinned,” she says teasingly.
　　Her eyesight is way sharper than his.
　　“I don’t see too well in the dark. I’m mildly night blind. Not enough carrots as a kid.”
　　“You seem to have all the right qualifications to be a photographer. Your sense of direction can’t be that hot either.”
　　“I’m Ezra, bye the way.”
　　“I’m Neroli, which you probably know.”
　　Her voice immensely self important as she enunciates her name.
　　“That bitch, I’m sure they were all saying.”
　　“Well you did ruffle a few feathers among the faithful.”
　　“Dolphin huggers with D-Cups.”
　　Behind them, they can hear voices, though it is difficult to gauge how far away.
　　“Come on, let’s leave before the rabble arrives.”
　 　He is happy to be drawn into her conspiracy. She leads the way, and quickly brings them to the waterpipe under the fence. A quick shuffle through the musty tunnel, then they’re scrabbling down the hillside, chattering and giggly, equally infected by the evening’s madcap mood. Ezra feels most pleased with himself for having acquired this feisty, glamorous companion. The conversation comes easy. She laughs easily encouraging him to ever greater absurdities.
　　
　　“You seem to loathe everyone here tonight…even the dolphins. Why did you come?”
　 　“Oh Miles talked me into it…he’s very persuasive. Anyway, I’ve nothing especially against dolphins. Whatever they do, it’s only nature acting through them. What gets my goat is people treating them like circus animals and talking new age tosh.”
　　 “I’ve told you what I do. What about you?”
　 　“Oh, let’s not get into one of those conversations…what do you do, who do you know? Let’s keep things mysterious and vague. Pretend you’re an escaped convict and me…? I’m a village girl fleeing an arranged marriage.”
　　Preferring not to divulge his ‘marriage’, Ezra happily to go along with this.
　　
　 　They reach Miles’ street. An empty taxi is waiting, engine running like a getaway car. They climb in and postpone discussing their actual destinations by deciding simply on the island’s north side.
　　“How do you know Miles?”
　 　“Oh Miles and I go back a bit. He’s bisexual by the way. Among other things. Tonight he’s behaving like Dr Doolittle. Miles doesn’t give a damn about dolphins. In fact the whole show’s about him—now that he’s no longer the uber banker. The man is completely self absorbed.”
　　 Wondering about their history, Ezra stifles a twinge of jealousy. Miles is a semi celebrity, and seriously loaded. Ezra can’t compete with that social set.
　　“And you?” he asks.
　　“I’m also self absorbed. But beyond myself, I care for a few species of marine life. And anything crafted from Huanghali wood.”
　　The taxi emerges from the tunnel. It’s time to decide on who is going where, and whether their nascent friendship also stops here.
　　“Do you have a little wifey or girl friend waiting up for you?”
　　“What are you proposing?” He replies, evading the question and hoping she isn’t going to test his fidelity.
　　“Do you dance?”

==============================to be continue=====================================

Operation Market Garden (September 17–September 25, 1944) was an Allied military operation in World War II. Its tactical objectives were to secure a series of bridges over the main rivers of the German-occupied Netherlands by large-scale use of airborne forces together with a rapid advance by armoured units along the connecting roads, for the strategic purpose of allowing an Allied crossing of the Rhine river, the last major natural barrier to an advance into Germany. The operation was initially successful with the capture of the Waal bridge at Nijmegen on September 20, but it was a failure overall since the final Rhine bridge at Arnhem was not taken and the British 1st Airborne Division was destroyed in the battle, despite holding on far longer than estimated before the implementation. The Rhine remained a barrier to the Allied advance until the Allied offensives in March 1945.
Before Operation Market Garden， Polish General (Sosabowski) who remains silent during the Market Garden command briefing, after which he voices his deep doubts that the plan can work. He is one of two dissident voices that are shuttled aside but correctly forecast defeat...
In the battle of Arnhem,The Polish 1st Independent Parachute Brigade was included in the Allied forces taking part in Operation Market Garden. Due to a critical shortage of transport aircraft, the brigade was split into several parts before entering the battle. A small part of the brigade with Sosabowski was dropped near Driel on September 19, but it was not until September 21 when the rest of the brigade finally arrived in the distant town of Grave, falling directly into the waiting guns of the Germans camped out around the area. The Brigade's artillery was dropped together with the British 1st Airborne Division and the howitzers were to arrive by sea transport. This prevented the Polish forces from being used effectively. Three times Poles under Sosabowski tried to force the Rhine crossing in order to help the surrounded 1st Airborne. However, the ferry they planned to use to reach the British had been sunk and Poles attempted the river crossing in small rubber boats under heavy fire. Nevertheless, at least 200 men succeeded in crossing and reinforcing the embattled British.
Despite the difficult situation on the front, during a September 24 staff meeting, Sosabowski suggested that the battle could have still been won. He suggested that the combined forces of 30th Corps and the Polish Brigade should start an all-out assault on the German positions and try to break through the Rhine. This plan was not accepted, and during the last phase of the battle, on September 25 and 26th, Sosabowski led his men southwards and shielded the retreat of remnants of the 1st Airborne. The rate of casualties among the Polish units that fought in the battle was high, in some cases as high as 40%.
After the battle Sosabowski was unjustly made a scapegoat for the failure of Operation Market Garden, following a critical evaluation by English Lt. Gen. He was accused of criticizing Field Marshal Montgomery and the Polish General Staff was forced to remove him as the commanding officer of his brigade on 27 December 1944. He was made the commander of guard troops and in July 1948 he was demobilised.

