A Journey to the South Pacific – Part 4 – Western Samoa

 

While looking for some documents, I came across a file from the 1990s containing notes on a trip I took in December 1994. I had previously included some of this material in an employee newsletter [1], but now I feel inspired to translate and expand upon these notes, as well as scan the necessary images.
Here are the details of the trip:
Oct 29 – Dec 15, 1994    Bali / New Zealand / South Pacific Islands
FRA – BKK – DPS – AKL – (WLG) – CHC – AKL – TBU – VAU – TBU – APW – HNL – LAX – FRA

Western Samoa
From Tonga, the journey continued to Western Samoa - which was what Samoa was called back then. I stayed in Apia on the island of Upolu. Upon our arrival, as we were taking a bus into town, a German remarked that his "refrigerator" still needed to be placed on the roof with the baggage; he actually meant a cooler bag, and the other travelers (myself included) laughed accordingly. I stayed at the Harbour Lights Inn, rather than the ritzy Aggie Grey’s. The area also served as a resting spot for taxi drivers. The kiosk at the hotel was run by a gay man - who, as is common there, was also a transvestite - and he was one of the organizers of a drag queen show. One evening, a boxing match between David Tua and an American was broadcast on television, which could be watched on the monochrome screen in the kiosk. While I also was interested in the boxing match, I was even more intrigued by the taxi drivers standing together with the transvestites. Unfortunately, David Tua landed a powerful blow, and the fight ended in the very first round - at which point everyone left the kiosk. What a pity! But I, too, headed around the corner back to my hotel room.

Robert Louis Stevenson
I visited Stevenson’s grave and read the famous poem [2], "Requiem," which begins: "Under the wide and starry sky, / Dig the grave and let me lie." Only after undertaking the strenuous climb - ascending some 400 meters under a tropical sun and high humidity - can one truly appreciate the deep respect the Samoan people must have held for Stevenson to have buried his remains up there.
The house has since been restored, having previously been repurposed - or rather, misused - as a governor’s residence or government seat. During a special festival week, the guided tour was free of charge; it has been 15 Tala [3] afterwards. From the veranda on the first floor, one can look out over the sea and the town of Apia. Directly below lies the garden, which the Stevensons once used not only for flowers but, more specifically, for agricultural experiments.
Vailima and the villages along the road to Apia had been decorated for the commemorative event - for instance, with floral arches. The Vailima Brewery (which proudly noted it was "under German management") had released an "R.L. Stevenson Special Issue" (see image).
In 1994, the correct name for the country was Western Samoa; in 1997, the state changed its name to Samoa - or, more formally, the Independent State of Samoa [4]. Today, it is home to just over 200,000 inhabitants.

The Closing Ceremony of R.L. Stevenson Week
By chance, I stumbled upon a tropical open-air celebration marking the end of R.L. Stevenson Week, held in front of the government building. I had been lingering behind the structure and made my way to the front by passing through the middle. At first, there was a light rain, followed by the scorching sun. I took a seat under the tents - there was still space, and no one stopped me; in fact, I believe someone even directed me to sit there. No, I am sure - someone must have assumed I belonged to an official delegation and ushered me under the tarpaulin. I didn't look like a typical tourist, having already developed a tan from my travels through Bali, New Zealand, and Tonga over the previous few weeks. Most tourists, meanwhile, were gathered in the marketplace. As for me, I felt quite comfortable in the front row; I was even filmed in close-up several times for the evening news - for instance, while listening intently to the Deputy Prime Minister speak about "Tusitala". This was followed by an extensive awards ceremony.
But then, things really got going. Approximately 120–150 girls performed dances. They wore dresses featuring tapa (bark cloth) prints and raffia skirts. Some held thick bamboo poles, which produced a deep, resonant sound when struck against the ground, while others clapped. The music was provided by older men and women. In addition to dances performed while standing or moving about, there were also seated dances involving intricate hand movements and various styles of clapping - a reminder of just how many different sounds can be created through clapping alone. Alongside the group’s synchronized, rhythmic movements, a few individuals were tasked with interjecting wild, chaotic motions. Afterward, the girls withdrew, and about 200–250 boys and young men entered from the sides, performing spirited dances and chants. Three or four of them took the lead, spurring the others on. Many of the sounds were produced by clapping or by striking different parts of their bodies.
Finally, following the last boisterous chant, the younger generation sat down, and the elders began to sing a Samoan ballad. Several dignitaries - notably some older women and the Deputy Prime Minister - danced to the music; the Deputy Prime Minister, incidentally, was also wearing a lava-lava (traditional sarong). Then, I was asked to dance. I am not a dancer at all - perhaps the least likely person to dance between the North and South Poles! Yet, how could I refuse the young ladies, especially since they had also invited the Deputy Prime Minister? And so, I found myself dancing alongside him and the young women in their raffia skirts.

Fale
Most Samoans still live in traditional fale. These are open-sided structures that are closed off with mats only during storms or rain - a style of construction adapted to the climate. Small fale (traditional houses) stand along the beaches. A snapshot from late afternoon: the sun, hanging low, bathes a fale in intense yellow light, while the sky and sea - in shades of deep blue - vie with the various greens of the surrounding palms and trees.

Cricket
I saw small villages where the youth passed the time playing games - volleyball, for instance, or, even more commonly, kirikiti (Samoan cricket). I once spotted a group playing in the pouring rain at the start of a journey around the islands; later, I even witnessed a match played exclusively by young women.

Tattooing
Dr. phil. Waldemar Stöhr taught us that the correct term is "Tatauierung" (tatau-ing) rather than the German "Tätowierung." While Stöhr might emphasize the distinction between traditional Samoan or Polynesian culture and the adoption of the practice by the lower social classes in the West, I see it more as an aesthetic difference. These tatau are truly beautiful - much like irezumi in Japan, which is a recognized art form (though in Japan, such tattoos are typically associated with the Yakuza).
In Tonga, I twice met Danes who had gotten tataus on their upper arms while in Samoa. These circular designs wrapping around the upper arm were so aesthetically pleasing that I was almost tempted to get one myself - though, as a doctor working in a Catholic hospital, I couldn't very well walk around with a tattoo (or even a tatau). A friend of mine, however, did get one on his upper arm after securing a professorship - he claimed it helped him "stay grounded" (his words). I also saw young women with tataus, which looked equally beautiful. One of the female workers at the guesthouse, in particular, caught my eye. While her face lacked that certain something required for true beauty, she possessed a well-proportioned, slender figure - not too thin, but just right. She also had a circular tattoo around her right upper arm; it looked fantastic. Since the tattoo appeared fresh, I asked her about it, and she explained that the aforementioned Danes had paid for it as a tip.
And then there was a tour guide - he was tattooed from his knees all the way up to his navel. That, too, looked beautiful. It’s no wonder that, during the first voyages of discovery, observers mistook such dense tattooing for actual clothing (Roggeveen [5]). I also saw young women with extensive, large-scale tattoos.

