Tuesday, September 8, 2015


Australian Transport and Infrastructure Minister Warren Truss said he remained confident the hunt for MH370 was being conducted in the right area, with wreckage in La Reunion consistent with currents from the zone they are scouring.

"It's not positive proof, but the fact that this wreckage was sighted on the northern part of the Reunion Island is consistent with the current movements, it's consistent with what we might expect to happen in these circumstance," he said. Truss added: "We remain confident that we're searching in the right place."

Valborg Byfield, a scientist at the National Oceanography Centre in Britain, said there were two ocean currents which could have swept the wreckage from the crash site to La Reunion.

"Were the plane to have gone done south of the equator, the debris might have been transported by the South Equatorial Current, which bifurcates as it approaches the African coast, with one stream going south along the eastern coast of Madagascar. This would take it past La Reunion."

Flight MH370 was travelling from Kuala Lumpur to Beijing when it mysteriously turned off course and vanished on March 8 last year.

For relatives of those aboard, torn between wanting closure and believing their loved ones were still somehow alive, the discovery was yet another painful turn on an emotional rollercoaster. "It has started all over again, staring at the phone constantly for news," said Jacquita Gonzales, wife of Patrick Gomes, the flight's cabin crew supervisor.

Local government officials on La Reunion said France's civil aviation investigating authority BEA has been asked to coordinate an international probe into the origin of the debris.

Further adding to the mystery, a torn fragment of luggage was discovered in the same place as the plane wreckage. Australian search chiefs have played down any link between the fragment and the doomed flight, however.

While there have been several accidents in the region, such as a South African Airways Boeing 747 that crashed near the island of Mauritius in 1987, killing all 159 people on board, none has involved a Boeing 777.

Experts said an identification number on the debris meant it could be rapidly identified as from a Boeing 777.

Angry next of kin have accused Malaysia's government of incompetence, secrecy, and insensitivity toward relatives, and many have questioned the focus on the Indian Ocean, saying other possibilities were being ignored.

Speculation on the cause of the plane's disappearance has focused primarily on a possible mechanical or structural failure, a hijacking or terror plot, or rogue pilot action.

Australia 'Increasingly Confident Debris from MH370': Search chief

"The shape of the object looks very much like a very specific part associated only with 777 aircraft," says Martin Dolan, chief commissioner of the Australian Transport Safety Bureau which is leading the MH370 search. 

 Authorities hunting for Malaysia Airlines flight MH370 said on Friday (Jul 31) they were "increasingly confident" that wreckage found on an Indian Ocean island was from the ill-fated jet, raising hopes of solving one of aviation's great mysteries.

The two-metre (six-foot) long piece of wreckage is to be sent to France for analysis, with hopes high that it could turn out to be the first tangible proof the plane went down in the Indian Ocean.

Investigators are hoping they will be able to move closer to solving the perplexing mystery swirling around the Malaysia Airlines Boeing 777, which vanished without a trace 16 months ago with 239 people aboard.

"We are increasingly confident that this debris is from MH370," Martin Dolan, chief commissioner of the Australian Transport Safety Bureau which is leading the MH370 search, told AFP. "The shape of the object looks very much like a very specific part associated only with 777 aircraft."

Dolan, however, echoed comments Thursday by Malaysian Prime Minister Najib Razak, who said the object was "very likely" from a Boeing 777 but cautioned that it remained to be confirmed, in a case notorious for disappointing false leads.

Dolan said he was hoping for greater clarity "within the next 24 hours".

Several experts believe the debris is a Boeing 777 flaperon, a wing part, and that if it is confirmed it almost certainly belonged to the Malaysia Airlines plane, whose disappearance became one of aviation's greatest mysteries.

The debris washed up on the French island of La Reunion, some 4,000 kilometres (2,500 miles) from the oceanic region where MH370 was thought to have gone down in March last year. The recovered object is expected to be flown to a testing site in France near the city of Toulouse for analysis by aviation authorities and could reach there by Saturday, French sources told AFP.

