 | C'est moi. I was born in the previous century–well, not that long ago: in 1966 in Prague, the capital of Czech Republic (then Czechoslovakia, an involuntary part of the ill-famed East Block). There's a little to be said for the beginning: like so many others, I've grown up, learnt a thing or two, was a Boy Scout (or something as near to it as was possible under a commie government), and eventually went to the 'varsity.
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Well, although I might bore you to death by a long and elaborate history of my ah so interesting life, I don't think it would really do: after all, if you know me, you know me; otherwise, I bet you don't give a tinker's cuss why, how, or when I did this or that. So, I think I shall skip the history, but for a few remarks attached to the pictures below.
| Ah, a propos, as for the OC(S) or OČ of mine. My name is Ondřej Čada: the christian name is just a local rendering of the old good name of Andrew (the Peter's brother of New Testament, one of Jesus' disciples and the patron saint of Scotland). Beside "Ondřej", "Ondra" (something like "Andy") and Andrew I also answer to "OC" ([ousi:]). The mysterious "OCS" means just Ondřej Čada Software. Actually, for a very short time long long ago I've used for a few software projects a logo COSOC (Computer Software of OC), but despite of the appealing palindromeness it did not sound quite right. So, for years (and most probably for years to come, too) the logo of my company is the plain OCS with O and C intertwined. Well, at the right there is the oldest picture I have at hand (or at least, the oldest one I care to publish on Web ;)). It's me in the age, if I recall correctly, of fifteen or so: I've received my first passport or some similar ID then, and this is the picture from the thing. Note please the shadow under my nose. No, I did not by mistake sniffed smut–that's my moustache! |  |
 | Despite–or, perhaps, since–living in a relatively big city, I've always liked country. As a Boy Scout I've learnt to cook on an open fire, to sleep under stars, to wander in woods, and so forth: most probably, only luck and some remnants of brains I might still possess saved me from becoming a tree-hugging eco-fascist. Luckily, that terrible fate I've dodged, but the love for Nature remained. Which is why a tad later I've been a tramp. As the meanings of words come, there is probably nothing as fragile (just have a look at what those overseas leftist jokers made of the good old word liberal!), so I did never touch a train without having a ticket–not speaking of the more obnoxious pastimes of true tramps. In Czechoslovakia of those years, a tramp was just a special kind of tourist: one who not only wandered the woods, but who also, by convention, clad in army-like greens and generally strived to look as something Wehrmacht left on the path when they were rushed from Stalingrad. A must were also quite uncomfortable Army boots (remember it was in a communist country, so the Army goods, despite a few excellent exception, was a rot), a Stetson hat or a beret, and, presumed you could play the thing, a guitar. Which I could–and as the picture at the left shows, the thing was quite handy as a table, too: I guess I might have been sixteen or seventeen at the time it was taken. All right, why not: foolish it was all right, but a swell time nonetheless. Whilst by far not as convenient as using a cooker, cooking on an open fire has its very distinct charm. The tramping community was quite friendly (unless one commited such unbelievable faux pas as having, say, an orange nylon jacket), and I do recall those times with love. |
| Thanks to my friends of the 'varsity I have discovered that whilst the country is loveable and nice, hills and mountains are just gorgeous. From eighteen up therefore I had hardly time for tramping, since nearly each weekend, not speaking of holidays, I was wandering as high as possible. In those times, it was next to impossible for a plain citizen of the East Block to visit the free world, so no Alps or even Rockies then. On the other hand, Slovakia–then a part of my own country–has some of loveliest world's mountains, and I've climbed them all. Later of course I went further and higher: there are quite wild and magnificent mountains in Bulgaria and Romania, which, as other unfortunate Soviet colonies, were not that impossible to visit–so we were there almost each summer. And, of course, although difficult, it was possible to go into the Soviet Union itself: uninviting and unattractive the prospect might be from the political point of view, it was a mountaineer's paradise: there is the Caucasus, and even Pamír... As soon as I succeed to scan in my slides, I'll set up a few pages with the pictures: stay please tuned. For now, there's just the one at right–my beloved, my son, and myself on the highest point of the loveliest mountain range of all: Baníkov of Roháče, part of West Tatras, Slovakia. |  |
 | All right, I guess you are already bored to death by my rambling. So, ta ta for now: you may want to have a look at
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