Constantinople

The Wednesday weather was chilly in Istanbul, but lack of a winter coat did not hold me back. A decent breakfast at the hotel, scanning the guides I had was enough to get me going for the Grand Bazaar. Busy as expected with all that was marketable and much that wasn’t, my initial interest was pages of old Arabic books in gold leaf and a great script. Like most souvenirs, there is much fun in bargaining, but the price will be of no significance by the time you get home. The bathing harem girls are the treasure, and the other was just to help the bargaining process. Sat back and enjoyed a tea while watching passers-by. It was apparent the Muslim Berka was not in vogue here. Babushkas were everywhere on the older ladies, but the young ladies seemed quite western. None were enticing to my eyes.
The ceramic work was noteworthy, and a good one should make it collectible. I was drawn in by a hustler after wandering into a shop. I was whisked off to his treasure trove. There were three rooms full, and the decision/bidding process began. The large platter was essential, and the bowls were just adders.
The next stop was the Spice Market. This commodity was more fitting for caravan trade, and the variety was complete. Who needs anything more than pepper? I got a variety, along with some tea fresh off a camel’s back. The dried fruit was abundant. Also, many gelled or candied mixes of foodstuffs indeed stemmed from an ancient means of preservation.
On Thursday I got a late start to avoid the rain. I dedicated this day to museums. The Hague Sophia was a waste of time. It was just a barren old mosque whose significance escapes me. In the area was a government carpet sales outlet that seemed like a good idea, but prices were beyond what I wanted to spend. I must have shown my aimless wandering face as a Turk from Dallas struck up a conversation on my way to the Blue Mosque. I knew he was leading me on to some sort of scam and beyond the Mosque was his family’s Kurdish carpet store. Of course, I did not get out without dropping $800.00 on an antique rug. Duped as I may have been, the excess expense is lost once it is possession at home.
Carpet in hand, I snaked my way through the maze of Sultanahmet, unsure of a way to my hotel. A downhill direction was enough when I came upon the trolley cars seen from my hotel restaurant. Such a coward I was when an English Style Pub lies before me. Warmth, Tetley’s Ale, and Fish ‘n Chips gave my wandering soul a bit of repose. Regenerated, the journey back to the hotel drew a wealth of sightings along the way. If it were not for the shop keepers trying to draw me in, the local people had little response to strangers like me. None the less, walking my way through was best. Weary legs on an early evening return gave me a chance to read up on where I was.
Topkapi Palace, a tourist highlight, was on my list and waiting for my Friday. I was not going sour on Constantinople and the Ottoman Empire, but I fail to see the Devine Providence in a bunch of fat ugly turban headed Turks ruling half the known world. This Palace, built in the 1400s, in all of its regalias, did more to deny them my reverence. Pavilions for harems, eunuchs, and slaves assembled around a library, kitchen, armory, and treasury gave my Western mind guilt for my new found prejudice. Slaughter, murder, and mayhem in the Western colonialism bore little difference to barbarism, slavery, and rape from Arabic people. Yes, I am unsettled over the later. Perhaps, my notions were slighted by recent readings in books of early African exploration To the Heart of the Nile by Pat Shipman, and The White Nile by Alan Moorehead revealed significant atrocities of the Arabs. So allow me a little contempt.
My discontent waned in a brisk walk back to the hotel. There, a mature lady in the lobby was offering various tourist venues. Her sophisticated approach gave credence to the new Istanbul I had yet to explore. I held a modern gravurier piece of contemporary art picked up along the way. She was quick to inform me of the Istanbul Museum of Modern Art on the Asian side that my art vendor had so informed. From there, her enthusiasm for Taksim and a scenic walk through Beyoğlu would pay reverence for my stay. The fare for such advice was to purchase tickets for dinner and a show at the Galata Tower on Saturday night, which seemed fair for her courtesy and means of commission.
The Saturday setup worked well for my first stop at the Museum. The original features were what it should be, the Turkish talent. My kudos was to see the originality of work that was virtually void of Western influence. It was very pleasing to see my prior purchase by Tekcam had a presence.
From there, a taxi seemed a better mode to get to Taksim, and once there, the shops had little appeal to me. From this vantage point, it was two miles downhill and the bridge to the European side of Istanbul. By the time I got there, it may have been twice that. Fishing off the bridge was a popular pastime, but over such significant shipping traffic, I could only imagine the lost lines. Once crossed, the familiar Bazaar Quarter had much-needed restaurants and a place to ease my aching feet. At mid-afternoon, I notice good activity in a third-floor dining place. A bit posh, but my concern was rest and good food. The entertaining clientele of affluent tourists and local socials made for a pleasant diversion. I would have been content to retire early, but my early flight back home meant I had to leave for the airport by three am. Our prior plan was to party all night at the Galata Tower. Ugh, this had all the makings of a tourist extravaganza much unlike my typical modus operandi. Yeah, a tour bus picked me up on the rounds of all local hotels.
About twenty of us arrived at the Tower to be elevated to the sixth floor for the eight o’clock show, joining another group of twenty. Being the solitary figure from the Armada Hotel, I had a prime table near the bar and the door. The food fare was Turkish traditional with chicken or lamb kebab. The following entertainment was a variety show of belly-dancers, singers, traditional dancers, a Tony Bennett kind of emcee, and more belly-dancers. I was content with the diversion that kept me occupied well into the evening. This role as a tourist worked for me. I returned to the hotel after midnight with time for a shower, last-minute Internet check, stuffed my suitcase with Turkish memorabilia and caught a taxi to the airport.

