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Travel with a Good Book

2010-05-07T03:48:00.000-07:00

There is a magnetic draw to the Middle East, where history is so powerful that people completely lose themselves. It is the home of three of the worlds largest monotheistic religions, all born of a single father, reading from a common book. And I love a good book. Immersing myself in the fiction and wrapping myself in the prose.

The Torah is comprised of the four books of Moses, the old testament contains these same chapters and Islam builds on these origins, referring to Christians and Jews as people of the book and telling of Moses in the Qu'ran. The book is bigger than any one single book and the story I found myself wrapped up in was that of Moses.

I flipped pages up and down the Nile, thumbing thru the tombs, lingering in the temples. It is an adventure story of double identity along the banks of the desert river. An orphaned boy sent adrift in a peasants basket to be raised in a pharaohs court, from pauper to prince, then back again, as a young man re-identifying with his people, driven to murderer, and forced into exile a fugitive.

In the Sinai we drank beer and dove the reefs for two weeks along the Red Sea a hundred kilometers from Mount Sinai, where in exile Moses found love by the well, purpose through a burning bush, and guidance in the ten commandments. Along the way we met Mary and Jesus, two Californians studying in France, with whom we climbed the mountain and drank beer. Sure, its a different story, but you can't deny the profound irony of it.

Entering Jordan we came to the last chapters. His brother, Aaron, was laid to rest in Petra and he himself by Mount Nebo, from where he first saw his peoples Holy Land. Refreshed from a swim in the Dead Sea, we also looked out from atop Mount Nebo, over the valley of Jericho, the Jordan River, and on to Jerusalem and the Holy Land which Moses would never know as it was divine will that he never set foot in the promised land.

These may have been Moses's chapters, but the story is not so simply contained. It is just a footprint for a much larger mystery. For in the north of Ethiopia, hidden away in a simple church's dark interior, is said to rest the Ark of the Covenant, brought to Ethiopia by King Solomons lineage thru the Egyptian Queen Sheba. It is guarded by one man, for life, seeing no other visitors but him on one day a year. Or perhaps it was the Knights Templar who found and moved it from David's Temple in Jerusalem. It is these questions that are best left to scholars like Dan Brown and Indiana Jones. Or, just maybe the two brave Nastansky women who raid tombs professionally, if you know how to find them and are willing to pay the price.

The Street Boys

2010-04-19T03:27:00.000-07:00

Mark Twain delights us with the wonders of boyhood. Skinned knees and bare feet, wild with imagination and thirst for adventure. Jirata, Dameka, and Lalise would fit brilliantly into these pages. I can see these three scamps racing the red clay roads to the staduim on Saturday mornings to watch futbol, striking taekwondo poses, and nabbing mangoes along the way. Later, they’d hang out by the foosball tables on the side of the tarmac, a road that cuts thru Gimbie on it’s way to Addis Ababa or Sudan, depending on your direction. It was by these tables on my walks home that they adopted me, taking turns teaching and quizzing me on Amharic, or Oromifa. I could never tell which was which.

These boys are like all little boys and they’ll steal your heart and take your hand. Except they have no hands to guide them, they are on their own. These are the street boys, living together as a family, sleeping under trucks and in doorways, begging or charming their dinners from the townspeople and restaurants.

One little urchin with lazy eyes and a peaceful smile followed us into a restaurant for dinner. We were with our friend Mark and by the time we washed and sat down, David was sitting right beside us, beaming. I thought he was with you, oh, I thought he was with you. He sat patient, a perfect little gentleman and the clever little guy won us over. When the communal plate of injera came we bought him a soda and feasted. After the meal, clutching his prized soda, he rocked with lightness of laughter as Darlene mimicked an exploding belly.

I had already been working with the street boys for a couple weeks when we came upon Jirata, exhausted and sitting on the curb, in front of his favorite mango stand. I saw his tiny figure rise and turn to us with his signature stare, bloodshot eyes, and exhausted posture. Darlene, who’d never met him, recognized him instantly from my photos. His anticipation was overwhelming and his tiny hand found mine. I knelt to bump shoulders, as is the ethiopian greeting, and took the whole of his filth, from head to toe, into a warm embrace. I have never seen dirtier children.

Everyone had been looking for him, the boys told us he was sick and skipping school. Only nine years old, he’s HIV positive and both parents have been taken by the disease. He has no one looking after him aside from his best friends, who during previous hospital stays held vigil by his side.

No words were exchanged and his grip tightened and we walked to the hospital. This attracted attention. Ethiopians are not accustomed to foreigners embracing filthy street kids, let alone walking off with them. He could barely eat and he was so dehydrated his lips were sore. He managed half a banana and held a mango for later. He was admitted to the hospital.

The next morning, I set out to visit him. A little girl living on the hospital grounds knew where his bed was and brought me into the ward to see him. I had drawn a little cartoon on a makeshift card, but when we arrived, his bed was empty. The nurse said he woke, pulled out his IV, and left.

A few days earlier, I happened upon a crowd gathered on the curb not far from the hospital. Two of the boys were in the middle so I pushed my way in and found another boy lying on the ground. I’d never seen him before, but he was wearing one of the yellow t-shirts that were given to a handful of the boys six months earlier. One man spoke broken english so I grabbed Moti by the shoulder and pulled him over to relay the story. The man translated, but would never have considered asking Moti himself. The crowd dispersed but the boys remained together, I know they would not have left him alone. I picked him up and carried him to the hospital. Half way he insisted on walking, though he had to hold me with all his might, his strength all but gone. In the emergency room I found a nurse and they laid him down to rest. I learned later that he was epileptic and had had a seizure. He was discharged that afternoon and I never saw him again. The Children’s Medical Fund paid the bill.

Today, Jirata and four other boys are living in a small rented house in Gimbie. A program called the Street Boys pays for the accommodation. A sister project, The Ark, offers economic opportunity for unwed mothers and employed one of them to live in the house and watch the boys.

I created the following video about the Children’s Medical Fund, which provides health care for children in need under the age of eighteen, including the Street Boys.

Finding Jinsse

2010-04-18T03:25:00.000-07:00

In order to do anything in Africa, you have to take full control. Then, as you’re just about to take full control you are boldly reminded that this is Africa. You have no control.

I had an assignment from the States to follow up on two hospital patients and document their progress in photographs. Jinsse and Tarike, two women admitted in February and now home with their families. Binyam, a young Ethiopian working tirelessly with the hospitals community outreach programs instructed me to find their fathers names and the kebeles in which they lived.

I started with the hospital registers and quickly learned that in juggling english, amharic, and oromifa, no one spells a name the same way twice. Translating from amharic script, vowels are often doubled in an attempt to spell things phonetically for the ferengi. One name is spelled differently on each incarnation of the register, patient charts, lab cards, and prescriptions. Sometimes the name includes the fathers name, sometimes it doesn’t. No one keeps their cards, so a new one is made each time. If someone asks you to find someone by the name Jinsse, you might be looking for Jisse, Jinsse, or Jinsee and chances are the people wont know her name, only her fathers.

In the end, it was the nursing students who remembered the patients and I closed the useless register. Jinsse was too far, a three hours walk and no vehicles would make it. Finding Jinsse would be impossible. Tarike, on the other hand, was close, just one kebele over. You can practically see her house from here.

Africa lulls you into an acceptance of waiting. You actually believe things could be straight forward, that it will come together, as planned. Never, never, never fall for this. Let me assure you it is most certainly will not. Africa reveals itself slowly. Rushing one thing will inevitably complicate something else.

