Journey of a Lifetime

Alan

Whicker

Journey of A Lifetime

For Valerie, of course—who retraced every step

with me and made each one happy…

And for our friends Anne and David Crossland

who joined this kaleidoscope of Whickerwork and

spread a lot of happiness we were often lucky

enough to share.

Table of Contents

Cover Page

Title Page

Dedication

UNKNOWN PLACES FIT FOR EAGLES AND ANGELS

1 - THERE’S BEEN A CHANGE OF MANAGEMENT

2 - A TALK WITH SOMEONE WHO’S NOT TREMBLING

3 - TWO LHASA APSOS AND A COUPLE OF PANTECHNICONS

4 - CITY OF DREADFUL JOY

5 - RELIEVING PATIENTS OF MANY POUNDS—ONE WAY OR THE OTHER

6 - RANDOLPH: AS RUDE TO AMBASSADORS AS HE WAS TO WAITERS

7 - NO ONE CARED ENOUGH

8 - STILL NO DEAL WITH THE DEVIL

9 - IN AMERICA’S SMARTEST SOCIAL RESORT ONLY THE LONELINESS GETS WORSE

10 - YOU DIDN’T LOOK LIKE THAT IN HELLO!

11 - IN MEXICO DEATH KNOCKS MORE OFTEN AND MUST MORE FREQUENTLY BE ADMITTED

12 - EASY TO TEACH WOMEN TO SHOOT, HARDER TO TEACH THEM TO KILL

13 - A POM WHO’S MADE GOOD—IF THAT’S THE WORD

14 - A MOST SIGNIFICANT PINNACLE OF CORAL

15 - THAT’S FOR THE RELEVANT DEMON-GIANT TO WORRY ABOUT

16 - ALL THE TIME YOU HAVE A SENSE OF IMPENDING DISASTER

17 - I’VE ALWAYS WISHED I HAD A BETTER PERSONALITY

18 - THEY FEED THE PIGS ON PASSION FRUIT, THE SHEEP ON WILD PEACHES

19 - TROUBLED SPIRITS, NEVER QUITE COMFORTABLE IN THEIR SKINS

20 - I DON’T MIND A BEATING PROVIDED IT’S BEDSTAKES AFTERWARDS

21 - THEY LIVE IN BAREFOOT POVERTY—AND NEVER SEE A MAN

22 - A FEW LEFT BEHIND WHEN THE TIDE RAN OUT

23 - NO MONEY, NO ENGLISH—AND NO TROUSERS

24 - I AWAITED THE STRETCHER-BEARERS, BLEEDING QUIETLY

25 - A RATHER SMALL UTRILLO

26 - THIRTY BODYGUARDS FOR DINNER

27 - THE RIGHT INTERESTS: LADIES, HORSE-RACING—AND TAKING THE LOCALS FOR A RIDE

28 - BACKSTAGE AT THE ROYAL PALACE

29 - NEVER A FRIENDLY ARMOURED DIVISION AROUND WHEN YOU NEED ONE

30 - THE PARTY’S OVER—IT’S TIME TO CALL IT A DAY

Index

Acknowledgements

Other Books By The Author

Copyright

About the Publisher

UNKNOWN PLACES FIT FOR EAGLES AND ANGELS

My first television programme fifty-two years ago involved travel. With a BBC crew of three we struck out for the Near East, and this book recalls the filming of the earliest Journey of a Lifetime. The excitement was intense. Nothing daunted, we arrived in…Ramsgate. Yes, we were considering the livelihood of seaside landladies. Well you have to start somewhere, and they were unflinching.

Mrs Evelyn Stone’s poodle Candy wore a new blue and red coat for the occasion, I recall. Opposite us, overlooking the sea, a sight which surely dates the picture—not to mention me. Across the road in Nelson Crescent, a blitzed building: roofless and desolate.

Now the BBC has asked me to join in this celebration of my first half-century in television with a memory of some thirty Journeys of a Lifetime—a look at the fun, shock and jubilation of half a century spent getting to know interesting people living unusual lives around the world.

The first long-cut of any television film is exciting, the second alarming—for you see and hear where you went wrong. To make the first cut the Editor and Director will have removed the humour, to make room. Jokes are always the first to go. Editors suspect that they take us away from the storyline, or hold up the action. Unfortunately they also take with them much of the elusive flavour we were chasing—our attitude towards the rest of the world.

