WE ALL need heroes. People we can look to for inspiration, who can raise our hearts and minds about the mundane and give us hope. Or even just make us happy for a moment or two.
I have collected quite an impressive set of them over the years, from David Bowie as Ziggy to Neil Kinnock as saviour of the Labour Party. More recent heroes include Madonna, for being 50 and giving a damn, Miuccia Prada for her handbags and the shoe
buyer at New Look.
High up on my list is, of course, the world’s hero, Nelson Mandela. He held my hand once, but it is not something I like to boast about.
Now I can add two more: Barack Obama and David Livingstone. Obama is a pretty obvious choice. A sexy man, who writes like a dream, loves his family and has the audacity to say that his country, and the world, can be a better place. What’s not to love?
Livingstone on the other hand is a dead Scot, portraits of whom show a dour-looking Victorian and whose obsessive nature led directly to his own death, and probably that of several of his colleagues. But after eight weeks in southern Africa, quite accidentally following in his footsteps, I now understand how this working-class Scot, born into grinding poverty, changed the world.
Using only the power of his hard-won education, he helped stop the evil slave trade on the East Coast of Africa, opened up large parts of this continent for trade and laid foundations for the African independence movement.
“Livingstone was not a colonial ruler,” explained Walter Joe, our Zambian tour guide, as we drove to Victoria Falls. “He came here with good intentions, that is why we still love him.”
“This is the tree where Dr Livingstone sat, waiting to speak to our chief,” pointed out Yanina, as she showed us round her village, Mukuni, on the outskirts of Livingstone city. “It has been used as a meeting place ever since.”
The town’s museum has an impressive collection of his letters and personal effects, including a remnant of the bark in which his staff lovingly wrapped his body and carried it from north Zambia to the east coast of Tanzania and a ship home for a state funeral.
His heart, however, was cut from his body and buried under a tree in the village where he died. There it remains, a symbol of his commitment to Africa and its people, and a reminder to us all that humanity can achieve greatness.
Over the years many people, even friends, have poked fun at me for my tendency to worship heroes. To these jaded creatures my open displays of hero-worship show a certain immaturity, even neediness. All heroes, these cynics argue, have feet of clay – particularly politicians.
But as I wander round this great continent, so rich in natural resources that the world’s economic powers have been fighting over it for centuries, I am more convinced than ever of the importance of heroes.
The Aids-ravaged children who beg on the streets so they can eat need heroes. The parents whose children’s education is a luxury they can’t afford need heroes. The women who die in childbirth for lack of a doctor, in a world where other women routinely spend thousands on a face-lift, need heroes. Heroes like the wee boy from a Lanarkshire mill town who dared to live his dream of a better world.
Susan Dalgety and her husband have given up their jobs,
let their heavily mortgaged house and headed off to
travel the world in a camper van. SW is following her
experiences.
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www.theroadtodot.blogspot.com The full article contains 638 words and appears in The Scotsman newspaper.