In the two weeks we spent living in the hospital compound we accomplished a lot. Darlene was exhausted at the end of each day seeing patients and I was accruing video for my projects. But those accomplishments came with the price of waiting. Time, patience, trust and a lot of faith are complicit with unwritten schedules, vague complications, cultural under-communication, and over ambitious goodwill. There is a refusal to admit defeat and you rely on motorcycles that almost work but might need a part. When you are in Africa and you’re on a tight schedule, you miss a lot, because Africa rewards the patient traveler. However, if you surrender to Africa, you suddenly find yourself as I did, on my last day and still waiting. It was Friday morning and our flight would leave on Saturday just after midnight. We were an eight hour drive from the airport.

In the end, it was cold hard cash that broke the wait. I hired a truck and invited Monica to join me and disperse shoes to the village children through one of her many outreach programs. We’d drive thru Tarike’s village, do a meet and greet, and then head over the hills and deliver shoes to children in the vicinity of Jinsse’s village and hope we might find someone that knows her family.

I may have bought off the wait, but Africa was firm in it’s resolve. Tarike was not on the way. We couldn’t see her house, the village officers were not available to help us, and the bribes we’d have to pay did not inspire confidence. We’d need to see the village officers, but not today. It would be impossible for her to live in the village and the officers not know about it, I was assured. Deflated, I was now forced into a decision. Would we stay another day? I would have to give up our seats in the land cruiser and instead take local transport to Addis, making the trip ten hours, instead of the eight.

The shoe project went much better. We bumped along weathered dirt tracks rising over farmland hills and thru the heart of village life. We parked by a lone tree and unloaded two duffels of shoes while children ran across fields as word spread. Binyam fitted shoes to young girls offering their toes, their dresses worn and dirty, their waists wrapped in ropes which bound them to a future of heavy loads they would carry to support their families. But it was a beautiful afternoon full of goodwill and cheer. In fact, the goodwill was so overwhelming that one man, whose daughters were fitted with free, brand new shoes, was so pleased he charged only a small fee to lead us to Jinsse.

After two weeks of hearing how far she was, how impossible to find, how remote, we actually found her standing on the side of the road in front of a relatives house. She practically had a sign over her head. I was so pleased with accomplishing the impossible that I decided we’d stay and find Tarike. I would give up our seats on the land cruiser and set out with Binyam, first thing in the morning.

By noon the next day the motorbike still wouldn’t start and I spent the morning waiting. I was getting nervous and hungry, and Binyam was feeling pressure, so I took him out for kitfo, grabbing a sparkplug en route. Kitfo, is raw meat with a hot green chili paste eaten on injera. Ethiopians are mad for it and it cheered him up considerably. I had my kitfo fried up to be on the safe side. I bought him a hen on the way home, a good egg-layer.

The spark plug didn’t solve the problem. He worked thru the afternoon, it was three o’clock and no one at Air Egypt or Ethiopia Airlines would answer the well-published phone numbers on the world wide web. Changing our flights was out of the question, the search would end at sundown and I began to believe if I waited one more day, our luck would change. But that was impossible. Not Africa impossible, but real impossible.

Unable to delay my departure, defeated, we decide to walk to her village. As we passed the Adventist Church, we notice an unused motorbike parked out front. With a little fast talking and the mandatory African waiting period, we procured the bike. Tarike was once again, right next door. I could almost see her smile.

The race was on and skidding into the kebele we greeted the village officers. Tarike? Never heard of her. What?! Maybe you should try the next village over. My heart sank but the bike bounced along and we called out the village name as villagers pointed us in one direction or another.

The road split several times and we took the wrong fork with each division. The day was coming to an end and we eventually ran into a group of Hararbe’s, muslims who had been airlifted from the Somali side of the country to the Sudanese side and set up in a makeshift village camp, like refugees. They only spoke arabic and so we could no longer communicate. We turned around, defeated and bumped our way back toward Gimbie in silence. And then, out in those hills in the earliest hours of dusk, Africa relented and we came across a group of women returning to their village on foot. Yes, said one, Tarike is my neighbor.

Tarike cannot walk. Whatever she suffers, the womans own daughter suffers the same. Two months ago, the village carried Tarike to the hospital for care, and she was admitted, but nothing could be done for her. She is now home, an hours walk from where our bike idled. The bike would not make it, a bridge was out. It was late in the day. I looked at all the faces around me. Hardened by the earth, each carried a heavy load wearing battered shoes and beautifully patterned, but stained and filthy dresses. The future of the girls I saw yesterday.

Tarike would have to stay where she was, they would not carry her again, unless they believed in the treatments she would receive. This was their story, but like the spelling of names, no two stories in Africa are the same.

Binyam looked at me. He would return tomorrow, he was also stung from being so close but not having found her. He would make the hike and get her picture. No, I shook my head. In the middle of that forest, surrounded by the villagers faces looking at me, what was I really going to do? I could almost read it in their faces. Why was I there for Tarike, was this ferengi on the back of a motorbike really going to help?

I had nothing to offer these women but I felt Africa wrap a brotherly arm around me as if proud for bringing me here. There was no doubt that I would be shown more if I stayed longer, but this is what I would see for now. Knowing I had a rocky ride home to survive, we turned the bike and headed out, white knuckles on the gear rack. Africa always surprises when you surrender to it and what you are seeking is not the reward you eventually find.

As for our return to Addis, I received a call late in the evening. Minivan seats were available for us. We just needed to meet a boy named Howie at 4:30 in the morning under a street lamp across from the bus station. This did not impress Darlene and our ten hour, twenty hour ride to Addis is a whole other story that will need to wait.

Podoconiosis

2010-04-10T03:23:00.000-07:00

In a land where water can be scarce or remote and is always heavy to carry, hygiene is not always the first consideration. In a land where the body is pushed to exhaustion simply to put food on the table, shoes aren’t necessarily in the budget. Education can be a luxury and even then teachers might not be available. This is a film about taking nothing for granted.

This is the first of two videos I was tasked with making and the imagery contains pictures of terribly disfigured feet due to an ailment called podoconiosis. If you do not like medical imagery, consider this before watching the video or viewing the gallery. The video was made to support the work of Gimbie Adventist Hospital in Ethiopia and I would especially like to thank Monica Barlow, who among many other things, is the compassionate narrator.

Mount Meru

2010-02-03T02:29:00.000-08:00

We climbed ten thousand feet in less than forty eight hours, camping twice along the way. Five minutes before sunrise, Darlene and I gained the summit and Marco joined us as the sun rose over Mount Kilimanjaro in the distance. We were the first to summit that day just ahead of a massive group of Slovenians, who just missed the sunrise but immediately commandeered the tiny peak, ill-tempered.

Upon touchdown in Tanzania three months prior, we really believed we would climb Kilimanjaro, bag Africa’s highest peak, bask in the bragging rights and, coupled with the Serengeti, we’d do Tanzania right. We did do Serengeti, though we kinda went in the backdoor. But we never thought we’d be on the summit of the other mountain, staring across at the snows in Hemingway’s yarns.

Then again, nothing in Tanzania went the way we expected. And it was all for the best.

After three months in Tanzania we’d learned that the more you planned, the less you saw. Preconceived notions will prove you a fool and only by walking slowly with eyes wide open do you start to really see Africa.

Our climb was cheaper, more aesthetic, and less crowded unless you count the giraffe and buffalo. Our traveling companion surprised us with a rare form of HAD, high altitude diarrhea, “guys, I had to use rocks.” Our mandatory armed ranger came down with malaria and had to be evacuated, leaving us to follow the fresh buffalo tracks on our own. These were circumstances out of our control, but our social faux pas came in the process of tipping, an extravagant affair in full documented view of our entire staff, which consisted of a main guide, an assistant guide, six porters, a cook, and our aforementioned armed guard. A ridiculous affair but so full of inexplicable decision making that one can only describe it as consistent.