Recent weeks have brought a spate of quality-control concerns about Chinese exports, from pet food to toothpaste to tires...
Chinese products meet crisis of trust form customer. It's real a big problem ti us. we've been ignoring sth which r important to health. we concerned profit firstly.when our products have been selling more and more to foreigner,we can't evade it now.
The Chinese government has tried to reassure consumers about the safety of its products. Chinese Minister of Commerce Bo Xilai said this week that more than 99% of Chinese exports are safe and of good quality.but the whole truth is...
China need  self-criticism urgently,when others come to tell us what is right&what is wrong.what we lost will not only reputation but dignity.

        强国,富民.人们永恒的追求.但是事实上人们却总是一次次实践着"命运之轮"(和平-富裕-骄傲-战争-贫穷-卑下-和平)的安排.  
        从强到弱,由富至贫这是角色的转变;亦是态度的变化.  
        当人们成功的应对了自然,社会的挑战之后,获得了富足与强权.危机的萌芽也同时滋生.由于他们愚蠢地停下脚步安享和炫耀财富和幸福或任性的将那些仅仅是不能做到仰视和崇拜他们的人逼向悬崖.使自己从 "过分放纵"经"蛮横暴虐"直到"大难临头".  
       骄傲是什么?  
       骄傲就是认为自己是人中第一,众人的主人"智"高无上,"强"力无边.时刻准备着展示和炫耀自己的财富与幸福的克洛伊苏斯之流.  
      关于骄傲,智者和圣典如是说:  
      若是人想成为第一人,那他将成为最后一人,成为众人的仆人.你们中间最渺小的,才会成为最伟大的.(<<路加福音>>第9章48节)  
       
     上帝选出这世界的愚者,让智者狼狈不堪.  
     上帝选出这世界的弱者,让强者不知所措.  
     上帝还选出这世界上低下的,受鄙视的,无有的,要化为乌有的,  
     使鲜活的要在他面前没有荣光可言.(<<歌林多前书>>第1章27节)  
       
      没有一个人在得悉他的结局之前能被认为是幸福的(希罗多得)  
      
      骄傲背后是毁灭,神气活现的背后是沦落(<<箴言>>第16章18节)  

     如果一个人违反了均衡的法则,把某种过大的东西让过小的东西来承担,  
     如将过大的风帆赋予过小的船只;  
        将过多的食物赋予过小的身体;  
        将过大的权力赋予过小的心灵,  
     结果都注定要彻底颠覆.  
     在自大狂妄的发作当中,暴食暴饮的身体立刻疾病缠身,自命不凡的小官更迅即陷入邪恶,过度放纵始终滋生着这些恶习.(柏拉图:<<法律篇>>691C)  
       
     持而盈之,  
     不如其巳.  
     揣而锐之,  
     不可常保. (<<道德经>>)  
     难道富的未来必将是贫,强的结果就是弱?真是这样的么?什么能激发人的主观能动性,让人们跳出这个循环?  
     "除非你们回转,变为孩童,否则你们就入不了天堂."(<<马太福音>>第18章3节)  
     诚然,人不能阻止历史的必然,但可以调整自己来书写新的历史.关键在于精神上的重生,摆正位置使自己有资格应对随后的一次次挑战.谦卑客观.以一个"新生儿"的态度重新审视自己的财富,权力和未来...