DTW-NRT-PEK

On the final three of an eighteen hour journey to Beijing, I have been upgraded to NWA’s World Business Class. I am not one to pay for added comfort as I go comatose during air travel and look to the destination. My Gold Elite status normally gets an upgrade in the States. I made Gold after 103,000 air miles last year. At thirty-six thousand feet above the Sea of Japan, I think of Leonard, where I spent the first eighteen years of my life. The dandy in the row ahead would never have come from a Midwest town of 391. His Gucci shoes and glasses border a matching green with silver stripped shirt and pants outfit. The silver coordinates with the bouffant curls of his charcoal hairdo. He probably earned every sawbuck it took to don his overweight frame.
The airline food was quite good. On board from Tokyo, the skewered beef and egg rolls of rice paper had the presentation factor given with Japanese cuisine. In business class you get real utensils. Years ago I would have hidden the stainless and added to my hors d’oeuvre collection at home. I haven’t matured but just have enough.
At least I am free from the screaming Japanese kids that traumatized the area around row twenty-seven from Detroit to Tokyo. I am not into in-flight movies but to seek sanction from the tirades of the four year old behind me, I put on the headset to seal my ears. “Freedom Writers” was showing. It may have been a bit melodramatic but it sure gave light to the plight of inner-city kids. I was emotionally drained but inspired to find miracles within us.

Looks like there may be some censorship in China - not sure if this will post..

Loss of Innocence

I recently had some time to talk with my ex-brother-in-law Johnny, whom I made reference to in The Amish from the blog of April 20. As with most of my writings – it was a moment in time. Johnny had a small business selling nineteenth-century farm equipment to the Amish in the seventies. “It’s gone,” he says. “Gosh, the price of milk is the same today as it was in ‘73. There ain’t no way a family of fifteen can survive with such a market. How is an ole Dutchman gonna have a quarter-million bucks to buy land for his offspring to start a farm? Why the ole man has to do carpentry work away from home jus’ to feed the kids. Then he’s not there to tend his children. Oh, those that are hangin’ on the ole ways are doomed.”
I am quick to acknowledge ‘nothing remains the same’ but love to behold the innocence of our past. These writings are a chance to pay homage to what I respect. I mostly perceive primitive peoples and children of the world to be in possession of our souls.
In 2002, I returned to Brazil after twenty-five years to spend time with my then best friend Finardi’s family. Now his widow and their three beautiful children are adults and more magnificent than ever. After all of my absence, a wild search uncovered the seemingly ‘love of my life,’ Rosinha – which is deserving of a future blog in itself.
Last November, I met a man from Ghana who told me of my African nation is devastated by -----. I could not retain such truth. I hope to return to Ghana this year or next, find Armahfio and his family.
This Friday, I will be returning to Beijing for a little business. Two years ago, a young college student came up to me and asked if she could speak English with me. Ana will now have a husband and child for me to meet next week.
I have never been one to ‘go back.’ Whether it is some cosmic mist that made the magic of a first encounter, I am learning that there may be more to life than the past. There is a new reality for me to address.

The Sea God

The most memorable moments during my four months in Ghana began with my friend Armahfio and his awareness of local events. Along a remote ten kilometer stretch of Atlantic Ocean beachfront, there were many small and primitive fishing villages. One August morning I pulled my Datsun pickup into his village of Otrokper and Armahfio ran up to say, “The seas are rough and the fish don’t come so they make Ju Ju to the Sea God.” Again my friend captured my interest. Always knowing events that may be commonplace for them was excitement for me. He hopped in and we drove off. Along the way, I broke into my box lunch and offered him half a tuna salad sandwich. He took a sniff, shuttered, and set it down on the seat. Soon we drove by some friends he knew, he grabbed the sandwich while hanging out the window, pretending to eat as he waved to his friends.
He directed me to turn off the sand road towards the ocean. To avoid getting stuck in the loose sand, I parked the truck and we walked towards the domain of the Sea God. We soon came to a thatch-roofed hut. The remains of a sacrificial chicken lay nearby. Inside laid the bones of the Sea God which to me was the skeleton of a whale. Ju Ju pots and other offerings around their God bore witness to the sacred event that took place. The blood of the beheaded chicken adorned the bones. Pathways led the way between the ocean and the home of the Sea God. Along the way, another spirited dwelling contained additional offerings.
The intensity of such Ju Ju happenings, command respect for their beliefs. I would expect a shaman of long ago had interpreted the whale remains to some fishing omen. Their faith in its function must lead to good results.