Thats Africa. Consistently unexpected, except in expecting the unexpected for all sorts of reasons that we’d never come up with on our own but ultimately boil down to flawed simplicity. And in the end, I smile knowing that no other country I’ve ever visited has challenged my place in the world quite like this east African nation.

Grace Palmer Oct. 1, 1920 – Jan. 20, 20

2010-01-20T02:28:00.000-08:00

My grandmothers house was immaculate and full of treats, but not too many, just always the right amount. The lawn was always mowed and we tore divots playing outdoors on summer afternoons. There were bedrooms for me and my sister and beds made up snug and tight without so much as a wrinkle. She kept us well fed and polite and the carpets were always clean for us to lay and play games on. At my grandmothers house, I felt safe, clean, and at peace.

In the room I stayed was a desk so full of stationary that I thought I won the Hallmark lottery. There were so many different sizes and colors and pens for every occasion and under her watch I drew to my hearts content. I received many letters and cards on that stationary, always assured by her pen that she loved me, heart and soul.

Experiencing peacefulness is a gift from my grandmother and a cornerstone of who I am. In this calamitous world full of uncertainty, one truth I could count on was that my grandmother loved me, heart and soul.

When I would see my grandmother over the last couple years, she always held my hand and recharged our bond. As I travel this world, I find peace imagining I am holding her hand and experiencing it with her. Finding her a postcard or composing little notes or even going somewhere on her behalf. In the Vatican City, standing in Saint Peters Cathedral, it was by thinking of my grandmother that made the experience more valuable. I believed she would appreciate walking those halls and that made me cherish it more. I looked more closely on her behalf and I felt peace.

In the forested hills outside Istanbul stands a modest home where Mary, mother of Jesus, was brought and looked after by one of the disciples of her slain son. Years ago, on a particularly warm autumn afternoon, I found myself with a rare moment alone in the room in which she prayed. In that magical context of history, as one is encouraged to do, I found myself speaking aloud to Mary. Hi Mary, I’m Jay, you probably don’t know me, I live really far away and have been a bit busy lately, but… but what I found myself settling into was a word or two about my grandmother and how it was for her that I made the trip to these hills and this home and that I thought Mary should really hear about her because I love her heart and soul.

I think my grandmother and I have different views on heaven, but I am sure she has found hers and I hope that Mary remembers my visit. As for me, I will continue to travel this world, carrying memories of loved ones with me, carrying her memory with me. I believe the soul is the memory of someone you love. And so I will recall her memory and let it enrich my experiences as it remains with me, her soul, in my heaven.

Serengeti Dreams

2010-01-12T02:26:00.000-08:00

Five minutes into the park we saw a young lioness tearing apart a Buffalo. If you have never seen a grown lioness stretch and flex her massive figure, let me just note they are sculpted power. It left an impression.

Safari guides have a network of communication to inform each other of the animals presence, which is done entirely in swahili so as to surprise their clients. I learned all the swahili names for the animals in advance and it became a source of amusement between our guide and myself, because I knew that chui kwa mtoto was a leopard with baby and were were on our way to find one. I didn’t ruin the surprise for Darlene or our two swedish friends, Anna and Lina and the guide and I shared some laughs.

On the other hand, I also knew that the words simba, tembea, hapa, and sasa, when all used together in a single sentence meant lions were heading our way, toward camp, right now. It was getting dark. Our guide prepared to sleep in his land cruiser and the camp staff in a caged banda, but it was the clients that stayed in the little exposed vinyl tents. I should mention this safari was another “good deal” because we had a friend with a friend in the business.

Before crawling into our tents, a herd of six buffalo came grazing behind the banda. Everyone huddled inside until they were gone. The affable mzee, Daudi, explained that yes, as I had heard, there were three lions tracking these buffalo. He imitated a lions call so we would know it. No more then ten minutes later we heard this sound again, but this time he was pointing, hapo, there. If you hear the baboons, he said, imitating their calls, it means they are alarmed by lion. Then he demonstrated the hyenas cry, explaining that hyena follow lion. We started taking in all the sounds, registering them, and realizing that no sound was the best sound. Miraculously, we actually fall asleep.

Darlene woke at one thirty, do you hear that? No, I was asleep, mercifully. It’s getting closer, she said, and she also moved closer gripping my arm tighter. My attempts to fall back to sleep were denied. Clearly, she wanted to share this experience. All noises lead to lions, I reminded her, but she was way ahead of me on that one. Within ten minutes the baboons were howling and we could hear Anna and Lina’s anxiety in the neighboring tent. We never asked what to do if a lion starts sniffing at our door. The staff only advised no food in the tents, but hamna shida, the animals are accustomed to them and wont bother us.

That night, under the Serengeti sky in a little vinyl tent at the end of the road, we heard with absolute distinction, the rise and fall of hooves, the snorting of breath, and the cracking joints of six grazing african buffalo. We could hear grass from the patches between our tents, being gripped, torn, and eaten as we remained frozen solid in the dead center of our tent. Darlene categorically identified every sound, hyena, baboon, anxious swedes and the complete lack of aide coming from the staff. We remained wide awake until morning.

I was the first to venture out at the crack of dawn, luring our driver from his car, anxious to get the day started. Duadi pointed out the tracks of a lioness and a hyena that had passed thru our camp. Tracks also clearly showed that we had been smack dab in the middle of where the buffalo roam.

Before breakfast we set out in the land cruiser to take in the life of the early dawn. No more than a few hundred yards from our camp, we saw the six buffalo and three stalking lioness. We astutely noted that these three powerful ladies had no kill and must be a bit hungrier than yesterday. If we could have bought them a buffalo to curb their appetite, we would have and before we camped again that night, I dug out our headphones, though in retrospect those nights were full of sounds we will cherish forever.

Happy New Year

2010-01-01T02:24:00.000-08:00

We took a dalla-dalla to Lake Manyara. A dalla-dalla is any form of vehicle, usually a minivan, into which they can cram about twenty people. That’s the legal number, but as they say in Tanzania, there’s always room for one more. And no, it’s not any different than any other minivan, it’s simply CRAMMED with people, they literally sit atop one another and hang out the sliding door, which is not often closed. But it’s cheap and gets one around. Usually. Actually, ours broke down halfway and after waiting at the side of the road for twenty minutes, we finally crawled into a smaller one and resumed our journey.

At the lake, we rented mountain bikes to tour the local village, Mto wa Mbu, which is literally translated as Mosquito river. It’s an unfortunate name as the area is beautiful with tribal culture and mosquito free in the heat of the day. We pedaled jeep road and single track thru banana plantations, sampled banana beer and capped it off with a ride thru the wide open grasslands bordering the lake.

We were surrounded by zebra and curious wildebeest. Gazelles sprinted around us in sport. There are giraffe, but we didn’t see any that day. At one point I stopped riding and watched in awe as four zebra galloped a half circle around me before they made their way off to the lake, which is so full of flamingos, it glows pink. The pool where the river meets the lake is so full of hippos one could not count them all. We kept a respectable distance, but were close enough to watch them emerge and wander the grounds. As a treat to ourselves, we took a bus home, splurging on the extra thousand shilling, or eighty cents. It was a fantastic way to finish up 2009 and we’re giddy with anticipation for 2010.

