Lee's Daily Adventure

Route 66 Revisited?

2012-02-13T22:54:00.000-08:00

On Sunday February 5th, I woke up feeling fatigued and depressed. What made that morning even more disappointing was that it was my birthday. It wasn't one of those benchmark birthdays like the previous year when I had celebrated my 65th. Starting my 66th year only meant, annoyingly enough, that I was continuing my march to 70.

I also felt achy, lethargic and aimless. I decided that I would will myself into the opposite psychological direction by embarking on an outdoor adventure, namely a hike along the river trail to the summit of one of Oregon's most famous landmark, located at Smith Rock State Park. Sometimes physical exercise in the fresh air has had the effect of knocking toxic feelings out of me and I sorely wanted to cultivate a positive attitude on my birthday. I thought that such an activity would be a just reward for my special day, one where I could look back in the future and remember what I was still able to do on this day in that year.

The round trip, descending first to the the base of the rock formation along the Crooked River and then to the summit and back to the starting point, is probably not much more than four miles long. For the most part the walk is on soft dirt interspersed with rocks and loose pumice, and wends its way through patches of juniper and ponderosa pine before turning sharply upwards. This marks the beginning of a series of steep and, on certain days, quite slippery switchbacks leading to the summit, ominously named Misery Ridge. It has earned this disconcerting title as a result of its austere, sharp, rocky outcroppings and amazingly dangerous drop-offs. Along with the hikers, the length of the trail also serves as access for rock climbers. These hardy-looking people, full of energy, seek to ascend the many vertical faces and tall pillars which loom like giant stone idols throughout the park. It is not uncommon to see people seeking crevices for their toehold while clinging to ropes stretched hundreds of feet in the air.

Since it was late afternoon, I encountered only a few people on the heavily-traveled single-track path. Although it is common to exchange superficial pleasantries with fellow hikers, usually about the trail condition, the weather, the dramatic vistas, or the wildflowers, I was uncharacteristically reticent. I listened carefully to my body. I felt my joints and muscles loosening, my body sweating and my nostrils inhaling the cool dry Central Oregon air. I became less lonely but thought occasionally of friends who would have enjoyed the experience, although I have learned that companionship dramatically alters the powerful dynamic of solitude. I have become accustomed to undertaking many of my adventures alone, although it dismays some of my family who worry understandably about inherent perils. I don't blame them for caring, but I hope they understand that when I was a child I had been small, buck-toothed, insecure and was labeled as overly sensitive. In my family taking chances and developing physical prowess were considered to be in the domain of uneducated and most likely non-Jewish people. This attitude, understandable in the context of my parents' life experience in Nazi Germany, translated into their overblown desire for me to have safe passage through life. The cost to protect me from "unnecessary risk" contributed heavily to further discoloring my self-image. My desire to take challenging hikes and other thrill adventures such as advanced downhill skiing and wading into swift rivers to fly fish may be my need to prove to myself that I now possess some semblance of traditional masculinity. In any case, hiking provides ample time for reflection on a variety of ideas, but likewise can serve as a great distraction from my predilection of turning inward. My camera in hand is a reminder that this is the perfect time to see, smell, and feel the landscape outside me.

I believe the photos above will demonstrate the healing effect of the hike.

The first picture is a northwest view, with "Monkey Face" a climber's nirvana, in the foreground, and the snowy peak of Mt. Jefferson in the background. From this vantage point I was able to glimpse several other Cascade mountains, including Mt. Washington, Mt. Hood, The Sisters, and Mt. Bachelor.

The second picture showing the Crooked River meandering through this breathtaking canyon reminded me of how the day before I had gone fly fishing for sassy trout upstream from this spot. The invigorating coolness of the water and had renewed my appreciation for the natural beauty of "my backyard".

For the last shot I stopped about halfway down my descent and decided to capture the golden tones of the setting sun reflecting off of the canyon walls and adjacent farmland. I peered down at the road and parking area. The white dot in the center of the photo is my car.

I am already curious as to where I'll be next year at this time. Wherever it is, I am already determined to enjoy the tasty cake of life, load it up with candles and have abundant breath to blow them out. I will still be in the ring for another round. I am natural fighter. Yes I am.

More Things That Bug Me

2012-01-25T21:25:00.000-08:00

Back in November I made a post about things that bug me. I listed a number of items which I found annoying. My son contended that I was just acting like a crabby old man and taking life too seriously. This observation has certainly some truth to it. Old dogs sometimes snarl when pestered. Then again, a number of younger blog followers wrote me some irksome moments of their own, a fact which suggests that lots of people live on the same planet as I do and also react vociferously to stupidity and pretension. Providing my litany of complaints also has a cathartic effect on me. By expressing these niggling vexations, I hope to find allies who identify with my pique and, most of all, share similar sentiments. I can't say exactly that it makes feel liberated, because stupid remains stupid whether it is declared to be so in a chorus or singly. Simply put, my sensibilities and intelligence feel the need to fight back, however futile. Consequently, the following are some additional things that bug me.

I am not sure why exactly I am annoyed by service people, especially bank tellers, who ask, "How are we today?" or even worse, "How's Lee today?" First of all, the use of "we" sounds imbecilic. If you don't how "you" are, then how can you remotely grasp how I am? The second question about how Lee is, I find even more annoying. I often answer, "Gosh, I think that Robert E. died in October 1870." I understand the rationale that employees are instructed to learn the first names of customers in order to generate intimacy and trust, but this technique reeks of hapless superficiality on a par with the closing response, "Have a Nice Day."

At a supermarket checkout counter it bothers me when the cashier queries, while I am numb with sticker shock, if I'd like to round the cost of my purchase up to give to Easter Seals. My urge is to say, "Speaking of deserving people, would Safeway care to subtract down and give the shopper a break?"

How about people who refer to Hannukah as "Jewish Christmas"? Aside from the fact that such a statement shows true ignorance, it is also depressingly egotistical, as if everybody else's cultural wealth were created by God solely to realize the mission of Christianity. Maybe for a while Moslems should start calling Easter Week "Christian Ramadan."

How do you feel about buying crab spelled with a "k"? I know it is supposed to be like crab, but it is really fish with additives, plain and simple. It is no more crab than a cat is a dat or a dog a cog.

I bet all of you feel the same as I do about people who forget to flush the toilet or urinal in public bathrooms. Even now, I don't want to think about looking down at someone else's pee or mentioning the odor. For Pete's sake, must I say more?

Speaking of sanitation, when using a fast food restaurant or public eating area, why is it so difficult for people to remember to clear their place? I am constantly throwing away other patrons' cups, paper containers, or napkins in order to feel comfortable at my table of choice. Eventually some waitperson will come and clean up the mess, but in the meantime, must I look at your half-finished chocolate shake and your greasy fries wrapper?

Has anyone eaten at a buffet or salad bar lately? The salad plates are saucer size and the dinner plates look like they belong in a doll house. In both cases they have become so small that you have to pile up your food like a culinary Tower of Babel and this creates a sloppy, unaesthetic, unappetizing mixture. Throw on a couple pieces of lettuce and your plate is full. It is virtually impossible to keep vegetables or dressing from spilling off the sides. It is not difficult to realize that the restaurant's use of small plates is a cost-saving method intended to direct customers to eat tiny portions. Now, I don't approve of gluttony and never liked seeing folks walking off with mountains of food which they can't finish. Neither do I appreciate the restaurant providing cheap, crappy service either. How do you like dem apples?

What is your opinion of a driver who takes up two parking spots by hanging his big vehicle over the line, leaving only the incredibly numerous empty handicapped spots available for parking?

