Word: spearing
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Knowledge. The Americans, say the British, do not know the world. Indeed, they did not-and some appalling blunders resulted. U.S. education is ill-suited for foreign affairs, 19th century style. The educated Briton is reared for debate and negotiation as the Spartan for the spear. A good British Foreign Office man can, by effortless intuition, absorb the essence of a political crisis from a bubble of cocktail conversation. Americans will never be good at that. They will set up a million-dollar study project to find out what a Briton would learn by asking a girl...
...Western clothes he's accustomed to wearing. It is a film in which the natives amuse rather than terrorize. With its inventive photography and a crew of natural performers, Mr. Swanson has come up with some sensitive anthropological touches that Margaret Mead never thought about. And nobody flings a spear all evening...
...bewigged and red-robed justices of the Kenya supreme court. Spectators in the courtroom were searched for guns. Hundreds of armed police and settlers strolled the streets of the remote little town of Kitale. The court was met to hear the appeal of Moscow-trained Jomo ("Burning Spear") Kenyatta and five of his loyal followers, sentenced to seven years' hard labor last April for being the brains behind the Mau Mau terrorist movement...
...embarrassed bride knelt before the Gaika elders to pay homage, and was almost tumbled to the ground by an overenthusiastic camera bug. Then, draping a leopard skin about her shoulders, she picked up an assagai (spear) to fling it into the Royal Kraal gatepost-the traditional demand for admission to the Gaika tribe. The jam of whites spoiled her aim: she missed. Bridegroom Anthorpe, in a long leopard skin, gave up in disgust and returned to his dressing room. Not for another hour did Anthorpe confront his bride. At an open-air altar, flanked by the mayors of nearby cities...
...individual episodes themselves are sometimes magnificently caught. There is the cold insanity of the wounded moray as it fights the spear, and glares hate from what is surely the most evil eye in creation. There is the merry jig of the infant octopus, no bigger than a finger, as it watches the underwater world it will inherit through the lucent membrane of its natal sac. There is the grave pavane of the beruffled nudibranchs, tiny fish that swirl among moving fronds like bright dancers in an oriental court. And there is the fish that walks, the fish that is nothing...