GM’s 50 Millionth Car

In 1955, General Motors 50 Millionth Car event was a great celebration for most of the people in Southeast Michigan. Most everyone I knew was attached to the car business, my family in particular. My dad and his brother along with three brothers of my mother made the transition from World War II soldier to the destiny of a lifelong job at Pontiac Motors. Even two of mom’s sisters took on the role of Rosie-the-Riveter during the War. I was struck the first time that I heard of the people in our small town of Leonard referred to as factory-rats. My grandfather, the dapper guy that sat at the head of the table for Thanksgiving and Christmas, was one too. My dad was always gone, for he worked the afternoon shift from two till midnight. At times he often had two other jobs, working at the local nut and bolt factory, then the rural Free Press paper route that sent him away at four in the morning.
At that time in my youth, there was an acceptance of how life was. In school, I enjoyed art, math, history, and geography but the motivation was in my hands. At eleven you were no longer a kid that caught tadpoles but there was work on the local farms or papers to deliver. Lingering in the future was Pontiac Motors.
Dad proudly brought home a gold medallion of the 50 Millionth Car. Being an avid coin collector I relished such a token. On the following Sunday, we were to visit Pontiac Motors for an open house. This was the place that contained my family and I was excited at such an unveiling. Mom always dressed us, kids, well that day. We were looking good. Initially, the massive parking lot projected the number of people involved. Inside guarded gates, we had to be somewhere so very important. The massive buildings were beyond anything I could have imagined. “Okay, dad! Where do you work?” Truck Repair was not what I was expecting – sort of a dingy hole out the way from car production. “Okay, dad! Where does grandpa work?” It may have been Building Seven, as everything seemed to have a number. Off the way, there was a metal stairway down into the darkest dirtiest dungeon that I had ever seen. Grandpa was a welder. This was where he spent a third of his life? My response was muted by what others were accepting. Grandpa died two years later of lung cancer. I will forever be traumatized at the sight of him at the hospital, gasping for breath. All I could think of was that dungeon where he worked.
A few years later, my dad created a tempest in a teacup, when he announced that he would quit the Pontiac factory after fifteen years. It was unheard of for someone to give up such security. Ford had purchased the old Fisher Estate and put up the Michigan Proving Ground a few miles from home. It was the sort of place a farm boy could relate to, as a kid dad had admired the Black Angus cattle that were raised at the old farm. Ford kept some of the barns for storage. It changed our family, as dad no longer had to work extra jobs for support. We had a father for the first time.
I had several opportunities in my life to work for automotive companies.
All of their assumed security could not excite my involvement. Perhaps you could say that I am working for them by the nature of my business but a direct connector will never find my servitude.
I trust the current condition of GM will maintain those that invested their lives and families at ‘Generous Motors’. The likelihood looks dim. Such, cradle to grave, options are not believable in today’s marketplace.

Fes Maroc

RTW – 12-14 Oct 2008
Undaunted by the prior day's drive, I bellied up to the hotel’s breakfast buffet then set out for Fez. I traversed Casablanca en route to find the Rabat expressway when a policeman walked into my path, directing me to the side. He showed me his handheld radar reading 76 in a 60 KPH zone. He had a pretty good sense of humor about my poor attempt of excusez-moi, but I came up with the requested 200 Dirhams ($16.00) and didn’t ask for a receipt. Enough of the scenic route, I took the expressway to Fez.
I had a concern for finding my Riad Sara booked on the Internet because the address never showed on any maps, nor was it listed in my travel guides. Its Medina location was in a walled area fit for only a local or petit-taxi. While seeking a taxi to guide me, a young lad asked if he could help in not-so-bad English. Why not? I let Mousauf in, and he directed me through this fascinating labyrinth within the walls. Soon it became a little downtrodden, he told me to park and wanted to take my luggage, but I said I wanted to see the hotel first. We approached a wall with Riad Hala scribbled. I stopped him with a more pronounced “Riad Sara.” At this point, I struck out on my own with him in pursuit, trying to say he misunderstood and could find Sara. With concern, I allowed more maneuvers to another sector. Without car access and challenging the donkey poop, I gave into the current condition of this eighth-century complex. It was a park and walk situation. Soon Riad Sara had an artsy painted sign in the ochre wall, through a wooden door befitting a castle; I entered into a mosaic wonder of ornate drapery and silk carpet. The colorful mosaic courtyard towered three stories of arches and balconies. Okay, where is my harem?
Inspired, I was ready to experience the legendary tanneries, so I retained Mousauf to minimize any lost time. The marvels never ceased with methods unchanged for centuries. From an overlooking terrace, seeing the matrix of colorful vats of natural dyes was a significant objective for me. The full process was before me – scrapping the hair and skin, soaking, dyeing, rinsing, drying, and of course, selling. It was necessary to fall into place and select a fine kidskin jacket. Wool processing and looms added more color near the tannery. The complex of market souks sold everything the community needed. Without rear delivery, the alleyways handled bundles atop heads, on donkeys, and in push-carts amongst the shoppers.
Morocco had much to offer, so two tasty meals a day kept me going. This day’s dinner, through near-pigeon-hole access, unveiled a splendid restaurant. Starters were an array of Mediterranean cooked vegetables. Then lamb seemed appropriate and fresh, given the local tannery. Salt and pepper were in pinches; local wine was excellent; the bread was flat, and fresh mint leaves filled the tea glass.
The next morning Mousauf was waiting by the car, anxious to lead the way. After a long walk through the old Jewish Quarter and environs, I grew tired of the attachment. Having read about the ruins of Volubilis, it was one of the southernmost extensions of the Roman Empire. Expecting a sixty-kilometer drive, it turned out to be one hundred twenty-five from Fez. Two centuries had done little damage to the mosaic floor of Diana and the Bathing Nymphs or others exposed to the elements. Back in Fez, the ever-present Mousauf was useful to navigate the maze within the walls. A Coptic Cross from Lalibela and my new leather jacket were the only mementos of this journey. Some serious shopping came up with an Arabic knife worthy of negotiations. I am a sucker for museum-quality antiques to highlight my tales of adventure. This silver and bejeweled bone sword started at 12,000 Dirhams. We settled on 4,200 from the salesman’s English to the owner’s Arabic. At that, he escorted me to the remote ATM machine, assuring me along the way of his honesty and reasonable value of my treasure. With my cash in hand, he said the owner was expecting only 4,000, so the 200 Dirhams were for himself. Huh? It was necessary to be at the airport in Casablanca by seven the next morning for my Royal Air Maroc flight to JFK. With a three hour drive, I left Riad Sara without sleep at midnight. The deserted freeway gave me time to reflect on the event-filled past three weeks and gratification with living another dream.