RECEIPTS: Cashiers have been trained to stuff them in your hand when they give you change after a purchase. Sometimes they even fold one around your credit card. I understanding needing evidence if you buy clothing, but for a cup of coffee? What a total waste of paper, and such litter! After you drink your disappointing java can you imagine waving your little paper and demanding a refund? Don't tell me this piece of trash is essential for your tax return. A receipt, on the rarest occasion, is proof for a reimbursement. It should be available on request, which will keep the rest of the people from dropping it on the floor or crushing it in the nearest garbage can.

I am annoyed by salespeople who pass off a clearly stupid policy on "Corporate." For some reason they act like they commiserate and that nothing can be done, and hope, you will, like a dumb sheep, go away. My urge is to say, "Let's get f....ing Corporate on the phone and tell them how much we think the idea sucks." After all you know how much the management desires feedback!

Well I have provided a list of ten irritations. Sadly, I have more, but will gladly save them for another time. After all this bombast maybe I will watch TV to calm myself. After all, what is wrong with seeing the same commercial repeated over and over again.

Mountain High

2012-01-17T21:14:00.000-08:00

These past several weeks I have been going every day either on short hikes or, whenever the conditions have cooperated, downhill skiing. Above are some pictures I have taken on some of my recent outings.

The first scene was snapped from the deck of the mid-mountain Pine Martin Lodge at Mt. Bachelor after a "bluebird" morning on the slopes. It shows the snowy peaks of South Sister, one a series of three inactive, closely clustered volcanos. Several years ago, I climbed to this lovely lady's crest and consider that trek to the summit the quintessential event of my love affair with hiking. I memorialized the experience by using a photo of my happy but exhausted self as the signature picture for my adventure blog. Today's picture shows a double-layered lenticular cloud, looking like a white bonnet, resting jauntily on the sister's top. If you are curious about this aspect of climatology here is a link to Wikipedia.

The second shot is a perspective of the Cascades taken from the high desert east of Bend. So many people from out of state believe Oregon is a rainy, green, mountainous state, but don't realize that well over half the state is dry and flat. The mountains serve as shield to prevent marine moisture from crossing over them and the result is an ecosystem filled with juniper trees, sagebrush, and rocky outcroppings. Under the ground of the desert are miles of lava tubes, some of which have openings that beckon to cave-exploring enthusiasts. On the day this photo was taken, I was on my way to Pictograph Caves, a hard-to-find destination, where some intriguing Indian drawings can be found adorning its opening.

The third picture is a panoramic view of Mt. Bachelor taken from Bend's Old Mill District, a shopping complex tastefully constructed on the site of an old lumber mill. While standing on one of the miles of riverfront walking paths which meander along the Deschutes River, I spied a number of mallard ducks and pesky Canadian geese bathing in the last glow of sunlight. In the distance looms the imposing, timeless form of the mountain, gazing like a stately, benevolent king surveying his kingdom. His Majesty has bestowed on me some of the richest moments of my life while hanging on to his flanks.

Under the magical light and deep mysterious shadows cast from the jagged, crowned horizon, I do my best to mark my days in increments of joy. The magnetic force which lies within the mountains' heights holds an essence that has embraced me and granted me the thrill of feeling alive. What better backyard could a fella ask for in which to play?

Dedicated to Christopher Hitchens

2012-01-06T19:50:00.000-08:00

The passing of Christopher Hitchens has caused me to look intensely at my life and to examine some of my earliest memories concerning religion. Consequently these past several days my daily adventure has criss-crossed the trail of recollection leading to my childhood and has led me to a puzzling landscape of long ago. Sadly I have come to realize that so many key memories are like peaks lost in the clouds or are, more similarly, like unrecoverable bytes drifting in cyberspace from a damaged hard drive. I feel like a historian who has to do research on a time where the documents no longer exist and the people who could possibly reveal pertinent information have perished. Even so, the challenge remains the same, namely to glean from the few memories a semblance of truth without judgment.

I assembled a list of questions to help me with the task, which included when I first knew I was Jewish and did I ever truly believe in God. It would be simple if the genesis of my Jewish identity were attributable to one poignant moment, like the recollection of my mother showing me the mezuzah on our doorpost, or on a particular Saturday morning standing next to my father at the temple as the Torah was carried about the sanctuary, helping him touch the scroll with his tallis. Yet this is not the case. Judaism enveloped me gradually and seeped uninvited into my consciousness. Its presence almost totally pervaded my family's social and cultural activities and, like oxygen in the air, I breathed it in automatically.

I don't know when I learned the imperative to believe in God, but at an early age would have professed that I did. I had heard the word in the English translation of Hebrew prayers which were recited and had sensed that this figure played an important role in evaluating the high moral Jewish life that was expected of me. Although I misbehaved a lot, I so much wanted to be understood as a good boy. Believing in God felt obligatory in order to achieve this goal. My first vision of God came while lying in bed before falling asleep. I saw a tall, kindly man looking at me who I thought was God. Only later I realized the face was that of the father of Peter Meyers, a friend who lived across the hall. I suppose many children have similar fantasies. Christian children may have been instilled to see the face of Jesus, but when I asked my son about his first vision of God, he narrated that he had also seen a familiar face, except it was the face of the man he knew from the tail of Alaska Airlines planes. To this day I still feel the compulsion to believe, but not necessarily the conviction.

Another question I sought to answer was this: When had I become aware of Christians or Gentiles? Early on, I sensed and learned by listening to my parents' conversation that non- Jews were superficially friendly, latently dangerous, and quite different socially from Jews. Also there were many more of them than us. One of my first memories was of the nursery school to which my mother took me. It was housed in a spacious playroom attached to a Baptist church. As soon as she left I felt abandoned and sat for hours pushing wooden block trains around waiting to be picked up. Feeling like a captive in an ominous building with strange windows, odors, and spires, I knew this place belonged to Gentiles, not us, and it awakened a certain angst which I can still feel today. Also Hyde Park, on Chicago's South Side where I lived, was located near many run-down black neighborhoods. Whether riding with my mom on the IC elevated train to go downtown, traveling by car to my father's sign shop, or looking out the window of streetcars or buses, I saw what was then called "colored people" who, above all, looked scary to me and who also were definitely not Jewish. In fact, I began to believe that I belonged to a family and group that was special and smarter than others and that my sister, cousins, and Jewish friends appeared to feel the same way. I remember never wishing to believe in Santa Claus or having a tree. If anything, I may have thought that Christmas time seemed like a season of weird, silly behavior for others, although I enjoyed the catchy melody of Jingle Bells.

I would be remiss if I didn't relate when I first became aware of anti-Semitism. My parents, who were Holocaust survivors, clearly didn't want to frighten me with gruesome personal stories which, in part, they strove to forget. Nonetheless, on many a Saturday evening, my parents entertained other Jewish couples in our livingroom to discuss the painful past. I was allowed to listen for a while, but then was sent to bed. I understood so little, but was intrigued by the energy level and earnestness of the talk. I would creep out of bed and lie out of sight in the bedroom hall to listen. I heard words like Hitler, Nazis, Roosevelt, the Pope, Catholics and Protestants. Eventually my eavesdropping was discovered and I was ushered off to bed. I knew something bad had happened to Jews but it took place somewhere else, at a different time, and I felt reasonably safe. Likewise on my 5th or 6th birthday, my Uncle Paul and my father started me on my lifelong hobby of stamp collecting and because my parents spoke German, stamps from Germany took on a special importance. I remember sticking into my book little pictures of the bad man I had heard about, Hitler, and attaching a colorful series of stamps embossed with swastikas. These stamps took on a special value to me, as if by hinging them to pages I insured that they couldn't hurt me.

