14 September 2013

Circular No 619






Newsletter for alumni of The Abbey School, Mt. St. Benedict, Trinidad and Tobago, W.I.
Caracas, 14 September 2013 No. 619
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Dear Friends,
An interesting video of an exceptional Trinidadian.
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Subject: FW: Dai Ailian Video
Date: Fri, 8 Mar 2013 11:03:59 +0000
Hello Bandit,  
How yuh doing my friend, hope all is well.  
This is so wonderful to see, my country is so great outside Trinidad eh!,
Boy it upsets me of how much we give this world, and so few ever go back, ah don`t blame them, go back for what.  
This Club is Class & Culture, my brothers please do check this out, always the best of the best, in this case China`s best is our own daughter Dai Ailian,
Yes I am so proud to read this, a Trinidad Chinese, a race in my country that gets very little recognition,
She was still proud to say where she was from and where learn to dance her heart away.
I hope Trinidad build a statue in the heart of our city, for this Icon.
Thank you so much for sharing this important person with our Club.
Best regards - Adios Glen McKoy.
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Hola Mis Amigos & Hermanos,
Thank you Sir. Neil, for the latest news, on this sudden interest by hikers to Mt Thabor. 
This is at the top of our Club news, with respect to that Secret, Sacred, place we call, White Stones.
A world in another world. 
We will keep an Eagle Eye on this one, ha! ha!
Please find above my recording of a Jam Saturday Sept 6. 
I dedicate this song to the Club. 
It not a song, it’s me playing the guitar, jamming with some band members. 
Now so many send me so much about themselves, it’s only fitting that I return the same, this song is to you, so this is my voice on the guitar to you my brothers. 
I must also thank, The Humble Knight, Sir. Glen Evelyn for the two electric guitars he made, and sent to me, up here, in Nova Scotia many moons ago, before I ever wrote a Tale, you ask me why I love this Club ??
I must also thank Salvador for finding me, when I too was lost, ha! ha!  
hope you enjoy this song, it is in a reggae style. 
Glen McKoy. 
Captain of the Abbey School Combo/band. 
Cosmic-Vibes, Representing Trinidad & Tobago at two World Scout Jamborees, 
The Abbey Band.   1) Suriname 2) Barbados.  
I learn to play on the Mount, on my own. Blood, sweat & tears, have a good day,
Mis Amigos, Adios -The Knight Of Guitar –
Glen McKoy.
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Hike to Mount Thabor this Sunday
Story Updated: Sep 11, 2013 at 10:44 PM ECT
On Sunday, Island hikers family hike to Mt Thabor and Mount St Benedict.
The Abbey at Mount St Benedict is situated 183 metres (600 feet) above sea level and is a significant tourist attraction providing spiritual guidance to Christians and non-Christians.
At the entrance to the monastery, there is a large sign on which is written in Latin “PAX”; meaning a place where peace reigns.
In October 2012, The Abbey of Mount St Benedict celebrated its 100th anniversary.
In 1911, Abbot Dom Mayeul de Caigny of Brazil wrote to the Archbishop of Port of Spain John Pius to establish a Benedictine foundation in Trinidad.
On January 17, 1912, Dom Mayeul purchased from Andrew Victoriano Gomez a small estate in the hills called Tunapuna meaning “way of the water”.
The asking price was 4,000 pounds, and the first building was a tapia hut.
The first mass to be celebrated was on the August 10, 1913.
During 1912-1918, a church, guesthouse, workshop, living quarters and kitchen constructed.
By 1918, the daily crowds increased to such an extent that the monks needed to find a more secluded place for recollection and study.
Mt Thabor at 564.2 metres (1,851 feet) above sea level was the location chosen to construct this additional monastery.
This was to accommodate young monks studying theology and those seeking seclusion from the daily visitors.
By 1922, the mansion at Mt Thabor contained 15 rooms, a chapel, a large hall and two towers 40 feet high.
Reserved on each side of the tower were the Papal Flag and the Union Jack which could be seen from miles around.
This was a place of solitude and the public had to obtain written permission in order to visit.