The Gift of Knowing Good Health

2009-12-25T22:38:00.000-08:00

I'd taken to riding in the Land Rover with the tanzanian staff. It started on the second day in order to beat the mobile clinic to the village and capture video of it's arrival, but from that moment on I kept my spot in the car. I preferred the intoxicating laughter as the staff amused themselves in rapid fire kiswahili. I didn't understand a lick of it, but Amiri translated bits and entertained me in english as well. I spent the mornings strolling the village before work began, occasionally raising my camera or greeting the locals.

I've been to some pretty remote spots, but this was exceptional. Roads forged simply by driving the terrain. Tracks led off in multiple directions as we tried to ascertain the paths of least resistance. It was afternoon and I'd been invited to do a home visit for a patient unable to walk the return trip. Turn right at the shrubs here, go thru the break in the fence there, there were six of us, including two men that weren't among the one hundred selected for treatment that day. Their knowledge was our map and on the return, they wanted to take me to maji moto, a small bubbling natural hot spring in the middle of a vast flat salt plain, surrounded by joshua tree-like mounds of granite in the distance.

The following day, one of the men returned to the clinic and was admitted. I greeted him in the morning and took his portrait. That afternoon I greeted him again, this time welcoming him to the lab, Darlenes signature flowing across his lab slip. I prepared a slide for malaria and test tube for brucella as she prescribed. In the corner of the lab, a makeshift studio forms and I snap portraits and the drama troup drums in the background, surrounded in dance. Educational slideshows, talks and skits entertain, as do their brief encounter with their own images on my camera. Well beyond electricity, this landscape is one where firewood is precious and living is hard, but the spirit is strong and I sincerely hope that every one of these strong faces can know the feeling of good health.

Ngorongoro

2009-12-12T23:48:00.000-08:00

For those who don't know, I have a minor obsession with the rhinoceros and from our back porch I can see the Ngorongoro Crater, which is full of them. For weeks I've stared at it's rim over morning tea and evening beers. Naturally, I needed to look inside.

Tourism in Tanzania is very expensive. It costs fifty bucks a person to get into a park, two hundred bucks to get a vehicle into the park, and then you need to hire a guide at going rate, and when all is said and done you need to tip the guide. But a friend of a friend knows a ranger, just “tell the park guards that you are from the ecological society.” We also signed a document stating we were East African residents, the text of which we only discovered later.

This didn't save us much, but as a ranger's guest, it bought us the right to go off road. So when we saw a huge male lion wander off into the brush we were able to run our little Land Rover right in after him. My door, coincidentally didn't really shut and rattled delicately on its hinge. It also bought me the freedom, provided no one was looking, to get out and take pictures, but though he looked well fed, I stayed in the vehicle to see the lion.

If you can imagine Crater Lake, the Ngorongoro is bigger, warmer, and with a lot less water. It's sparsely forested in spots, but otherwise flat enough and big enough to host the 2010 World Cup, all games played simultaneously.

Along with three of the other big five, we saw eight rhinos scattered thru the park. The black rhinos are endangered so we gave them respectable space. “That's M7, male seven over there. His mother is F7, female seven, off in the distance.” My pleasure at seeing those magnificent and peacefully grazing tanks is beyond my ability to articulate. But as we stayed and watched I chose to think of them informally as Roslyn and Jeremy, though I kept that to myself.

Back in the Classroom

2009-11-28T01:30:00.000-08:00

I have always been an impatient, fidgety student with daydreams unconducive to the classroom, yet here I sit, in the classroom. Swahili holds greetings in high esteem and as we sit in the children's chairs in this one room schoolroom, our teacher, Mwana, fires greeting after greeting at us so we fluidly respond and return the courtesies, again and again, with dynamic aplomb as my elementary notebook floods with ink.

Our class is held at the university by the market and we can practice pleasantries and placing orders at lunch and every question introduces a whole new chapter in grammar. How many noun classes do there need to be? And what the hell is a noun class anyway? As a reprieve, I take out my PADI dive book and work on the first three chapters, preparing for the following days quiz. Non stop learning, shouldn't I be on vacation?

During our free time we navigate the local market. I am fascinated by its color and energy, most specifically the meats and fish. It's rather disgusting, but I want to get as close as possible without stepping in the blood or accidentally brushing up against the discarded goat heads or entrails. I want to ask a million questions, but for now, our greetings and wide-eyed awe are enough to break the ice and pull us further in. We are forever students, as it should be.

Swahili Time

2009-11-17T20:42:00.000-08:00

We spent two months in Morocco and never found a single working clock. Everything operated Insah’Allah. On the equator, Tanzania receives twelve hours of sunlight year round and the swahili clock was developed to measure the hours from sunrise to sunset, then sunset to sunrise. Hour one each morning is one hour after sunrise.

The historic clock towers proudly display times that you might think are wrong, but when you look at ferry schedules and adjust to swahili time, you realize otherwise. While diving, the safety checks include synchronizing our watches, but relying on the instructor, we simply go thru the motions of looking at our wrists, as if time matters, and really, as we later kick back at sunset, our feet in the sand, our beers in our hands, and the sun sinking low, there is no need for any more accuracy than that. We are right on time.

A Bientot, James Claxton

2009-11-09T04:53:00.000-08:00

There are over fifty countries in Africa and we know for a fact that one of them doesn't want us. But there's fifty more to choose from and a one week respite in Paris seems the perfect segue from Morocco to, ah, whichever country lets us in.

So all along the Seine, we fancied ourselves writers and artists in bookshops and cafes, strolling the sculpture gardens of Rodin's Hôtel Biron studios, browsing galleries, and partaking an afternoon carafe of wine to relieve the feet and bemuse embassy bureaucracies. In the evenings we spilled out over the flat with a bottle of wine, three expats, in league with dreams of travel and language. So good to see an old friend.

Several times a day, we climbed seven flights of stairs to a hall of small studio flats, rooftops overlooking rooftops. Years ago these were the servants quarters, accessed thru a door at the back of the inner courtyard. Today, it was our haven and we became excessively familiar with the creak of every winding step as the elevator was reserved for residents and only accessible thru the central courtyard of the main building and not our backdoor.

Much to our amusement, we discovered that if you left the flat, descended the seven flights, and went looking for a patisserie, a right instead of a left took you straight to the Pigalle district's signature landmark, the Moulin Rouge. It was an honest mistake, but suddenly, going for a pastry took on a whole new, wonderful red-light meaning. I offered to go on a croissant run at least once a day.

Au revoir, James Claxton. When I think of you, I will think stairs. Seven spiraling flights worth.

Slow and Silly

2009-10-27T12:01:00.000-07:00

Chefchaouen's old medina is painted top to bottom in blue and white and rests on the slopes of the Rif mountains. If you hike thru them you'll find monkeys in the summit forest and a funny thin leaved plant tucked between the rows of tomatoes and peppers and as a result, the entire city is completely stoned.

Closer to Spain, the language pool increases by one and Darlene has intermixed her french and spanish with remarkable ease, "combien ça coûte for una habitación?" But one ubiquitous word rises above them all, "hashish?" No, non, la, emphatically no.

Not since Cuba have I experienced such vacant service. On the small caribean island, they were just bored and on the dole, paid regardless. In the Rifs, they're just, plain, stoned. Every menu, salad and tea is a long time in the coming. You can't change restaurants, it's everywhere. We even had to tally our own bill, they just couldn't remember what we ordered or the prices.

And in the evening, passing by the doors of all the pensions and hostals, are the giggles of tourists. But for all those Moms out there, worry not, we've seen Midnight Express and prefer to enjoy the long, slow meals for what they are.

WrightCode, Fes, Morocco

2009-10-18T12:00:00.000-07:00

At four a.m. I awoke with a start. The call to prayer blared thru the tinny loudspeaker on the minaret by our rooftop accommodation and the light was on in our room. It was so bright I thought it was the sun. In the center of the room, Darlene was standing on the bed furious for a mosquito, “he got me five times!” Luckily, I drifted back to sleep.