I have struggled to recall when I was first exposed to direct anti-Jewish sentiments. Like children who have buried memories of abuse, there must have been some catalyst which first generated the festering fear of man's cruelty that I still experience today. I know that actual derisive comments by mean-spirited classmates started when I was a pre-teen in Junior High, but by then I had already felt a much greater malevolent, albeit subtle, threat planted in me. It manifested itself as an internal voice that quietly urged me to accept Jesus and Christianity as the true path and reject traditional Judaism. It is possible that the wife of the caretaker of our building, Mrs. De Baer, was a zealot. I think one day she found me playing in the garden by her apartment and told me of the importance of loving Jesus, but I can not be certain. In any case, as an emotionally vulnerable six- or seven-year-old, I lacked the ability to respond. Many other important non-Jewish adults delivered the message in a myriad of ways that it was wrong to be Jewish. Even on television, while changing channels I came upon evangelists preaching to a public which included me. I understood little of what was said, except I felt threatened, almost terrified, by a deep voice in me that told me I was supposed to listen, betray my roots, and give myself up to an obvious truth. Consequently I would rapidly change the channel. Even today I still feel hounded by the voice and therefore have developed a visceral repugnance when I see crucifixes, churches with inane messages marketing faith on their readerboards, Christian bumper stickers, fish car ornaments, or signs attached to trees telling me to "believe" and be "saved." Some evangelicals with whom I have spoken have claimed self-servingly that, what I began to hear as a child is in fact the true voice and love of God. I also have been told that certain coincidences in my life were actually spiritual omens being revealed to me. One thing I do know for certain is that this alleged offering of love which started when I was a child generated both anxiety and guilt throughout my life. Today I see the voice as a virus or a poison embedded in my system which my will has combatted unceasingly all these years.

After reading Christopher Hitchens it seems easy to agree that religion is based on dangerous myth from a more primitive time of human existence, and that it robs people of doing genuine, righteous acts. He suggests that a secular world based on honesty through science and reason is preferable and more applicable for our times. Tonight I ask myself if would I be willing to forfeit the value of the fond childhood memories of my father on Shabbat tearing off pieces of Challa, putting salt on them and, like precious stones, handing the twisted bread to my mother, my sister, and me because I know that the idea of the ceremony is really based on nonsense. Is it worth the sacrifice in order to paint life accurately in logical tones?

It is growing late and my inability to resolve this issue in my mind is beginning to feel toxic so that further consideration best be postponed. Instead it may be time to calm myself and listen on Pandora radio to Vivaldi's exquisitely beautiful Baroque music and sense through its inspiring continuo the praise of God who is forever turning the wheel of the universe. Then again, I could watch the evening news.

Bridging the Gap?

2011-12-20T19:08:00.000-08:00

Last Friday, while I was still in the San Francisco Bay Area, I travelled through a remote section of Marin County to the Golden Gate Recreational Area. The landscape consisted of a series of chaparral-covered high peaks which dropped majestically to the bay and ocean revealing rocky isolated coves, Cape Bonita Lighthouse, Stinson Beach and Fort Cronkhite. A windy road from Hwy 101 took me to a dramatic promontory and raptor sanctuary, Hawk Hill. I stopped at the viewpoint turn-out and was treated to one most resplendent views of the Golden Gate Bridge imaginable, a dramatically different angle of the world-famous gateway than the traditional perspective I had photographed from San Francisco the week before.

Camera in hand, I stood on a 1000-foot bluff overlooking the Bay, with the ocean at my back, looking south and east, and admired the beloved span which sometimes lay shrouded in fog and then magically revealed itself drenched with intense sunlight. The scene was like an art masterpiece, a perfectly designed architectural wonder, highlighted by one of the world's most memorable skylines in the background.

After snapping a few pictures, I noticed an information board that had been installed at the scenic overlook. It related that in 1846 John C. Fremont, a captain with the Army Corp of Topographical Engineers, had been first to map this breathtaking location and give it the title, the Golden Gate. Almost a hundred years later, in 1937, the bridge was built to accomodate the needs of the ever-expanding modern world and given the name that Fremont had recorded.

I was amused by the scarcity of words devoted to the man who had probably contributed more than any other individual to the development of the West. Identifying Fremont simply as a captain was like calling Benjamin Franklin a postmaster or Abraham Lincoln a railsplitter. Fremont had been one of the greatest American figures of the 19th century. Among his many accomplishments was that he had mapped the Oregon Trail and had written the definitive guidebook called Report and Map which was published by Congress to aid the thousands of immigrants who were traveling by wagon train, especially during the Gold Rush, to California. Also, after mapping huge chunks of the Midwest, accompanied by his guide Kit Carson, Fremont had undertaken a series of four daring expeditions across hostile Indian lands in order to explore the new frontier. His expedition of soldiers criss-crossed both the Northern and Southern Rockies in search of a suitable rail route to facilitate future development and to identify important landmarks. Fremont had also mapped the Klamath Basin, the volcanos of the Cascades and the Sierras, and the location of Lake Tahoe. He was also asked by President Polk to lead his troops in the fight to take California from Mexico and incited the murder of a number of peaceful Mexican leaders and, as second in command behind Robert Stockton, attacked and conquered Los Angeles. In addition he had fought and killed Indians in Oregon. These heroic deeds made Fremont into an almost mythical figure who became known by an adoring public as the Great Pathfinder. His life became the subject of fictional tales told in numerous penny novels which were read avidly by thousands of Easterners who yearned for a vision of adventure on the frontier.

Riding the wave of such popularity, Fremont ran for president in 1856 against James Buchanan on a platform of free land for settlers and the abolition of slavery. His campaign slogan of "Free Soil, Free Men, Fremont" resonated with many of those that embraced the idea of Manifest Destiny. He also became an avid abolitionist who opposed the extension of slavery into the new lands and had the support of the New England intellectual establishment. Although he lost, he remained popular in the drawing rooms of Washington and then was given command during the Civil War of the Army of the West and later attacked Confederates in Kentucky and Tennessee. In 1864 he ran for president again, this time as a Radical Republican against a man from his own party, Abraham Lincoln, who he believed was soft on outlawing slavery and on the treatment of the rebellious South. After the war he became Governor of the Arizona Territory, then purchased a railroad, and lived to the age of 77.

Fremont's exploits remind me how far removed my life has been from those accomplishments of true explorers. The route of my daily adventure takes me safely down major highways with the aid of GPS. Along the roadside I find cozy campgrounds with flush toilets. The only Indians I really know play baseball in Cleveland. I don't worry about disease, lack of provisions or the cold. I consider myself brave when I have hiked for the day on a well-marked trail into a wilderness which is devoid of large animals. My Golden Gate has long been charted, commercialized, and serviced by maintenance crews. When I look across the horizon at the massive blue water bisected by that iconic bridge, I know the current below me is hazardous. My path is neither gallant nor formidable nor is it my place to swim across. Yet I honor the tradition of boldness of a past time through remembrance and occasional acts of courage. From somewhere within, I can hear the call of adventure, albeit it is a muted and distant tone. The wilderness is gone. Even though a camera is hardly a six-shooter or my car a trusty mount, I explore distant lands and experience the joy of conquering the unknown. With the wind in my face, I take on the challenge.

Chinese Characters?