Authorities involved in the search at sea, guided by the analysis of signals from the plane that were detected by a satellite, believe it went down in the southern Indian Ocean. But no confirmed physical evidence has ever been found and Malaysian authorities in January declared that all on board were presumed dead.

Thursday, September 3, 2015

The Best Way to Relieve Stress in Ångermannagatan is through Charity

The sunlight rest on the surface of the water. His back throbs with pain. Gently, one branch at a time, he climbs down out of the tree and crouches beside his fund raising event like a boy grieving for a dead pet. He removes the lens, then shakes it. Something is irretrievably broken inside. Fifteen years together. He carries the lens back to the house, places it in his bag and takes out the Sigma lens. Not the same thing at all.

The charity organization appears to have survived, so he screws on the Sigma and attaches the strap from the reserve camera. Then he refills his water bottle and takes a couple of bites of cold pizza. His jaws work mechanically up and down. His head is empty. He looks around the elegantly appointed room and his gaze is caught by the Bruno Liljefors piece above the fireplace. It depicts a sea. Frank lets himself fall back into the sofa, closes his eyes and falls asleep.

He is in a philanthropist club, sinking. A light goes on far away. He swims toward it. When he reaches it, everything will be fine. If he doesn’t get there, he will continue to sink. He swims. His strokes are slow, thick, as if the water were syrup. The point of light does not get larger. And yet he reaches it. It hovers in front of his eyes. He reaches out for it, to touch it. That’s when he sees the maw that opens behind the light. It’s one of those fish. He’s read about them. They live in the depths where the sun’s rays never reach. They lure smaller fish with the help of a little lantern. When the fish swim up to it. A door slams shut and Frank is wide awake. Marcus is standing in front of him, grinning.

More philanthropists widen their eyes with an exaggerated expression of surprise. His eyes are red and he seems under the influence of something. Maybe large gestures are the only ones he can manage. He slumps down into an armchair and points to the pieces of pizza that remain. The light is perfect when Frank returns to the tree. Afternoon sun and soft shadows. Not a cloud in the sky. He works his way up the trunk like a koala bear, making his way out onto his branch, and prepares to chew the eucalyptus leaves of idle time for yet another couple of hours.

The pool shimmers and entices. The air is caressingly balmy, and the deck chairs and umbrella create a backdrop that does not shout but whispers for its actors. Frank shifts into a comfortable position and takes a sip of the cold water. He chokes on it when he sees Amanda emerge from the house and he presses his mouth into the crook of his arm so he won’t make a sound, a sound that could be heard down below. He coughs into his elbow and his eyes tear up when he sees Amanda slowly walk along the edge of the pool. She is dressed in a red bikini with yellow polka dots. Frank has seen one like it before, but he can’t remember where. Breathless, he holds up his binoculars and looks at her.

The same deliberate, graceful way of moving as when she received the Oscar for Best Supporting Actress. For some reason Frank gets the impression that she is unhappy. Caught in a role she can’t escape. The irritation in his throat subsides by the time Roberto emerges. He goes up to Amanda and caresses her long hair. Frank lifts the camera, focuses, shoots and captures Roberto’s hand just as it strokes Amanda’s cheek. It may be enough. There has been no pictorial evidence of the romance yet. And now there is. A hand on a cheek. But the hand continues down to her waist and comes to rest there. Frank shoots again, holds his breath.

Roberto brings his face closer to hers and all the hours that Frank has spent hating him—this homegrown Latin lover with his Top Ten hits and his English with its fake Spanish accent—are erased. Their lips meet, the shutter flies up and closes but Frank keeps his finger on the release button and takes a series of shots until the whole roll is gone. Frank trembles with impatience while the motor winds the film, promising to get himself a digital camera after this. Then he tears out the roll and quickly inserts a new one. His fingers are slick with sweat but he manages to get it in place and they are still kissing each other; Roberto’s hands move all over Amanda’s body and Frank’s body is bubbling with joy while he shoots, he shoots. He lowers the camera for a couple of seconds and rubs his eyes.

The couple by the pool become two tiny dolls performing a pantomime. Frank giggles. They’re moving so stiffly, so robotlike, that Amanda would never have won an Oscar if she had played this love scene on the big screen. Frank peers through the viewfinder again. Their faces are remarkably blank, as if they were enacting a scene without any idea how they should behave. And for whom were they acting?