Casablanca Morocco

RTW – 10-11 Oct 2008
Royal Air Maroc had some lengthy security procedures which required us to be at the airport at 11:30 PM for a 4:30 AM departure. I had forty dollars in Ghanaian Cedes, which, like most African currency, would be totaling useless outside their borders, so I picked up two bottles of French wine and a box of Cuban chocolate while wasting time at the duty-free store.
Except for a long sleepless night, I was prepared for Morocco. My initial plan gave me a hotel in Fez for two days. In Accra, by way of the Internet, I booked a hotel in Casablanca for my additional two days. With a spark of determination and bravery, I decided to rent a car to get to my far-reaching destinations. I had been too dependent on guides and drivers, now I needed my freedom. With a vocabulary of two words in Arabic and a few dozen in French, this move was bordering on foolishness. C’est la vie. Arabs love negotiating even at a car franchise, so when the Eurocar guy was no fun, I haggled a deal with the Budget guys. No one seemed to have a map, but the guy printed a Casablanca map and penciled in where I was and where my hotel should be. From the scratches and dents we noted on the outgoing car inspection, I knew I would be in for some excitement on the road.
I had followed his instructions reasonably well with only one stop to ask for help. He pointed to an ornate arch behind this construction zone, so I left the car, walked back, where the floor mat below the regal entry read Riad Salam Hotel. I had picked this hotel in Casablanca on the coast so I could drive south with ease, but it was not going to be that day. Exhausted and late, delayed for two hours at the airport where they misplaced my luggage, I opted for a nice lunch and long walk. I sat poolside soaking in some sun and reading about Morocco. Early the next morning, I pointed my petit Renault south. I kept to the ocean side secondary road venturing into villages along the way. Donkeys were in everyday use. Sheep were prominent, rather than cows and goats, as in Ghana and Ethiopia. Vast fields had been tilled with mechanized equipment, but minimal crops were visible except some next to the ocean where the sea mist must have provided nourishment.

In the town of Azemmour there was an old walled village. I parked and walked in to find a bustling community with friendly people eager to greet a stranger. Frescoes in the alleyways punctuated the artistic value of such a quaint place. I had read about an oyster farming community called Oualidia some distance down and was hoping to reach there for lunch. As I arrived, a drizzling rain had become a downpour, so I kept moving. Now the journey was becoming arduous, but I was expecting the weather ahead to clear. It did somewhat by the time I came to Safi. It was a massive city, so I thought I might seek out the fishing boats in the harbor but became entangled in a dreadful industrial area. By the time I got back to civilization, my adventuring mood was gone, and it was time to head back to Casablanca before dark. Despite my frantic driving, it was dark and rainy as I approached the city. I put in to play my old Brazilian driving techniques – pretend you are the only one on the road, never yield to anyone, and overtake trucks at any cost. One wrong turn, and I was totally lost. Any sense of getting towards the ocean road was failing. After two failed attempts to get directions, a third put me on to what I soon found was the opposite direction of my ocean road. Voila, within a short time, I was at my hotel, devouring a very late dinner.

Ghana Revisited

RTW -- 8-9 Oct 2008
I worked in Ghana for four months in 1976. During that time, a thirteen-year-old boy, Armahfio Tawiah, volunteered to be my guide and interpreter through some very primitive fishing villages at Ada Foah. Those events were the most fulfilling cultural experiences of my life. Other than two short letters in the months following my visit, I have had no contact with the family of a father, his three wives, and twenty-two children. After thirty-two years, it was time to return. I was armed with a dozen photos of the family and memories of a few landmarks on the old sand road leading to his village.
I landed in Accra at dawn, found a more convenient hotel near the airport, and by nine, I had negotiated with a driver to get me to Ada Foah. My how things had changed, along with my faded memory, I was at the mercy of the driver. The old sand road from Tema no longer existed due to a major oil refinery. It was now a long forty km drive before we got to the Ada area. I was intent on getting to the post office to see if there was a record of his name. In front were a few people so I asked if anyone knew the small village of Otrokper, showing the printout I had carried. A young man on a motorbike said he would lead the way. Anxiety set in. Ten minutes away, he stopped where four young fellows were sitting under a grass-roofed shelter. They seemed too young for my inquiry, but I broke out my pictures. At the sight of the photograph of Armahfio’s father, “That my father!” came fond remorse from one man. He embraced my hand in shouts of joy called out, “Roger!” “Yes!” I said with a sigh. He had obviously heard of me. Another pointed and cried, “That my grandfather.” I shuffled through for the sibling photos asking the first if his picture was there. He acknowledged only sisters and brothers. He called Armahfio on his cell phone and then sent a car to pick him up. The father had died in 1988 at the age of ninety-four. Others from the village gathered to see the pictures. Many were related, and all were excited to see the images. Armahfio arrived. It was indeed a joyous occasion. At forty-six, the character and expression of a person never change. From that thirteen-year-old boy till now, there is a joy in living that is never dampened. He is unemployed with a sweet wife and three lovely daughters of eighteen, twenty, and twenty-two. They have a roadside shop selling necessities, his wife and younger daughter maintain. Armahfio had a house under construction but was without enough funds to complete the interior. Ten or twenty minutes might pass before good thoughts of our past would cause broad smiles and a hearty handshake. Their village of Otrokper had all but been eroded by the Atlantic Ocean. I was trying to understand the lay of the land from the pictures I had. The entire Tawiah compound had washed away, and the village preceded it. Six buildings remained of what thirty years before held three hundred people in about a hundred huts. Gone are the fertile fields of cassava where they had three growing seasons a year. Chatting on cell phones took priority over the essentials of living. My host said to send my driver back to Accra, and they would take me back later.
We went to a local restaurant. I tried to order a simple appetizer, but nothing was available, so I conceded to take whatever they had – chicken with a mound of fried rice. As it turned out, I was the only one eating. It was apparent that I was the guest and could not pay for anything. Mission accomplished. They drove me back to my hotel in Accra. Along the way, I asked the younger sibling that first acknowledged ‘That my father,’ what year he was born – 1976. Of course, back then, I had asked the father about his family, he said, “I start breeding in 1942, and child number twenty-two is in the belly of my third wife.” This young man, Isaac, was the one.
A bigger element for Armahfio’s and his people of Otrokper that washed away with the tide was adopting a Christian name. Frederick. Juju was the mark of pagan history and he made a pointed query into my faith. Everyone had a cell phone – probably the biggest expense for most. There were still many thatch-roof mud huts. I expect such a form of shelter to vanish for a rectangular brick structure with corrugated steel roofing. The agrarian life was all but gone. I had remembered continuous growing seasons of cassava, tomatoes, and protected fruit growths. The pottery had given way to plastic. Cars were rare but everyone needed to know someone with a vehicle.
With my success in Ada Foah, I felt no need to linger. My old memories were dearer than anything I could gain here in the next two days. After leaning on the receptionist at His Majesties Hotel, I was able to locate Royal Air Maroc and bump my flight to leave early.

