It may be an old art and one taken for granted nowadays. Frankly, you need time, energy or plain obsession to go through a world of stamps. I have the guilty pleasure of being currently OBSESSED with the fuckin things. I try and view it from several angles. It’s working my memory (which constantly seems to be fading) and allowing me to grab a sense of style when it comes to history. When you view these little things you not just see color and beauty, but you get content- information. For example, those done around the 1920’s- 30’s may have a sense of art deco which happened worldwide. This information nowadays is sought through multiple avenues like google, yahoo, and other computer references.

Anyways, I regress. Yesterday, I was with my father who recently turned 79. He’s always had a facination with the things, and perhaps it’s where I get my interest. We compare notes and although he has a great ability to be artistic, he limits this use to decoration of the garden (how English) or the decor of his home. He does have an appreciation of beauty, which is why I brought him the album.

When you’re young, you’re often so wrapped up in what immediately happens to you, you neglect the facts of what might happen outside your own world and in the world of your elders. I knew my father often faced dangerous situations in his travels to other countries (84 in total), but I only find these stories occasionally surface as a “grown up”.

As he glanced through the pages, he came across Gabon. He says to my mother- “Do you remember when I lost my luggage there?” and he tells me a brief story. He searches once again and crosses Libya. The story began……

My father was in negotiations with a company in Bulgaria that concluded late in the evening causing a missed flight to Istanbul at 10pm. In his efforts to get to Turkey that evening, he was able to rebook his flight on a small charter at 11:30pm. He hadn’t realized until after the plane was booked the flight was Libyan. One week earlier the United States had bombed Libya (Kadafi) and killed 7 people. He went to the end of the line, hoping he could be discreet in showing his US passport. The Libyans patiently waited on line while constantly sharing glances. 

When it came time to show his passport, the man viewing said under his breath, “yank”. Everyone watched. 

Un-nerved by the time and the lack of people around, he made his way as best he could being nudged by libians here and there. When he boarded the plane, many of these men lit up cigarettes despite the non-smoking signs. My father approached his seat (a good one) but wasn’t allowed to sit there by these men. They pushed him to the back of the smoke filled plane where he took an empty seat. A harrowing ordeal in itself.

In transit, my father could hear them mock America. Again, smoking at their leisure in ignorance of the signs. Well, he kept his mouth shut and finished some hour and a half later in Istanbul some time after Midnight. 

When he went to the luggage turnstile to retrieve his bag, he found a Libyan walking away with it. He told him in ernest it was his, but when the man wouldn’t listen, my father latched on to it. He fought verbally with the man. It escalated. Other men surrounded him. The verbal assault got louder and an airport security guard came to investigate. My Dad told of the ordeal and of the man taking his bag. He offered to open the bag and show him the suitcase contents (locked under key). He told the guard to ask the other man if he could do the same. 

The other man couldn’t but STILL refused to give it up. An argument led to an altercation with these Libyans and backup came. Eventually, my Dad got his bag but none of the men were retained. He still had to get to his hotel from the airport at 1:30am by taxi, outside the airport….. NO security.  

He got a taxi and immediately two Libyans wanted to join him in the car. He resisted and shoved a $5 bill into the driver’s hands. The taxi driver “shoed” them out, locked the doors and drove off. With a sign of relief, he’d escaped. Until he bypassed the main route to the hotel. He shook the shoulder of the driver, “Hey, you pasted the main throughfare- it’s THAT way” and the driver who claimed not to speak English, nodded “no, this way’s better”. The car was leaving the city….

About a half hour later after watching the city landscape fade, the car pulls into a small village and parks. The taxi driver leaves my Dad in the car and disappears. Homeless people who lay on the curb get up and approach the car. He leans into the front of the cab and locks the doors. He waits patiently for the driver while these people bang on the windows and harass him from outside. The driver shows up about 1/2 hour later- the meter still running- gets back into the car and starts driving back to Istanbul. 

My father- a HOT headed Englishman- could only contain his rage. He watched the city come into view and the familiar streets he’d come to know over the years. The driver pulls before the Hilton and tells him the fare is $52.00. My father told him to give him his luggage which was locked in the trunk and he’d pay him. Another argument ensued. The concierge at the desk came out of the hotel to find out what the trouble was. 

“This driver won’t give me my bags,” he says. The driver responds, ”he won’t pay me”. My Dad asks the hotel worker, ”How much is a trip from the airport to the hotel?” The man says “Sixteen dollars”. ”Look at the taxi driver’s meter,” my Dad says. The Concierge sees, “Fifty-Two dollars! That’s RIDICULOUS!” He grabs a pen and paper and starts to write all the cab driver’s information down. He tells the man, “you’ll take $16 dollars and you better give this man his bag or tomorrow you’ll have NO job”. The driver had no choice and popped the trunk for my father’s suitcase. He pulled off in a rage and my father was safe. He immediately tipped the Concierge $10 just for his help. I mean, who knows what COULD have happened. 

I’ve heard many stories through out the years. The dangerous ones not so much. I’ve heard about him being chased with an Ice hook in Liverpool as a young man, going through a waterfilled foxhole in Egypt in military training, life threats in Indonesia, shrunken head markets in Borneo, fist size bugs in Malaysia, ruins in Guatamala, a water buffalo Feast for hyenas in Kenya, stone jumping for wives in the Far East, the dusty markets of Istanbul and Morocco, and many more. 

When I think of the explorations by National Geographic in the early 1900’s I’d imagine my father would have fit in fine as one of them. Stories of interest should never go unnoticed, perhaps it’s why I write this today. There’s a lesson here somewhere.

You figure it out.