Girl from Zaire
The girl from Zaire was a young woman on her honeymoon. She was married to an Australian man and spoke English with an Australian accent - a lovely, soft voice. She stood on the beach, reminiscent of "the girl from Ipanema". Her hair was braided into tiny plaits, which were then styled into an updo; the process took two ten-hour sessions; I had asked her of course. If she’s careful, the hairstyle can last up to three months. Her body was muscular - though not in an extreme, bodybuilder-like way; perhaps she swam a lot. She had a flawless face. The Australian man looked pale beside her - and not just because of his skin tone, which shifted toward a reddish hue as the day went on. "What could she possibly see in him?" I wondered - though, of course, it wasn't up to me to see anything in him. At that moment, I simply wanted to gaze at this beautiful woman and enjoy her as one would a work of art. Perhaps the allure of fashion models lies in this very artificiality - though, to me, most of them tend to come across as merely affected. 

The Ship
One day, I was awakened by a loud blast from a ship’s horn, followed by the sound of marching music. What had happened? A massive ocean liner had entered the harbor - even the government building (see above) was not as tall as this vessel. On the dock, a police band played marches and other tunes to entertain the guests. I had made my way from the hotel - which was just a stone’s throw away - to the harbor, where I saw throngs of young people disembarking; that was not what I had expected. But then someone explained to me that these were merely crew members. Only afterwards did I notice the doddering old folks - there is no other way to describe them, though I have nearly reached that age myself now ... well, not quite; I still have ten years to go. Even back then, I felt that such ocean liners have no business near islandsm - just as they have no place near Venice. Let them stay out on the open sea, and from there, passengers could continue by smaller boat to wherever they intend to "invade" the local towns. I once witnessed this in Ushuaia, where a landing craft arrived, and the passengers didn’t even know which country they were in. Appalling!

Oahu and the Rest of the Journey
The trip continued on to Oahu. I spent less than 24 hours there, though it did involve two “overnight” stays at a hotel. Furthermore, I had to switch airlines - not in Oahu, but later in Los Angeles. The flight was pushed back by an hour, and then the plane arrived another hour later, leaving me with only about 26 minutes in Los Angeles - a situation complicated by the fact that I wasn't just flying with Air New Zealand onwards, but had to switch to a Lufthansa flight, but - because it was considered an international connection - I also had to go through health and passport control again, collect my baggage, and travel from one terminal to another. I arrived just in time to see the shuttle bus pulling away. Deciding that waiting would take too long, I ran toward the other terminal with my baggage, calling out from a distance that I needed to catch my flight. Interestingly, Lufthansa played along; after a brief exchange, they told me not to wait, but to head straight to the security checkpoint with my bags, promising to bring my boarding pass over. The security officer grumbled, "I really don't like people trying to bring large pieces of luggage onto the plane like this," but I explained that there was no time left - the plane was departing in five minutes, which was, in fact, true. Just then, someone arrived running with my boarding pass; I cleared security with my luggage, we dashed to the gate and onto the plane, someone took my suitcase, the door was locked, and I sat down, buckled up, and we took off. I suspect that wouldn't be possible today - security concerns would certainly rule it out. But I was just glad I’d managed such an ambitious feat, as my vacation days were all used up and I had to be back at work the very next day.

Links and Annotations:
[1] The original had been printed in TAU (Magazin der Franziskanerinnen von Münster-St. Mauritz) 1995 and republished with other pictures on my blog:
https://rheumatologe.blogspot.com/2021/10/polynesische-impressionen-eine-reise-in.html 
[2] Robert Louis Stevenson [2a] is known for “Treasure Island”, but I referred here to his poem “Requiem” [2b], which can be read at his grave.
[2a] Robert Louis Stevenson (1850-1894) was a Scottish novelist, essayist, poet and travel writer.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Robert_Louis_Stevenson 
[2b] Full poem here:
https://poets.org/poem/requiem 
[3] Today 1 Samoan Tala (WST) equals 0,36 US-Dollar (USD) and the fee for the museum is 20 WST today.
[4] https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Samoa 
[5] Jacob Roggeveen (1659-1729) was a Dutch explorer who found Easter Island, Bora Bora, Maupiti, as well as Samoa. 
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jacob_Roggeveen 
 

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Melting Snow - a Haibun

 

The year had not yet ended when the snow began to fall. We walked hand in hand, without gloves. A light wind blew from the west. We climbed the rise toward the heath, where we listened to the wind moving through the pines and the bare birch trees. In the distance, three deer were visible — would they bolt at our approach? The loose stones in the wagon track crunched with every step, and the grass along the edges and down the middle of the dirt path was short, appearing more yellow than green. Then, it began to snow.

snow is melting
on our pale faces
our hands grow cold

We linked arms and tucked our hands into our jacket pockets. We stopped walking, standing still for a few moments, before turning back to continue through the swirling snow. The wind picked up, setting the flakes into a dance.

snowflakes and midges
dancing much the same way
but never together

We hurry down toward the valley. More snowflakes land on our cheeks, melting and trickling down our faces like cold tears. A white blanket covers the meadows and fields. We reach the house before our own footprints can leave a mark.

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A Journey to the South Pacific – Part 3 – Tonga

 

While looking for some documents, I came across a file from the 1990s containing notes on a trip I took in December 1994. I had previously included some of this material in an employee newsletter [1], but now I feel inspired to translate and expand upon these notes, as well as scan the necessary images.
Here are the details of the trip:
Oct 29 – Dec 15, 1994    Bali / New Zealand / South Pacific Islands
FRA – BKK – DPS – AKL – (WLG) [2] – CHC – AKL – TBU – VAU – TBU – APW – HNL – LAX – FRA

Tonga
The next stop on this journey hs been Tonga. Tonga - what lies behind this name? The Kingdom of Tonga, located in the South Pacific, consists of approximately 170 islands covering a land area of 750 km²; about 45 of these islands are inhabited. All the islands are scattered across an expanse of 700,000 km² of ocean. The capital, Nuku'alofa, is situated on the largest island, Tongatapu. Cologne and Nuku'alofa are approximately 16,685 km apart. The inhabitants of Tonga are Polynesians. Tonga is a constitutional monarchy, modeled after the British system.
Daily temperatures fluctuate between 23°C and 30°C, not much affected by the changing seasons. The rainy season lasts from November to April.
The greater Nuku'alofa area has a population of about 30,000 to 35,000, while Neiafu - the only town on Vava'u - has approximately 4,000 residents. Vava'u is the name of the main island in the archipelago of the same name, located about 300 km north of Tongatapu. The Ha'apai group lies roughly halfway between them. The Niuas - an island group whose inhabitants I had the chance to meet - are located another 300 km north of Vava'u.
In Tonga, there are 420 nursing professionals per 100,000 inhabitants (compared to 1,225 in Germany) and 100 physicians per 100,000 inhabitants (compared to 450 in Germany). The Tongan people are predominantly Christian: the Free Wesleyan Church accounts for 43%, Catholics for 16%, and other denominations for 41%. The national anthem is titled “Koe fasi oe tu'i oe otu Tonga”, which to my surprise translates to: “The piece of the king of Tonga”.