After Konso Ethiopia

RTW – 6-8 Oct 2008
The next two days were filled with the impressive scenery. We drove to the mountainous village of Chencha at ten thousand feet. There the Dorze tribe gave a lesson on how to get the most from their natural resources of bamboo, banana trees, and cotton. We stopped in Sodo for lunch at the same spot as we had on the way down. Again, I ordered the same fare as I would get at the Blue Nile Restaurant in Ann Arbor. The basket/tables were the same here, but these local stools were quite tipsy. They had honey wine, but I opted for a local beer. From there, we had word that some Aja tribal fighting had taken place, and houses were burning. Hassen seemed to think it was minor. As we came into one town, many threatening men were assembled along each side of the road. I was pleased to see they were only carrying spears. No women or children were to be seen. Despite the seriousness of the situation, most men wore a woven top hat resembling The Cat in the Hat from Dr. Souse. I held my hand over my mouth to hide my smile. About two kilometers from town, the first isolated huts were smoldering. Probably fifteen in all had been burned. Shortly, there was another village with groups of men wielding spears. We passed without incident.
Beyond there, the city of Awassa’s large lake had an assortment of waterfowl. An overnight stay and dining at Pinna Hotel worked out. On the road back to Addis, we stopped at a crater lake warmed by a dormant volcano. At this point, I reached a satisfaction with my Ethiopian stay. Rather than put Hassen through any guiding routine in Addis while waiting for my midnight flight, I opted to pay for a room at the Ghion Hotel for a relaxing dinner and collecting thoughts for my next step.

Abyssinian Beauties

TW – 5 Oct 2008
Earlier that Sunday, Hassen had heard of a tribal beauty contest to be held that afternoon in Konso. We laughed and joked about such a treat. We had both been on the road for too long. Originally he heard it would be at one. We returned from the tribal village after two. A group of men, women, and elders in traditional costumes attracted a crowd near the cultural center. Many children had gathered in festive excitement. Before long, the hillside was covered with local people. It was apparent this remote region had few gala events. By four o’clock, a handful of security people were driving the children to the perimeter of the property around the cultural center. A van arrived with the ten young beauties. The day before Hassen had told me that to get a wife, it was necessary to give cows to her family. The contestants passed in front of us, and I pointed to one and said, “Eight cows?” then explained the ten-point rating of women. We joked about purchasing ten cows for negotiating later. The afternoon rolled into the evening. We received second-row seats and courteous nods from all involved. A professional film crew set up for the production with floodlights and cameras cluttering the view of the stage. Preparations and seating continued as the people and floodlights sent the 75-degree temp to 100 degrees, and body odors rose. My patience was tested, but my tolerance level had been given allowance over the broad travel experience I set for myself. It was after eight before the Deejay cranked up the volume, and the bash began. Too many speeches tested my resolve before the beauties took to the stage. Each contestant represented a dominant tribe in the region. Each girl had stage-time with costume and dance from her group. Our agony was over when the third lady appeared in a very revealing huntress costume. “Ten cows!” I shouted. We waited for the costuming of the final girl, nodded to our host, and slipped away into the dark. I was concerned for the 90 km ride back to Arba Minch, but most cattle had returned home from the fields.

South of Addis Ababa

RTW – 3-5 Oct 2008
Back at the Ghion Hotel where they said to let the hot water run a long time to get warm. After ten minutes, it seemed colder but took a heart-stopping sailors bath. Then while brushing my teeth, the water warmed. Soon it was hot, and I took a real shower. Later I learned that the water came from a hot spring some distance from the hotel. I must have been the only early riser to get it flowing.
Hassen arrived in a beautiful Toyota Land Cruiser, and we headed south. The roads were charming for the first 320 kilometers to Sodo, but the next 120 km to Arba Minch was not so smooth. The scenery was magnanimous, a further extension of the Rift Valley that runs from Djibouti to Mozambique. It was Saturday, market day. Our roadway was an eye-catching hazard, filled with goats, cattle, plus donkeys and people loaded with goods traveling to critical towns along the way. I took the opportunity to stop at a farmer tilling his field with a team of oxen, some colorful homes, women washing clothes at the river, and a small market area.
I think of the settlements along the road as frontier towns. Like when I traveled rural Brazil thirty years ago. Isolated farmers found their way to town for necessities. Truckers stopped for repairs, getting lunch, or just taking a break. Many young men seeking different work from the farm life they wanted to leave behind. A small merchant class developed as most were just passing by.
Our little oasis at Arba Minch was Paradise Lodge, a new / still under construction lodge with safari-style bandas. The private quarters simulated local huts with grass roofs but a well-done sleeping room and bath. Most lodgers were from tour groups of two, as a young couple on an adventure, to twenty, a caravan of elder Europeans. Facilities in this area were limited, so there was a convergence of 4WD tour vehicles at such unique places. It was near dark; my banda was some distance from the restaurant, so I carefully noted my path; lest lighting would not be available later. Thunder and lightning started, and rain approached as I entered the restaurant. As Hassen and I started our dinner of fried fish, a local family and group of friends celebrating graduation were driven from the patio as the rain picked up. Now the place was alive. Soon the windy rain began to breach the venting of the grass roof, and a mist settled over us all. A few tables got more than there share of water, but everyone laughed at the situation.
We set out for Konso some 90 km south. The road had about four bridges and some eight areas where bridges once were. Our Toyota was challenged to descend and traverse the mostly dry river beds. During the rainy season, it is more hazardous. Hassen is looking forward to getting a new 4WD with an air cleaner intake for the engine that extends to the top of the windshield -- ahh, now that could get exciting. To travel beyond Konso, such a rig is most important. Besides, you need to carry your own gasoline, tents, and food. In Konso, we needed to get a tribal guide to visit the native villages. With a little effort, a young man named Chooch was selected. For lunch, there was but one choice, an open compound in the center of town. I had been told to eat only cooked beef. The gristly stuff came in a lighted charcoal pot sizzling in grease. The soft grey dough, injera is like cutlery for consumption. I opted to dip each mouthful in the red hot chili pepper sauce, thinking the hot stuff might kill a few germs. Chooch ate raw beef – it came in chunks with a large knife to carve each portion.
As for how safe that would be -- you get a sense of their hygiene by the body odor and limited exposure to soap and water. Sanitation? I have learned to adapt to toilet conditions by going a full day without and using only those in my hotel room. At my grins and raised eyebrow of the food before us, Hassen said we had been slated to spend the night here, nodding towards a row of doors next to the cooking area. After my desire for a warm shower in Addis, he decided it best to drive back to the Paradise Lodge – I reached over and shook his hand in thanks. Outside the dining compound, the three of us enjoyed a cup of coffee inside a local hut. While a lady at the doorway roasted beans over a charcoal fire, the lady inside fixed the brew. Eight or so gents were chewing on spinach/mint leaves that I thought were part of the coffee ritual. An odd, unfamiliar aroma filled the confines of the hut. I was offered a bunch – Hassen nodded approval with a grin. ‘When in Rome – never touch the stuff.’ He went onto explain some locals can pass the whole day munching on the drug. “Drug?” Contrary to my naiveté – by then, my munch turned bitter – he said, “It works soon.” I had no more and sipped my coffee.
The Konso tribal village was near vacant. It was Sunday, and the people had trekked to church. In these primitive conditions, you would expect more pagan beliefs, but Christianity is widespread. The chief greeted us and told of his role and heritage. He had pictures of his father and grandfather in their mummified form. After death, they are retained for nine years, nine months, and nine days before burial. He said as chief his wife was chosen by relatives – I quipped, “You mean all nine of them.” He grinned and explained his duty was to produce an heir and lead his people. He lived separately from his only wife. The grass-roofed mud huts were amazingly sound with a life of sixty or more years. Raw forms of selected timber were used for arches, fencing, and structural members.