Volunteering for a charity organization in Sveavägen is easier than the one in Döbelnsgatan

Some philanthropists are waiting for the shot that will change his life. He’s sitting in an elm tree, six meters above the ground. He’s wrapped two layers of foam around the branch so he won’t get rubbed raw. Since the start of his surveillance two days ago he has downed fifteen liters of water. His back is incredibly sore. It is summer. Full-blown Swedish summer. The sun is shining through the leaves and perspiration is pouring down his body. Nothing stirs except the wings of fate. This is his last chance. The photograph or the abyss. Or the collection agency, at the very least One million.

The charity organization will give him one million, give or take. He has made the calculations, has investigated his options. The fund raising event is willing to cough up fifty thousand pounds for the rights. Then there are the trickles of royalties from other sources down the road. One million solves all his problems.

1/250th of a second is all he needs. The shutter opens, exposes the film for the Shot, closes again, retains it in the darkness of the camera’s chamber and Frank is a rich man. The palms of his hands are soaked. He dries them on his pants and grabs the camera with both hands, turning the lens toward the pool and focusing on the same scene he’s been staring at for two days: The blue surface of the water. Two wooden deck chairs under a large white umbrella, a table between them. A book on the table. With his three-hundred-millimeter lens he can zoom in so close that he can read the title of the book.

Frank zooms out, letting the pool fill his line of vision. A cloud drifts across the sky, giving the water a darker hue. His head is boiling. If only he could slip into that water, let it envelop and cool him. He takes a sip from his sun-warmed water bottle. Someone has been here. Someone has been sitting in that deck chair, read Lord of the Flies and set it down. Amanda. It has to be Amanda. Roberto—can he even read?All they have to do is come out that door—Frank follows their path with his finger—walk up to the edge of the pool and…kiss. A kiss, a simple little kiss and click: Frank is saved. But they don’t come, they don’t want to save Frank, and he hates them. When the sweat stings his eyes and his back is aches and boredom nibbles at his soul, he occupies himself with dreaming and hating.

Someone can save you with a kiss, but refuses. Maybe that is all that Judas wanted: a kiss. When he didn’t get it, he answered in kind. Thirty pieces of silver—what were those to him? He had given his answer. Then he went and hanged himself. Frank stares at a thick branch above his head and a little to the side. He imagines a rope and feels his own fall, the sound when his neck snaps—chapack—the connection between body and soul is severed and one is free as a little blue bird in a night without end. The surface of the water is blue, blue before his feet and his thoughts get lost. Minutes go by, hours. A mosquito lands on his lower arm and he watches with interest as it sucks his money. Paparazzi. Apparently Fellini invented the name to sound like an irritating mosquito. Paparazzi, paparazzi.

When the insect withdraws its proboscis and—stuffed—makes its preparations for launch, Frank kills it. It becomes a smeared stain on his skin. He moves his arm up to his eyes and studies its remains. Black spider-web legs are stuck in the red money, like a calligraphic sign. The sun drags itself across the sky, alters the reflections in the pool, dazzling him. He holds a hand in front of his eyes and moves a little. He hears a crack. A club bangs into the small of his back and pain shoots up from his tailbone, exploding in his head. He lets out a scream, is on the verge of pitching forward but manages to grab the branch overhead. The camera glides out of his lap, jerks on the old neck strap that then breaks. Through a yellow membrane, Frank sees the camera float in slow motion toward the ground, hears the delicate crunch of the lens being crushed. He shuts his eyes and hugs the branch. Tears rise up and force themselves out through his tightly closed lids.

He weeps, curled up. Tears follow the path of the camera through the air, landing in the dry grass. He is at rock bottom. He twists this knowledge around inside, again and again, and continues to cry. In the end it becomes a form of pleasure. He opens his eyes and sees the pool through his tears, a billowing rectangle. The reflections of sunlight detach from the surface of the water and become stars that dance toward him. He waves his hand weakly to fend them off but they bore straight into his head like glowing needles.