Christian Faith and History
In Western countries, the inhabitants of exotic destinations - such as Tonga - are sometimes wrongly associated with “savages” or “heathens”. This is a completely inaccurate perception. Tonga is inhabited by deeply devout Christians; most probably Germany has more heathens and savages than Tonga. The Sabbath (Sunday) is observed as a day for the Lord, celebrated in the biblical sense. Public transport comes to a complete standstill, and there are no international flights,  unlike in many other countries, where exceptions are made for the sake of tourism. The situation is similar in Samoa. On Sundays, churches in Tonga (as in Samoa) are filled with people, and one can listen to the polyphonic Polynesian hymns. Christian missionary work began with the London Missionary Society; however, initial attempts in 1817 and the following years proved unsuccessful. In 1826, the Wesleyans launched a new effort, which culminated in 1829 with the baptism of seven young men by a group led by Nathaniel Turner. One of these men was the nephew of the young ruler Taufa'ahau, who was himself baptized in 1831 and took the name George (Siaosi). Under his influence, the local population gradually converted to Christianity. During this period, other denominations also began their own missionary activities. King George reigned until 1893, followed by George Tupou II. In 1918, Queen Salote ascended the throne, and her son, Taufa'ahau Tupou IV [4], who passed away in 2006, was only the fourth monarch to reign over a span of more than 150 years.

Blowholes
On the way from Waikiki toward the western part of Oahu, or, for instance, on the island of Kaua, one is often shown a "blowhole" near Hanauma Bay. These formations occur when the sea undermines the lava rock and eventually breaks through to the surface. When the water level and wave conditions are just right, a fountain of water shoots high into the air. Here on Tongatapu, the entire coastline is honeycombed with hollows, and one blowhole follows another.

Beach House
In Nuku'alofa, I stayed at the Beach House, a place recommended by every guidebook I came across. How could anyone choose a luxury hotel over such a charming guesthouse? It was frequently claimed that if W. Somerset Maugham [5] had known about the Beach House, he surely would have stayed there. Perhaps one person came up with this idea and everyone else simply followed suit, but it really does ring true! During the First World War, Maugham spent several months on various Polynesian islands. The impressions he gathered during that time found their way into short stories such as "Mackintosh," "Red," "Honolulu," and "Rain" - arguably his most famous story, which is set in a small guesthouse in Pago Pago (American Samoa) amidst a downpour. I watched the young girls on the veranda as they spent their day - doing a bit of their chores, joking around, braiding each other’s hair, lounging, sleeping, and chatting. The atmosphere on the veranda feels just like something out of one of Maugham’s short stories. When it rains, you can almost feel the spirit of "Rain" in the air, and images from the film adaptation starring Joan Crawford come to mind. From the veranda, you look out over blossoms, palm trees, the sea, and distant islands - though, despite all the South Seas romance, you also see the occasional car driving by. Alternatively, you can cross the street and join the young people playing ball under the palm trees, or sit on the quay wall, laughing and talking. Upon returning from "town" (Nuku'alofa is, in reality, more like a vast village - likely with a larger population than Apia, which, by contrast, has the character of a small town), one is greeted by a tree with red blossoms (a "fire tree" or "crimson glory") standing before the open veranda and the rusty corrugated-iron roof.

Dances in Tonga
In Tonga, too, I attended a tourist-oriented evening. There were dances to watch, songs to hear, and a museum to visit, featuring a meal with traditional dishes. There was also a kava ceremony, consisting of two sips of kava per person, which was more focused on the ritual itself.
The staff from the Visitor’s Bureau were also working in the evening at the Tonga National Center; they expressed their gratitude for the tourists’ visit, as it provided them with employment (quite literally!). I particularly enjoyed the women’s seated dances, which involved many rhythmic hand movements and various styles of clapping.

M.S. Olovaha – The Ferry
I had decided to travel from Nuku'alofa to Vava'u by ferry, a journey of approximately 300 km. There were two ferries to choose from: one nicknamed the "floating coffin" and the other known as "orange vomit." I opted for the "orange vomit", the M.S. Olovaha, which proved to be a seaworthy vessel. As I later learned, the Olovaha was launched in Bremen around 1980.
The M.S. Olovaha set sail a day later than scheduled; one certainly needs a bit of flexibility when embarking on trips like this!
The vastness of the Pacific, with a gentle swell amidst the rain! About an hour after departure, we crossed paths with a cargo ship heading toward Nuku'alofa; it would be the only other vessel we encountered on the open sea during the entire crossing. Occasionally, we encountered seagulls and other seabirds, sailing against the wind through the troughs of the waves.
I had a window seat, and a family had set up camp around me and the space in front of the rows of seats. The area all the way to the emergency exit was packed with crates, suitcases, plants, and other agricultural stock. The family consisted of an elderly gentleman, who suffered from elephantiasis in his right leg, a younger man, two women, a boy, and two girls (listed in the traditional order!). The old man lay down on a massive bed, the kind that brings to mind the command, "Rise, take up your bed, and walk!", wedged between two rows of seats. The women and girls slept on mats in front of a stair railing. Every now and then, they would wake up, turn their heads toward the stairs, and vomit downward. The boy, who was sleeping right in front of the stairs, also vomited down into the same space. In fact, everyone around me seemed to be vomiting from time to time, though there didn't really seem to be any good reason for it. I felt sorry that the descendants of one of the greatest seafarers were suffering so much from seasickness despite the only mild swell, but my own high spirits remained undampened.
By evening, we were anchored off Ha'afeva, an island in the Ha'apai group. The island’s embankment loomed high before us, illuminated by the ship’s spotlights. Small boats circled the “Olovaha” to take on cargo and passengers, though some, it seemed, had simply come out of idle curiosity.
Later that night, amidst a torrential downpour, we docked at Pangai (on the island of Lifuka in the Ha'apai group). Heavy items - tractors, most likely - were unloaded, making the “Olovaha” noticeably lighter. It seemed to me, at least, that this only made it even easier for everyone to vomit. Having experienced seasickness myself on the Irish Sea about 15 years before this trip, I could empathize with the people who were vomiting.
By this time, the people on the aft deck were completely soaked. The tarpaulin over the seating area, torn in places, barely held back the lashing rain. In some spots, the tarp sagged so low that 100 to 150 liters of water had pooled there, waiting to cascade down onto the people below all at once. The cardboard boxes containing goods purchased in Nuku'alofa had become so waterlogged that they tore at the slightest touch. I didn't see how they managed to transport their belongings any further. And actually I was glad, that I went down into the hull instead of staying on deck.
The following morning, we docked in Neiafu (Vava'u) just as the rain let up; I spotted some yachts, though I didn't have any interaction with the sailors. Only minutes after our arrival, another tropical downpour began. Drenched to the bone, I found a guesthouse on a small rise, near the Fangatonga royal residence and the primary school of the same name. As the saying goes, sunshine follows the rain, and that is exactly what happened: the small coral islands, lush with palm green and edged in white sand, floated in a turquoise sea beneath a deep blue sky filled with brilliant, sun-bright clouds.