Dirty Little Fokker

RTW – 3 Oct 2008
Our Fokker 50 to Addis landed an hour late. As before, the cleanliness was poor, especially apparent in the stained and spent pillows. With all on board, the cabin door was still open; they revved the left engine to a high ear-shattering speed while the right engine twirled a couple times just outside my window. After twenty minutes, they rolled out a rusty gangplank to the right engine. A young fellow in airline garb climbed up and opened the engine housing. A half a dozen assorted men stood back watching. The ‘mechanic’ was armed with a screwdriver and an old pair of pliers. During his twenty minutes fussing inside the hatch, the onlookers cajoled and smiled, leaving me to wonder the value of his effort. The operation was over, but I was concerned about the prognosis. None-the-less we were off to Gondar at what seemed to be a lower altitude, and they never turned off the fasten seatbelt sign. On the ground, I thought of getting off with those scheduled but held tight, and more souls came aboard. They went through more engine revving, then shut it down and said we would have to wait two hours for a new plane from Addis. Whew, the masses and I were pleased. In the terminal (I should use that word), I was sipping a local beer, and they called us to board the plane after twenty minutes – yeah, the same little Fokker. I was last to come aboard. Well, maybe some good spirit from those ancient churches will sustain our plane. We had one more stop in Bahar, where a nurse from New Jersey sat next to me. She had been working in AIDS clinics all over Ethiopia for the last five years. We held a good conversation to keep my mind off the right engine.

In the Horn of Africa

RTW – 2-3 Oct 2008
Ethiopian Airlines out of Nairobi was a precursor for bad accommodations ahead of me. Arrival in Addis Ababa was late; a Galaxy tour guy picked me up and drove me to the Ghion Hotel. He would be back at 5 AM to take me to the airport. This tourist hotel was dirty, the water was cold, and the room service did not keep their promise for an early breakfast.
The twin-engine Fokker 50 flight to Lalibela made two stops along the way, and my confidence dwindled with each lousy landing. Flying in, the high terrain was quite rugged with very fertile green plateaus. A guide and driver awaited me for an enriching fifteen-kilometer drive to Lalibela. Subsistence farming yielded plenty. Mules and an occasional ox made up for the lack of mechanized farm implements. This area had no electricity ten years ago. I had read there were no banks or petrol stations, but I did see a bank. The Roha Hotel showed three stars, but when I asked about hot water – two hours in the morning and three in the evening. After I settled in, everything started looking better.
The eleven rock-hewn churches about the town were started in the twelfth century. As you look about, there is a feeling that little has changed. The more I observed, the people seem to have the same religious devotion it took to carve this volcanic rock. I have long been inspired to see the results of faith in art and architecture. This area displays the utmost of such creations. The Great Pyramids of Egypt put things in perspective, but this place was presumably done by religious followers of King Lalibela, not slaves as in Egypt. You can feel it with each priest reading scriptures and the homage of pilgrims seeking their blessing. A holiday for St. George the Dragon Slayer was on my second day. The area of the churches was filled with white-cloaked pilgrims. It was a special day for them. Rather than be an imposing tourist, I stood aside and listened to the chants and prayers.

Masai Mara

RTW – 30 Sep – 1 Oct 2008

An early morning start with a seasoned driver and well-worn Toyota Safari Van, we were soon crossing the Rift Valley towards Masai Mara National Reserve. At this point, the bad roads got worse. Before for long, I left the pot-hole avoidance to the driver and watched for an occasion zebra. The edges of the twenty-year-old asphalt had eroded away to a dangerous single lane road for two way traffic. It was safer when the blacktop was gone, where washboards became moguls. Stomach crunches with each contusion.
Isaac had been driving this route for twenty years. He had to know the limitations of the van’s suspension in combination with the road to get maximum speed. I had some concern over breaking down the fluid membrane that keeps the brain suspended in the skull. Two hundred and fifty kilometers one way in four hours was quite a feat. Isaac said it was seven hours before they fixed the road. There was some new construction going on. Of which, twenty kilometers was completed in pieces. About fifty kilometers under construction was an ever-changing hazard.
Upon our arrival at the park, we went to a remote lodge for the overnight stay and found my reservation to be bumped. I was so ready to rinse off the dirt and allow the vibrations to stop. Isaac was able to get through to another place, and off we went. I endured ten more miles of bad roads pouting all the way. We finally got to Sarovo Masai Game Lodge at noon. I quit moping when I realized what a first-class place it was. For sure, Lucy will be sulking at this upgrade as the site was near full, and I got a Club Tent. Branson, the founder of Virgin Airlines, had stayed there amidst a promotion bit for British tourists. Sir Richard also sponsored the construction of Masai school rooms as a likely extension of his ego, but that’s okay.
After a good meal and shower, at three, Isaac and I were off for a game drive. Most other trips were starting at four, and we could avoid the crowds. Several years ago, I was at Ruaha in Tanzania, where you were restricted to the main road, and the game was always at a distance. Here driving across the savanna was better than most of the streets. Isaac was good at getting into the midst of the game. While stopped within six feet of a pride of lions, he said, smiling, “You want a good picture?” Then proceed to put the van in the center of a group of seven. Later near a herd of elephants, he smiled and repeated himself. Even he knew better than to drive in their midst but tantalized the old bull into a couple threatening stances.
The drivers chatted amongst themselves by old radios to alert one another to the presents of the game. Others would often stop alongside and chatter Swahili. Isaac seems to be a senior member in good standing with a respectable following. Most other lorries were filled with four to twelve people. There was one huge bus that may have held thirty European tourists but very little esteem. We stopped next to another lone rider like me. He appeared to be on his last hurrah. Most likely over eighty with very limited mobility and thick glasses, he probably waited a little too long to experience this dream.
Back at the lodge, there was a splendid buffet then a Cat Stevens style singer in the lounge. Sleep came early.
We were off at sunrise for another game drive, exciting but much the same. I asked to concentrate on some big birds. There were storks, plenty of vultures, and a remarkable secretary bird. We returned to the lodge for a quick breakfast then headed for Nairobi where our planned exit was closed due to yesterday’s rain. The alternate route was arduous but by then it didn’t seem to matter anymore.

To fulfill the deal we stopped at a Masai village where the chief’s son took me through after greasing his palm. The village had 20 families, 160 people, 250 cows, and as many goats. It was authentic and all that but after putting the ‘bum’s rush’ on me for more donations I felt the need to get on with my journey.