2011-12-13T15:25:00.000-08:00

In the two weeks I have been in the Bay Area, I have spent a lot of time among Asian-Americans. Last night in Starbucks, where I have been working on my posts, of the 24 people who were sitting at tables, relaxing in easy chairs or standing in line, 18 appeared to be of Chinese background. The city of San Bruno may have a greater enclave of Asians than other communities, but that is not saying much. All the communities here abound with people who are of Asian background. This thought was underscored on Saturday while I was driving through a residential neighborhood. I spied a For Sale sign placed in front of a home; other than the phone number, the sign was written almost entirely in Chinese.

On Sunday I ate at a renowned dim sum restaurant, the Grand Palace, a massive, tastefully decorated Chinese restaurant in South San Francisco. It was packed with families representing three generations who were seated around lazy susans which were covered with tasty dishes. The food was wheeled out to the guests on numerous large silver carts or carried out from the kitchen in sumptuous portions and served by incredibly polite women. Such fare consisted mainly of seafood such as whole fish or lobster in red sauce over noodles, or platters of Peking duck or suckling pig.

Wherever I have been, I have sensed a mood and behavior of the people which I have found surprisingly refreshing. I have been touched by the refinement and smiles seen on the faces of young people engaged in light-hearted conversation, the intensity of college students hovering over laptops as they diligently solve math problems, the banter of incomprehensible words by genteel families that appear to be tightly-knit and financially comfortable, and by a certain level of unconditional respect shown to me.

Absent were many of the traits which are often called a malaise in our society such as an undeserved sense of entitlement, a lack of commitment to the value of learning, a disintegration of strong family bonds, and a poor sense of the value of money which is exhibited through profligate spending. Curiously, I heard no one expressing opinions regarding the allegedly unique political or economic crisis which has been grabbing national, state and local headlines. These people appear to be focused elsewhere and appear too busy achieving success to feel the pinch that other groups are experiencing.

Considering that the anscestors of so many Asian-American families lived through dark times in America's past or suffered from the autocratic oppression in their former homeland, these Americans have demonstrated an amazing resilience. It is worth recalling the terrible racism exhibited toward Asians by the policies of the "Know Nothing" mayors of San Francisco or the backlash by angry racists who murdered over 250 Chinese railroad workers and their families in one night in Rock Springs, Wyoming, in 1887. Through the turn of the 19th century including the round-up and incarceration of Japanese citizens in the 1940's, American-Asians have been the object of mean-spirited people who, out of fear or jealousy, have tried and failed to marginalize these people.

As my stay draws to a close, I feel enriched by the casual friendships I have made and by the values I observed. Although I have oversimplified and generalized, I am not a Pollyanna. Shortcomings and detractions abound within every culture. Simply put, my frequent cynical view of human interaction was softened and was replaced by positive thoughts. From that standpoint, I had entered a room with good feng shui.

On the Road Again

2011-12-07T21:19:00.000-08:00

I am in the San Francisco South Bay again and am adjusting to this amazingly crowded suburban life. As I walked along El Camino, easily the busiest surface street on the peninsula, and which had been the main North-South highway until the Bayshore Freeway was completed, I found myself recalling the first time I rode on it in 1957. I was probably 10 or 11 and my parents were considering moving away from Chicago and were touring this part of Northern California. Our family had ridden west like so many other pioneers to see first-hand what had been called in those days the Land of Opportunity, California.

Our 1953 green Chevrolet Bel-Air had taken us across the country through what I felt had been magical landscape. I watched incredible farmland whizz by, lush forests, quaint small, towns, tall majestic mountains, until we reached our goal, the almost mythical San Francisco: the Bay, the Golden Gate Bridge, and the Pacific Ocean.

Along the route across the country, I had become accustomed to seeing architecture other than I had known in Chicago, buildings which were devoid of soot-covered brick and multi-stories. I gawked avidly at the clapboard farmhouses and the wooden barns with advertisements painted on their sides such as Chew Mail Pouch Tobacco. I enjoyed the humor of every Burma Shave sign sequence along the road and was enthralled by miles of two-lane highway snaking alongside railroad tracks belonging to the Santa Fe railroad.

After briefly touring San Francisco, a city which felt alien to me because it didn't look like Chicago, my perpetually nervous mother, who always had to cope with my father's frightening, unpredictable moods, decided unilaterally that this city would be too rainy for her. The next morning we headed south through Daly City, a peculiar colony of little boxy houses, and onto El Camino. Somewhere then I learned a new word, namely "stucco." Now I saw blocks of single level, pale-colored stores and houses made of a rough substance which reminded me of the dessicated orange peels that I had ignored as they baked in the sun of my childhood schoolyard.

Since I was now in the Promised Land of my parents' dreams, I felt I was expected to love what I saw. I knew instinctively, but being a child I could never have articulated, that the environment before me violated my sense of beauty. Even the eucalyptus and the palms didn't really look like normal plants. They were occasionally interspersed among these ugly structures, but were clearly not leafy green trees that a young boy could climb like those elms whose heights I had still conquered and hid within only a month earlier at home. As we rode through Palo Alto looking for a motel, my parents may have spoken, as they often did, in glowing terms about the expected blessings of temperate weather, the daily sunshine and the gone-forever dreaded icy cold Chicago winters. Yet, even as I listened to this narrative, I believed I was expected to embrace their gloriously optimistic vision. In truth I wondered secretly how I would feel about no longer hearing the scrunch of October leaves that skittered in circles along the pavement in my former backyard and sensed regret about losing the snowmen friends that I took pride in creating each year.

Now I glance out the window of a Starbucks in San Bruno where I am typing and see the rush hour traffic on El Camino backed up at a traffic light. Originally this street was a trail for earlier people to navigate from mission to mission, and before that it was probably an ancient way created by aboriginal people to visit others or hunt game. It has been a lifepath taken by many. Today I am on that road, one of so many I have traveled to get to this point on my daily adventure. It runs in space and time through landscape that may look bitter or sweet depending on my focus.

Heaven's Call?

2011-11-29T18:57:00.000-08:00

Today there was a "homeless" guy at the Safeway parking lot entrance. He had a sign saying something like "hungry, homeless, Jesus loves." I parked and, as I approached the door to the market only 30 yds from the hapless fellow, I encountered a young woman Salvation Army bellringer standing adjacent her pot shaking her bell and producing that familiar repetitous tone. Although I didn't say anything, I thought of catching her attention, point to the fellow and, in a polite voice, recommend something like "Perhaps you might take that kettle over there and dump some coins in that guy's hands. That's what you're here for... isn't it?" Of course, the plainly-clothed, totally-bored bellringer had been hired by her employer at minimum wage to stand there for a shift and seek donations. I am sure that the Salvation Army at corporate had figured that all the nation's bellringers' yield, aka gross income, would exceed gross expense, producing a handsome gain and the net, of course, would be tax free. Then again I considered that, encouraging good deeds by feeding that vessel, might be for them another way to cook up business, like a supermarket's loss leader, created for the purpose of improving public image in order to facilitate advantage over rivals competing in other profit centers.

Next I thought something like, why don't I go up to the guy on the corner and suggest he walk over and ask her for some help from her collection. After all, wasn't she a soldier of Christ? However, I didn't do this either. From someplace within me, I knew already the outcome. She didn't have any spare change.

Things that Bug Me

2011-11-24T16:20:00.001-08:00

Things that bug me: It bugs me to be at a hotel counter, tire store or any place for that matter offering a service when the phone rings and the clerk redirects his attention to the person on the line. You stand there like a tolerant schmuck and are the one put on hold. Worst of all you have to listen to someone else's trivial business.

