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Cookie Night with the Christians

Liddell RunningEric Liddell, a gold medalist at the 1924 Paris Olympics, turned his back on sprinting glory and spent the rest of his life as a missionary in one of the poorest regions of China. He and his wife wanted to spread Christian values, and he died doing it, as a civilian prisoner in a Japanese internment camp near the end of WWII. His life has been the subject of two films, the Oscar-winning “Chariots of Fire” and “On Wings of Eagles“. Good films both, but I never much related. I was not the fastest kid in the schoolyard, and nobody ever asked me to be a Christian.

Until last night.

Church steeple

I’m far into my senior years, so that’s a long time without an offer, which came from a young missionary couple. They uprooted from their comfortable Illinois life four years ago to start a congregation in my Oregon college town, where a church steeple seems to rise every three or four blocks. It’s not dirt-floor poverty here, and the zip code is far up on the lists of well-to-do populations.

“Would you like to join our church?” The question bubbled up out of a pleasant conversation at a community picnic in one of our spacious city parks.

Liddell Plaque

Liddell Plaque commemorating the life of one of Scotland’s and The University of Edinburgh’s most renowned sports heroes

I’d met the missionaries soon after they moved to town.  She, for awhile, coached a fitness class at the gym I frequent. Now here they were, at the picnic, and I’ve long wondered about Eric Liddell – not about his locating in one of the poorest provinces of China, but about what motivated him to turn away from Olympic glory. I volunteered for two years in a remote Ethiopian village, where my house was mud and wattle, and water came in a bucket from the river. Some of the places I worked during my career were so far off the economic grid the UN once lumped them into a category of hopelessness – the Fourth World. So I have some understanding of helping the world’s dispossessed.

How could I reply to their invitation? With the simple truth?

cookie plateWe’d just talked of truth, and I was not closer to understanding Eric Liddell’s desire to spread Christian values in a place far from home and glory. Why did this couple want to spread God’s word in a town overfilled with churches? I’d asked that as we filled a plate in the dessert line, and we sat together over coconut macaroons, chocolate chip cookies, giant strawberries and assorted cupcakes. They had come as leaders of a small seed group sent to expand their sect’s national presence. Nervous but determined, they put down roots, had a child, and peopled their church.

Should I deflect their question? Obfuscate?


Erasmus Father of Humanism

My niece, far away, had joined one of their congregations years before I met the missionaries. The sect had been a significant milepost on her journey out of a fast-lane life.  I’d told them I appreciated what their creed had done for my niece as our conversation wandered past macaroons to Thomas Aquinas and how many angels can dance on the head of a pin, past cookies to Erasmus, the scholar from Rotterdam who laid the foundations of Humanism, and then on to strawberries and the question, “Would I like to join their church?”

“No,” I said. “I’m not a person you want in your church,” answering as gently and kindly as they had asked.

And like that, I shut the door on the only invitation I’ve ever had to join a church. We talked of other things. The evening lengthened out. The desserts disappeared. And I still do not understand Eric Liddell’s choice. Perhaps he would not understand mine, either.

Closed door

So Long Marianne – Leonard Cohen’s Love Letters to Marianne Ihlen Fetch $876,000

Leonard Cohen was already an up and coming poet in Montreal’s Bohemian cafes when he fled to the Greek isle of Hydra to write in 1960.  He was about to meet his muse, Marianne Ihlen, and half a world away, I was beginning college.  She led him into that love affair of bliss and agony so beautifully rendered in “So Long, Marianne”, and the Sixties slipped into being.  Times and events were about to move right on by his hard-earned Bohemian credentials.

Leonard_Cohen_and_Marianne_3 png In those days, “Bohemian” meant Beatnik, and its luminaries, such as Jack Kerouac and Allen Ginsberg, were still at the fringes of fame. I was nine years younger than Cohen, and soon letting my studies slip while I spent too much time in college coffeehouses pursuing my own vision of Bohemian life.  The vision Cohen had already tapped into was intellectually rigorous, philosophically existential, and spiritually bleak.  Once trapped in that Bohemian spider web, there was no way out.