Jambo Nairobi

RTW – 28-29 Sep 2008
Entering Africa generates a sensation difficult to explain. The continent and its people have suffered extortion, exploitation, and violence forever. Upon arrival, you are stepping into an open wound. You can get beyond that rather quickly in seeing the struggle of so many people having so very little. Most everyone has to walk where ever they want to go and carry whatever they need to take. On the drive into town, all you see are people going somewhere and doing something. These people may live in poverty, but most strive to get beyond their place. There is no welfare here to cripple spirits. It is not to say there are haves and have-nots or predator and prey. Africans know well the role of lion and wildebeest, but that is not humanity. Let’s just call it survival of the fittest to get beyond this thought.
Kenya was of lesser significance than my other stops along the way. I had three days but only booked an overnight stay at the Nairobi Hilton to get a footing, find a driver, and venture into Masai country. It was late Sunday afternoon in the center of Nairobi, where I could see safari offices near the hotel. Seeking a driver, the gal at the reception desk had a recommendation on a crumbled business card for Big Safari Tours. She called; I expressed my wishes, and they said to meet Lucy in the lobby tomorrow at nine. With that in place, I had a Tusker beer at their Jockey Pub and promptly dissolved in my room to rest my well-traveled body.
Early awake, body clock beyond repair, I did some Googling to get an idea about pricing for Masai Mara National Park. I found Lucy in the lobby. Big Safari was ready to get me there tomorrow with a private guide and van. We had to do some haggling over prices, but I did not want to spend a day trying to get something else. We walked to her office to swipe my Visa card, and I found them not to be so ‘Big’ after all. Hey, maybe they will try harder.
Another Lucy was calling, the X million-year-old skeleton found by the Leakeys. The Nairobi National Museum was a tribute to Richard Leakey, a short taxi ride away. The Humanoid Skull Room was the hall of fame for such Homo habilis findings. My taxi driver had wanted to wait, but I said I would be there all day. When I emerged after an hour and a half, he was waiting. The Karen Blixen House, as in Out of Africa, was a bit farther out of town than I thought. Her story and seeing the setting was worth the drive.

Road from Shanghai

RTW – 25-27 Sep 2008
Once on the job site, it was apparent the customer had no concern for my lost day, and they wanted me for the agreed two days. Expecting no less, the night before, I had emailed the details of my agenda to Jason, the young fellow assigned as my host. Here I am again, like a baby dependent on others to do for me. My day in Guangzhou would have to be scrubbed, and Jason spent much of our first day in the background talking with the airline to change my flight. He was coming up with options that would work for him – flying To Shen Zhen and take a train to Hong Kong – get the bus from Guangzhou to Hong Kong. Their local transportation is without English subtitles, and most service people are willing but not educated enough in English to get me through. Alas, Jason came through with the right plane connection and was able to do so without any additional charges. An excellent level of comfort settles in when things keep working.
My work was mostly completed by the morning of the second day. The customer gave me my leave with the right timing. Jason devoted to my cause, went to the airport with me, came inside, and saw to the success of his ticketing effort.
I was now in store for a gruesome chain of airports Shanghai – Guangzhou – Hong Kong – Bangkok – Dubai – Nairobi. Emirates is like airlines were before cost-cutting, and ‘equal opportunity’ came into play. Their HR people are very discriminating to put together obliging, disciplined, courteous, ever-smiling, and most beautiful ladies in flight. The fine cuisine was served with stainless utensils. Our 777 with full Boeing options was impeccably clean. The Emirates image crashed when we arrived in Dubai at 4:30 AM. The huge transit area was overflowing with thousands of people awaiting connections. Management was either in cahoots with the duty-free shops or severely inept. My six-hour layover left me in the same situation as the masses.

Road to Shanghai

RTW – 22-24 Sep 2008
A three-week escape from the business life I have put into a relaxed mode was not so simple to get on hold. In this case, I had to walk away and hope for the best. Issues had been easy to work out with cell phones and Internet access, but Africa would be far removed from such satellites.
My great itinerary suffered from the push to get off the ground by September twenty-third. Visa requirements put Zanzibar out of reach when I found Tanzania added limitations and required a four day processing time. Ghana was a two-day process, and I had a five-day window in Washington DC. Additional passport pages were necessary to accommodate visas. After only two years, many Asian travels filled up my latest passport. I put things in the hands of an agent in DC, knowing everything had to happen without any delays. Sure enough, late Thursday, the agent called to say Ghanaian Embassy had not finished and they were closed on Friday. The timing was now to have it completed on Monday, and FedEx could deliver by 10:30 Tuesday – I needed to leave for the airport by noon.
No worries, Northwest flight 11 made record time with a new route through Russia, and Tokyo was only eleven hours away. Upon arrival, we were alerted that the connecting flight to Shanghai was delayed by mechanical problems. They held about twenty of us aside and sent us off to a nearby hotel. The initial twelve-hour delay became twenty, and the aspect of missing a day’s work could cripple my progress in China and beyond. I am not surprised this should happen, as this was my third time in five years to spend a night in Narita because of the Northwest hub timing. They adorned us with travel credit vouchers for our inconvenience, but that meant very little to me at the time.
The checked baggage stayed in the airport system.
For two days before leaving the States, I had laid my to-go clothing atop my bed, trying to make do with a carry-on and backpack while looking to avoid lost luggage because of so many plane transfers. Three weeks is a long time, and I was not expecting laundry service most of the way. So at the last minute, I put everything and more into my oversized roller bag. Like, who am I trying to kid, I’m really not a backpacker anymore? My first night showed me what lost luggage would be like using a tiny hotel toothbrush, but it was sort of a plus to get an extra day out of the clothing I wore.

Round the World

RTW – 22-24 Sep 2008
A three-week escape from the business life I have put into a relaxed mode was not so simple to get on hold. In this case, I had to walk away and hope for the best. Issues had been easy to work out with cell phones and Internet access, but Africa would be far removed from such satellites.
My great itinerary suffered from the push to get off the ground by September twenty-third. Visa requirements put Zanzibar out of reach when I found Tanzania added limitations and required a four day processing time. Ghana was a two-day process, and I had a five-day window in Washington DC. Additional passport pages were necessary to accommodate visas. After only two years, many Asian travels filled up my latest passport. I put things in the hands of an agent in DC, knowing everything had to happen without any delays. Sure enough, late Thursday, the agent called to say Ghanaian Embassy had not finished and they were closed on Friday. The timing was now to have it completed on Monday, and FedEx could deliver by 10:30 Tuesday – I needed to leave for the airport by noon.
No worries, Northwest flight 11 made record time with a new route through Russia, and Tokyo was only eleven hours away. Upon arrival, we were alerted that the connecting flight to Shanghai was delayed by mechanical problems. They held about twenty of us aside and sent us off to a nearby hotel. The initial twelve-hour delay became twenty, and the aspect of missing a day’s work could cripple my progress in China and beyond. I am not surprised this should happen, as this was my third time in five years to spend a night in Narita because of the Northwest hub timing. They adorned us with travel credit vouchers for our inconvenience, but that meant very little to me at the time.
The checked baggage stayed in the airport system.
For two days before leaving the States, I had laid my to-go clothing atop my bed, trying to make do with a carry-on and backpack while looking to avoid lost luggage because of so many plane transfers. Three weeks is a long time, and I was not expecting laundry service most of the way. So at the last minute, I put everything and more into my oversized roller bag. Like, who am I trying to kid, I’m really not a backpacker anymore? My first night showed me what lost luggage would be like using a tiny hotel toothbrush, but it was sort of a plus to get an extra day out of the clothing I wore.