The Procession
In Neiafu, the day before the King’s visit, I encountered a procession. The participants were heading toward Fangatonga Primary School, the very same route I needed to take to reach the Hamana Lake Guest House. Before I even saw them, I heard their singing and their joyful shouts. Then I saw them in their ceremonial attire, a black “lava-lava”, a white shirt or blouse (instead of a black one), the traditional mat, with fresh pandanus leaves layered over it, and garlands or “leis”, and flowers as further adornment.
The Catholic priest was also traditional in his appearance, though dressed entirely in black. The celebration was held to welcome the new chaplain. A pig and some kava were pulled along on two carts, attached by long ropes.
Early in the evening, from my guesthouse, I could listen to the singing—the school is located right next door. The vowel-rich languages of Polynesia sound particularly pleasant, and even beguilingly beautiful, when sung. The singing was accompanied by clapping, and I was fascinated by the sheer variety of sounds that can be produced just by clapping one’s hands. But then I had to tear myself away from these impressions, as I had already planned to attend another celebration that evening.

Kava
A delightful evening unfolded when I went out to drink kava. The Free Wesleyan Church was hosting this Friday night a kava session to raise funds for a construction project; the end justifies the means. The new church is beautifully situated above the yacht anchorage. We held our gathering in the old church, which now serves as a hall for sports and meetings. The kava session lasted four to five hours.
Before I continue, I must say a few words about kava. Kava is the ritual beverage of the South Pacific. It is sometimes called "kava kava"; on Pohnpei (Micronesia) it is known as "sakau," and in the Fiji Islands, it is referred to as "yaqona." It consists of the root of the kava plant (Piper methysticum) - a type of pepper shrub - which is crushed and softened in water [6].
In the past, the root used to be chewed and then spat into a large communal bowl, but that is no longer done today. The reason for this practice was to create a slightly more potent drink, as the alkaloids are more effectively extracted from the root through the action of salivary enzymes (alpha-amylasis). The German name Rauschpfeffer ("intoxicating pepper") might suggest that Kava is an intoxicant, but that is not the case - unless one were to also classify coffee and tea as intoxicants. Drinking kava fosters a sense of contentment and sociability; it does not lead to aggression or the kind of hangover associated with alcoholic beverages.
Beyond its social role, the plant also has medicinal uses. In Polynesian folk medicine, kava has been employed to treat bronchitis, bladder ailments, rheumatic complaints, and various other conditions.
Returning to the story in Neiafu: I sat with a group gathered around the band. There, I met the school principal, Sayad; the vicar, Makisi; the pastor, Viseka; and others. I discovered that Makisi knew Reverend Jovili in Suva (Fiji), having once been his teacher, a man I had also met during a previous trip to the South Pacific.
We sat in a circle on pandanus mats. To one side stood the kava bowl, which was replenished from time to time from large vats. We passed coconut shells among ourselves, drinking the kava from them.
A three-man band played throughout the evening, with only brief pauses. The three elderly gentlemen played guitar and banjo while singing songs from the South Pacific, songs from Tonga, as well as English-language tracks and songs from Hawai'i, including "Drinking Rum and Coca-Cola" by the Andrews Sisters. It was indescribably beautiful.
As previously mentioned, these Friday gatherings are organized for the purpose of raising funds. Around 100 to 150 men sat together in various groups, talking, laughing, singing along, or simply drinking kava. Later, three or four spirited young women were permitted to join; they were allowed only to serve the kava, a role with which they seemed perfectly content. At the end, Viseka offered a Tongan prayer of thanksgiving, asking that "God bless the givers and the gifts" in reference to the 324 Pa'anga (T$) that had been collected. I still use those same words quite often in our church today, and sometimes, as I do, my thoughts drift back to Vava'u. Afterwards, I made my way through the dark lanes of the small town back to my guesthouse; above me the stars were twinkling and the Magellanic Clouds, and within myself, I felt a sense of joyful contentment. The festivities at the Fangatonga Primary School had also come to an end.

The following day, I flew from Lupepau'u Airport, passing over the small islands and atolls, back to Tongatapu, and a few days later, I continued my journey to Samoa.

Links and Annotations:
[1] The original had been printed in TAU (Magazin der Franziskanerinnen von Münster-St. Mauritz) 1995 and republished with other pictures on my blog:
https://rheumatologe.blogspot.com/2021/10/polynesische-impressionen-eine-reise-in.html 
[2] I forgot -: WLG isn't Weilaghiri [1a], a fictious location, in fact the city of hell, but Wellington, which is hard for airplanes to land because of heavy gales.
[2a] „Wehe uns! Wir sind verloren; denn dies ist Weilaghiri, die Höllenstadt!“ Arno Schmidt [“Woe betide us! We are lost; for this is Weilaghiri, the city of hell!”]
[3] https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tonga 
[4] Tāufaʻāhau Tupou IV [Siaosi Tāufaʻāhau Tupoulahi] (1918-2006) was King of Tonga from 1965 until his death in 2006. He was previously Prime Minister of Tonga from 1949 to 1965.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/T%C4%81ufa%CA%BB%C4%81hau_Tupou_IV 
[5] William Somerset Maugham (1874-1965) was an English writer. 
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/W._Somerset_Maugham 
[6] „Kava or kava kava (Piper methysticum: Latin 'pepper' and Latinized Greek 'intoxicating') is a plant in the pepper family, native to the Pacific Islands. The name kava is from Tongan and Marquesan, meaning 'bitter'.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kava 