In the coffeehouses, we read works like Camus’ “The Stranger” and Sartre’s “No Exit“, watched movies like Truffaut’s “Jules and Jim” (a tale of tortured lovers), and showed up for guitar players who strummed Pete Seeger songs like “Kumbaya” and “We Shall Overcome”.  Cohen eventually pens a song titled “The Stranger”; like Truffaut’s Jim, he beds Marianne after getting her husband to bless his pursuit of her; and artistically, he never finds the way out of emotional solitude, all the time, strumming a guitar.

marianne wine glass Cohen’s early Sixties would repel today’s youth. It is a time in which Adele Davis has already published the seminal Eat Right to Keep Fit,  but healthy eating is derided on TV as a kooky Southern California fad.  Rachel Carson has raised environmental alarms with Silent Spring but DDT is still a wonder drug for farmers.  In the early Sixties, women were still going to college to get “Mrs.” degrees,  and equality was gaining a cynical pseudonym – White Anglo-Saxon Male (WASP).

I immersed myself, for a while, in the Bohemian world in the early Sixties, but Cohen, already at home there, stayed a lifetime. Our coffeehouse chatter was about Appearance (distained) vs. Reality (to be sought out), about Hypocrisy (the elder generation) vs. Sincerity (our most fervent value).  For youth of the early Sixties, the existential angst of the Bohemians was about to give way to activism.  There was an exit.  But not for Cohen’s creative genius.

marianne ice cream 2As Cohen honed his Bohemian-fueled writing skills in Hydra and Montreal, I was leaving behind coffeehouse chatter, joining campus efforts supporting Martin Luther King’s civil rights causes and lining up with early protesters against America’s creeping engagement in Vietnam. I was hardly alone. The Sixties were about to explode.  Activism was a way out of “waiting for Godot”, but creatively, Cohen was locked into the Beatniks’ beautiful loser aesthetic.

By the time the aesthetically-estranged “Songs of Leonard Cohen” and “So Long, Marianne” were released, I was deep in Africa, doing volunteer work in a remote Ethiopian village. When his equally bleak “Songs from a Room” brought us the anguished “Bird on a Wire”, I was engaged in eyeball-to-eyeball opposition to the war in Vietnam. I recognized immediately the Bohemian pain in Cohen’s narrations, and I wore out the grooves on both albums, but I was philosophically elsewhere, on the journey out of existential hell depicted in novels like A Lesion of Dissent or films like Bill Murray’s Groundhog’s Day.

I didn’t know Leonard Cohen, and am not particularly familiar with his personal life. I know him through the beautifully penned poetry of his songs, especially his early albums. What I recognize in that poetry is an acute sensitivity to the Bohemian mindset of the late Fifties and early Sixties. I dipped my toe in those creative waters and moved on. He stayed, an intelligent observer of the human condition, and made exquisite music. So long, Marianne. So long, Leonard. Thank you.

I hope you’ve enjoyed this vignette about Leonard Cohen’s times and travels in the early Sixties. There’s more adventure to be had in my full length novel A Lesion of Dissent, just a click away at either Amazon or Smashwords.

Carla Grissmann, Sri Lanka, Colombo, Karl Drobnic, Khyber, Afghanistan <== Cover, Edition, click cover to buy

Author Karl Drobnic

Cover “A Lesion of Dissent”, Smashwords Edition: “Annette Monclere at Cabaret Khartoum”, click cover to buy

Texas Instruments Hedge Updated

Frau Lachelt

UPDATE April 17th: With 4 days until Feb’s roll to the April 20th put spread expires, it is time to take profits. TXN has rallied to our $105 strike price on the short April puts. There’s no need to hang around in markets this volatile. Buy back the short $105 puts, which are at $1.00 asked at the moment. Our initial Feb $107-$101 short put spread was entered for a credit of $1.02. We rolled that to the April 20th $105-$95 short put spread at a credit of $2.90/spread. Buy back the $105 puts at today’s $1.00, and that’s net $2.92/spread on a risk of $6.08 ($10-3.92) or 48% gain in 3 months. Happy Trading!

Feb 14th Update.  I’ve updated the expiring “short put spread” hedged trade on Texas Instruments posted on my Linked-In pages.  Of the several real-time hedges I’ve posted over the past four weeks, TXN is the only one showing a loss, and several of the wins have been eye-popping.  I’m considering migrating next month’s hedges to Word Press as Linked-In readership is meager, especially considering the gains these trades have made.  I’m increasingly of the opinion that Linked In could be renamed “Dead End”.    Here’s the link, with the TXN trade update at the bottom.  The suggested roll-out has a better than 80% win rate over the last 5 years, so it stands by itself if you missed the original trade:

You can scroll through the other trades at the bottom of the Linked In page.