Hobby Horse

A man of attrition and not very worthy could fit a man we can call, Hopalong.
At fourteen, my first horse farm job was a peaceful three-mile walk from home. Such work was a grade above peddling newspapers or hauling hay. An hourly wage was involved, and a sense of responsibility was endowed with the care and feeding of horses. Sixty, some acres of paddocks and pasture were marked by white wooden fences. Two boarding barns had neatly kept stalls for a variety of mares intended for breeding to our prized stallions. A training barn adjacent to an oval track kept harness racehorses destined for county fairs or Northville Downs.
Within a short time on the job, I was privy to the story about Hopalong. His father owned a new car dealership, and his success provided this family horse farm. An early death left it all to his Hopalong. His mismanagement of the dealership left him with a run-down used car lot, while his wife managed the horse farm into an enterprise that boarded, bred, and trained harness racehorses. During my tenure, the used car lot was dwindling, and Hopalong was more prevalent at the farm.
In our plebiscite role, we gave Hopalong a pass while his wife garnered our respect. She was researching artificial insemination for our breeding tasks while Hopalong scorned an extra flake of hay for a boarded mare. Preps for scheduled visitors brought Hopalong out of the estate house too often for cosmetic gestures. One such time brought about an ire that I had before not found. We had a mare in foal with the heaves. I want to call her Hanna though I cannot remember her name. My vet skills aside, the heaves were a form of emphysema that usually calls for putting them away peacefully. Hopalong wants to keep her alive to give birth. He could not have Hanna around with visitors about, so he commanded me to take her across the road to the shed. This old building was open to the elements with a roof beyond repair. A plebe had no voice, so I followed instructions. My first stop every morning and last peek at night was to see to Hanna and pity her situation.
I remember that hot August Sunday when a torrential downpour hit Southeast Michigan. I thought of Hanna that night. The shed was my first stop at dawn on Monday. There she lay with the foal inside her so very still after such a traumatic night. It was as if a bolt of lightning had pitched her against the side of the stall. For a dead horse, you remove their halter. I did that and stormed onto the patio of the estate house (no place for us peons) where Hopalong was enjoying his morning coffee, threw her halter at his feet, and said, “The foal didn’t make it either.” Then I walked away.

Maine Lobsters

My formula for a happy life is to do a lot of travel for a little business and experience the most life has to offer. Such as flying to New Hampshire for four days, spending two hours with a customer, and then having the rest of the time to drive the coast of Maine. I made a similar trip two years ago, but this time, I brought a friend to share the lobster dinner.
The weekender’s money from Boston and surrounds has created quite a posh resort area on that coast. There are very expansive ocean beaches in New Hampshire and the approach to Maine. The public has full access from the coastal road if you can find a place or permit to park. Dense condo residences affront the opposite side of the road. A crowded beach was not how we wanted to spend time.
For the first leg of our journey, we stayed at a great bed and breakfast in Kennebunkport. This town was quite exclusive thanks to the distinctive residence of President Bush 41. It seemed like a good idea for a lot of other people and us too. We got an early start to get beyond Portland, where the natural sights began.
Thousands of coves, bays, and islands create awe and amazement around every turn. Wiscasset is a highlight of lobster fishing and an excellent place to watch such action. Lunch on a lobster rollup seemed as appropriate for us as those retrieving lobster traps in the cove. Beyond, we zigzagged through the peninsulas on our way to Camden.
We took a stroll on the mile-long granite breakwater to a lighthouse in Rockland Harbor. It was more amazing when out I found the massive granite blocks were laid from 1860 to 1880, quarried and brought by ship from a local island.
Our plans fell short for getting advance bookings on the weekend in this area. It was funny how Dashboard Debby (my GPS) points of interest gave many hotels within three miles as the seagull flies. Still, when selected, they were thirty miles away because we were on an isolated peninsula. Cell phones had no bars out there as well. The last room at the Camden Harborview Inn gave us a harbor view at an extravagant price. ‘Any port in a storm’ was a stretch on an old Navy phrase that night. Such an expense gets lost in pleasant memories later.
On Saturday, we slowly worked our way back to New Hampshire.

Beyond Shanghai

Shanghai China is a good business. This is my fifth trip in three years. I have five companies to meet within four days. Familiarity with this region of the world will never come. Despite my grin where Outer Ring Road meets Long Dong Avenue, recognizing my Eastpo Trade Showgrounds, or staying at the Riverview Hotel near the Pearl Tower, I am a total stranger. My use of chopsticks receives compliments, but their language remains insurmountable. I have heard that during Mao’s reign, teaching their language to foreigners was punishable by imprisonment – “rots o’ ruck”… So what if we can’t learn it?
I needed to leave the business behind me and renew my longstanding effort to find my way to Xi’an. Terra Cotta Warriors were waiting for me. What seemed to be a simple three-hour flight; turned out to be twelve hours in transit. The details are better left behind. One saving grace was a book to get me through, River Town, Two Years on the Yangtze. This story of two Peace Corps workers in the nineties made my plight very trivial.
A sound sleep, a new place, by now, life is good. There were better hotels in town, and the Xi’an Hotel had seen grander days. A four-star hotel rating today in China puts it far below the new modern international five stars that I left behind. My expenses could use a little cooling off. They list 538 guest rooms, but I understand there were but three for breakfast. English was not understood too much, but the three waitresses and I opted for the American breakfast and coffee. Their classic Nescafe took me back a decade or two. This instant coffee blend has survived in many remote regions of the earth where tea is the typical drink. The taste and consistency are as distinctive as the next beverage she brought. The orange juice was Tang. I thought our astronauts left that on the moon, but some must feel it is part of an American breakfast. The fried eggs, ham (bologna), sausage (tiny wieners), bacon, and toast (British style white square loaf slices) were pretty good when you accept their effort. The Dynasties of China were mostly rooted in Xi’an.

The Terra Cotta Warriors are a significant relic of one. Major indeed. A picture cannot express the impressive spectacle of which I had to be a witness. The reality was to credit the ego of some despotic emperor. As with most ancient splendors, the price was paid by slaves and subjugation. The later perpetuate modern Red China today. To cast a blind eye would justify their wealth as worthy. As the 2008 Beijing Olympic prominence plays in every background television, a struggling individual is looking beyond their place. Without the freedom we Americans know, all of what they are giving is for the State, after all, is done.

080808

August 8, 2008, is one of our new millennium’s lucky days. My last lucky day was 070707, a day that I returned from a business trip in Beijing. I thought it would be especially lucky as flying East pass the International Date Line would extend my July seventh ‘luck’ by the twelve hour time difference. Yet the eighteen hour flight time did little to expose my good fortune.
That prior ‘luck’ was just replaced as I flew back to China on this August eighth to foreshorten this day by twelve hours. The Chinese seem to have an extensive set of symbols for good luck. The dragon is one. Other symbols I recall hearing a lot are fortune and longevity which both have a factor of luck involved. Either luck has always escaped me or I have never sought to rely on more than I have. I never play the lottery, gamble, or open a fortune cookie unless prompted by my daughter. This could just be a shortage of optimism. I wonder if the Chinese indulgence in ‘good’ symbolism stems from centuries of poverty and subservience of the common ones. Hope may have been their saving grace.
Coincidence of those lucky days aside, I am not here as part of the Beijing Olympics. Triathlon skills notwithstanding, I am simply in Shanghai for a bit of business. Olympic excitement abounds as most can only image your being here for that purpose. A few days before my departure, I received word that a second of my systems was approved purchase. I attempted to scramble a weeks worth of preparation into two days to make ready the new shipment. The bonus being that if I could get the machinery shipped and through customs in a few days, I could extend my stay and have two systems installed for the traveling price of one. It seemed a noble goal but in the waning hours of the day before my flight, preparations were halted as I admitted the likelihood of a clear sail through customs was doubtful. Perhaps I should rely more on the luck of the Chinese to get me through such an occasion but as it is, I will need to repeat this trek in a few weeks.