However, the property became abandoned due to the difficulty to reach there and carry supplies.
Today all that is left of this majestic building is some concrete ruins.
The rugged elements of nature have destroyed the wooden tapia structure.
The mountain side venerable to bush fires caused the forestry division to plant pine trees to preserve the forest.
The walk will take 35 minutes, but at the top, one will be transform into another world.
The grandeur of the pine trees and peaceful Mount atmosphere are like no other.
The cool breeze blowing across the mountain top creates a relaxing sensation.
There are breath-taking views of the surrounding Maracas St Joseph country-side, the East-West Corridor and the Central Plains.
Assembly for the trip is from 7 a.m. at Hilo Car Park, St Augustine. Departure is at 8 a.m. Hiking time to the top is 35 minutes with a downhill return lasting 20 minutes.
For details contact Mario at 749-2956 or visit islandhikers.com,
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From: Glen Mckoy <mckoy43glen@hotmail.com>
Date: 14 September 2013 20:14
Subject: RE: Voices in the Castle.
Dear Tony & Tribe,  
We led the horse to the water, but it would not drink. 
A master plan was made, all in the benefit of the Church. 
No frills, no attachments, not even trying to buy the place.
A long term lease.
These developments, would only pay after it was up and running, the only people taking this risk, would be the investors.  
The plan did look at housing & education in the oil industries, many of the Abbey School students, offered their expertise in all fields to make this an ongoing venture, that would be successful, they did look at high end accommodations, condos etc., hanging off the cliffs, all secluded and keeping within this peaceful environment.   
This was no easy venture to take on, for those older brothers, who started this ball rolling, a long time ago, down to the financing, every single detail was calculated to the penny.
Many of the boys who wanted this, was not doing it for money, many already had money, and rich and already living in wonderful places all over the world, this is not a money making venture, this was pure heart & soul, of course a safe investment, for those who were willing to be part of this, wishful dream. 
A place for old mount boys to stay, if visiting was in the plan.
Tony, If the power was on that mountain, to take this great leap into the future, we were ready as a collective group, to take on this life challenge, many many years ago, to help and assist, and support, in doing this with the local authority in charge.  
Unfortunately we were knocking on the wrong door, in the wrong country, ha! ha!.  
Our conclusion, one must go to Ireland, with millions in hand. 
Everything is for sale, ask the Vatican. 
My brother, we are growing old, one day we will not be able to climb that mountain again.
So also, is this once upon a time dream. 
The brothers that live far away from this place, feel so much for it, some brothers live with it, right in front their face, and don't even care, ha! ha!
So what can I say ?? 
Sorry, I have said too much already, we are a private group, and we already have a place, its right here and its right now, we are the Knights of White Stones, you can take our Castle.
But you will never get rid of the Invisible Tribe, that still lives inside of that building. 
It is said for the harvest moon, in the blue light, you will see, Monks and Knights who have crossed over into the Higher Realm, conversing in a circle by the volley ball court.  
It is written in the book, The King of Hearts, no venture will ever succeed on that mountain, if it does not include a True Mount Boy, and You, whoever is reading this email, can quote me on that. ha! ha! 
Listen to the Voices, that still echo's, around the pillars in the corridors, in that place, that once was and always will be, The Abbey School, 
Welcome To The Club, Mis Amigos 
Adios, Glen.  
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Subject: Re: A POST CARD FROM THE CLUB.
Date: Sat, 14 Sep 2013 11:03:44 -0400
Guys,
It’s quite beautiful, but whose idea was it to paint the roof of the college and the new refractory green and no color respectively when all other roofs are red?
All that much real estate you mean to tell me that they can’t do something about it?
For example cant they turn it into a place where organizations etc. this of scan take their staff for a retreat and seminars are we sure that it’s been properly managed? 
thinking outside the box as to how it should be used I am aware that it’s been offered as a guest house in the recent past but to work it has to be modifies to offer a more luxurious inside, which the place was never built to do
I used to go there to Hilderbrand's room, he was my math tutor, its Spartan, used to looks like a jail up there in the main abbey where the monks live, it will of course take money but using the place as collateral they could borrow some cash to make the accommodation really nice, also but can’t they make a deal to house students of the UWI which is literally at the bottom of the hill and shuttle them to the accommodations daily?