Then, gradually, later versions of Whicker’s World emerge from the cutting rooms and into my study. Everything slowly comes together, from the first interview to the last frame, which is when we start to believe we’ve caught something special on the screen, whether it’s a person, a place or a moment in time. Once we’ve unlocked the flavour and texture of some people and places, Whicker’s World goes on turning.

Norfolk Island was just such a place, where I first caught islanditis. This pursued me around the world to such an extent that I left a desirable home in the heart of London and went to live on a tiny island in the Atlantic where I knew no one. I had been travelling all my life and was then living happily in a Nash terrace in Regent’s Park, and before that on Richmond Green.

The first different reaction I noticed about Norfolk Island was that whenever two cars passed the drivers always waved to each other. At first I thought my driver had a lot of friends and relations, but then I realized that in an isolated isle of 2,000 people he would surely know every driver, even if he had just missed the last one while those sheep were passing.

Norfolk, a reminder of Switzerland with sea, is about as far as you can go in the South Pacific. It floats in tremendous seas somewhere off Australia and New Zealand—a paradise where nothing bites and nothing stings, where they feed the pigs on passion fruit and the sheep on wild peaches.

The descendants of the Bounty mutineers came to Norfolk when they outgrew Pitcairn. Its towering pines and little mountains stand amid seascapes of deep blue ocean and white water—unknown places fit for eagles and angels.

A contained space where people felt they belonged was comforting for anyone enjoying islanditis, but for the big lifestyle picture I did not want to lose contact with my roots or do without relevant newspapers and television, so some thirty-six years ago I reluctantly gave away the South Pacific and Regent’s Park and settled in Jersey, the major Channel Island where motorists don’t wave much.

Now when I wake in the morning I look towards France across fourteen miles of magnificent seas—sometimes as still and lovely as a turquoise mirror, other days Wagnerian and threatening. Looking along that Normandy coast towards Cherbourg very little has changed, though just out of sight there’s Flammanville and evidence of French determination to rely upon nuclear reactors. A worrisome coastline.

Former Jersey resident Victor Hugo called the Channel Islands “little specks of France fallen into the sea and gobbled up by the English”. I’ve never regretted surrendering to this uncommon situation, although the £8 air fare to London that greeted us thirty-six years ago is now about £100, and counting.

In my island paradise, into which 100,000 residents are now squeezing themselves, I am living happily ever after. It’s a joy to know I shall spend the rest of my days in this tranquil therapeutic island where spring comes a little early, summer seems endless and autumn hangs around.

My last book written here was Whicker’s War, a look at the conflict in Italy in which the men who fought there seemed anxious to keep it private, as is the way of soldiers. This book, as you now know, has been an examination of the highs and lows of my first fifty years of television life, played out in public.

Some kindly folk have already asked me for another collection of memories, but between you and me I’m not sure I’m good for another half-century—not even with the help of my wonderful Valerie…but who knows? It’s always possible we might meet again in another Whicker’s World!

1 THERE’S BEEN A CHANGE OF MANAGEMENT

Flying home from Australia is never a happy undertaking; I’ve tried it every which way—thirty hours non-stop, or peeling off for a night in Singapore or Bangkok, Hong Kong or LA. However you approach it, you face a long haul, rattling with pills. Jet lag always wins.

I’d recommend travel on Christmas Day. Planes are empty, service is great—the stewards have no one else to talk to. Champagne and Anton Mosimann’s best puddings seem to taste even better at 32,000 feet—but this time, flying from Haiti, I had been invited to break the journey in Los Angeles and spend the holiday with Cubby Broccoli, granddaddy of James Bond, and his wife Dana—who took an instant dislike to Fagin, as played by Ron Moody.

We had a Californian Christmas: bright sunshine, extravagant presents, interesting company. One day we flew to Las Vegas with that splendid old actor Bruce Cabot—a relative of Cubby’s—who had been the lead in King Kong. Not much to do with snow and reindeer, but he fitted in beautifully—and the monkey was great.