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 striped 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. Onboard 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.

An attempt to get to my blog has been suppressed by the Chinese but I will try to launch this post but apparently not be able to view it.

Time Capsule 1978

A couple years ago my former wife called to say she was finally getting the basement cleared of all the junk and I should take care of my remnants. Taking her seriously I went over to view my clutter two weeks later. I remember that cleanup being a common wish since before our divorce eighteen years ago.

Through the dimly lit cellar, a Brazilian batik on the far wall marked my old territory. A shelf unit of old National Geographic’s, obsolete darkroom equipment, and a metal footlocker from my Navy days marked my isolated corner. Under the Bessler Enlarger and an Ektachrome processing tank was my large instrument shipping chest with an air cargo label from Brazil. Unveiled, I had to force it away from the wall to get it unlatched. Once opened, I was too overwhelmed at my initial sightings to dig deeply into this myriad of papers, objects, and articles. I would need many solace, leisure moments to look through such treasures. Four large grocery bags were overloaded with the loose papers. With a couple armloads of larger folders and sketch pads filled the trunk of my car and I was on my way home. I brought everything into my house and set it aside for the right time.

My friend was over for an artist-date a couple days later. I was quick to point out the batik and a gifted piece of art by Odete Finadi of Madonna and Child. We cajoled in going over my old darkroom efforts of black and white prints. The sketch pads had many charcoal drawings given in a classroom setting. Many had significant memories for me but we only perused an old talent.

I came upon the large instrument chest at the close of my work in Ghana in 1976. Some German technicians received the container with some instrumentation and thirty dollars made it mine. Let’s call it “Gauss” for the sake of this story. It was necessary to ship the multitude of artifacts that I had acquired during my stay. Sometime later I used Gauss to send my personal effects on my emigration to Brazil. While there, it was my footlocker. For my return to the States, Gauss contained my world.

The coming weekend was ideal to dig into those grocery bags of memorabilia. Most significant were the many letters from friends and family. Having worked out of a suitcase for eight years, many acquaintances along the way were held dearly, as my worldly family. Christmas cards were a definite keep-in-touch media. When I was in faraway places, letters had a better connection. The old stamp and envelope contents held messages that today would have been long ago lost as email from hard-drive crashes or technology upgrades. Letters from mother are very dear, never one to hide her concern my well-being. She, of course, would never have been so impersonal to write other than in articulated cursive. Sandy filled both sides of an eighteen by five inch yellow construction paper with her whimsical prose. Ann’s calligraphic script could never be found in any custom font selection today. How did we ever get through a handwritten letter without a cut, paste, backspace, or delete? There were a few decorative note-cards that needed to be concluded by writing up the margins. Many from Ghana and Europe wrote on feather-weight envelopes to properly save postage handling.

Memorabilia took many forms. A ticket stub recalled the concert at Neuschwanstein Castle following my work in Ghana 4 September 1976. I had several calendars that I picked up at Photokina exhibition in Cologne Germany on 10 September 1976. Hotel bills, baggage claims, and airline tickets marked a major series of adventures from Europe, Africa, South America, and home. If it mattered, I could rebuild those calendar events.

I am thinking that Gauss should be saved and brought to my basement. Grocery bags are not fit for such treasures. I will put everything back as I found it. When memories start to dissipate, I will know where to find them.