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K. und die TheaterKritik

K. fand sich in einem altmodischen HotelZimmer wieder. Er wachte auf und blickte sich um. Kein Fernseher, sehr gut. Ein SchreibTisch, Stühle, ein EßTisch mit mehr Stühlen, ein Bett, die Wände mit Stoffen bespannt, schwere Gardinen. Er stand auf, ging zum Fenster und schaute auf eine Straße. Es waren einige Platanen zu sehen, die sich im Wind bewegten.
Er ging ins Bad, benutzte die Toilette, rasierte sich, putzte sich die Zähne, wusch sich und kehrte zum Anziehen in das Zimmer zurück. Ein Hemd mit plissierter Brust und Manschettenknöpfen sowie einer schwarzen Fliege, eine Weste mit einer TaschenUhr an einer Kette, eine altmodische schwarze Hose bis knapp unter die Brust mit HosenTrägern, schwarze, glänzende LackLederSchuhe lagen für ihn bereit und er zog alles an. Eine HausJacke vervollständigte sein Ausssehen. So hatte K. sich noch nie gekleidet.
Auf den Eßtisch stellte der ZimmerKellner gerade eine Mahlzeit. K. bediente sich selbst von den dampfenden Speisen, die er auf das exquisite Porzellan legte.
Dann wurde es Zeit für den Gang zum Theater, wie ihm durch ein Telefonat mitgeteilt worden war. Er zog die HausJacke aus und den Smoking an. Und … K. setzte einen Homburg auf. Auch ein erstes Mal.
K. ging vom ersten Stock über eine mit Teppich bespannte Treppe zum HotelEingang, denn auch eine Fahrt durch den frühen Abend zum Theater war ihm angekündigt worden. K. bestieg einen altmodischen Wagen mit Fahrer, der ihm den Schlag öffnete und schloß. Die Fahrt durch den leichten Verkehr ging ohne Halt, aber langsam. K. saht PferdeFuhrwerke und wenig Autos. Die Frauen trugen durchweg lange Röcke. Die Kleidung der Männer ähnelte seiner, es sah nur wenige Menschen in der Kleidung der unteren Schichten.
Sie kamen am Theater an. K. hatte sich die Glacé-Handschuhe noch im Auto angezogen. Der Fahrer öffnete den Schlag und K. steigt aus. Der Fahrer wies, die Mütze unter dem linken Arm, auf den TheaterEingang und K. ging die fünf TreppenStufen hinauf zum Eingang. Man spielte heute Abend das Stück „Die Dohle“ von Antonow Denissowitsch Tschechow, einem russischen Dichter des 19. Jahrhunderts. K. sieht im Publikum Männer, die ähnlich wie er gekleidet waren, aber es waren keine Frauen anwesend. K. sah sich das leidlich unterhaltsame Stück an. ÜberraschenderWeise gab es keine Pause zum HerumStehen mit einem Glas Champagner, wie er es erwartet hatte. Nach kurzem Applaus war der Abend zu Ende. Der Fahrer war bereits vorGefahren und es ging zügig zurück zum Hotel.
K. ging auf sein Zimmer im ersten stock zurück und fand eine Anweisung, eine Kritik von zwei Seiten Umfang zu der Inszenierung des Stückes „Die Dohle“ von Antonow Denissowitsch Tschechow zu schreiben. Nachdem er die Anweisung gelesen hatte, zog er den Smoking aus, die Schuhe und die Fliege, zog sich dafür die HausSchuhe und die HausJacke an.
Er fand jetzt auf dem SchreibTisch eine altmodische SchreibMaschine, Papier und KohlePapier. Ein Blatt und zwei DurchSchläge waren schon in die SchreibMaschine einGespannt worden. Er schrieb und kommt kaum voran, was sollte er nur schreiben?! Zunächst schreckte er bei jedem der lauten Anschläge der SchreibMaschine zusammen. Weckte er damit nicht andere Gäste des Hotels? Aber das schien nicht der Fall zu sein, wie es auch in seinem HotelZimmer mit den schweren Gardinen und den StoffTapeten nicht hallte. K. schrieb dann, ohne sich weiter um diese Geräusche zu kümmern bzw. sich durch sie ablenken zu lassen. Er schrieb einiges vom Programm ab, daß man ihm überlassen hatte. Schließlich war er fertig, trennte die einzelnen Exemplare, steckte sie in einen Umschlag ... und da klopfte es. Ein Bote war wie auf Bestellung gekommen und holte den Umschlag ab.
Wie mochte es nun weitergehen. K. suchte das Bad auf, aber kaum war er zurück im Zimmer, klopfte es wieder und der Bote brachte einen Umschlag. K. öffnete den Umschlag und sah einen der DurchSchläge seiner Kritik mit vielen roten Anmerkungen und der Anweisung, die Kritik nach diesen Hinweisen zu bearbeiten. K. schrieb eifrig und konnte auf nicht beanstandete TextStücke zurückGreifen und so dauerte die zweite Fassung nicht gar so lange. Schließlich war er fertig, trennte die einzelnen Exemplare, steckte sie in einen Umschlag ... und da klopfte es. Der Bote war erneut da und holte den Umschlag. Dieses Spiel wiederholte sich einige Male und die roten Anmerkungen wurden weniger. Nach langer Zeit schien man zufrieden zu sein und der Morgen war angebrochen. K. war völlig ausgelaugt und müde. Kaum schaffte er es, das FrühStück, das ein HausDiener hereinGerollt hatte, zu essen. Er trank weder Kaffee noch Tee. Auf dem Bett lag ein Pyjama, den er entgegen seiner GePflogenheiten anzog. Er ging ins Bad, putzte sich die Zähne, kam zurück in den Raum, die schweren Gardinen waren zugezogen. Er ging zu Bett und schlief augenBlicklich ein.
Am NachMittag lärmten die ZimmerMädchen, die er jedoch nie zu sehen bekam. K. wachte auf. Verschlafen blickte er sich um. Das Zimmer ähnelte dem anderen Zimmer, aber es war definitiv ein anderes Zimmer. Er nahm es so hin. Er ging ins Bad, rasierte sich und aß schließlich, wieder hochHerrschaftlich gekleidet bis auf die HausJacke sein spätes MittagsMahl.
Wieder erwartete ihn ein Wagen mit Chauffeur. Ein anderes Hotel, eine andere Stadt, ein anderer Wagen, ein anderer Chauffeur, ein anderes Theater, eine andere Inszenierung, andere SchauSpieler, doch wieder „Die Dohle“ von Antonow Denissowitsch Tschechow.
K. sah im Publikum erneut nur Männer und keine Frauen. Keiner erwiderte seinen Blick oder reagierte auf Zurufe, die K. aus seiner Loge heraus versuchte. K. sah sich das Stück nun zum zweiten Mal an. Es interessierte ihn noch weniger. Und wieder keine Pause, keine Brause, kein Champagner. Der Applaus war kräftig, wie auch der am Vorabend, aber kurz. Man verließ schnell das Theater.
K. saugte sich wieder eine Kritik aus den Fingern, schrieb über eine gewagte Inszenierung, hämmerte in die Tasten, überGab den UmSchlag, beKam Korrekturen über Korrekturen und erLedigte diese. Nach dem FrühStück schaffte er es gerade noch in Pyjama und Bett.
So gig das eine Weile, jeden Tag eine neue Stadt, ein neues Hotel, frische Garderobe, bisweilen auch Frack und weiße Fliege. Jeden Tag eine neue Inszenierung, eine neue Kritik, die solange bekrittelt wurde, bis die Nacht herum war. Schrieb er nicht, verging die Zeit langsamer. Die WandUhr bewegte ihre Zeiger dann nicht. HauptSache er schrieb zwei Seiten. Immer wieder versuchet K. Kontakt zu anderen herzustellen. Die Boten, HausDiener, Rezeptionisten schwiegen, wenn er Fragen stellte, die nicht zu ihrer Aufgabe gehörten. Und so schweigen auch die Herren im Theater beharrlich. Die ZimmerMädchen hatte er bisher nie zu Gesicht bekommen; vielleicht waren ihre Stimmen auch nur eine BandAufnahme.
Eines Abends nun überlegte K. einige Strategien, weil er alle Zeit der Welt hatte, denn während er nicht schrieb, bewegte sich auch die WandUhr nicht.
Als erste Strategie wollte er nun nur noch Lobhudeleien schreiben. Erstens, um den Effekt auf die kritischen Anmerkungen, das Rot in seinen Manuskripten, herauszufinden und zweitens, ob sich irgendetwas an den Inszenierungen oder am Stück ändern würde.
Als zweite Strategie wollte er nach einiger Zeit genau das Gegenteil ausprobieren, nämlich, ob negative Kritik, also Verriss auf Verriss, etwas ändern würde.
Natürlich änderte sich überhaupt nichts.
Stadt um Stadt, manchmal erkannte er eine Stadt, ein Theater wieder, aber nicht das Hotel. Die Namen der Regisseure und SchauSpieler waren immer neu. Seine Schreibmaschine war jeden Tag anders. K. besaß kein Archiv. Er sah seine Kritiken nie im Druck. Er sah überhaupt nie eine Zeitung. Dann erkannte er ein Hotel wieder, aber nicht den Rezeptionisten und auch nicht das Zimmer. Aber das brachte ihn auf den Gedanken, die Zimmer heimlich zu markieren.
Aber wo sollte er eine Markierung anbringen? Er überlegte sich, hinter dem Spiegel im Bad ein winziges Stück Papier zu klemmen. Er hatte schon zuvor aus Wut abgelehnte Manuskripte zerrissen, er würde sich jetzt ein winziges Stück sichern und beschriften. Er schrieb: "K. Tag 1", denn ab nun würde er wieder beginnen, Zeit zu markieren, ja in seiner Zeit zu leben.
Eine weitere Idee kam ihm, denn mit den Glacé-Handschuhen konnte er auch arbeiten. Er vergaß sie im Auto, im Hotel, in der Loge, wo er sie auch schon einmal versteckte. Immer kamen sie wieder zu ihm zurück, nie kam er im HotelZimmer ohne sie an.
Was machten all diese theaterBesessenen Männer jeden Abend bei der Aufführung von Tschechows „Dohle“? Oder schrieben auch sie in anderen HotelZimmern Kritik um Kritik.
Irgendwann beherrschte K. das Stück "Die Dohle" von Anton Denissowitsch Tschechow auswendig. Auch die anderen Männer schienen das Stück auswendig zu kennen, denn als einer der Schauspieler stockte, soufflierten hunderte Stimmen ihm den Text. 
Am nächsten Tag fand er seinen Zettel "K. Tag 1", aber da war es ihm schon egal, denn er war zum Kritiker mutiert.

