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Someone, Somewhere: Encounters with People and Places

by Roman Pryjomko

438 pages; quality trade paperback (softcover); catalogue #04-0722; ISBN 1-4120-2894-9; US$33.99, C$42.99, EUR27.99, £19.99

For anyone wishing to understand and explore our rapidly changing and uncertain world, this book is a must!

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about the book about the author excerpts catalogue info

About the Book

'Roman Pryjomko reveals many hearts. He invites us into a deep and personal experience of people who happen to live on the other side of the lines drawn on maps.' So writes bestselling author, Gavin de Becker (The Gift of Fear and Fear Less) in the foreword to Someone, Somewhere: Encounters with People and Places.
Geographer and prolific traveller, Roman Pryjomko takes the reader across the world - from Pakistan to Zimbabwe and the Middle East to South Africa - describing his personal encounters with extraordinary people and places. From having tea with the Taliban, accidentally meeting a notorious assassin, a casual telephone conversation with a deposed dictator and mass murderer, to witnessing a terrorist attack by Al Qaeda, the stories are vivid and poignant with unexpected humour and contemporary relevance to today's news headlines. They offer a diverse travelogue and emotional roller coaster revealing an intriguing, complex, sometimes dangerous and frequently absurd world. Foreword by Gavin de Becker, bestselling author of The Gift of Fear and Fear Less.
More comments about Someone, Somewhere: Encounters with People and Places:
'Someone, Somewhere: Encounters with People and Places' is a wonderful book, period. The 'Hunting the Tiger' chapter is captivating and the words about political correctness are strong and passionate. I have not been to Moscow but the 'Shadow Play' chapter took me there. The author's travel experiences, compassion and writing skills all add up to something profound and valuable.
This is a book that I feel, in these times of interest in the larger world (post 9/11) would be of great interest.
Gavin de Becker (USA), Bestselling author of The Gift of Fear and Fear Less
'It is riveting and entertaining and scary and joyful all at once and written in a very effective storytelling style that enlivens everything. The author builds the tension well and his sense of humour comes through everywhere.
Time and again, I found myself wanting to know more about the author, despite the adventures so well told. In many respects, he is the most interesting of characters in these pages. What a wonderful read it is!
Dr. H. J. de Blij (USA), Author and Distinguished Professor of Geography
Roman Pryjomko is one of those rare and special people who have travelled widely while shouldering responsibilities along the way. He has eyes that see, ears that hear and an open heart that has remained receptive over the years to the complex needs of many enthralling countries and their equally interesting people. This book is fascinating, compelling and moving.
Miles Hilton-Barber (UK), Author, Motivational Speaker, Global Explorer recognized for outstanding achievements in travel, exploration and adventure sports as a blind person.

About the Author

Roman Pryjomko was born in Sheffield, England in 1964. He attended De La Salle College, Sheffield and Kingston University, London where he earned a Bachelors degree in Geography. After a short but turbulent career in the police, he migrated to the USA in 1987 and acquired a Masters Degree in Geography from the University of Miami. During this period he undertook field studies in East Africa and guided groups of students on study tours around the region. After residing in Los Angeles and feeling restless, he moved to Washington D.C and worked as a geographer and international development consultant on various projects, involving land and governance reforms, humanitarian assistance and crime management. He has undertaken assignments in over 40 countries and visited over 50. In the past decade he has lived in the USA, South Africa, The Bahamas, Spain and Italy. He has been married for over 10 years to Cathy Doucette, and they reside on a small farm in Umbria, Italy. Roman has published articles in journals and occasionally contributes his views to newspapers. He works as a consultant with an interest in risk assessment, violence prevention and peace building in conflict torn nations. Other interests include travel, freelance journalism, geopolitics and an enduring appreciation of fine wine. He recently completed a trip to Tanzania to find the childhood home and lost friends of his mother, who lived in Africa as a refugee over 60 years ago.
Someone, Somewhere: Encounters with People and Places is his first book and proceeds will fund a home for children presently confined to a women's prison in Arusha, Tanzania.