Wishing you peace, prosperity, and good trading…

A Trader’s Guide to Surviving the Stock Market

Karl Drobnic

I’ve traded stocks for forty years from various countries around the world.  The stock exchange in Addis Ababa was a chalk board in a local bank, open a couple hours on weekdays.  Spokane was dedicated to penny mining stocks. I traded currencies sitting atop burlap sacks of wheat in Kabul’s old granary.  Now we’ve got super-fast online algos and battalions of talking heads promoting their own interests.  But no matter.  Some things I’ve learned cut through the hype.  I hope they help you if trades are going wrong.

1. A trade is neither right nor wrong.  A trade can only be profitable or not profitable.

  • a) Profitable is good.
    b) Unprofitable is bad. Do something!

2. Therapy for traders on a losing streak:

  • a) Brag about your losers, not your winners. Tell everybody about losses. Get on the phone! Tweet!
    b) For a losing trade the only thing to brag about is how small you kept the loss, how quickly you stopped the bleeding.
    c) Your Ego must understand that you’re going to tell everybody about every loss.
    d) Bragging about losers will develop an inner voice urging you to get out. It will replace the voice keeping you in losing trades.

3. The market is uncaring. If you hang on to losing trades, telling
yourself “I’m right, I know I’m right”, the market will grind your
trading stake down to zero.

4. Every trade has two aspects, time and market direction.

  • a) for every trade, know your time frame.
    b) for every time frame, determine market direction.
    c) enter the trade near the beginning of the time frame with
    the market going in the direction of your trade.
    d) you can now monitor your trade in terms of time and
    market direction.
    e) at the end of the time frame, recalculate. Are your assumptions still correct? What’s your new time frame? Why are you still in the trade?
    f) if the market direction changes, why are you still in the
    trade? Why didn’t you set a stop? Are you looking
    for a loss to brag about? Return to #2.

5. As an individual trader, you’re competing against guys with PhD.s in
math and physics, against algos and super-fast computers, against ruthless pit
traders who have the advantage of being on the floor.

  • a) The PhD.s are smarter than you.
    b) The pit traders are genetically superior – short
    attention spans quickly alert to new stimuli, the
    master hunters of pre-historic times.
    c) Your computer is no match for the competing computers.
    d) Always know where the escape hatch is for each and
    every trade. How fast can you get through it? Practice!

6. If you start believing that you have some special insight into the
market, that you’ve “cracked the code”, discovered “the natural order of
the market”, that the market will go where you say, then put your money in T-Bills and take a long vacation. Motorcyclists who stay afraid of their machines die of old age. Those who think they’re Evel Knieval die terrible deaths. Know your machine before you drive it, and stay alert. Freight trains do come roaring across unmarked crossings.

7. The market is a mechanism for transferring wealth. It does so by
causing pain. Great wealth transfers in times of great pain. Losses are
a way of causing pain. Card sharks operate by letting the sucker win big
in the early going. But by the end of the game, the card sharks have all
the sucker’s money, his clothes, his house, and the sucker’s gratitude
for letting him get away from the table with his life. If you’re making
bigger and bigger trades, think about the sucker who ended up betting it
all exactly at the time the sharks held all the winning cards. Trading
is a business. You go to work in the morning, go home at night, and earn
a paycheck at the end of the week. Keep the size of your trades
reasonable. The sharks can’t take what’s not on the table.

8. Once in a while a sure thing comes along. It’s a good day to skip
trading and take a walk on the beach.

9. As options expiration approaches, the Grand Croupier will sweep the table in all directions. You’re not the croupier. In the last week, never keep an expiring short position that’s within reach of the croupier’s stick. Time and an approaching expiration let the croupier take control of an open short. It’s asking for great pain.

10. Getting market direction right is only the first step of a trade.
Selecting the best trade (trading strategy) is the next step. For
example, is it better to go long a put (it will decay against you)?… or
to enter a call spread for a credit (it will decay for you)? The answer
depends on market conditions. Money management is the 3rd step. Your
goal is to make a profit, not show the world. Your profit/loss statement
will accurately reflect your trading at the end of every day. Read it
carefully. Understand its message.

These are a few thoughts that I’ve found helpful. I hope they help you, too. Please feel free to share them.  Wishing you peace, prosperity and good trading – Karl.

After the market closes, I hope you’ll relax with a copy of my novel, “A Lesion of Dissent”. It’s available on both and at the links below.