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A Journey to the South Pacific – Part 2 – New Zealand

 

While looking for some documents, I came across a file from the 1990s containing notes on a trip I took in December 1994. I had previously included some of this material in an employee newsletter, but now I feel inspired to translate and expand upon these notes, as well as scan the necessary images.
Here are the details of the trip:
Oct 29 – Dec 15, 1994    Bali / New Zealand / South Pacific Islands
FRA – BKK – DPS – AKL – (WLG) – CHC – AKL – TBU – VAU – TBU – APW – HNL – LAX – FRA


Gopal's Restaurant
The Hare Krishnas [1] are still around - even "down under". While walking through Christchurch, someone handed me a flyer for an inexpensive lunch. I didn't pay much attention to it at the time and just tucked it away, continuing on my path since it was still far too early for lunch. Around the corner was a mall, to which I returned a little later. As I sat there, two Hare Krishnas - dressed in Indian-style clothing and carrying a "mridanga" (drum) and cymbals - came chanting through the mall. They approached the person who had handed out the flyers, whom I only then recognized as a fellow Hare Krishna. I looked at the leaflet and - lo and behold - discovered "Gopal's Restaurant" [2] nearby; I immediately knew exactly where it was. I headed straight there to feast on vegetarian food - "prasadam", in fact. I wasn't disappointed; the dishes were genuinely vegetarian - a far cry from the unrefined, thoughtless cooking that used to be common in Hare Krishna circles. It seems enough "health enthusiasts" must have converted to Krishna, bringing a more mindful approach to food. Otherwise, maintaining a meat-free diet during my travels would have been quite difficult. By that time, I was already living a meat-free life, with the exception of family gatherings; my last non-vegetarian meal was a fish in Baldersheim (Norway) in 1995, which my youngest brother had caught there.

This picture has been shot in 2013.

Kea
One of the bus drivers spoke about the "kea" - a species of parrot he described as "mischievous little birds". The driver had worked on the construction of a road - a project spanning 120 kilometers - where the keas would frequently steal tools and other items left lying around. One of them would get fed every morning through the kitchen skylight - specifically, biscuits spread with butter and honey. One morning, the butter and honey were missing, and the biscuit came right back through the skylight. I first encountered them at the transfer point for Doubtful Sound. Warning signs there advised people to watch out for the keas, and the guidebook noted that they would even tear through tents with their sharp beaks to get at food. I found myself glancing back and forth between the birds and a young Asian-American woman - she possessed such perfect proportions and beauty in her figure, face, and movements. I had to make an effort not to stare too intently. Well, the keas were staring too, but they certainly weren't interested in aesthetics.
I returned there again in 2013 [3].