What a Wonderful World

I caught the long light a block before my office the other morning. The movement behind got my attention in the rearview mirror. In the big Mercury stopped behind me, a lady got out the passenger door, walked around, opened the rear door, and got in to sit behind the driver. My take was that they were an embittered old couple in their seventies. A mime act unfolded as he waved his hands in the air and his head gyrated as he spewed expletives within their domain. I laughed to myself – ‘good girl’ - at the moment where this apparent spouse was not going to be a companion to his seeming verbal abuse. He then pulled around me into the right turn lane, my thought was their plans had just changed and he would return home. To my amazement and disgust, he blasted straight ahead of me running the red light. If he would do that, what other abuses would his wife have endured over the years?
My thoughts centered on what brings people to such a point. These are the couples seen at the local family restaurant having breakfast special. Together but alone; sitting stoically and never speaking; after fifty years together, there was nothing new. In their generation, the children were the center of the universe for the mother and the provider was focused on security for the future. Their children could have moved out of state. His retirement goals were met yet the sacrifice of those childhood dreams and hobbies never pursued was no longer attainable in his besieged body. This is a living hell. Two victims of their own making who have nothing better to do that impugn one another for their failings.

In sharp contrast is my witness to love expressed. My parents never parted without a loving kiss. This gave security to our family. Conflicts were rare but challenges were many in our low-income family. My small-in-stature mom was always lifted to her tiptoes with a goodbye kiss. To never let go of a love that brought them together allowed them sixty years of bliss. A kiss is a breathtaking way to bring us together and overcome the troubles of humanity that try to defeat us.

Ironically my XM radio station was playing Louis Armstrong’s What a Wonderful World. Oh yeah, with popcorn clouds in a blue sky on the last day of July it is a wonderful world for those of us that can make it so.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vnRqYMTpXHc

The Dailey Girls

My adolescent behavior was just that – exploring, testing, and not getting caught at having too much fun. At sixteen, I was one of a few guys in our small town to have a car. My ’53 Ford was shackled with hooded lights and custom grill – kind of cool for a teenage budget. It was a hot July evening; my folks were expecting me to go to a friend where I sometimes stayed over. I left having second thoughts, went uptown to see what was happening, and chatted with the local guys. At a lull, Ron shouted, “Hey, let’s go pick up the Dailey Girls.” I smiled and nodded my head for the two to get in. They knew I had a connection with the older Judy, and my brother had dated Joan. Judy was 21. She had called me several times that spring, and we had met for a movie once. I was not quite sure how to handle the situation. She was far more voluptuous than the teenage girls whom I was familiar with. Rumor had it she had been in prison for passing bad checks. This was not the kind of person you took home to meet the parents, so I left the advances to her.
Three sisters lived out in the sticks of Ray Road. Their father was said to have a shotgun loaded for those that disturbed his household. Ron said we just had to drive by slowly to attract the girls, wait around the curve, and the girls would sneak out after dark. The first pass proved they were home, but no one was getting our signal. I rebuffed their tactic, dropped the guys around the curve, drove into the driveway, and Judy came out to talk. She said they could sneak out in half an hour and join us around the bend.
My car was filled with suppressed giggles as we sped away in a party mode. The first stop was to let Judy buy a case of beer, and I drove to the safety of our known wheat field to frolic in the moonlight for some underage drinking. The ration was four beers each, which left the younger girls very boisterous. I was content, but Joan insisted on a hamburger. My thought was that the Domino Drive-in had little business, so we might get by without too much trouble. I pulled up to a speaker in the second row and called in our order. My transmission had been stuck in third gear since drag racing on Woodward Avenue a few weeks before, so I needed to be aware that reverse gear was not available.
Suddenly Joan pushed on my seat and exclaimed she needed to go to the bathroom. She and younger sister Sonja got out went into the restroom in the side door of the building. I stood leaning on the open car door watching the lightning on the horizon so typical for a hot July night. Then came a ‘crash-bang’ from the bathroom, and Joan walked out with the Kotex machine in her arms. Stunned, I fell back as she dropped it onto my front seat. I looked to the building, and the owner was strutting towards us. I grabbed the machine and booted the girls back into the car. Perspiration overtook me on the long walk to the bathroom. I babbled something about returning the next day to repair the damage to the owner, who said nothing but glared right through me. The carhop met me with a taunting grin at my return to the car, “Please don’t leave the tray. We cannot stay.” My third gear takeoff seemed more arduous than usual.
By the time the others consumed the burgers, the rain was upon us. Soon all but Judy and I were asleep in the backseat. Visibility was terrible, and it was a slow-go down Ray Road. I had forgotten about the approaching hill and did not have enough speed to reach the top in third gear. I had let it roll back for another start but not enough to make it to the top. Then Joan came alive in the silence of the car and torrent of the rain, “What’s going on here?” She was quick to get out in the pouring rain and push my car farther back for a better start. Good enough to get us over the hump. By the time we reached their homestead, the rain had lapsed, and I stopped beyond the curve. We had a few head-shaking laughs to say goodbye, but the young Sonja was out-like-a-light. Judy said that I would need to carry her to the house. Gulp! “What about your dad’s shotgun?” “No worries, he starts drinking at nine, and by eleven, he’s unconscious till morning.” I was not convinced, but being the only able-bodied guy awake, duty called. With Sonja in arms, I crouched as low as I could to the fruit cellar door. As it opens, the sound would awaken any old drunk, but they insisted I carry her into the basement. Once there, Judy asked in the most tender way to help take her to bed. At that, I laid Sonja on the basement floor, scurried out, and made evasive maneuvers to my car. No shots were fired, no virtues lost. Would we be who we are without such times ‘growing up’?

L.S.M.F.T.

Maybe it was Monday or just one of those days when you do what you want to do -- because. It was a good productive day at the office. I good friend stopped by to discuss a project. Another buddy called to tell of his lover's quarrel. I secured my visa for China so it was good to go on Saturday for ten days. A girlfriend gave me a pass on seeing her tonight. My daughter had good tidings to talk about.
I could go home and throw together some dinner but it was after seven. The local Gus O’Connor’s had not seen me for a while. After a couple Boddington ales and a bowl of mussels, I was feeling at ease. Contentment was not coming easily because I neglected to mention a phone call from my business partner in Germany. Klaus is dealing with some paranoia that I refuse to get wrapped up in. Such efforts I can find within myself. After dinner, I was toying with sampling some good Irish whiskey but I drove home. A Cuban Cigar came to mind. A good friend from Germany had sent a Cohiba, La Habana Cuba cigar along with other indulgent paraphernalia for my birthday last year. I quit smoking twenty-six years ago. Why should I think of that now? I found a box of matches from my Turkish Hotel Armada, reopened the birthday present, and sat on the backdoor stoop. Gosh, how I relished those seductive fumes. It was a personification of freedom. I could not permit my addictive character for a chance to inhale but the ghastly aroma was levitating. Sure I had to spit the damned saliva. I thought of uncorking a vintage Lafite Rothschild. Better yet, a bottle of Jack Daniels had been undisturbed in my cupboard for some years so I filled a glass of Waterford.
Was there the same taste for freedom at fourteen when I first took a pack of Lucky Strike cigarettes from my Dad? Not exactly but I remember sitting on the railroad tracks finding an exhilaration of just being a guy. Lucky Strike Means Fine Tobacco.