Same great novel, your choice of either original art cover

Carla Grissmann, Sri Lanka, Colombo, Karl Drobnic, Khyber, Afghanistan <== Cover, Edition, click cover to buy

Author Karl Drobnic

Cover, Smashwords Edition- “Annette Monclere at Cabaret Khartoum” click cover to buy

The Nazi SS in Afghanistan, or How I Met the Gestapo Twenty Years Late

Author Karl Drobnic

Karl Drobnic, adventurer and author of “A Lesion of Dissent”

I stood by a painted post on a gravel highway. Chill autumn wind was blowing through sparse sagebrush on the darkening Baluchi plains and I did not know what to do. Westward, the milk-train bus I’d ridden all day was retreating back into Iran. East of the post lay Afghanistan, its nearest city, Herat, miles away through the fast-falling night. Several other backpackers from various Western nations also stood near that post, the final passengers to exit the bus that we’d boarded early that morning in Meshad.  In 1968, no one but adventurers went overland to Afghanistan.

baluchistan desert Herat

The Baluchi plains, where dark was quickly falling

The border was the post, the post was the border, our transport was gone. We faced away from the disappearing bus, marooned, staring in the direction we thought must lead to Herat.  Very gradually, some dim lights appeared, and slowly grew bolder, though hardly brighter. We watched until a World War II surplus army jeep pulled up, an Afghan at the wheel.

We quickly established that we had no common language. “Herat,” we said and pointed. “Herat,” he said and pointed. We fumbled our way to a price for transport, handed over some money, and piled into the jeep, crowded together, backpacks on our knees. And then out of the dark, another Afghan appeared, clutching a long Browning rifle, the weapon the Allies issued their infantry in WW II.

Jeep World War II surplus

Surplus jeeps from WW II found their way to all parts of the world

The driver motioned for us to make room, and Rifleman crowded in, a big man right next to me in the front seat, squeezing me over against the driver, and we began a slow crawl along the rutted highway into the eastern night, the limpid six-volt headlights swallowed by the ebony deepness of the surrounding black. A mile passed as the driver picked our way through ruts and chuckholes, and another mile and more, a monotonous, jarring journey with no glimpse of Herat yet on the horizon.

Of a sudden, we were each aware that we were no longer on the highway. The jeep was bouncing across undulated mounds, sagebrush swishing by the open sides. We talked at the driver in various languages, asking why we’d left the highway, entreating him to return, trepidation rising as we bounced deeper into trackless desert. Beside me, Rifleman loomed large in the very faint glow of a few dashboard gauges. “Oh, god, this is it,” one of the travelers behind me said. I knew what he meant. At best, we would be robbed and left bereft in the desert, at worst, murdered as well.

A mile or so seemed to pass, and as the jeep topped a mound, an earthen structure materialized, shaped somewhat like a quonset hut. The blank end of the building threw back enough headlight to define it from the swallowing darkness all around. The driver sounded his horn, and soon, a dazzling white light flooded out from the center of the hut, a door opening and letting out the brilliant white glow of hissing pressure lanterns.

Nazi SS Afghanistan Gestapo

Gestapo uniforms outlasted the organization at the far ends of the earth

The jeep stopped a few feet from the door. Rifleman jumped out, then motioned us towards the hut. The driver was talking and pushing on my shoulder, saying something none of us could understand. First out of the jeep, I was also first into the hut. I stepped through the door, squinting at the bright pressure lanterns hung from the low, rounded roof, facing a long trestle-type table, and then I froze, the traveler entering behind bumping me forward. Grouped at the table were six tall men in Gestapo uniforms: black-wooled, ribboned and medaled, epauletted, leather-belted, weapons-holstered Nazi storm troopers.

Only they weren’t German. They were bearded Afghans. The other travelers pushed in around me as I gawked. They too, stopped and stared. The Gestapo stood behind the table, erect, strict, staring back. One of our group said something in German, and one of the Gestapo said something back, not in German. We sifted through languages and finally found some commonality in elementary Turkish.

“Passports,” our Turkish-speaking traveler said. “He wants to see our passports.” But we still did not comprehend and murmurs of objection floated around our group. Some more rudimentary Turkish was exchanged. “It’s the border patrol,” our interpreter finally said. “We’ve got to get stamped into Afghanistan.”