Fox Glacier
Without rain - a rarity, it seems, for the West Coast - the landscape looks magnificent. Bathed in the vibrant colors of the morning sun, I gazed out at pastures, forests, and the snow-capped mountains, which loomed not far away.
As we approached the glacier, a rain began to fall again. However, we had been equipped with rain jackets and waterproof, hobnailed mountain boots - heavy, those boots! Each of us was also given a walking staff tipped with an ice pick. On the way to the glacier’s face, we had to wade through several streams—and would you believe it, there were even tourists heading that way in white tennis shoes! Afterward, the route led up over slippery rocks to an entry point about 150–200 meters higher in elevation. Once on the glacier, we continued our ascent, and the valley below grew smaller and smaller. At times, the rain would freeze upon the ice. Deep blue lay within the glacial crevasses.
By 2013, the glacier had already retreated by 2–3 kilometers - a process that continues due to climate change.

The Bridge
After spending a long time traveling through areas with only 100–300 inhabitants, I found this small town to be a true marvel. A few kilometers further on, however, we reached a single-lane bridge decked with timber. Railway tracks indicated yet another use for the structure. Yet, contrary to what one might have expected, there was no traffic jam.

Paihia
In the Far North, the colors shifted back to something subtropical. The weather was perfect for a voyage aboard the "R. Tucker Thompson", a sailing ship [4]. Propelled solely by the wind, we glided across the turquoise ocean. Dolphins broke through the water’s surface. The uninhabited islands rose from the sea, adorned in the white of their beaches and the green of their forests.

Links and Annotations:
[1] The Hare Krishnas are devotees of ISKCON [1a]. I was interested in knowing more about them in the 1970ies, when I met with a journalist (Hans Conrad Zander), who worked for STERN magazine at the time; we developed a lifelong friendship, travelled together and are still in contact, actually he called me from Switzerland today. Recently I looked up A. C. Bhaktivedanta Swami Prabhupada [1b], the founder acharya of ISKCON, as I knew that he was buried sitting upright in sugar. And actually the Hare Krishnas were also active in Cologne, Germany. I found out later as they were and are still operating a temple near Layla, my Afghan hairdresser.
[1a] The International Society for Krishna Consciousness (ISKCON), commonly known as the Hare Krishna Movement, is a Hindu religious organization.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/ISKCON  
[1b] I met him and Hans Conrad Zander in 1974, when Zander wrote a critical and widely noted article for STERN magazine (issue 28/1974) titled “The God Who Devours Money and Hair” [„Der Gott, der Geld und Haare frißt“].
[2] I just realize that ISKCON had a Restaurant also called Gopal's in Cologne, where they now have the temple.
[3] Details of the 2013 trip:
Nov 9 – Dec 8, 2013  New Zealand 
Cologne – DUS – DXB – BKK – SYD – CHK – Akaroa (Flea Bay) – Lake Tekapo – Queenstown – Manapouri (Milford Sound) – Nugget Point – Lake Hawea – Okarito – Arthur’s Pass – CHK – BKK – DXB – DUS – Cologne 
[4] Still operating in the Bay of Islands for instance.

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Altargesteck zum 20. Sonntag nach Trinitatis 2026

 

An manchem Tag mein Haupt, wie wüst und öde
Wie eingesargt mein Herz zu manchen Zeiten!
Vor übergroßer Schwäche schein' ich blöde
Bewußtlos starrt mein Auge durch die Weiten.
Annette von Droste-Hülshoff [1]

Der heutige Sonntag ist der 20. Sonntag nach dem Trinitatis-Fest [2]. Der Wochenspruch lautet: „Es ist dir gesagt, Mensch, was gut ist und was der HERR von dir fordert: nichts als Gottes Wort halten und Liebe üben und demütig sein vor deinem Gott.“ [3] Der 20. Sonntag nach Trinitatis geht der Frage nach der Ordnung für ein gutes Leben nach, wie man einen würde- und respektvollen Umgang miteinander pflegt, aber viel wichtiger noch, daß wir im täglichen Leben nach Gott fragen, der Treue hält in seinem Bund mit den Menschen. Er verlangt nicht nicht, Regeln sklavisch auszulegen, denn die Ordnungen sind für uns gemacht und nicht der Mensch für die Ordnungen. So hatte Jesus darlegt, daß der Sabbat für den Menschen geschaffen wurde und nicht umgekehrt, aber darauf werden wir noch kommen. Das heißt für unser tägliches Leben, Regeln nicht um der Regeln willen einzuhalten, sondern in Liebe und Freiheit zueinander zu stehen; übrigens sagte Saint-Exupéry einmal, daß Liebe nicht bedeutet, sich anzuschauen, sondern in die gleiche Richtung zu schauen [4]. 

Für die Lesung aus dem Alten Testament war vorgesehen, als Noah aus der Arche tritt [5]. Noah ist am Berg Ararat oder den armenischen Bergen gelandet, Luther, wie auch andere Übersetzungen, schreiben Berg Ararat [6]. Das ursprünglich hebräische Wort ist später über das assyrische Wort Urartu: Armenisch Արարատ Ararat übernommen worden. Die Übersetzung aus der aramäischen Bibel (Peschitta-Bibelübersetzung) besagt jedoch: „Und die Arche kam im siebten Monat, am siebzehnten Tag des Monats, auf den Bergen von Qardu – Kurdistan – zur Ruhe.“ Dies bezieht sich auf den Berg Judi (heutiger Name!), der in der Türkei liegt [7]. „Die Identifizierung des biblischen Ararat mit dem Berg Judi als Anlandeplatz der Arche hielt sich in der syrischen und armenischen Tradition während der gesamten Spätantike.“ Der Berg liegt etwa auf halber Strecke zwischen Van und Mosul mitten in Kurdistan; im wilden Kurdistan will man mit Karl May sagen und hat damit so unrecht nicht [8]. 
Der Text im Alten Testament kommt nun zu der poetischen Aussage, daß der Regenbogen das Zeichen des Bundes sei, den Gott aufgerichtet hat zwischen ihm und allem Fleisch auf Erden. Ich finde diese Stelle so schön wie: „Nähme ich Flügel der Morgenröte und bliebe am äußersten Meer, ...“ [9].  