Career Builders

I finished high school at seventeen with good grades and a keen interest in math, history, art, English, and Latin. Perhaps because of our small town, blue-collar image, college was going to have to wait. I inherited a good work ethic that played out from the time I was eleven with paper routes, hauling hay, delivering milk, and working the local harness racehorse farms. After graduation, it seemed that real professions stemmed from a city job. Working at a bakery was better than mucking stalls so I signed on for seventy-five cents an hour, ten hours a day, six days a week. Starting at six in the morning was easy for a farmhand. The bakers started at four! The owner was too attentive in monitoring my three-quarter leverage of the custard and cream filler for sweet rolls. His concern over excess left me prone to fill each roll to the max in his absence. The highlight of my day was driving the sweet cargo in the delivery truck to his other store. On Wednesday and Friday, I was left awestruck with donut deliveries to the local Girl Scout Camp. This was every teenager’s fantasy. My final hour of the day was to scrape the sugary deposits off the wooden floor on my hands and knees. This is when the boss’s daughter would find time to stand over me in consolation. After two months into this routine, the boss called me aside and explained that with due diligence – I too could find success and become a baker. By this time, I wanted to say I was looking forward to towering above his daughter but left to say I would think about it. The thought of starting at four in the morning caused me to flee. I never went back for my last paycheck and he never pursued to pay me. Following my sticky pastry situation, I decided to follow my buddy Rich and join the Navy. From an initial interview, I learned of a ‘kiddy cruise’ which meant I could join before I was eighteen and get out the day before I was twenty-one. For maximum benefit with minimal effort, I decided to hold off till the day before I was eighteen and standby at home for a few more months.
Our recent migrant worker situation brought all of this to mind. I needed to buy some time and work out a form of survival until it was time to go Navy. Nearby Imlay City has peat and black dirt deposit that yields great vegetables and harvest time brought migrant workers to the fields. At dawn, I assembled with the Mexicans at the Farm Bureau. The muck farmers would drive up in their pickups, point with discrimination to the chosen day-workers, and we would climb into the bed of their truck. Vintage Mexican workers carried their own machete for harvest, a razor-sharp sword to sever roots from lettuce or cabbage, and a barb on the end that plucked a potato or other root veggies from the ground. On our second day, my two friends and I were selected again by the same potato harvester and told we could get ten cents above the normal dollar an hour by just coming directly to his farm. Our task was to load the sixty-pound crates of potatoes on to the wagon in the field then stack them in the barn. It became very obvious our youthful exhilaration was outwitted by the macho gaucho barbing the spuds in the field. They resided in shanty-towns unseen from the main road where wives and children emerged to lend a hand. They never broke a sweat in the ninety-degree heatwave, whereas, the dust bonded to every portion of my body. I will never forget the pride on the face of the old Dutchman when he exclaimed the barn was full from such a bountiful harvest but with a little effort, we could add two more levels to the top of our heap. This meant holding the sixty-pound crate close to your chest with four feet of clearance, tracking over the upper level of crates, in a barn 120 feet deep by 40 feet wide, and if it was ninety outside it was one hundred and ten inside.

Carrying of the Chiefs

One of my most spectacular sights in the world to witness was the Carrying of the Chiefs in and around the village of Ada Foah Ghana in 1976. The regional Ada people were one of many ethnic groups to maintain their heritage since colonial times in West Africa. This event was paramount to what I would guess to have been twenty-five area Chiefs. The initial day of arrival seemed to be timed that each group converged in a vast open field, segmented as in a territorial ground, as drums beat incessantly throughout the day. The formality of shielding the Chief from the sun had umbrellas marking the throne in each group. Part of each entourage would be a Ju Ju priest or witch doctor, multiple wives of the Chief, and confidantes unbeknown to me. Many a ‘Stool’ was carried. One Stool per chiefdom was sacred as it is said to possess the Soul of its people. Gold ornamentation adorned the Chiefs with rings, bracelets, and a few with crowns, giving acclaim to the colonial name of Ghana as Gold Coast. The royal robes of most Chiefs were Kente Cloth. In colorful geometric patterns, the hand-woven four-inch wide strips of Kente Cloth are sewn together for a majestic gown.
The second day had the Chiefs atop a litter on the shoulders of cohorts for a grand parade. One held a human skull; some toted rifles, and most had a solemn look commanding respect. Their assembly of followers in their finest dress made a unified effort to represent their leader. Culminating at a parade ground equivalent to a football field, the Chiefs had their separate ‘executive suite’ areas. The drums played to the groups of women in matching outfits who marching around the field. There was some form of competition that I did not fathom but it went on for hours.
My somewhat dubious honor of being the only white man around left me open to the suspicions of an old Ju Ju priest, in particular. On the first day, he gave me a pointed stare-down. At the parade ground, he placed a spirited doll in front of me and proceeded to chant and dance with some intent to send evil forces my way. In my life since then, I have not succumbed to an apparition, at least from what I can tell.
My comprehension of what took place during those festive days is very limited. I saw many splinter groups in separate gatherings but felt it was best to avoid intrusion.