Excerpts

From the Foreword to Someone, Somewhere by Bestselling Author Gavin de Becker (The Gift of Fear and Fear Less)
Fear, not mere distance, separates the people of the world from each other. We are divided by our belief that people are other than us just because they reside in nations other than ours. We don't know the Iraqis, we imagine they are different - and thus it is easier to drop 70,000 bombs on their country. My observation here is not political, but logical: Leaders of nations retain power by dividing people. Some may see an attack as liberation, others may see it as domination - but whatever one's political view, it is clear that violence thrives on our separation.
Gandhi said, "The machineries of governments stand between and hide the hearts of one people from those of another."
Roman Pryjomko reveals many hearts to us. He invites us into a deep and personal experience of people who happen to live on the other side of the lines drawn on maps. Those arbitrary lines often determine who prospers and who needs, who starves and who eats, who attacks and who is attacked, who lives long and who dies young. Oh, we have been slaves to those lines, and Roman offers us some freedom.
On meeting the Taliban (Chapt. 1):
It is convenient to believe that we can easily recognise the difference between good and evil in the people we encounter. Surely, it must show itself in some type of deviant behaviour, threatening looks or malevolent words. In reality, it is a far more fleeting characteristic and largely dependent upon circumstances. I have always believed the roots of badness are contained deep within, and far more universal than we may want to acknowledge. And so, as I scanned the faces of the three Taliban seated around me, I looked for subtle indications of evil or signs of danger but neither were apparent, at least not yet.
On policing (Chapt. 2):
I am frequently asked why I ever joined the police and frankly that remains an open question that I still ponder now and then. On face value, it appears to be the most unlikely of careers for a hardcore rejectionist of institutional conformity and yet, as they say, it seemed like a good idea at the time. In many respects, it provided a unique opportunity to explore, or journey if you like, into the more chaotic and surreal aspects of people's behaviour. Only now, nearly two decades later, am I beginning finally to appreciate the value of lessons learned during that time, which consisted of 95% mind numbing boredom punctuated with 5% fear and sometimes visceral terror.
On witnessing an attack by Al Qaeda (Chapt. 3):
The car had been reduced to a thousand unrecognisable pieces and bystanders gravitated to the scene like moths drawn towards a light bulb. In a split second, the explosion had torn a black hole in the fabric of normality and everything in the immediate vicinity became swept up in a maelstrom of confusion, flames and shrapnel. It was hard to discern if anyone had been killed or injured, although in the smoke I could see an individual holding his bloodied head while staggering towards helping hands. Then we heard the other explosions, distant and muffled but quite distinctive. Clearly, the assault was not over yet.
On Africa (Chapt. 5):
Regrettably, external perceptions of Africa are still riddled with narrow-mindedness as well as utter ignorance and this attitude has not changed significantly since Joseph Conrad wrote 'Heart of Darkness' in 1902. In some instances, the ignorance is of encyclopaedic and tragic-comical proportions. For example, prior to a holiday in Kenya, my wife's university-educated boss asked her about the 'capital of Africa.' 'The Tragedy of Africa' blared the cover of Time magazine showing stick-figured emaciated children from the Sudan insinuating that famine and misfortune wracked the whole continent. The most egregious example of ignorance I have seen came in the form of an advertisement developed by a US telecommunications giant: ever anxious to highlight its international coverage and multi-cultural sensitivity. The heavily illustrated ad depicted cartoon characters dressed in ethnic costumes to represent their respective countries or regions, for example, a child dressed in a poncho and sombrero for Mexico and so on. In the case of Africa (again, treated as a single country, of course) the best the advertising department could come up with consisted of an inanely grinning ape. Bizarrely, the marketing genius behind this fiasco was a senior, and presumably highly paid, 'African-American' executive.
On a place called home (Chapt. 6):
Paradoxically, the ability to wander and the courage to explore are largely dependent upon the existence of a cherished place called home, regardless of where that may be. Without this familiar point of origin and emotional anchor, the prospective traveller risks becoming lost or directionless, destined to drift in search of nothing more than a new place to settle. I write these words from personal experience - and at the end of my own quest for a permanent home. In many respects, I was privileged to have had the opportunity and means to consciously undertake this extensive search, since many others are not so fortunate. Nevertheless, it has still been a long and often frustrating pursuit punctuated by temporary abodes scattered across three continents, as well as false dawns and heart breaking disappointments. Only now that I have found it can I truly appreciate the qualities and significance of what I have been looking for. It is an intangible attribute but also undeniably strong: the spirit of place - as essential and powerful as the human spirit itself.
On the hazards of bush flying in Africa (Chapt. 7):
As the plane lined up at the furthest fringe of the airfield, the pilot lowered his mirrored sun glasses and flexed gloved hands in dramatic style. There followed the haphazard flicking of switches and pulling of levers that appeared to have little purpose other than to assure me some controls were present if not entirely functional. Then, with the throttle pushed forward, the engine roared reluctantly and we were off. Careening down the grassy field I could only focus on the speedometer and the row of tall trees rushing towards us. At a reasonable speed and what seemed like our last hope, I felt impelled to scream 'rotate man, for God's sake!' but the pilot remained unmoved his eyes bulging with concentration like some character from the Muppets. After several seconds that felt like an eternity, a strange calmness descended and the prospect of dying in a fireball in this unremarkable field no longer seemed to trouble me.
On genocide in Rwanda (Chapt. 12):