The day before we left for London, there was a party at the home of Harold Robbins; I’d made a Whicker’s World around him a few months earlier. Harold could behave very much like a character in one of his novels, but I found him oddly likeable. He could be boorish and boastful—which seems to happen to bestsellers—but then in a complex blend he was courteous and charming in a rather old-fashioned way. He was married at the time to Grace, a darkly attractive woman who seemed able to cope with his erratic lifestyle.

While writing in New York he liked to stay at the Elysée Hotel, a quiet place off Madison Avenue favoured by Tennessee Williams and other authors. We left the Plaza to join him and quickly slipped into the Robbins routine, meeting his stable of available ladies in the evening and drinking good Californian burgundy served at precisely 64 degrees.

“Guess what she does?” he demanded, after introducing a leggy blonde in hot pants. I had a pretty good idea what she might do, but suggested instead a model, an actress, beauty consultant, hair designer, nail technician…“No,” he cried, triumphantly. “She’s a store detective.”

Her in-store career came to an abrupt end when Harold’s publishers conveniently noticed that his latest novel was way behind schedule. She was dispatched to a Spanish holiday on a one-way ticket.

I had been pleased with our programme around Harold, I’m the World’s Best Writer—There’s Nothing More to Say. It had a good story—Hell’s Kitchen to Côte d’Azur yachts, by way of one portable typewriter. Interesting locations and an articulate subject who, it later transpired, had a slight problem separating fact from passing fantasy.

Harold’s editor Simon was a splendid, articulate man and I was anxious that he should be included in our programme. I broached the subject during a jolly lunch with them both, but to my surprise he refused point blank: “Didn’t you notice how he started breaking up all those table matches while you were talking to me?” Simon was not about to risk upsetting his golden goose for a few minutes’ exposure on Whicker’s World.

Sitting around the Robbins’s Beverly Hills pool on that bright December afternoon were old friends from London and the Côte d’Azur, Leslie and Evie Bricusse. Leslie was responsible for some of the great standards of the Sixties and Seventies, often with Anthony Newley. If you hear something familiar, plaintive and lyrical, it’s usually Leslie asking “What kind of fool am I?” or somesuch. At the peak of his career he was now hard at work in Hollywood, hitting high notes for friends Sammy Davis Jr and Frank Sinatra, and “Talking to the Animals.”

We had not met for months, and were anxious to catch up. He had been writing the music for Dr Doolittle, so we swapped the usual “Rex Harrison as Producer” horror stories. I told him of my excitement at finally buying a house in Jersey—my first permanent home. He looked alarmed. “I wouldn’t set foot on that island,” he said. “We’ll never visit you there.” This seemed surprising, and odd. Jersey is peaceful and off the beaten track for globe-trotting Hollywood winners. How come that fierce reaction?

Leslie had quite rightly become hugely successful. He had a cute wife, Evie, and homes in Mexico, France, London, Malta and Beverly Hills. His income had grown so much that he had been told to restructure his finances. An international lawyer living in the Channel Islands was recommended as his saviour, and a hugely complicated scheme had been hatched with law offices around the world which the Jersey lawyer would administer, and in return for this legal expertise Leslie would pay him 10 per cent of his earnings over a period of ten years. It was that kind of nightmare financial complication that you wish was keeping you alive.

A few months after signing that contract the Bricusses began to regret their involvement with this pedantic little Jerseyman. Pages of notes would arrive on a weekly basis suggesting changes to score and libretto. Not unnaturally, Leslie did not take kindly to such improbable interference from an insufferable musical know-all. Stressed out and working hard, he decided he must break the agreement—but found his new legal partner had no intention of releasing him.

Expensive law firms on both sides of the Atlantic were once again consulted. The contract was found to be binding and watertight. To fight it would have taken years and sapped Leslie’s creative energy while he was still on his winning streak. He was forced to capitulate. A settlement was reached whereby the Jersey lawyer would instead take 90 per cent of his earnings for one year—and then release him. This was expected to be the year of his greatest successes when all his projects were hits, but he was cleaned out. Frustrated after signing away the fortune he’d spent a lifetime building, the mild and gentle Leslie went home and trashed every breakable object in his house.

Smiling and soft-spoken, he was popular at the studios. Soon everyone had heard of his fury and despair that he had been strangled by the small print. Several friendly groups generously offered to “sort out” the villain of the piece—that Jersey lawyer. The agreement might have been watertight, but these friends were not smiling all the time.