Cuban Crisis

In October 1962, a surly crew of sailors was stopped short of dropping off our Marines and vehicles at Morehead City, North Carolina. The USS York County LST1175 had been ordered to return to Norfolk, Virginia. An LST is a Tank Landing Ship renown for such assaults as the beaches at Normandy and Guadalcanal in World War II. A flat bottom ship with bow doors that open to deploy tanks and trucks ashore filled with Marines. Our amphibious fleet had been on maneuvers in the Mediterranean since May. I was still reeling from the enchantment of Europe but most of the crew had been looking forward to being home. Rumors abound in a military world where little outside information is received. When our diverted ship arrived at the docks of Little Creek, a fleet of supply trucks lined the pier. This could be an indication of some serious deployment. Common sense pointed to the fact that we were battle-ready with our complement of armament. They announced that Section One (of three) Liberty Crew would be allowed to go ashore until seven AM the next day. All others remaining aboard were required to carry stores from the waiting trucks. Given the luck of the draw, fourteen others and I in our Engineering crew decided it was better to play than work. At nineteen years of age, I laid no claim to maturity when a sailor’s mentality took over. In two overloaded taxis, we headed for The Strip, a string of sailor-class bars not far from the base. It was about seven in the evening when I broke the first rack of eight-ball pool and vowed to make a full night of it. It was not unlike me to toil all night to repair components in my realm as Interior Communication Electrician so why not give this parting shot a good try. We kept the pool tables filled and the beer or rum and coke flowing. At midnight they quite serving alcohol and half of our crew were fading. The Mole came to me and said he and six others were getting a room at the motel next door but needed us to roust them so we could all return to the ship in the morning. As a token of his submission, he handed me his duffle bag with a fifth of 151 proof Ron Rico Rum. I took the bottle to the restroom where I placed it conveniently in the ceiling tiles. Alerted, my dedicated Salts and we spiked our fountain cokes all night long. The conflict of our adventure was that the bars started serving again at seven AM and our ship was to get underway at that time. Priorities in order, I got our compliment of crew members from the motel; called for a round of beer; and summoned two taxis. That seven AM beer was ceremonial, not tasty. By half-past seven the taxis were awaiting us. In the lead taxi, we approached the end of The Strip. I signaled for one more stop and another round of beer. Satisfied, our crew of fourteen arrived at the pier; an enraged Chief Petty Officer Combs stood at the top of the gangplank shaking his fist, and we all stumbled aboard. Under normal circumstances, we would have been written up as AWOL. The Chief and others were just happy to have us aboard since without a complete Engineering crew the ship could not get underway. Within minutes we were off to the Caribbean. By the next day, we had recovered. Russian ships were encountered; battle plans were discussed, but fourteen sailors had a bond of irresponsibility that yielded a grin amongst us for the next three months at sea enforcing Kennedy’s Cuban Blockade.

King Arthur’s Quest

My travels have sometimes left a child behind to hear of my adventure after the fact. In 1996, I thought to put the dazzle in the eyes of my daughter with her own involvement. As a single parent and with her at eleven years old, I would need a little help. My nephew, her favorite cousin, would give her a companion. Quintessential in my mind was to bring a lady friend to help my daughter to the WC and share a little parenting. One thought was that England would be comforting without language problems and other such confusion. Next, I needed a theme to promote their interest and convince my brother and his wife along with my ex-wife that their children would find security in my good hands. The Legend of King Arthur's theme should encompass that. An initial meeting with the kids drew excitement for the travel but my extended talk about King Arthur lost their attention after a few minutes. None the less, my plan was executed within three weeks and the four of us flew to England.
Oxfordshire was our base and a rental car left us without restrictions. The area was famous for thatch roof houses that numbered 111 by the kid’s count after our second day. We had a small hotel in Faringdon that was close to the massive hill that displayed the Chalk Horse. It was not until Stonehenge that the kids caught on to the marvel of it all. After that came Salisbury Cathedral and the wonderment of Avebury. Bath was a good lesson on Roman occupation with their thermal reservoirs and aqueducts. Their fun was when we returned to get to our car. I had parked within the double yellow lines and it was towed away. An hour to find out what happened and a sixty pound fine gave way to laughter on our way back to the hotel.
Our Quest was about to begin. Glastonbury gave the kids little inspiration as the ruins had little to say. Tintagel was much more magnificent with its seaside setting. To venture on to Land’s End was grandiose in itself but not to our youthful counterparts. Lacking their enthusiasm we returned to our Inn at Faringdon. Dining at the Haunch of Venison, I told the innkeeper we may go to London in the morrow. He said you may find an Englishman there.
None the less, I bought rail tickets for the journey. Neither of the children had been on a train. Upon arrival at the central terminal in London, we sought another first, to take the Underground to Big Bend and hear it chime. From there, “Let’s grab a taxi” for another maiden voyage to Buckingham Palace. There was an assembly of onlookers for an occasion we were not sure of but we could spare a few minutes. Soon passed exiting limos; one was a shielded Princess Margaret but next more regal than any – Nelson Mandela. He sat high and waved pointedly to all in his wake. We were all very touched by his presence, more so than any royal figure before or after him. At that, a Double-decker bus awaited us for a trip to the Tower of London. Given that place at another point in time, Nelson would have been in shackles where the gems of South Africa would bejewel some crown. To further exhaust our day we caught a taxi to Windsor Castle. Beyond those walls and gardens was our distant relative Princess Di. By the time we returned to our Portwell House in Faringdon we had to carry the children and tuck them into bed.
Wales was within our reach and its stretch of the English language seemed like a good lesson for the price of a day. Reaching the Welsh border was a landmark for our tour yet our rental car fizzled on the first curve of a rural road. The contact and rescue cost us a few hours waiting by the side of the road watching dairy cows. It was not such a bad break. Our rescuer, the rental car bloke, got us back to the hotel with an entertaining demure and arranged for a new vehicle to follow.
The next day was slow to get rolling but I had another mission. Years before, maybe twenty or more, my first trip to England led me by Bodiam Castle to the southwest of London. With its fairy tale motif, I thought my daughter would love it. A long day’s journey brought us there with a few hours of daylight remaining. Rushed, I took Katrina to the top of one of the majestic towers above the expansive moat. There I pointed to the ducks swimming below. With a massive twenty pence curled in my index finger, I cut it loose with a wild throw. Quack-quack echoed from below as the victim flapped across the murky water. Katrina swatted at the air between us to shame my deed and our laugh echoed all around.
The day was about to end when I asked the kids if they had enough of all this history and culture. An innocent grin came forth. An area guide showed a beach resort within an hours drive. The yeah’s were very resounding at such a thought. We all needed two days poolside and some beach combing. Given such a choice at eleven, I would have opted to frolic than have a history lesson.