That afternoon I got online to help launch a new website for Pixelface Graphics in Portland, Oregon and Darlene talked to Tess on a video conference over the internet. We are in the medina across from an old medersa where there was a seventeenth century clock powered entirely by the flow of water from pot to pot to turn the gears and advance time. The clockmaker passed years ago, as did his art. Today, an old man sits in the alley with a basket of hay half full of eggs as donkey carts pull crates of produce thru the one lane maze of streets.

New meets old on quite the canvas, this medieval city is intoxicating.

The Sahara

2009-10-14T08:59:00.000-07:00

It was a local bus, it stopped everywhere. We approached the Sahara and the military presence increased in every town, inching our way toward Algeria. Finally, a taxi dropped us off in the middle of the desert, a ghost town. We were fifty kilometers from the border.

In a small garden courtyard, over a pot of tea, I negotiated hard, a camel for my girl, a night in the desert. A deal was struck and my guide and I walked alongside Darlene, regal on her camel. From high in the dunes, we could gaze over the black Sahara and into Algeria.

That night, after a fiery sunset, the moon rose over our camp, a valley in the dunes, a lone date palm, and a grumpy caravan of camels. Two cots pushed together, we slept in the open air, under a pile of wool blankets.

All quiet on the eastern front.

Outclimb the Goats

2009-10-03T18:36:00.000-07:00

For this particular climb you go under the phone cables on the way up, but you lower down over the cables for clean rope management. Meanwhile the busses and tourists line up behind you for some blatant showmanship.

Gratuitous as that is, most of the Todra Gorge's crags are further upstream and much more peaceful, some climbing right out of the river-side gardens as local women harvest their crops. The goats will beat you up any climb, but they prefer a much more precarious route over the scree fields that seem foolish to me.

Another Week on the Beach

2009-09-23T01:59:00.000-07:00

Kester forgot to mention two important things. One, Taghazoute is drier than Zion. And two, the surf doesn't really kick in until November.

Our apartment is excellent; a kitchen, a cat, and a balcony that, if you fell off at high tide, would land you in the ocean.

We found a liquor store in the hub city on an errand day. It requires a passport just to browse, but the wine is cheap and delicious and three bottles cost less than a tube of sunscreen.

The Saudi Royal family has a place about ten kilometers down the road. It's five times the size of this entire town, gated, and surrounded by military. They arrived with police escorts yesterday. We showed up relatively unannounced a few days before that.

Ramadan Saves You Money

2009-09-20T10:20:00.000-07:00

The most noticeable difference in the souk this morning were the piles of severed goat heads, billies on one side, nannies on the other. In separate piles feet were bound together for...ah, soup? Muddly, bubbly red puddles in the street which even the dogs let alone. The meat will go toward a great feast at the mosques on Monday at the Eid ul Fitr, possibly the biggest Muslim holiday of the year.

When one month ends and another begins is not scientific, it's observation (or lack thereof) of a new moon. I'm told there are people “on it” in Fes and it is now only a matter of days until Ramadan is over. The new month, Shawwal, begins either Sunday or Monday, fingers are crossed all over Arabia for Sunday, but, alas, it is Monday. One more cranky afternoon.

Admist all the disruption and chaos of Ramadan, it does save you money. Though, ironically, a lot of muslims put on weight this month, so rich and indulgent are the post sundown meals.

The Groove is ON

2009-09-16T03:38:00.000-07:00

Time no longer matters. There is day and then there is night.

We read and we sleep. There is feast and there is fast.

Our bus surfs the countryside, mosques and souks, oases and dunes, rock and trail. And the trails roll on forever and our pace has hit its groove.

Where Goats Climb Trees

2009-09-13T04:15:00.000-07:00

From the twisted branches of the Argan tree hang a fruit irresistible to the industrious goat, whose gastronomic engine delights in the hard outer fruit before the terminal end deposits the inner pit to sun dry in the scorched fields. Later collected, these pits are pressed for their oils, delicious in their own right or mixed with honey and almond paste as a spread.

So very pleased to be in the land where goats climb trees.

Not Exactly Fluent

2009-09-09T16:00:00.000-07:00

Parlez-vous francais? Non?! Well so much for all those books, tapes, and tutors.

Hmm, is that Arabic? Or Berber. And would it really matter? Naw, we are doing just fine.

Second Biggest

2009-09-01T04:20:00.000-07:00

I love Islamic mosques for the peace and serenity of their design work, quite the polar opposite of the macabre suffering that bombards you in Christian imagery.

Here Darlene looks out through the gates of the second largest mosque in the world, Casablanca. Only Mecca in Saudi Arabia is larger.

Unsubscribe Me

2009-08-25T15:30:00.000-07:00

If I don’t recognize it, haven’t used it, or remember why I bought it…I trashed it. I unsubscribed from everything. I didn’t even do a change of address, I simply cancelled everything and went paperless.

And at the zero hour, while the airport cab idled, Darlene cancelled my cell phone subscriptions with one powerful blow of her hammer, a tool she uses like a leatherman, an all-in-one which I bought her when her rock wore out.

To the airport. The international terminal, please.

Ellie Claire

2008-09-22T08:53:00.000-07:00

She came naturally this morning, in the early light of a new day while my own mother raced across the state's frosted hills to aide my sister exhausted from the good fight.

Today I wear the thrilled smile of an uncle, Ellie Claire. Rest up, beautiful girl all tightly wound in your blanket. Rest those eyes, you are in for one hell of a ride.

This is serious

2008-09-10T21:38:00.000-07:00

It was the most alarming news, probably because it was completely unexpected.

With the Red Sox a half game out and the Yankees in the basement, I dropped my guard on the Patriots and woe and lo and behold: Tom Brady gets his knee knocked sideways in the first quarter of the first game of the season.

He is out; watching the entire year from his livingroom.

Well, I did what any good New England sports fan would do. I bought two east bound tickets, grabbed the sexiest orthopedic, knee fixin' medical expert I could find, and (seeing as it's still lobster season) headed immediately to the scene of the crime.

Hang tight Brady, Darlene'll get this knee knocked back right. Darlene, pack your hammer, you got work to do.

And what better place to do it than under the granite walls, fall foliage, and lobster traps of New Hampshire. Such is my dedication to that fine corner of the world.

Don't Forget to Tip Your Gods

2008-08-10T13:32:00.000-07:00

"Microburst [mahy-kruh-burst]: A sudden, violent downdraft of air over a small area (less than 6.24 sq mi) that lasts at least 25 minutes. Microbursts can cause winds with speeds as high as 167 mph. They are difficult to detect and predict with standard weather instruments."

We returned to the River of No Return with truckloads of respect. You have to respect your gods, the River Gods.

We rigged our boats and set off. Each morning we toasted our gods with sacrificial beer and every evening we feasted over fires, danced, played music, sang, and hoola-hooped our way across the Salmon's beaches. We loved our Gods. On the fifth night, we donned red dresses in ceremonial honor of their benevolence.

Yet despite it all, on the sixth day, the burst came. I'm not one to point fingers, but someone seriously disrespected a God. We had no idea what we were about to endure. In fact, we all pretty much stood there complacently watching a massive weather system come soaring up the canyon, snapping full grown ponderosas as it came. Reality dawned on us in the form of blinding sand-whipped winds. It trashed tents, battered bodies, released rains, and dispensed confusion as people took cover behind whatever they could find.

When it finally passed, we blinked, spat, and rubbed sand from our eyes. The camp was in shambles and trees were down all around us. Our beers were full of sand, so we uncorked the well-sealed Whiskey.