The local Mafia boss made it known that he would be only too happy to do Leslie a favour and remove any financial blockage, as between men of honour you understand.

The Las Vegas backstage fraternity also offered help in his hour of crisis, which sounded seriously final. As a last graphic decision, there was a group of friendly stunt men from Pinewood who spent their lives being thrown off bridges and fighting each other. They knew the island well, so also hatched a detailed plot to rescue poor Leslie.

The house where the Jersey lawyer lived was on a hilltop above a secluded bay with a perfect view of France, 14 miles away. A forest path snaked up from the sea through the garden and right up to his front door. They could arrive at night by a boat with padded oars, do whatever deed was required while the island—and the lawyer—slept, and steal away. Piece of cake.

I don’t think the people at that Beverly Hills party realized life-and-death decisions were being discussed and agreed. While I listened, some of Leslie’s friends explained the lie of the land to each other, and I began to realize they were not merely talking about the house—“Lovely position, lovely!”—but my future.

It was my new home they were planning to visit that night. “Perfect for the getaway, that coastline.”

“Listen,” I said, when I got my voice back, “I’ve just bought that house. I’m planning to live in it for years. Now you’re going to kill the guy in the main bedroom! That’s me. Please tell all your friends there’s been a change of management.”

2 A TALK WITH SOMEONE WHO’S NOT TREMBLING

I passed a couple of restless days in Miami—a place quite easy to dislike. I was bracing myself to fly somewhere even worse. Far worse. I had just completed a series of Whicker’s Worlds in South America. All the fun and excitement of filming in Argentina (brilliant), on to Peru (druggy), then up among the volcanoes outside Quito in Ecuador (enchanting) and finally coming to rest in downtown Miami for a couple of apprehensive days awaiting PanAm’s lifeline flight to the kidnap capital of the world: Haiti.

Miami Beach was the place where, waking one morning in a vast white hotel totally surrounded by avarice, I took a taxi to the airport and asked for a ticket to anywhere. They thought I was mad—and probably by then I was, a little.

Now—ice-cold sane—I was approaching a far more dangerous destination: Haiti. The first black republic was only some 700 miles away, but its reputation made trigger-happy Floridians seem cool and chummy. This poorest country in the Western hemisphere survives with 80 per cent of its population below the poverty line.

I was on my reluctant way to examine Papa Doc’s republic—and Papa Doc, I had heard, was about to examine me. Not everyone walked away from those check-ups, our pilot told me cheerfully. In the world’s kidnap centre the dungeons were active, with Papa Doc as a frequent spectator.

Our jet, not surprisingly, was almost empty. It was a good plane to miss. We flew across the fringe of the Sargasso Sea, which seemed a suitable setting for any adventure, landed at François Duvalier Airport in Port-au-Prince, and drew breath. So far, so still alive.

This despairing nation was under the lash of a President for Life whose years of absolute power had brought terror to his people and ruin to his country. As I walked through the damp heat towards the decrepit arrivals building I saw, seared across the peeling white plaster of the wall that confronted me, a pockmarked line of bullet holes.

This was a fairly emphatic take-it-or-leave-it statement. It didn’t say whether it was a gesture from the Tourist Division of the Chamber of Commerce, but it was surely more arresting than the traditional view of Port-au-Prince from the mountains. It was the only airport welcome Haiti offered its rare visitors, and it was right in character.

Inside the building, a more friendly reception from the Pres-ident’s official greeter, Aubelin Jolicœur. This small, unctuous executive silenced the customs men who had scented rich pickings from us with a wave of his ivory-handled cane. I recognized him instantly: he had been drawn to perfection as Petit Pierre in Graham Greene’s frightening The Comedians.

He may have been smiling, but the Haitians watching us in the arrivals hall were expressionless, which suggested he wasn’t all that funny. Tontons Macoutes no longer stripped or frisked arrivals, though I was uncomfortably aware that the airport had just experienced one of those dramatic bloodlettings which would have seemed improbable fiction from Graham Greene.

The eldest of Dr Duvalier’s three daughters, his favourite Marie-Denise, had just married the 6′3″ Commander of his Palace Guard, Captain Max Dominique, who instantly became a Colonel. Then Papa Doc, acting upon different advice, decided his new son-in-law was involved in the plot against him for which he had just executed nineteen brother-officers.