Laos Trek Day 2 Hmong

Day two of Laos’s hill tribe trekking began in a clearing mist with our trail in the shadow of adjacent hills. The plan was a modest one hour walk from the Khmu village of Hua Phi to the Hmong settlement called Xiang Pha. From there a four hour downhill journey to a riverfront town of Xiang Ngeun where we could summon a canoe to return to our base camp an hour upstream.
Bamboo, bananas, and butterflies were continuous features on narrow, well-traveled paths connecting settlements and access to productive fields. Teak trees grew everywhere. It was the main structural component of their huts. I saw no signs of commercial logging deforestation. In a small way, locals dragged individual timbers via streams to the main rivers for trade.
The Hmong differed from Khmu subsistent farming with individual family farms in a confined area rather than an encompassing village. Livestock was raised for sale. Pigs and goats were kept in corrals rather than beneath the family abode. I was told Hmong spirits dwelled in the earth and sleeping on the ground maintained better contact. Fields of rice and corn had fencing signifying property rights, in contrast to a Mother Earth provider concept of Khmu.
We came across an elderly Hmong lady foot-levering a pestle to hull rice grains while a young lad threshed the chaff with a basket. The lady characterized satisfaction for duty-driven results of her toil. At no time did I see idle behavior nor think such allowance could exist in this society. Beyond, a man-made swamp appeared to yield some form of marine life for harvesting. Textile art was used for their known ceremonial wear plus another cash item for the marketplace. I walked away with a deep respect for these highland peoples.
The next four hours were gruesome. The sun was now high overhead. Our downhill path was less than surefooted from erosion. My leg muscles soon felt stressed by the constant downward step. I was more apt now to stop for a butterfly photo to break the routine.
The river town of Xiang Ngeun was far more advanced than villages we had passed. Galvanized metal roofs and concrete structures failed to have much allure. At the river’s edge, I found fascination in the bustling commerce. Young boys with windowed masks and small spears waded to catch small fish. Many young girls harvested natural weeds on the river bottom. A teenage girl piloted a canoe to ferry people across the river. A middle-aged woman washed house mats near the shore. A family towed small teak logs from a stream outlet.
Over the past two days, my guide Sathith related his story. He grew up in a remote village near the Thai border. As a young man, he came to Luang Prabang for work, adventure, and support to his parents back home. Starting as a dishwasher in a bar-restaurant, he took English classes. Good work and English got him transferred to the tending bar. From behind the bar, he was able to relate well with tourists and chose tour guiding to expand his horizon. Two years ago, his adeptness won the respect of a Finnish girl on holiday. Their short time together led to romance. His hopes were dim as the girl’s father disapproved of their intent. Last spring she was secretly able to return to Laos for a month. Poor Sathith has little chance to get a visa to leave and much less of a chance to save enough money for airfare to Finland.
Our motorized canoe arrived for returning to our base-camp.