The possibilities are endless you only have to appreciate the fact that the place is somewhat isolated and offer something which is in harmony with that fact. or they could start a corporation and get investors to help them to bring the place alive again.
Tony 
-----Original Message-----------------------------------
From: Glen Mckoy <mckoy43glen@hotmail.com>
Sent: Sat, Sep 14, 2013 7:40 am
Subject: FW: A POST CARD FROM THE CLUB.
Thank You Sir Garnet Diaz-  Excellent Choice. 
As a Club, we always try our utmost, to look at the big picture, in all our endeavors.  
Sometimes, we cannot find the right words, to express this great friendship we share, for so many years, in jest & laughter & a few crocodile tears ha! ha!  
On a serious note, from  all of us at the Club, the part-time-nite-time crew, we send this Post Card out to you.
We would like to thank you all, Oh Great & True Knights. For those who See.
Let this be The Light- Welcome To The Club. -Long Live The Mount. One-Love, 
Adios Glen. 
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RE: David d'Boehmler
AUG 28 2013
From: Glen Mckoy    
Thank you Nigel, Garnet & Joanne,  
It’s really good to see we have made contact, with yet another brother alive and kicking, cheers to David d'Boehmler,  
Please do drop us a line, it’s so good to hear same, thanks to Garnet for mentioning these names. 
Wonderful to make contact, and to let David know that many of his classmates are still here, he may or may not remember, but don't worry we remembered you brother.
Wishing you all the best, Cheers Mi Amigos. 
Long live The Mount.   
Best regards - Glen McKoy. Duncans Cove, Nova Scotia. Canada. 
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Ladislao Kertesz at kertesz11@yahoo.com,
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Photos:
MSBAP10MI6512, Mount Inside
13LK7181CJAWFE, Csaba Jakobszen and wife
13UN0010MSBEDI, Mount latest photo
GLEN MP3





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7 September 2013

Circular No 618






Newsletter for alumni of The Abbey School, Mt. St. Benedict, Trinidad and Tobago, W.I. 
Caracas, 7 September 2013 No. 618
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Dear Friends,
Anybody who can collaborate with the photos in good 500kb quality please send them to me for inclusion in a future edition.
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https://www.facebook.com/pages/The-Bratt-Office/450946188262802
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20/02/2011
The Abbey School Journey to BG in the “Mabari”, 1958
By David Bratt
The picture sits in front of me now.  There we are.  A group of 15 young men, some boys really, two monks and our coach in a garden in the house in Kitty Village, Georgetown, Guyana and it is 1958.
The memories of that trip to what is now called Guyana but known then as British Guiana is hazy, dimly remembered through the dust of time.  It was so many years ago.
We left Port of Spain at around five o’clock in the evening of a Sunday in late July.  I was seen off by my Uncle George and my Aunt Madge, born in BG as was my father, and with whom I had been staying since the end of term.  I wasn’t supposed to be on that boat but someone had been unable to make the trip and Brother Vincent immediately put me up.  I was the last boy to be chosen and my name does not appear on any of the official teams, even though I played the final two football games.
The official picture of the team, taken in the gardens of the John Fernandes house in Kitty Village, Georgetown, where we were to live in ease and comfort for one wonderful, unforgettable, month shows our party of boys and three officials, Brother Vincent, our sports master and himself a native of BG; Father Cuthbert, O.S.B, the senior person on the tour and our coach, Mr. Allan Joseph or TAFA (Trinidad Amateur Football Association) as we referred to him.
From left to right in the picture, all in Mount finery, standing are Tang, Most,  Charles, Howard, Date, Kerry, Bratt, Serrette and Henderson.  Sitting in the front row is Herrera, Guildner, Brother Vincent, Father Cuthbert, Allan Joseph, Gransaull, Prada and Howell.  Missing are: Laquis, the Galt brothers and Viera and Philip.  There were others accompanying us who were not part of the official team.  Hugh Henderson for one, and one other boy who can be seen peeking out behind Allan Joseph on one of the few times we all got together on the boat.