Of the many images Simon described, one represented all too memorably the desperation and horror of those times. He had encountered a man in a forest gravely wounded by a machete blow. The victim ran to escape his attackers but the blow had opened a massive wound down his back almost severing his arm at the shoulder. The man staggered for miles, finally collapsing from pain and exhaustion under a tree. He had spent the previous night in agony, the wound bleeding and open to infection. At night the feral dogs came, sensing blood in the air. With no shortage of cadavers in Rwanda, the dogs and other scavengers had obviously acquired a taste for this new source of sustenance. The man fought off the marauding dogs with a stick sapping the last strength in his shattered body. By the time he was found, he pleaded to be killed and not be left alive for the dogs. Simon spent the following hours standing vigil over the dying man since there was nothing else to do until he expired. It can only be hoped that the man must have been aware that in his final moments, someone had watched over him.
On the plight of children (Chapt. 14):
To be amongst children and to share their lives even for a few moments is a precious gift and truly humbling experience. As a consequence, I have often felt ashamed to be an adult and with good reason. I am appalled at how we patronise or neglect them, somehow thinking of their plight as a secondary concern or as an afterthought. Their basic needs are so simple and yet we conspire to make them complicated and unattainable because it requires us to critically examine and change our grossly imbalanced and adult-centric world. We talk glibly about children as 'the future' - but what about the here and now? For too many people, having children is an act of self-indulgence and the solemn obligation of raising them with ample care and love quickly becomes lost or relegated. In many instances, parental responsibility has become a hollow concept with the finger of blame for the unhappiness that often follows pointed elsewhere, sometimes anywhere but where the responsibility really resides. I fervently believe that we must consider the plight of every child, not just our own or the privileged few, and actively support their collective well-being. A failure to protect and cherish even one child is a failure towards all.
On the Zambezi River (Chapt. 15):
Somewhere along our course, I noticed a distinctive shape floating in the water. It seemed iridescent and glistened along the shimmering surface that reflected the ever lowering rays of the sun. We paddled alongside and I gently reached down to pick up the most beautiful flower I have ever seen. It resembled a large lily that had obviously become separated from its parent plant amongst the shallows. The petals were flawlessly sculpted and symmetrical in various shades of muted yellow that grew more vivid towards the centre. The whole creation looked as though it had been meticulously carved from wax and to hold it in the palm of my hand seemed like an infringement of natural perfection. As I lifted the flower to my face it gave off a scent of indescribable complexity and sweetness that momentarily induced a feeling of light headedness. I softly placed the bloom back into the water and it became caught up in a swirling eddy spinning round and around like a luminous top. Eventually, a gentle breeze or unseen current willed it free to continue its irrevocable journey towards the distant ocean.
On an eye-witness to history (Chapt. 17)-The Warsaw Uprising (1944):
I approached the old city of Warsaw in the warm sunshine pausing at a street side vendor to purchase some flowers. An old lady in her late 70s gently tended the buckets of brilliant blooms and neatly arranged bouquets. I selected a bunch of fragrant freesias and mentioned my intention to lay them by the nearby statue to fallen child warriors. The woman looked me squarely in the eyes with a gaze that seemed hauntingly familiar. Her eyes were watery and soft, deep set and flanked with small folds of skin on a wrinkled serene face. The tender features of her countenance reminded me of my late and beloved grandmother. I instinctively grabbed her hands and she clasped mine. 'You were here, weren't you, when it all happened?' I exclaimed with unusual forthrightness. She looked at the ground and nodded silently in response to my rather impromptu question. Then the woman raised her head and sighed with an incredibly heavy heart. She pointed towards the Old Town with a slow sweeping gesture of her arm, as though she was trying to sweep away some haunting recollections. 'My child,' she said, 'here and everywhere else, we were walking on corpses....we were walking on corpses...' Her wavering words drifted off until there was nothing left to say.
On Russia (Chapt. 19):
A cold blast of wind disturbed my reflections as a few lights flickered on in the recessed windows of the Kremlin. I wondered about the view from those privileged vantage points above the vast square, once the focal point of an empire and feared global power, but now only echoing with the ghosts of history. I looked around and found myself completely alone. Turning the collar of my coat up against the chill, I could recollect my late grandmother predicting the fall of the Soviet Union long before the end of the twentieth century. 'No lie can endure or keep people on their knees forever,' she had said with conviction and uncanny foresight. Grateful for her perpetual optimism and faith in the human spirit, I walked out of the shadows of the Kremlin walls and towards the lights of the city.
On Islam and religion (Chapt. 20):
I have the greatest respect for Islam, which is frequently and quite unfairly portrayed as inherently violent, intolerant and fanatical. In truth, the noisy fundamentalists and few violent extremists that have hijacked the faith for sinister purposes are no more representative of Islam than the lunatic religious right are of mainstream America. In my opinion, the religious whores and poisonous televangelists that pollute the US airwaves twenty-four hours a day with their phoney humility and insidious snake oil salesman tactics are only marginally less scary than the occasional Islamic fanatic. Religious extremism in all its manifestations remains a dangerous curse and should be roundly condemned; whether it comes in the guise of your average 'Jihadi' or the self righteous 'Reverends' that hide behind so-called charitable enterprises while peddling hypocritical platitudes to a naïve and easily fleeced congregation.
On leaving (Chapt. 21):
Finally, the rain came from nowhere as a soothing and refreshing downpour. I looked up to see a solitary cloud hovering overhead, perhaps prompted to release its moisture by the imposing mountain directly behind me. I could feel the hefty raindrops trickling slowly down my face and mixing with my tears. As they touched my lips, they possessed a purity and bitter-sweetness all of their own.
It was time to leave. I took one last look at the view that had become a captivating highlight of almost every day in the Cape. I had seen it during all four seasons and in different weather, at dawn and dusk, and now in the enveloping darkness approaching midnight after the passage of an unforgettable storm. Indeed everything passes, only the memories remain.

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