A Karl Marx Vacation

Only two weeks before we were booked to depart on our holiday, I was diagnosed with a type of skin cancer. Fortunately, the cancer was not the brand that spreads, entering your blood stream, and ending your life. It was a ever-growing blemish on my right cheekbone, and a strange, reddish purple in colour. Although not fatal, the doctor recommended surgically removing it immediately and without delay. The surgery was done, and was ordered to keep the bandage on the wound for at least a week. The problem for me, however, was we were scheduled to fly out of Melbourne to the island of Vanuatu the next day.

Holidays on a island and resort, vanquishing on a hot beach, has never been my scene. I much prefer visiting historic cities, visiting museums, and immersing myself in a new culture. My wife, at the time, preferred the ocean, drinking extravagant cocktails, and tanning her body. My young son wanted the same: swimming pools and cable television. We were a democratic household, thus I was always out voted when it came to vacation destinations. “Dad, looking at old building all day is not a “real” vacation.” He was right, I liked looking at old buildings and ancient ruins, but I was alone, so the island it was...

Considering my wound from the surgery, laying in the sun was never an option. Would I be marooned to the air conditioned hotel room for the entire week? If that was the case, I needed a good book. I finally settled on a biography of Karl Marx. During my university years, I was required to read Marx, and had found him fascinating, particularly his views on capitalism, and the vast separation of the rich and poor, as a result of this system.

We arrived on Vanuatu at around six o'clock in the evening. A group of us were relegated to a bus that appeared to have been manufactured in 1965. The driver drove the rattler like a NASCAR, leaning dangerously close to the side of the road, a cliff below. Suddenly a native Vanuatu-en, stood up at the front of the bus, speaking in a distinctive French accent, and began orating on the short history of the island's colonial past. He told us that half the island had been invaded by the British, and the other by the French. To present time the native people preferred the French over the British, because, he said, the English were cruel. I didn't know this, but he appeared to be a genuine historian about his home. We finally arrived at our resort under darkness, and so never had the opportunity to see the countryside. And as we soon discovered, Vanuatu is a deeply beautiful place in the world.

The entire resort staff are native to the country. All except for the bartender, who turned out to be a bad tempered middle aged British woman, per-maturely wrinkled, with a hook nose. As I remember, I attempted to engage in a few conversations with the woman, to merely grunts and snarls. In the end, I didn't spend much time in the bar, which I guess was a good thing.

Karl Marx was born into a well-to-do Jewish family in Prussia. A successful lawyer, he wanted his son, Karl, to follow in his footsteps, and study Law. While at university, Marx quickly gained the reputation as a rabblerouser, and a big drinker with his fellow wannabe revolutionaries, protesting the militarism of the Prussian hierarchy. He turned to journalism, a gifted writer, founding a newspaper devoted to politics, criticising the oppression and unfair economic practices of the government, and the wealthy...

The heat on the island was searing. I bought a big straw hat, similar to a sombrero, and sat next to my wife by the pool reading, and watching my 9 year old son play with a Japanese girl about the same age. Despite not knowing each other's language, both got along extremely well. I thought at the moment, that we should follow the example of our children, when it comes to our attitudes and relationships with the other. Admittedly, I much more love the cold rather than the hot. I grew up in Denver, Colorado, which might have something to do with this preference. Only after about an hour, I'd scurry back to our room, and sit under the air conditioner, reading Marx.

Because Marx was on constant surveillance by the Prussian government, he had to pull up stakes and move often. The secret service would invent crimes to the authorities in the country he lived, like Paris, for example, and he would be exiled. He finally settled down in London, where began this intense friendship, collaboration, sponsorship, with Fredrick Engels. Remember, that during this time, the industrial revolution was in full swing. If you ever have read Dickens, you will understand the ruthless exploitation of the worker in general, but also child labour, that, for any reader with a conscience, is deplorable and cruel. It is here in London, that Marx began r esearching and writing his magnum Opus, Das Capital.

After a few days, my wife got bored with swimming pool and sun, and suggested we hire a car and explore the island. To be fair, I do not have the appropriate words to describe the beauty of Vanuatu: lush, green, fresh; symmetrically prefect. We ended up at a small cafe. We drank wine and ate fruit and bread. On the walls around the room, were colourful, original paintings. My wife fell in love with one, that hung on the wall right above our table. I looked at the price: $800 Australian. She was insistent on purchasing the piece, but much too high a price on this particular holiday. Relenting, I asked the patron to ring the artist, so to haggle the cost down for the work. We spoke, and his voice was low, calm, steady, with a hint of a French lilt.. He would not lower the price. I thanked him and hung up the phone. My wife was disappointed, and even attempted to copy the painting once we returned home. In retrospect, her try at a copy of the work, was hilariously amateur. Once finished, she showed me her work, and we both, simultaneously, laughed. That's how much she loved it.

Das Capital is a dense work to read. Marx viewed capitalism as a economic system that would soon, miserably fail. He believed that revolution was afoot, and finally, the common worker would own the means of production, thus the world would be a fair, and better place. I finished the biography with a hint of sadness. The masses have misunderstood Marx. Certainly Lenin and Mao absolutely did: only to put their own ideas into the work. The Russian and Chinese revolutions were revolts from the top down. This was not communism or even socialism, but oligarchical totalitarianism. The world is not ready for true communism...we are only human, and greed, avarice and exploitation of the weak, will only continue.

It was the last day of our vacation. My son wanted to see his new friend again. I observed that the little girl's father awoke early and hit the resorts golf course, most mornings. We arrived at the golf course and the little girl and her father were no where to be found. “Don't worry, Sam. Maybe you will see her again.” Really, a stupid thing to say to a smart kid. I asked, “How bout we hit a few golf balls towards the first green ahead.?” The boy nodded, and we proceeded to swing these sticks, smacking a tiny ball toward a waving flag in the distance. Only half way on the fare-way, Sam ran to the edge against a chain link fence with bob wire on the top, like a prison. He didn't find the ball, and came up to me with a pale face, and a look of shock. “What's wrong?” I asked. He grabbed my hand a led me to the fence. On the other side, right next to the boundary, were decrepit, makeshift houses. Inside were families, two adults and several children, all in the one space. It reminded me of the townships in South Africa...and one could smell the air of cooking. We realised that the people that served us at dinner, were the same people living in utter squalor. Even my 9 year old son, saw the exploitation, the insane separation between the privileged, the rich, and the poor.

On our flight back to Melbourne, Sam didn't speak. The boy had a far away gaze, thinking about something. I believe, he was thinking about the world.