"...some of you looked better in red
dresses than others." -Dorian Parker

The next morning, in quiet awe, we floated our final miles in deep respect. Relenting, the sun came out, spirits returned, rapids rock and rolled and we remembered how much we love our gods.

It was a simple reminder: Always Tip Your Gods.

(Photos: here.)

Perfectly Temporary

2008-06-24T13:10:00.000-07:00

Temporary. It's my size, it's my color. It just fits.

I'm back at work temporarily, I'll be working there thru October. I've moved off the yatch, but the yatch was temporary. On my desk is a two quart jug of carrot juice. I've stopped buying the single pints at the cafe. I could drink this stuff all day.

I use to drink coke all day. Hey, I'm a software developer; it's the culture.

It wasn't that I craved the soda, but rather I was completely addicted to the shiny red can. It called to me. I could hear it's siren song a mile away and when I saw one glimmering in the soda aisle, I would go mad for it.

I don't keep cokes in my fridge at home. I don't have a fridge at home. I don't have a home. In fact, I'm living in a buddies attic. I know it doesn't sound as luxurious as a yatch, but it's really quite grand with an enormous antique shiny round red metal coke sign hanging in the center. It's not my sign.

The attic has a completely open floor plan. In fact, it's nothing but studs and skylights, but it has three of it's four walls. If I stand in the enormous shower and turn around, I see nothing but neighborhood and open sky where the wall use to be.

Whatever, it's not permanent.

Last meal

2008-05-29T09:44:00.000-07:00

Second Time? Second Time?

Yes. Second time, we nod.

About ten minutes from the airport is a lesser known hotel that offers all the amenities at affordable price. We stopped on the way in and we stopped on the way out.

Down the street, we returned to an outdoor restaurant which treated us well the first time through. A large concrete slab with a tin roof and plastic tables, they remembered us and catered dutifully to our whims. There was no English, just a plethora of fresh fish, soups, and smiling faces despite turning down their proffered chicken foot soup.

In the warm night, the rains came down hard and the canvas walls were lowered to lash about in the wind. We soaked it up one last time, a second time indeed. And we’ll be back.

Voted off the island

2008-05-28T09:43:00.000-07:00

A gentle tide and waveless beaches. Perfect: a handful of days on warm, sunny Thai beaches with bowls of green curry, fresh coconut shakes, and the occasional beer Chang.

No tours, schedules, or agendas. Just a gentle jungle breeze on the beach.

But the time has come, I’ve been voted off the Island.

I’m heading home.

Chitwan National Park

2008-05-24T09:32:00.000-07:00

I came to see the rhinos and we trekked thru grasslands and jungle forest to find them.

In the grasses, which are higher than me at this time of year, the guide said we’d notice movement of large animals by the rustling. Yet it was the still grass of animals lying in wait that concerned me.

In the forest, we found the tell-tale tracks of the three toed Indian Rhinoceros and followed them as they trod along a small path. When they wandered off the path into the thick of the forest, we went in the opposite direction.

If I were a tracker, I’d follow the tracks. But I’m not, and our guide is, and he’s still alive. So what do I know?

An hour later we climbed atop a raised, wooden viewing tower and spotted yesterday’s wild male elephant. Arguably more dangerous today due to his unrealized goals from the night before, he looked peaceful and graceful to me.

From the raised station we watched him disappear into the jungle, right in the vicinity of our path. This unnerved the guides so we waited and the clouds grew darker.

Eventually we could wait no longer and with dramatic thunder in the background, we amassed in number, joining forces with two other groups and proceeded into the jungle toward the frustrated beast. Our guides were visibly anxious.

After half an hour of jumping at each snapped twig, we finally saw his tracks cross ours, leading away. Guides scrambled into trees, verified the stillness of the grasses, and we proceeded to track monkeys and deer.

It was then, deeper in the forest and on foot and at the furthest point from our lodging that the canopy thickened, the clouds blackened, and the rains came down hard.

I really, really want to see a rhino

2008-05-23T09:35:00.000-07:00

Ten bucks for the tourist bus, luxury non-stop with air con. Or, maybe, no aircon. And maybe just one stop: to kick us off.

The students were pissed. Three months ago the government promised them books, pens, and paper. Three months later, they still had none and it was the week before exams. So they dragged trees and rocks across the road and stopped traffic.

Our bus company simply re-routed their trip, dropped us off on the side of the road, and shrugged as they pulled away. We crawled atop a local bus and endured five more hours of crossing picket lines on foot, in taxis, on buses, each one dead ending and sending us forward to figure out how best to go forward, toward Chitwan National Park.

At one point our cab was waved into the mob by a few authoritative students, but was stopped twenty feet later, by student intervention physically blocking and pounding on the vehicle. Were forced to pay up, get out, and start walking again, concerned for our taxi’s ability to extricate himself from the melee.

Finally, at sunset, we sank into riverside chairs in the national park and drank a well earned beer while a wild male elephant sauntered across the river in what would be a late night attempt to break into the elephant breeding center down the road from our lodging.

He was categorically denied access and the locals said that makes him dangerous.

That makes sense to me.

Celebrity

2008-05-21T17:00:00.000-07:00

Peter Habelar was the first man to summit Everest without oxygen. He did it with legendary climber, Reinhold Messner, and the night before our first attempt to fly home, we showed him how to play pool. He’s a much better mountaineer.

The next morning, after everyone else flew out of Lukla, we sat in an empty lodge, eating breakfast, awaiting our turn. Sitting next to us was Sir Edmund Hillary’s son and granddaughter.

Hillary is a local hero, not only for first summiting Everest, but for the dozens of schools and hospitals he built for the Sherpa people, after 60 plus children signed a petition, asking him to build them a school.

The “house wife” presented the granddaughter with a Sherpa gown to be worn at a ceremony later that week. Peter, the son, was taking pictures and I offered to take one of the whole family. He appreciated the offer and I snapped away.

It was my first celebrity photo shoot. Albeit on his camera.

Popcorn at fourteen thousand feet

2008-05-21T08:58:00.000-07:00

Getting down is the hardest part and we were aggressive. So much so, we broke our Sherpa and had to pay him double that day.

On the second descent day we nursed our ailments from the previous day’s twelve hour hike with dal baat and chang (the rice wine).

We drank a lot of chang that morning.

Back in Lukla, we were greeted with chocolate cake, wine and showers which our tight budget on the ascent excluded. We never skimped on ever-present Nepalese popcorn, an indulgence at every teahouse.

Our descent was so aggressive, we arrived a day early, but so did the rains and it wasn’t possible to fly back just yet. The next day was quite cloudy, but we were on the first flight so if any plane came in, we’d be on it when it returned. So we waited and one came.

It was a little twenty seater and mine was right behind the pilot. Our little plane bounced along the runway, down the hill, and toward the cliff we flew off.

The pilots window was down and I could feel the fresh breeze on my face, though it didn't change the fact that my clothes still smell like smoked yak dung.

Ringing Everest's Doorbell

2008-05-17T08:54:00.000-07:00

On May 10th, the twelfth anniversary of Jon Kraukauer’s Everest summit, we found ourselves in the airport heading to Lukla and the trek to Everest’s south side. Just before boarding we grabbed a copy of the book.

Nine days later, visiting the lodges and familiar with the trails the books expeditions took, we marched into Everest Base Camp. We stood at 17,400 feet in a city of tents. It's Everest's welcome mat and we rang the doorbell.

It’s a place of dreams and all their varied outcomes.