The jeep driver was motioning for us to sit at the long table as he shouted towards an Afghan at the far end of the room. We sat and laid passports out on the table, then breathed easier when the man the driver had shouted to came forward with a tray of glasses and a large pot of tea. I warmed my hands on the tea glass and tendered my passport down the table with those of the other travelers.

And then a heaping platter of rice pilaf appeared and bowls and spoons, and while the Gestapo-draped guards thumbed our passports, we fell to eating. We ate, they stamped, and more tea was poured. Along one wall of the hut, a high shelf ran its length. Spaced along the shelf were hookahs, the kind with the long hoses that pass around from smoker to smoker. Our driver spoke some more to the tea-man, and he  fell to bringing water pipes to the table and lighting them.

hookah water pipe Afghanistan

The Gestapo-guards watched as we made awkward attempts to draw on the water pipes, and laughed at our ineptitude. They spread among us as we shifted to make room, and gave us lessons in water-piping.  At first we were smoking a sweet, rose-flavored tobacco, and as the guards began to congratulate us on getting the water pipes right, the smoke shifted to heavier mixtures, opium-laced hashish perhaps, but I do not know.  Thus we drifted through endless glasses of tea, smoking, sipping, arm in arm with latter-day storm troopers.

Gradually, their story emerged. Somewhere in Hitler’s mad march to power, he had decreed that Afghanistan was the true ancestral origin of the Aryan race. He reached out with foreign aid, supplying military training for the warlords that controlled the amalgamation of districts that was Afghanistan.  The advisers he sent played dress up, supplying uniforms and attempting to transplant the goose-stepping Gestapo that was then terrorizing Germany. World War II came, and then it went, but good wool uniforms last a long time. Afghanistan, forgotten and at the end of the earth in those days, did what it always does. It carried on.  The warlord of that western territory spanning the Herat road had inherited trunks filled with the Gestapo uniforms and liked the look, uncaring or perhaps uninformed of the stigma they carried elsewhere in the world.

Over the decades since, I have spoken with many intrepid travelers who entered Afghanistan at that post on the Herat highway, but none has ever recalled a similar encounter with Nazi-clad patrols.  It seems at times that it was a water-pipe dream, but it was not.  It was Afghanistan, the end of the earth, where events were to get ever stranger as the years passed, as curious travelers became invading armies, and as I retired to my armchair to contemplate uncommon encounters in places far, far away.

While you’re here, I hope you’ll take a moment to check out my novel set in the tumult of the 1960s. “A Lesion of Dissent” is available at either or Smashwords. com per the links below.

Carla Grissmann, Sri Lanka, Colombo, Karl Drobnic, Khyber, Afghanistan <== Cover, "A Lesion of Dissent", Edition: "Leaving Mombasa", click cover to buy

A Lesion of Dissent

Karl Drobnic

Set in the flash and dash of the turbulent Sixties, “A Lesion of Dissent” is available on and in any format. You can even download this full-length novel directly to your computer in PDF, no Kindle or Nook Book or IPad necessary.

Here’s a quick synopsis of the storyline:

“A fiery liaison in the sacred chambers of Egypt’s ancient pharaohs while Israeli warplanes scream overhead… frenzy and rioting as vengeful Arabs storm into the streets…and Paul Rhodes’ journey of exile through post-colonial Africa and Asia has just begun. Buffeted by the smuggling, black market deception and patriotic fervor that marked those continents’ passages to independence in the tumultuous Sixties, Paul is impelled country by country back to the US and a stunning, fateful confrontation with the military establishment that stands between him and the woman he loves.”

You can order online at both the or links below when you click on the book cover of your choice. I hope you enjoy reading A Lesion of Dissent as much as I enjoyed writing it. Let me know what you think. I’d love to hear from you. Thanks in advance – Karl

Money from last year’s sales of “A Lesion of Dissent” at was donated to Water for Ethiopian Gardens, a Peace Corps project. The project aids in sustainable, low-tech agriculture at the grass roots, village level, and relies entirely on private donations. Please make your purchase of “A Lesion of Dissent” via if you’d like your money to help malnourished villagers in Ethiopia. The first chapters of “A Lesion of Dissent” are set in the area served by the project.

Images and Previews from “A Lesion of Dissent” .