You are sitting at a cozy restaurant or coffee shop when suddenly untalented and vain musicians start playing loudly, disrupting the wonderful ambiance and putting an end to decent conversation.

Seeing the same panhandler every day at the same shopping center exit with the same sign saying God Bless on it. I want to roll down my window and exhort that I'm neither fond of God nor blesssings nor you, for that matter.

Christmas music in stores starting at Halloween. Hearing such crappy music like Jingle Bell Rock, even one more time, reinforces my growing commitment to atheism. No loving God could validate such stupidity.

Football dynasties. Isn't it great when those Southern schools or Nebraska lose! I'm tired of hearing about university pride and spirit. If you insist on having to be Number 1, impress me that your team raised more food than anyone else for the hungry.

Politicians who talk about the will of the Founding Fathers. They don't know squat about American History, couldn't tell who wrote the Constitution or when.

The sensitive touchscreen of my cellphone. Even the slightest miscue and I'm suddenly calling a friend in Portugal.

Paper receipts stuffed into my hand. What a waste of time and resources. Why should I be given one for a Starbucks coffee? Can you name any possible reason to need one? If a patron needs a reimbursement from an employer, let them ask for a receipt, but even this is idiotic.

Items that come in hard plastic packages, where it takes a sharp pair of scissors or a chainsaw to get them out.

Throw-away newspapers on my walk. Who gave you the right to litter? It tells every thief I'm not home and the delivery guy insists he must deliver them.

People in front of you who stand up at concerts so you can't see. How about that guy next to you who sings the lyrics, of course, out of tune, so it distracts from hearing the real performer.

Sliding glass windows in doctors'offices, the signing long unintelligable and useless HIPPA documents and standing in privacy lines, like you care that the woman ahead of you has hemorrhoids.

Having to fill prescriptions for maintenance drugs every thirty days. What a stupid waste of time and a cheap trick to prevent people from buying in quantity.

Signs attached to trees advertising Christ like he were Smoky the Bear.

Speed bumps in parking lots, especially the unpainted ones.

Toilet paper rolls in public bathrooms that are stuck in the housing, and no matter how much you reach up, it either doesn't unroll or at best it allows you to tear off one tiny sheet at a time.

After comparision shopping, you discover that the reasonable published airline or rental car rates that you chose didn't include taxes.

Bathrooms with blowers to dry your hands instead of paper towels. What am I supposed to do, stay in there and do my laundry while I wait for my hands to dry?

Almost everything about automobile dealerships, where a car becomes a vehicle and every week has a goofy sale with balloons. Speaking of insanely annoying marketing, on my recent trip to California (where else?) I saw a neon marquee over a Ford showroom calling it a Ford Auto Studio and a sign above a dealership announcing an Acura Salon. Talk about going in and getting a haircut!

Having to show ID if your credit card is unsigned or signature is illegible. (One of my cards even has my picture on it.) Then you give the officious saleperson the requested additional documents and have to watch them act like they were making an important decision from discerning something from the mass of numbers before them. It is folly to imagine them saying you stole the credit card and the driver's license too.

Why should you have to sign your name on a reader after you swipe your card as a requirement for a purchase in a store? I usually make a squiggle or draw a finger. Do I really need an official contract when I purchase toothpaste? It is clearly not necessary when I buy gas or purchase online. Maybe people should use the signature pad as a way to give feedback for lousy service.

Anyway, it is getting late. My son would probably say that this narrative is the ranting of another crabby old man. He may be, in part, right. Yet I'll bet my one-day-only coupon that is honored any time that you have a few annoying things you could share as well.

The Grateful Dead?

2011-11-19T10:13:00.000-08:00

One of the purposes of my trip to Southern California was to visit the cemetery where my parents are buried and to clean the grime off of their gravestones. I began this task several years ago and have used it as a springboard to visit old high school-era friends and explore the neighborhoods of my youth.

I have found the need explain to my Darwin-adulating, rational-thinking friends, somewhat awkwardly of course and unable to cloak adequately my embarrassment, that my 21st century consciousness has not been damaged by primitive superstition.. I asssure them that I really do know that below the markers there is a coffin and bones and NOTHING ELSE, and that at night, spirits neither emerge to lament nor serve as oracles, even though the graveyard scene in Thorton Wilder's Our Town had moved me deeply as a child.

So why then should I care about cleaning the markers of dead people whose lives had no particular impact on the wheel of history? Perhaps Abraham Lincoln's resting place deserves to be maintained for future generations, but why the spot belonging to Fred and Hennriette Spangler?

This question led me to the following line of thought. Am I still seeking parental approbation, captive to an unfullfilled desire, an almost primal urge emanating from the jungle of my emotionally entangled childhood? Am I the the prodigal son, who through doing good acts, seek expiation? Well perhaps, but caring for the dead follows a powerful human tradition transmitted over massive lengths of time and appearing in totally diverse cultures. Not every one has needed to slap his chest and cry mia culpa.

The above photo taken outside of San Augustino, Colombia, shows some stones from a plot of several hundred, from an ancient graveyard of elaborate crypts making the site a most treasured archeological landmark. Two thousand years ago giant jaguar-toothed statues of people and animals were placed over the bodies of local dead to narrate something important about the decedent's past or future life or both. In this case this task expresses a complex religious-mythical meaning nearly incomprehensible to us today. Equally significant, it underscores the message that humans, unlike animals except possibly elephants, consider it important to preserve the memory of its people.

So where is the value in remembering the past? Those of you who know me well are aware that I love studying history. It brings me intellectual joy, a sense of community and feeling of continuity. Then there are those people I know who deepen themselves in genealogy research. They take amazing pride in understanding their family tree and derive lasting emotional benefit in feeling connected.

In my observation this week at cemeteries, with only rare exception, tombstones of even recently passed relatives are left to deteriorate. The estate has been settled, the heirs have gotten their deserving due and the benefactor can rot in "somewhere". Even my children neither know anything about my parents, who were their grandparents nor about my grandparents nor, for that matter, much about history at all.

Perhaps these pursuits are out of fashion and have been replaced by other forms of activities that generate equally valuable gratification. To be sure young people have gained other tangible information especially computer skills, but when you hear constantly in the news how our society's ills can be attributed to the decline of the family social unit, isn't the lack of caring and the paucity of knowledge about the chain of events that created a family or the events that led to the present time one more poignant symptom of the decline in respect of fundamental core values of civilization?

Learning history, even family history, contributes to establishing a positive self image. The stories are rife with joy and saddness, of success and failure. They have the potential to evoke genuine compassion of the human condition. From this standpoint I am glad to scrub mom and dad vigorously and to let the light of their time shine through to the future.

Btw. If you like cemeteries please visit Taphophile Tragics. It is a cool site from Australia about the benefits of visiting graveyards.

A Day at the Beach

2011-11-14T19:56:00.000-08:00

Yesterday I left the SF Bay Area and began my coastal trip on Hwy 1 toward LA. The road hugs the beach and rocky outcroppings, offering vistas of the Pacific so riveting that rubberneckers like myself slow down traffic and drift back and forth in the lane like flotsam bobbing in the tide. Before Davenport, near Santa Cruz, I spotted the entrance to Ano Nuevo State Park, home to the largest breeding grounds of the elephant seal.

I learned at the gate that the high tourist season would begin after Thanksgiving when access to the park was only allowed by guided tours requiring reservations and when trams would shuttle tourists to the ocean front. I considered myself fortunate that I would have to trek 2.7 miles each way through deserted marshland and dunes to reach North Cove in order to see these weird floppy-nosed mammals.