Prayer Wheels

2008-05-15T09:30:00.000-07:00

I first intended to go to India a few years ago, but instead fell hard for a remarkable woman and cut my trip short. But it wasn’t meant to be and two strong personalitie soon found themselves frustrating one another. One year later I was again dreaming of India.

In the Khumbu Himalaya of Nepal, prayer flags, prayer wheels, and mani walls line the paths I trek. As is the Buddhist custom, they are always passed on the left and as I encounter the wheels, I give them a spin, and for each one think of a loved one, past or present, in the winds of the Himalaya.

In Tengboche, I visit a monastery and spend an afternoon in the cold room at twelve thousand feet, open doors, monks bowed and chanting, accompanied by occasional music. I watch from the dark as streams of light silhouette the rhythmically gyrating saffron robes and the air is thick with incense and frosted breath.

It is peaceful, the chanting, and I close my eyes, sitting cross-legged on the carpets in the corner and wish I could lie down and fall asleep here; for it to never stop.

Today, as is her wish, and for reasons I’ll never understand, our relationship is estranged. But after another morning in the monastery, I leave, breathe the cold mountain air, and return to spinning the prayer wheels, wishing peace for her and all.

Hike, eat, sleep and repeat

2008-05-14T08:46:00.000-07:00

Yaks perform only above ten thousand feet; the cows below sixty five hundred. They cross bred them to fill in the gap and the mixed breed works inbetween. How is it I’m expected to function at all these elevations? I’m not even from around here.

Acclimitization days we hike packless, generally climbing 1200 feet or so, then return, eat, sleep, and wait for the next days climb. After each rest, dahl baht and tomato egg drop soup, we are all psyched for another day of climbing; to take the next step.

Aside from that anticipation, it’s barren. From the menu, to the accommodations, to the landscape. It’s cold, windy, and colorless. But the mountains are tremendous, this place is big. It’s a place of dreams, when sleep comes and even a midnight bathroom trip is a heart racer.

Completely Unprepared

2008-05-09T07:52:00.000-07:00

Compared to India, Kathmandu is almost a cheat. Crossing the street is almost easy. There are a couple stop lights, the occasional sidewalk, and not a single sign of livestock. Thats not to say you couldn't get yourself killed, but with no cow patties to hop, no hagglers to dodge, and temperatures back in the pleasant range, a lot of the challenges have been removed.

Regardless, today was a bit exhausting as we whipped around town in cabs and on foot, following Perwa Sherpa as we raced along to finalize permits and tickets, secure the last minute cold weather gear, and gather with the mountaineers around a map.

Tomorrow is the twelfth anniversary of Jon Krakauer's summit in the book, Into Thin Air. We've got the book and a six a.m. Yeti Airlines flight into the Everest region.

We ain't comin' out for twelve days.

Hey Doc, I got this wrist thing see...

2008-05-07T07:40:00.000-07:00

Somewhere between doctor and nurse is a term for Darlene's job that doesn't seem to exist in other countries.

Physicians Assistant? Never heard of it.

Nurse? Blasphemous!

Doctor? Hmmmm.

You're a doctor? Well, now that you mention it... Every one seems to have a little something that's bothering them, but no, they haven't been to the doctor and maybe you could just take a look at it?

Darlene was called into service today. Our guides older brother punched out someone while gallantly defending the honor of his clients, a mother and daughter pair. Or so the story goes.

However it played out, the guy had a serious wrist injury. I could tell by the jolt and grimmace whenever she poked it; "does this hurt?" Yes, it obviously hurts.

I've never seen Darlene work before, but today she was a star. Operating with dull shears, a razor blade, a bucket of water, and cast plaster, she had all she needed to sink into her element, a buzz of activity, questions, and care.

A line formed mid operation and a second wrist was examined and prescribed a simple, "if doing that hurts, then don't do it." Plus a couple aspirin.

When all was done, she had rendered an impressive removable cast to one happy customer. We were later invited to their home, his mother gave cooking lessons and we dined on the best food we've had yet.

A Flower for Mom

2008-05-07T07:06:00.001-07:00

A childs hands arranged a small banana leaf bowl adorned with bright orange flowers and a centerpiece tea light candle. We were adrift in a small wooden boat on the Ganges River.

Her tiny voice instructed me as we lit the wick, then I sat in quiet reflection for a moment, thinking of loved ones gone, most specifically, my mother.

As the sun set, I lower the craft into the water and sent the light afloat on India's holiest river.

Getting the hang of it

2008-05-07T05:23:00.000-07:00

What kind of holy animal lies in it's own shit? Rats wont even do that.

I boated down the Ganges River at sunrise this morning, past the blazing riverside crematorium fires and alongside several dead, bobbing bodies wrapped in burial cloths. After lunch I walked back up the river along the ghats. A lot of stuff happened in between, but as I walked, I watched dead, naked cows float by. Cows are sacred and when they die, they are dignified with a toss into the Ganges. As I stood watching them drift by, I couldn't help but wonder if the carrion birds riding the bobbing steak are worthy of such a holy meal.

Yesterday, I was attacked by a cow. Karma? I think it was just a warning, because one firmly placed hand on it's head redirected it's aggression.

In the days before cars and rickshaws, the vehicles of the Gods were animals. Shiva used cows, or perhaps bulls. Regardless, thats why cows are sacred and it's illegal to kill them (though I see them getting whacked with sticks a lot).

Hinduism has three primary gods, as part of the trimurti: a creator, a sustainer, and a destroyer.

Shiva is the god of Varanasi and the Ganges. He's the destroyer. If you don't believe me, ask his son, Ganesh. Shiva chopped his head off in a case of mistaken identity and barely saved his life by replacing it with one from a baby elephant. Ganesh is a favorite of the people because he eats lots of sweets, is a bit rotund, and quite jovial. If you had an elephant head, you'd have to have a good sense of humor.

It's all rather complicated, but I visited a number of temples today and i think I'm finally getting the hang of it.

I really quite fancy Ganesh, actually.

Morning Chai

2008-05-06T11:00:00.000-07:00

I woke up this morning on a train crossing the Ganges Valley in India. The day was already hot when I moved from the air-conditioned coach to the open doorway, but the movement of the train kept it fresh. I stood watching kids playing in the fields, waving to us as we passed, a hot chai in one hand, a warm samosa in the other. I slept well and stretched to welcome a new day.

Last night we stiffed our driver after he flew into the parking lot a few hundred meters from the train station. We had minutes to catch our train and the old man, a faithful hare krishna, ran from his car to fetch a young porter, who then raced us on foot, thru alleyways and across parking lots in total darkness to the station.

Running up the stairs, we learned out train was an hour late. Lucky us.

Or so we thought.

We tipped the porter and sent him back to the driver to thank him and explain. The old man came back to us beeming and we tipped him well.

It wasn't his fault we were late; in addition to the ever-present traffic, there was massive construction five kilometers from the station. (There were also blinding sandstorms, but they stopped when it started to pour.) The clock reset to noon everytime he powered off the vehicle, so we weren't sure what time it was, but could more or less add up the minutes passing us by. While he sat in his seat, his face buried in his hands, we formulated plans B and C, which were mercifully unnecessary.

At the station, the hour delay turned to two, three, and four plus. Each time the departure time encroached, it disappointed. We sat on the platform, perched atop our backpacks staring into the tracks, fighting sleep, and waiting for that train.

Under the stale warmth of the platform lights, the scene was pretty banal, minus the adolescent three ring circus piled high over the bench of two young female travelers and the wily bearded man with a grain sack that found infinite jest in pestering a young man for his plastic bottle. Meanwhile, we were the quiet center stage in a sea of stares, engulfed by dropped jaws and devoted awe.