Für den heutigen Tag steht der Text der Epistel im 2. Korintherbrief, und da schreibt Paulus: „... nicht des Buchstabens, sondern des Geistes. Denn der Buchstabe tötet, aber der Geist macht lebendig.“ [10] 
Für den zweiten Brief an die Korinther überblicke ich selbstverständlich nicht die Spitzfindigkeit der textkritischen Forschung. Wahrscheinlich setzt sich der heutige Text aus den Fragmenten mehrerer Briefe zusammen, die Paulus zu verschiedenen Zeiten geschrieben hatte, dann aber nicht aus Gründen, etwa, daß ein weiterer Besuch in Korinth anstand, der dann doch nicht ausgeführt wurde, sondern aus anderen Gründen abschickte. Diese Texte hat später  jemand versucht, in eine sinnvolle Abfolge zu ordnen, was aber zu abrupten Themenwechseln führen mußte, z.B. von der Kollekte für Jerusalem oder auch seiner Verteidigungsrede im 10. Kapitel. Ähnliches führt auch Hans Frör in „Ach Ihr Korinther!“ [11] aus.

Die Lesung aus dem Evangelium behandelt Ehe und Ehescheidung sowie „Die Segnung der Kinder“ [12]. „Was nun Gott zusammengefügt hat, soll der Mensch nicht scheiden“ ist für mich eine klare Aussage, aber noch interessanter ist die Antwort Jesu Christi auf den Hinweis, daß Mose einen Scheidebrief zugelassen hatte: „Um eures Herzens Härte willen hat er euch dieses Gebot geschrieben; aber von Anfang der Schöpfung an hat Gott sie geschaffen als Mann und Frau.“ Also ich hätte hier abgeschlossen, aber die Lesung greift – „and now to something completely different“ – ein neues Thema, nämlich „Die Segnung der Kinder“ auf. Bei „Und er herzte sie und legte die Hände auf sie und segnete sie“ frage ich mich, ob wir das noch so unschuldig lesen können, wie es daher kommt und sicherlich vor 2000 Jahren auch so war. Aber mir drängen sich Bilder von Stalin und Hitler sowie natürlich Donald Trump mit Kindern auf, so daß ich diese aktiv dem richtigen Kontingent zuordnen muss.

Im Predigttext geht es um „Das Ährenraufen am Sabbat“ [13]. Beim Gang durch die Kornfelder rauften die Jünger Ähren aus. Interessanterweise liegen die synoptischen Evangelisten nicht ganz richtig [14]: „Habt ihr nie gelesen, was David tat, da er Mangel hatte und ihn hungerte, ihn und die bei ihm waren: wie er ging in das Haus Gottes zur Zeit des Hohenpriesters Abjatar und aß die Schaubrote, die niemand essen darf als die Priester, und gab sie auch denen, die bei ihm waren?“ David traf den Priester Ahimelech in Nob ohne seine Leute. Er bat den Priester um Brot, der aber hatte nur die Schaubrote. Er gab diese Brote David unter der Bedingung, dass sich die Männer der Frauen enthalten haben, was aber der Fall war [15]. Es war also eine genehmigte, überlegte Ausnahme von der Regel. Ich frage mich überhaupt, ob man der Auslegung der Pharisäer folgen muss, denn nur das Sicheln des Weizens aber nicht das Abreißen der Ähren zählt als Arbeit [16]. Insofern treffen sich hier begründete Abweichungen von der Regel, also: „Der Sabbat ist um des Menschen willen gemacht und nicht der Mensch um des Sabbats willen.“ Und: „So ist der Menschensohn Herr auch über den Sabbat.“

Das Altargesteck war in Köln wie bereits bekannt. Violette Töne mit orangen und roten Tupfern überwiegen. Die liturgische Farbe mag vorhanden sein, aber doch nur sehr versteckt. In der Natur auf dem Weg zur Versöhnungskirche sah es auch bunt aus. Das Grün schwindet und so auch die Zeit nach Trinitatis.

Inspiriert vom täglichen Blumenstrauß
auf einem Fahrrad von Ai Weiwei (艾未未).

Links und Anmerkungen:
[1] Annette von Droste-Hülshoff: Das geistliche Jahr. Union Verlag, Berlin 1952. S. 144-146. Am XXI. Sonntage nach Pfingsten. 
[2] https://kirchenjahr-evangelisch.de/20-sonntag-nach-trinitatis/ 
[3] Micha 6,8
[4] Antoine de Saint-Exupéry: Wind, Sand und Sterne (Originaltitel: Terre des Hommes). Karl Rauch Verlag, Düsseldorf 2002. ISBN: 9783792000304. Da ich das Buch vor fünf Jahren gelesen habe, weiß ich die Seitenzahl nicht mehr.
[5] https://www.die-bibel.de/bibel/LU17/GEN.8 1. Mose 8,18–22 und dazu gehört noch ein Teil aus dem 9. Kapitel
https://www.die-bibel.de/bibel/LU17/GEN.9 1. Mose 9,12–17 
[6] https://www.bibleserver.com/EU.LUT/1.Mose8%2C4 1.Mose 8,4 und wenn man in https://biblehub.com/genesis/8-4.htm in den Bereich des hebräischen Textes geht, findet man dort „Berge von Ararat“.
[7] https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mount_Judi  
[8] Der Abenteuerroman „Durchs wilde Kurdistan“ von Karl May wurde 

1892 veröffentlicht und spielte in der Gegend; ein Gegner war der Pascha von Mossul.
[9] https://www.bibleserver.com/LUT/Psalm139 Ps 139,9
[10] https://www.die-bibel.de/bibel/LU17/2CO.3 2. Kor 3,3–6(7–9) 
[11] Leider habe ich das Buch [11a] von Hans Frör bislang nicht gelesen, da es fiktive Briefe an Paulus beinhaltet, aber er hat auch ein Kapitel „Zur Teilung der Paulusbriefe beigefügt (S. 170-173).
[11a] Hans Frör: Ach Ihr Korinther. Der Briefwechsel der Gemeinde in Korinth mit Paulus. Chr. Kaiser / Güterloher Verlagshaus, Güterloh 1994. ISBN: 3-579-02283-0.
[12] https://www.die-bibel.de/bibel/LU17/MRK.10 Mk 10,2–9(10–12)13–16 
[13] https://www.die-bibel.de/bibel/LU17/MRK.2 Mk 2,23–28 
[14] Die betreffen Stellen sind bei Mt 12,1-8 und Lk 6,1-5 zu finden.
[15] https://www.bibleserver.com/LUT/1.Samuel21 
[16] 5. Mose 23,25

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