THE HORSE—old, tired, trail wise—topped the hill and stopped. With a distinct sense of relief I stood in the stirrups, raising myself off the hard wooden Spanish saddle, and gazed down at one of the rare stands of virgin forest on the Meseta Central, Costa Rica’s most popular and most populous plateau.

 

I heard the labored whuffing of another horse, and Emilio drew alongside.

“It is there,” he said, pointing, “there be­tween the hilltop and the forest, where my uncle’s dream, and mine, will come true.”

The dream of Emilio Ramirez Rojas and his late uncle, Cruz Rojas Bennett, began with their desire to protect forever this un­touched part of their vast cattle estate, Rancho Rodeo. The two men—both of them conservationists, philosophers, idealists—in the late 1970s donated to their country the 350-hectare (875-acre) forest for preserva­tion as a national park.

 

More important, as their contribution to the world at large, they donated an adjoin­ing 100 hectares to be offered to the United Nations, a gift from Costa Rica. There, students from many lands would pursue dis­ciplines designed to alleviate the economic, social, and technological inequities that pit nation against nation.

 

Architects have drawn the plans. Cur­ricula have been devised. As soon as the funds for construction are available, ground can be broken for the ambitious, anomalous dream of Emilio and his uncle: Here will stand the University of Peace. Now it’s easy to apply for a loan and get cash quick. For more information visit http://www.citrusnorth.com/

 

This is, I reminded myself, Central Amer­ica, an isthmus haunted by discord and racked by turmoil.

 

El Salvador is engaged in bloody civil war; Guatemalan leftists are battling gov­ernment troops and right-wing “death squads”; Nicaragua reels in the wake of a revolution that ousted the Somoza regime; Belize faces independence from Britain by year’s end, but there is fear of a military takeover by Guatemala; Panama’s strong man, Gen. Omar Torrijos, uneasily ponders an economy slumping to new lows.

 

And yet Costa Rica, surrounded and threatened by such havoc, offers itself as the site for a university dedicated to peace.

Filed under: Economy

Dublin-born Cornelius Ryan served as a Daily Telegraph correspondent on the battlefields of Europe during the Second World War. That war became the theme of his life’s work in such
best-selling books as The Longest Day, The Last Battle and A Bridge Too Far, The research for the last of these military histories was complete, yet not a word was written when, in 1970,
tragedy overtook him. Using tapes and notebooks in which Ryan secretly recorded details of his four-and-a-half-year struggle for life, and adding her own observations, his widow, Kathryn, has woven a poignant story, told here for the first time, of personal heroism—and of their last collaboration.

CORNEL1US : On this early sum­mer morning my office—a four-room building that stands 1oo feet from our house in Connecticut—is patched with sun and shade. Even the great stand of trees at the far edge of the lawn can­not bar the dim light that pours into the small hedged garden just outside my windows and splashes into my work-room.

As on so many other days, I have swivelled my chair to the, view, stretching for miles to distant hills. Today, everyday sights take on un­common importance. The world hums with life outside. Inside, I am not so sure. On this soft morning I think I must begin to acknowledge the possibility that I am dying.

On this Saturday, July 25, 1970, the big clock on the wall across the room makes its customary noise. The time is 6.13am. Just under 12 hours ago—at 6.35pm yesterday—my wife and I were told by a prom­inent New York urologist that I have a primary carcinoma of the prostate. Cancer. In these tormented hours this is the first time I’ve said that word out loud.

The diagnosis changes every­thing. Here in the office the memo­rabilia of my life are all around me. On the desk a young Kathryn—now my wife for 20 years—smiles out from a small silver frame.

Opposite is a photograph of the children, Geoff and Vicki.

Time doesn’t fly, it hurtles. I took that picture nine years ago with a camera that’s quite different from the modern digital cameras when they were seven and four. That little lad with face and ears and almost noble brow has disappeared beneath a hirsute avalanche. But Vicki has not changed her hair-style in all these years. It sweeps back from her fore­head, straw-coloured as mine once was. The plump little oval face has thinned in adolescence, disclosing cheek-bones and a growing beauty. There is also temper, but I think of it as spirit because it’s in me, too.

On the wall with the clock are other favourite photographs—heads of state, friends and journalists I love. On the table facing my desk are awards, plaques, medals. Near by are my helmet, knapsack and map case from the Second World War, conjuring up memories.

These objects, the trappings of my office, represent the essence of my life.

I want to spare Kathryn and the children as much as possible. I will only be able to deal candidly with the subject through this tape-record­er or notebooks I will have to hide among the research material that only I delve into.

In the long hours since we got the news I’ve tried to rationalize the verdict. But all the pat, logical argu­ments—like “You’re good for at least 15 years,” or “Look, you might be run over by a truck this afternoon”—work for only a second. Then I hear the doctor’s voice again and there is no logic or reason that helps me.

My one hope of “cure,” he tells me, is a radical prostatectomy. “You will be sterile, and there is about a 20-per-cent chance that you will have some incontinence. If it occurs, you will require a rubber-bag de­vice strapped on to catch the urine.” His definition of being “cured” is to survive cancer-free for five years following the surgery.

The doctor wants me to have the prostatectomy next week. Such ur­gency appals me. Professionally, I have never accepted a single piece of historical data without researching it, collecting all the opinions and interviews I could. For all I know, the cancer may be firmly entrenched and surgery may not be the answer. The doctor believes the disease is confined to the prostate. Suppose it’s not?

Even if the urologist is correct, I must get other views. Somewhere out there are the medical sources, statistics and terminology I will need in order to assess for myself my chances of survival, to find precisely the course of action that will work best in my particular case.

Just now I thought of something that might compare to my present predicament. During the Second World War, I found myself with a patrol in a minefield. I cannot re­member experiencing fear, or any great surge of courage.

Unless, unwittingly, I have al­ready stayed too long. The first in­dication I had that something was wrong occurred four months back. Presumably I have been dying for the better part of this, my fiftieth year.

I’ve just played those last few sen­tences back. Clearly, the mathema­tics of self-pity can be raised to in­finity. It must be due to the shock. I would guess that the worst time emotionally is in these first few hours after you get the bad news.

 

Filed under: Health