From an observation point just above the waterline, I observed several hundred elephant seals hanging out either sunbathing or engaging in water sport. I was told by a volunteer docent that all of these were juvenile males that had arrived in the past week for a brief Winter holiday. Elephant seals travel to these breeding grounds not in pods, but totally alone deep in the sea all the way from the Aleutian Islands. When coming to the surface for air, many fall prey to predators such as orcas and great white sharks. These pinnipeds eat nothing on the whole journey, therefore there is neither poop nor acrid smell wafting about which is usually pervasive with colonies of birds. Unfortunately for these youngsters the trip to this lazy clime and birthplace is for naught since they must flee the beach when the adult males come on shore. A young male weighs only about 300 lbs but daddy weighs 3,500 lbs. Two smaller adults had shown up early and their impressive hulks can be seen in the middle picture. Only a few dominant males ever mate with females so, over the next months, this tranquil scene transforms into a circus of jousting, fighting and uninvited mounting. By April all the 70 lb pups have been born and the time to return to the nutrition rich North begins.

These spots are special to me. I have always loved the outdoors and observing animal behavior. When I was young, my parents took my sister and me often to zoos where we learned of the diversity of the animal kingdom, albeit from behind bars. Yet there is nothing like seeing amazing creatures in the wild. I know that such experiences add value to my daily adventure and a stimulates a profound feeling of wonderment of life itself.

Armistice Day Today

2011-11-11T15:33:00.000-08:00

Since today is Veteran's Day, I thought I would mention that this holiday was originally called Armistice Day. It wasn't intended to glorify patriotism or war. In fact, it was established in 1918 to commemorate the end of WW1, an incredibly horrible time that was touted as a war to end war. Some estimates suggest that twenty million men and women were killed outright or died later from wounds. This number includes my grandfather for whom I received my middle name. The Spanish influenza spread by the troops killed an additional one million people. The use of trench warfare and gas exacted a terrible toll on the battlefield. In the first Battle of the Marne in September 1914, two million men fought and more than 500,000 were killed or wounded. French casualties totalled 250,000, 80,000 of them dead, while British casualties were 13,000, 1,700 of them dead. The Germans suffered 220,000 casualties.
If anyone cares to read an excellent history of the events that led up to World War I, then The Guns of August by Barbara Tuchman is a must. Also, a gripping personal account not for the light-hearted of the life of a young German soldier in the war is narrated in the book All Quiet on the Western Front by Erich Maria Remarque.
Anyway for those of you who are off of work today because of Veteran's Day, perhaps it is worth a moment to ponder this historical event and consider the issue of man's inhumanity to man.

For the Birds?

2011-11-10T17:12:00.000-08:00

It has been important for me to block thoughts of my own mortality on this trip in response to the fact that in the past week I have spoken with three friends who are dealing with serious illnesses. The best antidote to prevent my own anxious thoughts has been to immerse myself in writing, photographing and in drawing.

I have had some spare moments to linger on fishing piers while my old friend has been at doctor appointments. Also yesterday, I took the opportunity for a short hike at one of my favorite places from years ago, the Bay Trail at Shoreline Nature Reserve.

Shoreline Park, which is East of downtown Mountain View and South of Palo Alto, is an enormous area of salt ponds, marshes and bayland located on the flyway for millions of birds who either reside year around or travel back and forth from Alaska to Mexico. It has extensive walking and biking paths, observation platforms and informative signage, making it an outdoor person's paradise.

I snapped quite a few pictures of colorful ducks and geese, lanky blue herons, ibises and noisy gulls, but my goal was to keep my body moving. Too much sitting in the car, eating the wrong food and drinking too many mochas has added a lump to my middle-age paunch which regretably I may have inherited from my father.

To excell in photographing birds requires patience, keen vision and perseverance, qualities which I severely lack. The darn things usually swim away from view or fly off or are hard as heck to spot when a call emanates from a tangle of high branches. Also invariably, the moment before the shutter snaps, the damn thing sticks its beak in its feathers or turns and shows you only its backside.

I have spoken with binocular-toting folks who collect species-sitings like I do stamps. They carry handbooks and checklists and seem to be almost disappointed when the lovely blue-breasted flysucker on the post is a bird they had already spotted three years ago in New Mexico.

In any case, to me it is simply a winged thing, which is willing to serve, if I am lucky, as a lovely component of a vibrant day out in the fresh air. I realize that as I grow older that my need to experience fully such moments have increased. Maybe I sense an internal desperation to make the most of my time before I fly off.

Signs to Ponder?

2011-11-07T18:14:00.000-08:00

Traveling evokes for me thoughts about nature, social-political issues, or nostalgia. Recently I expressed my disappointment with the sameness of the signs, buildings, and houses in much of the modern urban and suburban landscape I had seen so far on this trip. Yet I have made a conscious effort to look for unique messages. These are hard to find and photographs of unusual advertisement have been discovered by many and are even an integral part of Jay Leno's humor on his late night program.

Nonetheless I decided tonight to post three such scenes that caught my attention on this present trip. The first sign is a Watch Out for Deer message which can be found near meadows along rural highways. Anyone though, who has hit a deer, probably struck one when the poor creature has leaped out where there is nothing posted, since deer clearly neither heed instructions nor use designated crosswalks. This message of Watch Out has been altered to give it a different meaning by some local hunter. Someone has superimposed a large sticker of a bullet over the picture of the innocent animal. He encourages gun-toting drivers to appreciate venison, the thrill of the kill, and to be vigilantly on the lookout.

The second picture is not all that rare. Some restaurants enjoy having a diverse menu. The owners of this eating establishment have obviously an identity crisis. Not long ago I posted a photo of a place in New York that had Chinese food and pizza, but this place in Berkeley, Ca. takes the cake, so to speak. Can you imagine the possibilities on the menu? Yes Senor, I think I'll have the tandoori tamales and wash them down with the Tequilla tea!

The third photo, taken in Klamath Falls, Oregon, requires greater scrutiny. I think, if you click on it and enlarge it, you will be able to see that this building has quite a motley assortment of tenants. On the right is Gigler's Health Food Store, and for those who don't take Gigler's merchandise seriously, its neighbor on the left sells tombstones. I would have been able to snap a better picture if I could have backed up and centered myself in front of the building. Unfortunately this structure sits squarely at the intersection of two incredibly busy highways. I had no intention in juxtaposing life and death in myself for the sake of this blogpost. Incidentally, on the roof between the two shops, is a masonite board advertising a trailer park located in the back. I am glad if you want to give this fact your own special meaning. Perhaps this scene could be immortalized in your own country-western song.

On the Road by Lee

2011-11-05T20:30:00.000-07:00

After several days of sleeping in isolated campgrounds in some of the most tranquil natural settings almost totally devoid of people and also after traveling on backroads through the Sierras, I am now in the thick of the South Bay of SF. I am sitting in the noisiest, most crowded Starbucks I have ever visited which, strangely enough, has only one small dirty bathroom. I arrived last night after exploring historic Placerville. On my drive I followed my GPS obiedently and, as I approached Berkeley, the "voice" asked me to turn off and circumvent the Bay Bridge, which was probably no more than 15 minute from my destination of San Bruno. Instead, it urged me to cross the Richmond-San Rafael Bridge, hook up with Hwy 101 and drive over the Golden Gate. The traffic Southbound was limited to two lanes and the Friday traffic heading to the City like marauding hoardes caused a backup of five miles. Two hours later, feeling withered and blinded, I arrived.