Because, initially, the weather was perfect, the sea flat or slightly heaving as we weighed anchor and set out, goodbyes ringing in our ears, heading out into the Gulf of Paria, as fine a bunch of boys as you wanted, slight breeze blowing into our faces, the excitement of our first long sea voyage, two glorious days south on a boat ride to the Mud Land where we were to play a series of football, cricket and athletic competitions against our brother institution, St. Stanislaus in Georgetown.
I can’t remember much else about the beginning.  At first we simply flitted around the top of the ship, getting in the way of the few sailors, all rough and crude-like characters, until we realised that there was not much to see and began to congregate at the front.  The “Mabiri” was a small ship, 190 tons according to a picture I have and seemed to be carrying a load of concrete.  It sailed very low in the water, the lower deck almost flush with the sea and heaved disconcertingly at times.  We all sat down on a built-up central area of the middle deck and excitedly began a lime.  It seemed that no one had worked out where we were to sleep and our luggage had disappeared into a hold and we never saw it until two days later.  No one also was able to tell us where we were to eat and body functions were never discussed.  But young boys are nothing if not adaptable and after some discussion, we agreed that we would share what food we had, Crix being very available, as well as Mars chocolate and oranges and we would all sleep on a higher part of the deck, it being such a pleasant evening, what with the wind just picking up a bit as we headed south around the tip of Cedros to our left and gradually vanishing off into the orange and pinkness of the western sunset. 
Suddenly, it was night and the waves which had, up to that time, rolled gently under our hull, began to kick up and the wind began to get a bit colder and the voices quieted one by one and somehow or the other we drifted off to sleep, quite comfortable and warm, next to each other, under the open sky, looking up at the stars.  Heavenly, if a bit uncomfortable. 
Then the nightmare began. 
The first thing I remember is suddenly being jolted awake by the ship giving a tremendous heave and falling back into the sea.  Looking around there were a few anxious faces, some sleeping ones still and someone retching in a corner.  A fine spray of salt water was being thrown up by the bow of the boat directly back into our faces.  Angry dark clouds had appeared, scudding by us and the sea had awakened and instead of rolling gently around, it was now heaving and blustering ominously and, as the little bark began to dance with us, it began to rain.  What was later described as a “squall” was upon us.  Squall is joke.  If that was a “squall”, I am a newspaper.  We had no shelter and within minutes we were all soaked except for a few who had moved around to the side of the ship which had some shelter.  A few sailors appeared and discussions were held and it seemed for a small sum, they were willing to lend us a heavy tarpaulin to place over the boom which ran from the front of the cabin to just beyond us.  We all struggled to set it up and move some cases to the sides so that, a) we had some protection from the broaching seas, because by now the “Mabiri” was corkscrewing violently and shipping water over the lower deck and even occasionally onto our higher perch, and, b) to prevent anyone from sliding overboard!   
The next eighteen hours is a mystery to me and how we survived must be known only to the couple of boys, Randall Galt and Roger Henderson, I believe who were the only ones not to get sea-sick.  By midnight I had vomited all the Crix and orange juice and remained rolled up in an old blanket I found somewhere with my eyes tightly closed since the smallest movement of my head caused my world to spin and my stomach to retch in empty spasm.  Around me no one was any better.  The three officials had vanished and for all we cared could have fallen overboard.  Any one who has ever suffered the unbelievable nausea and misery of a bad seasickness will understand what I mean.  During all this time it poured rain, cold, stinging rain and when the rain lifted briefly, freezing spray was flung directly into our unprotected faces from the crashing and rising of the bow of the craft. 
Sometime on the Monday afternoon, about three PM, the “squall” stopped  and we emerged from hibernation, to look around fearfully at the sea and the effects of our vomiting on our sleeping quarters.  The next few hours constitute the best memories of the trip.  After some basic cleaning up, we realised we were famished.  The captain of the ship, a short, surly character who we saw twice, since he never left his cabin, had remarkably caught a shark with a hook thrown off the stern and agreed to cook it up for us with some rice, for a price of course.  The executive bargained successfully with him, not without some helpful prayers from us and we duly were apportioned a small plate covered with greasy rice and bits and pieces of heavenly-tasting fish, washed down with luke-warm water and  eaten with battered metal spoons.  It was the best meal I had had for months. 