Khmu Village Trek in Laos

Flying from Bangkok to Luang Prabang in a twin-engine plane was reminiscent of the dirty little Fokker in Ethiopia. The airport in Luang Prabang was of little difference than Lalibela. The arrival Lao visa will be a feature page in my passport. There was an excessive amount of Germans grouped for a package tour. Outside a few guides greeted arrivers with paper signs. There were Tiger Trails seeking Roger Rowley. Satith Sengvilay was to be my guide and companion for the next two days. I felt certain Laos was the right choice once I viewed the rugged fertile landscape from the air. From the airport, we bounced around in our van with lush vegetation heaving over the dusty dirt road. I beamed inside assured Laos was a good selection.
A twenty-minute ride brought us to a launch point at the Nam Khan River. Here other groups were assembling to or ending an adventure. In eighty-something heat and humidity, I gathered the ‘cool’ highlands were merely relative to ninety-something lowlands. Here I could take essentials which by now I am thinking minimal and stash my luggage. A modest buffet was offered but having had lunch on the plane I opted for a cold beer, the bad choice before trekking, add heavy Levis and you are dragging most of the way.
We tipped into a shaft-propeller driven canoe for a twenty-minute sight experience of activity on the riverfront. Fishing, gardening, bathing, water buffalo, and commerce bought the locals out to wave our passing. Along the way, torrents of water were gushing from the thick forest ahead without a usual tributary stream. We pulled in beyond to a seasonal cascading waterfall and pool setting. It was the weekend and several people gathered to enjoy the cool waters, we tourists as well. Tad Xe Falls may have been a refreshing destination but our day was just beginning so I prompted Satith to continue.
The two of us ventured off. Satith was well conditioned to handle the heavy load of provisions and essentials in his backpack as I trudged behind with my oversized fanny-pack. A two-hour struggle along well-used footpaths took us ever upward. A few breaks along the way as my consumption emanated through my pores.
The day-one destination village of Hua Phi is home to the Khmu people. Local natural materials were used for their structures. Bamboo, banana, palm, reed, and teak made mostly two-level dwellings for animals below and people above. Chickens and pigs ranged freely. Dogs and cats were, I guess you could say, domestic. Assured of my free reign, I wandered about in awe of their subsistent ways. Several children had a push-toy made with a long stick in the neck of a plastic bottle with crude wheels and axles at the base. Childhood ended at about seven when able to work the fields or handle household chores. I don’t recall the exact statistics but the village has over four hundred people in twelve families. Planting, sowing, and reaping were I expect a continuous cycle. Given a rain and dry season, a convention must have given crop cycles.
Their end of the day brought in people from the fields. Teens played volleyball of sorts with a beanbag ball and soccer rules lobbing over a head-high bamboo pole. It was a spirited competition.
My evening bath was reminiscent of a mandi during my Volunteer days in Java. An open cistern of water is ladled over your body in breath-taking ice-cold shock. The cool-down was most welcome as my recovery in such heat was slow in coming. Their running water was gifted from NCO, an organization not known to me. Cleanliness proved important here as all seemed to have their time in the mandi or an open faucet.
An affiliated family to host Tiger Trails ran an enterprising commercial store and trade outlet. A widow of two years and four daughters would hold their own in any marketplace. They handled the distribution of goods for locals to market. Toting fifty kilos of goods rivaled any task a man could or would do.
The vegetables Satith carried were turned over to the ladies who relayed it to others for cleaning and slicing. Satith was keen on performing his cooking task over a wood fire, preparing a stir-fry and soup for our evening meal. Here I found sticky rice to be a paste form in which to sandwich mouthfuls of vegetables by hand -- finger-food utensils.
These enterprising ladies had a television and music videos that turned their store into a mini theatre. Thanks to a generator with a two hour evening cycle beyond the seven o’clock sunset. Satith was enthused about music but my weary bones needed repose. Comfort was a matter of need and I found the bamboo mat as inviting as any five star accommodation. My next conscious moment was first rooster call. Sometime latter with the second rooster call I turned on my ineffectual iPhone to focus on three-thirty. Shouldn’t this activity be coming at dawn? I stumbled out in total darkness with my flashlight for a nature call under billions of stars and millions of galaxies overhead in a crystal clear night. I estimated the calling roosters to be eight. The one outside my bamboo curtain had lost some bravado lauded by others in the village. His cock-a-doodle-doo barely fostered a weak doodle-doo. For sure he had his day.
Dawn gave birth to a busy village life. Washing, sweeping, and duties in line, the locals were engaged with a new day. Satith came with omelet and bread for me and I watched passers by eat sticky rice on their way to the fields. The Enterprising Ladies were receiving fifty kilo sacks of cash-crops for their commissioned mass deployment to market. An entrepreneurial man with a two-wheeled, gas driven, tractor of sorts pulled up with cart in tow to transport the goods to town.
It was good for me to be an ineffectual visitor, passing by for a moment of their daily lives. We traded appreciable smiles. No one looked for a handout. My picture taking went unnoticed. If they showed curiosity, I would respond with a digital picture review which was met with smiling eyes of approval.

Euphoric Moments

In review of one of my favorite movies Stealing Beauty, I am cast into the artistry of Bernardo Bertolucci. Not to discount the allure of Liv Tyler but I want to point to the projection given to us by Bertolucci and another favorite Federico Fellini. Such visionaries can bring us into their fantasies. Perhaps not a total gift from the Italians but they have an edge to expressions of beauty and desire. In this vortex I tend to reel back into moments that I have experienced. We cannot dwell in their imagination but reflect on our own.
Many trivial moments stay with us eternally. Other instances may transform our character for how we judge other such events. I have documented various lists but the following are significant whether trivial or transforming.