When I finally laid down in my berth, sleep came fast and as the train rattled along India's rails, I knew there was no where else I wanted to be.

Eviction

2008-05-06T00:57:00.001-07:00

The Nepalese Royal family has been evicted from their palace as a result of the Maoists winning a democratically held election. They've also been slapped with an overdue one million dollar utility bill. How embarrassing; you'd expect the palace manager could have better kept up on the royal expenses.

A Great Place to Bring a Date

2008-05-05T02:33:00.000-07:00

This morning I watched the sun rise over the Taj Mahal. I sat on its smooth marble steps and marveled in it's cool interior.

They say it's the greatest building ever built for love.

Probably true.

But if I were a Maharaja (in those times), I would have put a swimming pool in the center, entombed my lover below, and enjoyed this sensational building on a daily basis.

Timeless

2008-05-04T03:45:00.000-07:00

Pssst. Hey, are you awake?

Yeah.

Turn on your camera. I want to know what time it is.

She reaches for her camera and turns it on. We have no watches, no clocks. Every room in the hotel displays a completely unrelated time from the other rooms. Even the computers in the cafe are only within a couple hours of each other.

We flew on one ten, one six, and one four hour flight to get here. We crossed the international date line, zipped thru time zones, and traveled with the sun thru our internal clock's night-time hours.

The camera is the only item we have that tells time and it's only accurate to within a couple hours. But whats more interesting is that we have no idea what the date is.

That's just the way I like it.

Its Absurd, But its Real

2008-05-04T02:26:00.000-07:00

Photographically speaking, this place is explosive. The colors are brilliant, the chaos is charged, the absurdity is invigorating. But what I see, sense, and feel is not yet captured by the lens, not to my liking.

We shoot all morning, walking the streets, surrounded by assertive people full of hope to a commission for unwanted services rendered. Tired, we break for the sancity of lunch and hold an enthusiastic review of the days field sessions over thali and lassis.

The mornings playbook was bold, but blank. Darlene deflected unwanted solicitors like an offensive linesman, while I danced thru the busy streets like a quarterback, my camera cocked and ready for action. We were surrounded, a complete canvasing of solicitations. We've discovered that speaking together in Spanish, even complete gibberish Spanish, turns the masses away. Though one hardy soul persisted beyond comprehension, but eventually huffed off seriously postulating, "Lady, are you crazy?"

Nicely done girl, they think you are nuts.

No Guidebook Necessary

2008-05-02T03:57:00.000-07:00

Bangkok and its curry welcomed me back for the third time. Like an old friend, we dined on fresh fish, caught an excellent soccer game, drank some beer, and wandered together on a timeless morning.

It was a quick, eighteen hour affair, an easy transition back into Asian culture, a soft step to prepare for the culture shock of India. It was so smooth, we didn't even bring a map.

Coincidence

2008-04-28T10:00:00.000-07:00

At 2:10 I get up from my computer and take a break; a stroll down the street for that shiny red can of refreshment. Upon return, I crack open the soda and mull over the term "Short-timer" as though it were etched into the window. Five minutes pass and the electricity goes off.

Its my last day at work.

Without electricity, our computers glow in the dark, but their batteries drain and our wireless routers are powerless. We're dead in the water and when they tell us we're out until at least four fifteen, we pack up and head out for an earlier than anticipated happy hour.

This is all coincidence, that's my story and I'm stickin' to it.

Finding Gandhi

2008-04-23T09:20:00.000-07:00

Every now and again I find myself itchin' to unplug, back away, and shake out. This means travel and it generally entails leaving a perfectly good job. In good faith, its tempered by finding a replacement so the employment transition is smooth.

I just spent fourteen months donating time and sweat to Powermand, Inc and now more than ever, my legs need a good stretch. Hence, the procurement of tickets to India and Nepal.

Powermand, however, isn't like most jobs I've walked away from. I actually have a significant interest in it's success as I've "invested" a lot of cash in the form of unpaid salary, aka stock. It also happened to be one of the coolest jobs I've had. I also want to work there again.

So the replacement needed to be top-notch. Stakes are higher this time around and as I applied for my visa to India, we recruited a well-known java guru: Gandhi. (We knew someone that knew him.)

So, now I take my leave and make my pilgrimage.

Watch my investment, Prashant Gandhi, my faith is in you.

Proof of Onward Tickets

2008-04-16T15:13:00.000-07:00

By the way, the Maoists won. The Maoists beat the Marxist-Leninists in a democratically held election. That's great.

We have no idea where we're going, but we have onward tickets to prove we're leaving. Most countries require that. We wont take it personally.

Saving the World, One Vacation at a Time

2008-04-09T13:59:00.001-07:00

Today, Nepal held a historic election. Jimmy Carter headed up some sort of committee to oversee it's success. The British tossed in fourteen million dollars and the world over sent delegates and goodwill.

I haven't done all my homework, but there seems to be a monarch, a Maoist fugitive rebel revolutionary, and everything inbetween.

There are a lot of pissed off factions. The monarchy can't even vote for themselves because they didn't realize they needed to register. In the months leading up to the elections, there have been bombs, fires, drive-by anger and a handful of walkup candidate assassinations.

Naturally, the election was declared a major success. In what scattered news I could accrue, there was one stolen ballot box, twelve voting centers closed down, one voting booth set ablaze, one candidate assassination, and countless black-eyes and scuffles (I presume).

We are going to Nepal. I want photos, she wants to donate her time to third world medicine. Perhaps we'll dedicate future time to participate in the democratic process, running a fire-proof voting booth, for example.

Perhaps we can save the world, one vacation at a time.

The Snow Shark

2008-04-08T13:09:00.001-07:00

She ain't exactly jaws, just a giant toothy grin; a fin of golden curl.

They say you shouldn't look her in they eyes, they say her eyes are wild.

But all the same, when she kicks into the snow, she cuts it like a shark and I watch and I am at peace.

Avoiding the Crowds

2008-04-08T13:05:00.000-07:00

"You're going in May?"

The travel agent needed to confirm what she thought she heard, but didn't make sense.

We don't like to stand in lines.

Taking the much hyped culture shock of India seemed way too easy. We figured we'd take all those sights, sounds, smells, and touch, bundle 'em up, put 'em in the oven of India's summer, and crank it up to a "freakin' hot" (in the words of my friend Kranthi Yemula) one hundred and five.

And then, check out the culture shock.

Cause my girl looks good in rivulets of sweat.

The agent booked the tickets.

Delhi is a city of thirteen million, but if it's too hot for the tourists, we should have the place to ourselves. Right?

National Geographic

2008-04-01T12:49:00.000-07:00

Moved into a new office today. Walked the downtown waterfront at lunch and indulged with a smoothie for desert. The little cafe had a large stack of slightly used National Geographics under a sign that states "National Geographic makes you smarter. $1.00".

I paid the dollar and bought the February issue for 1970, my birth month.

"White-water Adventure on wild rivers of Idaho" covered the Middle Fork Salmon.

I covered that same river last year, here: .

This year, it's the Main Salmon, the "River of No Return." For the second time.

A Bed of Nails

2008-03-28T13:48:00.000-07:00

The bed of nails was not my idea, but the realization that I could build one was.

As with so many good stories, it started with a beer, a dream, and a proclamation. We both had the beer, Joni had the vision, I had the proclamation.

A bed of nails? I can make that.

Joni had a story to tell, I had a friend with tools, she shot, I nailed, models came, and before I knew it, I had a gallery shoot.

It's the heaviest thing I own.

For my loving Mother, A Blog

2008-03-27T19:43:00.000-07:00

It's a blog, for Mom. Not sure what more to say about it.