I guess I am not accustomed to the millions of people, cars lights, stores etc.... I know there is great value in the amazing energy and cultural diversity. There are so many Asians, Hispanics, Blacks and Caucasians, its like living confetti spread over the Earth. Strangely enough, with all of this blaring information, there seemed fewer interesting items to photograph. I saw the same stores, signs, shops, blah blah blah, thus my vision became blurred and my inspiration dulled.

Earlier I had been on a beautiful back road passing small farms and cabins and going through little towns, when I flipped on the radio. ABC news spoke of the Occupy Oakland group shutting down the Port of Oakland, blocking entrances and breaking windows at a Wells Fargo and an announced that some city employees and teachers failed to show up for work. The contrast was so dramatic as golden and red leaves blew across my path on the road and resident ducks bobbed serenely on adjacent ponds. The report reminded me of years ago, when I had been part of similar Oakland-Berkeley protests. The "people" believed that revolution was around the corner. Then, when I left Berkeley and hit the road driving out of the big city and into small-town California-America, I discovered a much different mood.The same could be said today. In these small towns I saw lots of empty store fronts. There were huge mills which had been pivotal to the economy abandoned and deteriotating. You'd think there would be anger or resentment, but I didn't get that feeling. Maybe the angry, disappointed people had left or had become resigned and used to the kind of hard luck immmortalized in country-western songs. In any case, I didnt get the sense that the local people were playing the "blame" game or touting their victimhood. I saw little cottage industries sprouting from many houses. There were signs advertising taxidermy, scrapbooking lessons, beauty work, tool sharpening and the usual antique sales. To be sure, these weren't great-paying jobs with benefits, but showed perseverance and the bulldog tenacity of Americans to succeed by their own wit, independent of large outside forces. Was it enough to make car payments, house payments, and pay for necessities, I don't know, but I didn't see a lot of foreclosure signs. I stopped in one small town market along the Pit River and spoke with the owner, who made excellent deli sandwiches. She told me she and her husband had left the "rat race" of the Bay Area several years ago and had bought a dilapidated general store. When I asked her about being part of the 99%, she knew the expression well from watching the demonstrations on the news. I am paraphrasing her, but she said something like, "Most people around here can't stand those protesters. They've appointed themselves to represent our interests just like many of those fat cat leaders in Washington, but they really aren't like us at all." I didn't pursue what she meant, but felt by her facial expression her repugnance with the noise, the slogans, and the manner of behavior of those people "back there" in Oakland. The disapproval of those actions clearly overshadowed any disillusionment she may have had with the system. Perhaps she felt that fresh country air cured all ills!

Now I am staying in a building of approximately 500 apartments where giant jets from the nearby airport roar almost at rooftop. Instead of on an air matress under the stars, I am sleeping on a couch in a breezeless livingroom. This stage of the trip may not seem like much of an adventure, but it will have its moments, just you wait.

Bewitching on Halloween

2011-10-31T20:09:00.000-07:00

For several days now I have been thinking about Halloween. Of course, that is no surprise. Like a magic pollen, its intoxicating fragrance invades the swirling fallen leaves on my front porch and its corn candy scent wafts through the brisk Autumn air seeping into the cracks of the now dried flowers of my yard. From my office window a mirthful pumpkin-face across the street has transformed into a loyal friend who, at this moment, is witnessing approvingly the neighbor's diminutive pirates scurrying on the walk. It's also a time when I recollect that I once I dressed up as a pizza for a party at the Uppertown Pub and also recall driving my own masqueraded children, undaunted by a torrential downpour, along Youngs River Road to town in pursuit of adventure and sweet treasure.

On a different note, I considered this week more complex issues regarding this holiday. Thanks in part to my dearest friend Jenny, who related to me that the celebration of Halloween had been removed from her son's school and then, later by Tapirgal ,who shared with me that an employee had asked for personal time to be with his family out of religious convictions, I embarked on a serious questioning spree. I began to examine the term "witch", which (ha ha) was spurred on my memory of the yearly decorations in Astoria of hags on brooms smashed into lampposts. I asked myself whether these characterizations of old insane women may inappropriately perpetuate ancient prejudice in our society toward followers of Wicca. I had often voiced to friends that aetheists were most likely the most discriminated group in America until I weighed the chance that a declared Wicca follower being elected to office. This prompted me to learn more about this group and looked for information in "Wika"pedia. I also asked Raksha's opinion who shared generously both history and common ideas about Wicca and witchcraft.

I thought I heard a knock in my mind right now and opened to find before me both a real phantom and a play one holding hands. I gave them both a good looking-over and then dropped the words of this post into their orange-lanterned bucket. They have now receded and disappeared into the night but I expect to see them revisit next year. The hour is late and the wizard of sleep is spreading his vapor over the house. Before turning out the light, I eye the left- over candy. Eating one morsel could be like finding the fountain of youth. Mmmm. Now that's a rare treat!

The World is going to the .........!

2011-10-22T20:58:00.000-07:00

When looking for unique photo opportunities while walking the riverwalk at Bend's Old Mill District, the following idea occured to me. How about taking a series of pictures showing the techniques, including facial expressions, of socially correct people picking up dogshit? This scatological thought precipitated in me the following questions regarding dogs and dog owners.

Have you ever tried to have a serious conversation with someone who has a conspicious bag of crap attached to a leash?

What is this with therapy dogs? Dogs are being trained as loyal companions for lonely or distraught people who then receive preferential treatment to take them into restaurants. Could this also apply to a disconsolate pirate with a parrot on his shoulder? I understand the value of seeing-eye dogs, but aren't dogs generally loyal companions to lonely people who normally leave them at home? I'm sorry you're depressed. So am I, especially because the presence of your dog is ruining my dinner.
Is it worth it? the barking, the chewing, the itching, the whining, the shedding, the spraying, the fleas, cleaning the piles, the escaping, the vet bill, the slobbering, the pulling, the biting, the misbehaving, the climbing up on people, and living under the gross misconception that everyone thinks your dog is cute?

Have you ever lived near an incessantly barking dog? It can drive the most docile person crazy and has been the object of many murderous thoughts. It has awakened even the most resolute sleeper. I know someone who in dreams slashed the neighbor's dog in the throat. Why should such noise be tolerated over the neighborhood? Maybe I should play drums loudly all night long and see where it gets me when I tell the police of my rights.

I am happy for individual differences and people can do what they want as long as it isn't cruel. Yet isn't it difficult to consider a person really sane who puts a dog in fashionable clothing? I know it is cold outside, but really, I think for the most part, its a conversation piece more than anything. What's next? A bathing suit when dogs goes swimming?

As a now retired real estate broker, let me share with you an old adage tossed around the business. "If it smells, it don't sells." Can you imagine how much energy is spent tiptoeing around sensitive sellers to tell them, as discreetly as possible, that the home has a "slight" pet odor? Can you imagine how much money has been spent repairing or replacing carpets or chewed moldings? Do you know how many customers fail to offer or offer less because the odor may not go away? In some areas angry fleas seek vengeance on unsuspecting buyers and realtors when the home becomes vacant. More than once either I or a buyer have stepped in a pile while admiring the yard. One time I failed to discover this casuality until I climbed back into the car and ground my shoe into the gas pedal. What has been even worse is receiving a seller's showing instruction. "Don't let the dog out". Either Little Lucy yaps its brains out during the entire visit or you squeeze the knob carefully to open the front door to let yourself and the customers in when suddenly a hyper-active chihuahua shoots between your legs down the front steps and out into the street and plants itself under a parked car.