I was very young and impressionable while being part of a party of a Michigan fashioned New England Lobster Fest. We retired to the garden of our benefactor. In the party of beautiful people, a golden retriever and I played catch with a stick and I drew apart from the crowd. (transforming)
Again so young, a company business dinner found me and a bunch of coworkers surrounding three airline stewardesses at the bar. The loveliest looked to me and said, “Are you married?” I stuttered, “Who me?” Everyone laughed. (trivial)
Trapped in New Haven Connecticut on business for the weekend, after dinner and alone, a combo was playing a lovely song at the Motor Inn. I walked over to a table of where three had been. The most beautiful girl was left alone. I asked if she would like to dance. She said, “No. But would you like to sit down.” (transforming)
Bettina on the plane was a long conversation on a flight from Detroit to Frankfort. She sent me a bar of chocolate on the following Christmas but I could not distinguish the return address to send thanks. (trivial)
Idle conversation at the Copacabana Palace Hotel on my first day in Rio, a lovely Australian lady rose to leave. I asked if she would have dinner with me. She said, “I’ll pick you up at nine.” (trivial)
At sixteen, I stopped at Hollywood Market on Auburn Road to get some snacks for the road. As I rounded the aisle near the veggie counter a lovely goddess tending the lettuces met my glance. Both of us were awestruck but could not say a word. Heart pounding, I left with a coke and some chips. As I went to my car she was standing near the window – another glance and I returned to the store. Within her reach the manager came between us, she hung her head, so I walked away. I returned to that store when thoughts arose but never saw her again. (trivial)
On the first curve while riding a bus up a mountain road in Puerto Rico the driver avoided a collision with an out-of-control vehicle and we ended up in a ditch. They called for another bus but said we could walk and be picked up along the way. This was my first time in the tropics as a young sailor, of course, I chose to walk. The sight of such flora and fauna along the way stays with me today. (transforming)

Less preemptive events are first sightings: Taj Mahal, Chichen Itza, Borobador Java, Pyramids at Giza, Macho Pichu, Cristo in Rio, Statue of Liberty, Arlington National Cemetery, Pointe du Hoc and Omaha Beach, Neuschwanstein, Stonehenge, Cape of Good Hope, Kilauea Volcano, Ganges River, Mount Etna, Rock of Gibraltar, Istanbul, Grand Canyon, The Forum, Opera House in Sydney, The Great Wall, Angkor Wat, Mount Fuji, Vatican in Rome, Niagara Falls, Hadrian’s Wall, my Buddhist Bell, Terra Cotta Warriors, Fatima in Portugal, Death Valley, Bali, Coptic Churches in Ethiopia, Temple of Diana in Ephesus Turkey, Kronborg Castle of Hamlet in Copenhagen, Serengeti Plains, Nelson Mandela, Dali Lama, Fez, Yosemite, White Cliffs of Dover, Mekong Delta, Mount Everest, Tour d’Eiffel, Golden Gate Bridge, Chinatown NYC, Cape Hattarus hurricane, Tintagal, Auschwitz, Venice, (each transforming as a succession in attainment)

2008 Happenstance

I am a firm believer in happenstance. Some would say you need to make things happen. There are so many forces beyond our control that credence with what lies before us may lead to a better path. I would attribute such as a formula for my content and fulfillment, more so in recent years.
Last year marked the achievement of traveling all the way around the world. That lifetime goal opened up with many business opportunities in the Orient since 2003. Several times I laid the groundwork, but accommodating business schedules had not allowed plans to take place. In August, two deals in Shanghai did not fall into a sequence, so it was necessary to make two trips inside of six weeks. With the first, I had a few extra days to see the Terra Cotta Warriors in Xi’an. For the second trip, I thought of venturing into Mongolia, but political unrest there left me scrambling for a plan B two weeks before I was needed in Shanghai. Hastily I threw together the triumph of a seasoned traveler and added Kenya, Ethiopia, and Morocco to my list of sixty-four countries that good fortune has allowed me to visit. I was able to include a stop to revisit Ghana and find the family I worked with thirty-two years ago.
In February, a couple days of business in Turkey provided a week to wander and wonder in the historic streets of Istanbul. Of the nearly one hundred and fifty pins on my world map, Istanbul is significantly aided by the cooperation of Kerem whose business brought me there.
Working a trade show in Cleveland allowed me to enjoy what’s new downtown. Dining on lobster is better along the coast of Maine, particularly when in the company of a special friend. My lovely daughter made my birthday quite pleasant when I flew to Tampa that weekend. My brother and his wife uphold Thanksgiving as a family tradition during my now annual trip to Colorado.
After thirty years of business, I may be basking in success, at least by my measurements. I am concerned about traditional skills with a desire to support those gifted and devoted. Fine dining at better restaurants will exemplify manner and reward the expertise of a premier chef. The enjoyment of great wine is a level of endorsement for a vintner’s craft. Much joy comes from witnessing classical music presented by near monastic devotion of a musician for their work. Artwork, in its many forms of expression, should invoke beauty and purpose in creative imagination. Primitive cultures warrant preservation, allegiance, and undying respect.
Being open to what life has to offer is merit within itself. Good fortune is not a monetary prize but a reward for the consequences of your folly.