Having considered the pleas of his wife and daughter, then pregnant, he spared Col. Dominique, but sent him into exile and out of the way as ambassador to Spain. As they left for Madrid, the President and Mrs Duvalier came to the airport to bid a sorrowful farewell to Di-Di.

For the traditional VIP goodbye picture the young couple stood at the aircraft door, waving to parents, friends and staff. As the door was closing upon the happy couple, there came a nod from Papa Doc. Their chauffeur and two bodyguards were shot down in front of them. Dr Duvalier was making his own farewell gesture of disapproval.

He turned and left the bloodstained tarmac without another glance at the dying men. They lay in the sunlight under the eyes of the few horrified passengers en route from Miami to Puerto Rico. The aircraft then departed abruptly. An American airman who had seen it all told me, “That captain practically took off with the door open. They just wanted to get out of there.”

There were no further executions on the evening of our arrival, but the scarred walls were adequate reminders. Outside we were distributed among waiting taxi drivers. They were all Tontons Macoutes, Papa Doc’s private army licensed to extort. Driving a cab was the best-paid job in the land at the time—the only one in which a Haitian could get his hands on foreign currency.

My personal Tonton was silent and sinister, with a Gauguin face. He had the poetic name of Racine. He also had red eyes.

There was no question of hotel selection; you went and lived where you were put. Racine drove us skilfully through the bumps and up the hillside to the white concrete Castelhaiti Hotel, overlooking the town. It was empty—but ready for us.

That evening ours was the only occupied table as we tackled some stringy chicken. Groups of listless waiters stood around in the gloom, watching and whispering while a piano and violin wailed mournfully in the shadows. Outside the fearful town, hushed and tense, awaited its regular power cut.

My crew soon gave up, and went to sort their equipment. It was jollier. We had called the camera for tomorrow and would find something to shoot. We needed to establish contact with the inaccessible Papa Doc. “Once we’ve been seen with him, talking to him, we’ll be all right,” said my Australian researcher, Ted Morrisby, who as usual had tuned in cleverly. “Then the Tontons and the rest of the town will know he accepts us. That means we shan’t get hassled, or shot.”

Well, he convinced me. In a land where we had no friends for protection, no embassy to turn to, there was a convincing argument for establishing contact before any more shots rang out.

Certainly Papa Doc was not easy to reach. His massacres had generated terror and despair and hidden fury, so every day he prepared to face some sort of counter-attack. He rarely left the white American-built National Palace, the only important building in town which could be instantly switched into a floodlit armed fortress, yet he did not feel secure even behind its walls and guarded gates.

The President had ousted Paul Magloire, who had twice sent in old B25 aircraft on bombing runs. The grounds were ringed by anti-aircraft guns and elderly armoured cars. The President also beseeched protection from a new prayer of which he was author. He sought support from all sides:

Our Doc, who art in the National Palace for Life,

Hallowed be thy name, by present and future generations

Thy will be done at Port-au-Prince and in the provinces.

Give us this day our new Haiti and never forgive the

trespasses of the anti-patriots…

By a stroke of Whicker’s luck we discovered that next day Our Doc was making a rare expedition into the anxious surroundings outside his palace. He was to open a new Red Cross centre, a small building a few hundred yards from his fortress.

We left our silent hotel at dawn and reached the area as troops and armed men began to assemble for the ceremony. There were hundreds of soldiers in well-pressed khaki with medals and white gloves, and of course a lot of armament. Militia wore blue denim with a red stripe for the occasion, like army hospital patients; more guns, of course. Mingling with authority among them were men in thin tight suits, snap-brimmed fedoras and shades, like Mods heading for Brighton Beach and waving light automatics around casually: the Tontons.

As usual when overwhelmed by armed men enjoying a little brief authority, I adopted an attitude of polite preoccupied condescension—like a prefect moving down upon a third-former whose mother is hovering. For a new and meaningful relationship with an unwelcoming armed guard, it helps to be slightly patronizing but brandishing a permanent smile. It also helps if you’re saying something like, “Do you mind standing aside, please. British television filming the President. Thank you so much, just back a bit more…” He doesn’t understand, but he gets your drift and suspects you might be Somebody, or know Somebody.