There is a fabulous picture of some of us at that time, just after we had eaten, crowded together on the high deck, sitting or semi-lying down, Brother Vincent has his shoes off and Kerry is about to take his off and we are laughing, probably at something that Brother Vincent has just said and there is a spirit of relaxation and comfort and camaraderie that is palpable.  The boat has stopped rocking sideways, it’s moving forward, the trip is almost over, the warm sea-breeze is back, our stomachs are full and the future looks bright.
It was soon over.  Without warning and again as the darkness fell, the sea began to act up, the rain commenced, the wind began to blow violently and this time we could not stay on top, the water was washing over and through us.  Someone, I never found out who, had organised bunks for us in the crew cabins.  All I remember is stumbling down a steel ladder, holding on to the steel walls of the narrow passageway, breathing in the foul smell of diesel oil and stale vomit, as the ship rocked from side to side and I tried to keep the contents of my stomach inside my mouth.  Somehow I knew that the sailor leading me into his shared quarters would not appreciate a mouthful of the stuff onto his back.  He led me into a tiny six foot by six foot cabin and I collapsed onto the floor together with a couple of other boys.  One or two had managed to make it to a bed but soon had to relinquish it when the owners finished their shift.  Me, I slept on that cold, hard, damp, shaking, rolling, stinking floor and only got up to rush to the sink to empty my stomach of the rice and fish, at which time, I vaguely remember Swami Galt peering into the cabin and steupsing.  The rest of the night is a horror of giddiness and unrelenting headache and sore throat and the roll, roll, roll of the ship, the rumbling and shaking of the motors and the foulness and roughness of the cabin floor on my nose. 
It all ended quite remarkably, with no fanfare. 
I suddenly awoke.  The rolling motion had stopped.  The engines were silent.  There was an abnormal calm.  I was lying alone on the floor.  I unsteadily got up and looked out the porthole.  The horizon looked near and dark.  The darkness of land.  In the early dawn light, I could just make out a large, shining clock at the top of a high, gabled building near the edge of the harbour.  It was the famous Georgetown market clock.  We had arrived.
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Anthony T. Bryan 
Dear Sir:
I ran across your Newsletter on the web and I am hoping that you can help.
Harry Guildner was the best man at my wedding in Lincoln, Nebraska in 1963 when he was a student.
Over the years we lost touch.
I tried his email from the 2008 Newsletter without success.
Do you have a recent email address or other information for him that can assist me?
With thanks,
Anthony Bryan
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A nice song 
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=M7TBrrz8TD4
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Poem of the Free GPS
The Free GPS
I have a little GPS
I've had it all my life
It’s better than the normal ones
My GPS is my wife
It gives me full instructions
Especially on how to drive
"It's thirty miles an hour", it says
"You're doing thirty five".
It tells me when to stop and start
And when to use the brakes
And tells me that it's never ever
Safe to overtake
It tells me when a light is red
And when it goes to green
It seems to know instinctively
Just when to intervene
It lists the vehicles just in front
And all those to the rear
And taking this into account
It specifies my gear.
I'm sure no other driver
Has so helpful a device
For when we leave and lock the car
It still gives its advice
It fills me up with counselling
Each journey's pretty fraught
So why don't I exchange it
And get a quieter sort?
Ah well, you see, it cleans the house,
Makes sure I'm properly fed,
It washes all my shirts and things
And - keeps me warm in bed!
Despite all these advantages
And my tendency to scoff,
I do wish that once in a while
I could turn the damned thing off.
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Ladislao Kertesz at kertesz11@yahoo.com,
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Photos:
MSBAP09MI6512, Mount Inside
13LK7152NSMGRP,
Trini comedy by Nigel Boos
60CV0008GUYANESETOUR, with a lot of unknowns.





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