Beyond the Hand of God

As I battle through my office routines of the day, I must deal with schedules, proposals, and curb my emotions in the current news events over the political climate and woes of the financial world. The affairs of Africa are more a part of me since my return from Ethiopia. BBC News Africa has always been a daily event on my Internet review.
Visions of world aid being disseminated to African people and of Ethiopia came in the form of white vehicles. Door labels for Comite International Geneve and Medecins Sans Frontieres depicted the presence of the International Committee of the Red Cross and Doctors without Borders respectively. The opinion of the locals was that funding of any international organization lined the pockets of government politicians and ten percent may find its way to the people in need. It was obvious to me that aid presence in areas of my encounter was for show. Real need eroded the people in the Afar region at the border with Sudan. Eritrea border conflicts with the primitive existence of a simple subsistent society. “Blood Diamonds” do not control this area but like human tragedy is in such a wake nearby. In my meager extent from Lalibela to Konso, I witnessed only fertile land of abundant resources merited to a deserving and hardworking people. Given a fundamental religious base and tribal unity those I encountered appeared content with their station in life. Outside forces bore little influence. Myself, I tread lightly to avoid acts of excess. When asked what I did, I would say, “Just a worker.” It always got a smile and I would nudge in a gesture to say ‘Like you.’ We are all in the same struggle to live as best we can. The only separation is really our place of birth. The benefit for Ethiopians was never to have been colonized like other areas of Africa.
It seems to me that colonial rule by nineteenth-century European nations set a format for tribal rulers dictating over since freed lands in Africa today. Europeans placed borders irrespective of tribal habitats while laying claim to natural resources and displacing citizenry. Toss in historic Arab slave traders in the Sahara and Sub-Saharan regions with rape, pillage, and slaughter of entire communities for the sake of marketable human cargo, and you get a caldron to breed unrepentant horror.
Most of us know the distant genocides in Rwanda. In one hundred days 800,000 Tutsi were slaughtered. Cries of mercy were not heard as they sought refuge in churches where Hutu priests allowed annihilation.
Old condemnation is easily thrown at Uganda’s Idi Amin and Gaddafi of Libya, whereas it is merely dictators gone wild. A lesser-known tyrant, Sergeant Samuel Doe beheld the former American freed slave state of Liberia from William Tolbert. That victory was to put three bullets into his predecessor’s head, gouge out his right eye, and disembowel him. Doe became impervious to assault attributed to drinking human blood and eating the fetuses of pregnant young girls. American economic interests were served amidst such carnage. In a continued vengeance, the opposition was annihilated by castration, dismemberment, and cannibalistic consumption of those opposed.
‘Blood’ or Conflict Diamonds fund the rebels of Angola, Democratic Republic of Congo, and Sierra Leone. I had confirmed interest to buy diamonds while in Ghana in 1976. Late one night at my apartment an unkempt man came to the door, presented a cache of raw stones in a soiled bag, and sought nine hundred dollars for the dozen culled gems. My only vision was that they had passed through someone’s system after a hard day in the mines so I declined. Since I have learned such items are the financial means for weapons. Moreover, what has followed weapons was for rebels to sequester children to take arms for their ‘cause’. Sierra Leone epitomizes the Rebel trauma of the African continent. Fawning youngsters into terrorizing citizens on their battleground was a travesty to humanity that goes beyond civil comprehension. Systematic mutilation of men, women, and children yields irreparably damage. Beatings, starvation, and torture can be overcome. However, a favored mark was to lob off the hand of men. The travesty afflicted on abducted women usurps the bounds of humankind. Sex slaves to the fighters could be a mild consequence for a young lady compared to being gang-raped but uterus mutilation scars the future should psychological forces be overcome.
My appreciation goes out to director Edward Zwick for Blood Diamonds and the performance of Djimon Hounsou and Leonardo DiCaprio in bringing us into close contact with this cause.

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.