You can order online at either the link or link on the right. I hope you enjoy reading A Lesion of Dissent as much as I enjoyed writing it. Let me know what you think. I’d love to hear from you. Thanks in advance – Karl

Same great novel, your choice of either original art cover

Carla Grissmann, Sri Lanka, Colombo, Karl Drobnic, Khyber, Afghanistan <== Cover, Edition, click cover to buy

Jomo Kenyatta and the Texas Longhorns


Jomo Kenyatta, father of the Kenyan nation and its first president, shook my hand on a beautiful seaside morning in December, 1967. I was out for a stroll, dressed neatly for a change, and feeling as spiffy as the bright equatorial morning. But strangely, the usually bustling docks of Mombasa Harbor were deserted.

Tied up quayside was an aging cargo ship, its hull black except for splotches of rust, some white lettering, and a maroon stripe marking the water line. In front of the freighter, an armed semicircle of widely-spaced Kenyan soldiers ringed an area the size of several football fields. In those early years of post-colonial Kenya, President Jomo had encouraged British colonial civil servants to stay on and aid in the transition to independence, and while native Kenyans manned the front offices of the bureaucracy, a leftover colonial often sat in the back to cross the T’s and dot the I’s. Thus, when my morning amble took me towards the freighter, no soldier challenged me, assuming that my white skin was a credential for the ceremony about to happen.

The freighter rose high out the water, its dark sides looming far above me as I approached. No gang planks were down, a security measure perhaps, but an on-board crane had its arm hovered over two stout wooden crates, their sides slatted. Standing in each crate was a bull, two Texas Longhorns I was to eventually learn. Crew members stared down from the deck railing and I stared up. An Army captain and some subordinates, wearing ranger hats and dressed in starched shirts, creased shorts and knee socks, clustered near the spot to which the crates would be lowered.

African soldiers

One of the subordinate officers left the group and came to me. “You must come here,” he said and motioned me towards the little knot of officers. “President Jomo will arrive shortly.” I followed him to the group. At the back, one of the subordinates, taller than his colleagues, held a walkie-talkie device. “By him,” my guide said, and so I joined the lanky lieutenant with the radio.

“We bring the cows down when the car arrives,” Radioman said.

“Good,” I said, feeling I was in way over my head, and wishing I were somewhere else, for it was now evident to me that I was a security breach. Some time passed and then the head officer snapped to attention. The rest of the group followed suit, and I corrected my posture. “Car coming,” Radioman said to me. Far up the docks, a black limo had appeared and was headed slowly in our direction.

Radioman spoke into the walkie-talkie. “Start cows,” he said, looking up to the crewmen at the deck railing. Radioman held the walkie-talkie towards me. “Starting cows now,” came crackling out in a thick accent. Radioman looked at me. “Cows starting,” I said. Above, the crew dispersed and the crane began to take up slack in the ropes attached to the crates. The limo slowed to a crawl while the crates were raised and swung over the side of the ship. First one bull and then the other bellowed.

Radioman waited for a signal from his captain, then said, “Bring cows down,” into the walkie-talkie. The crates began to lower, the limo picked up speed, and as the bulls touched down, the car pulled to a stop about twenty feet away. An aide with a camera got out of the front and opened a rear door. Jomo Kenyatta, dressed in the open-shirted Kenyan style, emerged and walked over to the crates. He peered through the slats while the aide snapped pictures.


Texas Longhorns

Cattle are highly valued in native Kenyan society, and the President was making a gift to the people of two Texas Longhorn bulls, meant to introduce new genes into the traditional Kenyan herds. When he was satisfied that the bulls were what he had ordered, he walked over to the captain and talked a bit in Swahili, of which I understood nothing. The President, who had lived and studied in England, and also in colonial prisons, eventually noticed me. “Thank you for helping,” he said in English and made a short step in my direction. The officers in front of me parted and Jomo Kenyatta extended his hand. I came forward, reached out, and shook hands with the first President of Kenya, Leader of the Mau Mau Rebellion, and Father of the Nation. “You’re very welcome,” I said and nodded a little bow.

Shortly the President was back in his limo and driving away. A few of the officers were busy with getting the crated bulls lifted onto a flatbed truck that had rumbled up from further down the docks and others were forming the soldiers into columns for the march back to barracks. I was left standing by the freighter, Radioman still close by, and it occurred to me that almost two hundred years before, George Washington had worn similar titles – First President, Leader of the American Revolution, and Father of the Nation. “Good luck,” I said to Radioman. “I wish you well.” And that is how, quite by accident, I met Jomo Kenyatta and his Texas Longhorns.

Jomo and George -Something in Common

George Washington