What are people thinking who confuse dogs with humans? Now I understand that dogs serve as surrogate children for owners. Just listen to the complicated jibberish which is told to dogs and the incessant orders which are often not heeded, They speak in conversational English to an animal, as if it were about to learn the alphabet. These doting parents share with everyone who is willing to listen, how smart their dog is becoming. My aunt would often urge her dog on a walk to now go and do its business and then would report to the family any successful accomplishment. I am sure there are already some kind of doggy diaper on the market.

I am well aware that most of my blog readers have dogs and are dog lovers. I want you to know that I had two dogs, Jewel and Zeke. Jewel was run over because she insisted on chasing cars and attacking the tires. Zeke had a penchant for roaming in the middle of the night 3 to 4 miles to visit females and constantly required being retrieved. I hated leashing him up and he hated feeling captive. He was a great companion until the children were born and then became a most problematic family member for all the characteristics mentioned above. Our relationship with him deteriorated. We ran him less, paid less attention to his needs, as we were preoccupied with taking care of the children. Of course, the children liked having a dog, but it was a never-ending complicated responsibility. I have seen this pattern occur in lots of families and is best summed up in The Lady and the Tramp in the classic line by Scotty while comiserating with Lady who ends up on the street. "When the baby moves in, the dog moves out."

In any case, I may have barked a lot here. I am sure that my readers now have something to growl about, since I know you love your pets. You may want to attribute my littany as just the musings and complaints of a crabby old man, who might ease his loneliness with a trusty fido. I don't know think so. My saltwater fish like me and I like them, and they don't go crazy when the doorbell rings. Then again it is awfully quiet here.

On the Road Again

2011-10-14T15:11:00.000-07:00

I have been back in America for a week and have had a nagging cold. I am told, as usual, the tedious information that colds have been going around and this person and that have had one. Nonetheless, I have managed to see a few relatives and friends and, when asked about my adventure, I have been hard-pressed to talk about my trip at all. Like before, when I returned from my global trip of a year and a half ago, I find it so difficult to talk about my feelings or thoughts or mention much about what I had seen. As expected, most people are primarily interested in hearing lurid details of my scrape with revolutionaries, exactly the kind of information which taints and distorts the positive message I had wanted to convey.

A number of folks have asked me what I have planned next. Although I have toyed with idea of going next year to Argentina and then cruise to Antarctica, my most immediate plans are to drive next week and visit a sick friend in the SF Bay Area and then travel to LA to clean the smog-soiled gravestones of my parents. Somehow though, the thought of racing along I-5 for hundreds of miles depresses me. Perhaps I can find alternative routes, but still, the thought of touring this part of the country at all leaves me hardly exhilirated. If I could magically turn back the clock and drive the highways of my childhood, when the landscape was rich with localism, then that would be stimulating and enlightening. Unfortunately that time is over. Now there is a hideous hodgepodge of strip malls and repetitious placement of oleander cheapening the vista. Sure I might find unusual highway signs like the ones above that might have redeeming value as photos worthy of comment, yet such messages, although amusing, fall short for me the stimulation I derive from experiencing a new, refreshing turf.

Oh well. My journey will take me down a well-beaten, degraded path, one which might ellicit both sad and cynical comments. For sure, I can start off feeling upbeat and seek the positive in being alive. Yet, is there way to protect myself from being beaten down by the overcrowded, unaesthetic, totally tense, toxic environment I am entering? I am open to suggestions or will I hear from you, what was called in debate, "a significant silence" because you are in as much of a quandry about this aspect of modern society as I am.

Airy Thought

2011-10-08T13:15:00.000-07:00

I'm flying in a plane somewhere between Dallas and Portland on the last leg of my flight back home from Cali, Colombia. This morning, I was still riding with Emilio, as I had for the past month, It wasn't that long ago that I was still on my adventure. After all, it was only hours ago. As usual, we were racing through clogged city streets and magical countryside. We chatted casually. I gawked out the window at the South American people, their quaint buildings and breathtaking landscape. He was taking me to the airport, but I hadn't yet felt the magnitude of the day, that my trip was ending and that I might never be in Colombia again. I realize now I could go back, but know with certitude, that it is impossible to recapture the exciting freshness of the experience.

As I glance out my passenger window into the vast darkness before me and hear the monotone rush of the droning engines, I sense that my recent vivid days are like the ever-thinning jet trail behind me. I am hurtling forward in space and time, but soon to leave behind ever-fading memories.

What made this trip so valuable was that I had been fully absorbed in a mind consuming project which not only flourished during my month's stay, but also began during the previous 6 months with the planning, fantasizing and, of course, tedious studying of Spanish. I had a destination which kept me from feeling neither empty nor disoriented, nor lonely, nor obsessing excessively about my eventual mortality.
So what lies ahead? Well, at the moment Portland! But beyond that, who knows? Like a dazed airborne pilot, who has no map and feels the victim to an uncertain future, I too must make a new descent from the unknown and hope to survive by finding solid ground. Its just that I dread the turbulent route of tumbling and feeling lost in a maelstrom of disorienting saddness and self-rebuke. Sure I know, with tenacity and time, I'll pull her out, spot the horizon and bring her in. It is just the ETA that I can't predict.

Sitting on Top of the World

2011-10-05T19:15:00.000-07:00

Tonight I realize I am telling you about a 400 page book by reading to you pages 17, 237 and 336. That's how inadequate I feel in describing my daily adventure. Nonetheless I post to you anyway and hope that you may get a flavor of the style and the plot.

I snapped the above three pictures day before yesterday when I visited the paramo at Otun Quimbaya Reserve in the Central Cordelleras. The paramo is a relatively flat length of terrain sitting along the top of this Andes chain at 12, 600 feet. Even though this spot is located at 3 degrees above the Equator, it stands above the sweltering heat and jungle and is perpetually icy cold, foggy, rainy and has even moments of snow showers.

Not surprisingly it has its own strange flora and fauna, an amazing ecosystem that can be found no place in the world except in Colombia and a small part of Ecuador. On this desolate landscape, if you are lucky, you can spot a weird-looking Paramo white-tailed deer, incredibly furry rabbits, bumblebees that can withstand bitter cold, the spectacled bear, and highly endangered mountain tapirs, a smaller and furry relative of the unusual animal with a funny nose I posted about several weeks ago.

The ground is wet and soggy and has beeen described by some as a living sponge. The top photo is not a bush but is taken at my feet. It is a bright green carpet consisting of thousands of individual plants interspersed like sequins of tinier colorful plants. Every inch exudes life including a variety of daisies, a kind of Indian paint brush, and the strange looking column-like plant Espelitia, from which burst vibrant yellow sunflowers.

When I leave Colombia on Friday, I think I will miss the paramo the most. I may have other opportunities to be in tropical jungles, but not as lush as those here. I may see quaint villages and other indigenous people, but not like here. I may be in other bustling and chaotic third world cities and hear the songs, ideas, and voices of a different culture, but not those as complicated as here. All those things being said, there is only one paramo and it is a hearth of life. I loved being part of this harsh, but also gentle landscape and to see it growing magically out of the frozen depth of time. I am humbled and in awe. It saddens me to say adios, but I have learned so much and hope to remember that I was once sitting on top of the world.

A bouquet for you

2011-10-04T13:42:00.000-07:00

Over the past several days my adventure has taken me again to places so amazing and remote. I have criss-crossed the mountain ranges of Colombia from the hot, wet, steamy Pacific slopes just above sea level to the 12,400 table top in the Central Cordelleras. My desire to photograph and identify lovely plants and animals along the way has been fostered by the expertise and patience of my guide Emilio.

The above photos are only three of over 2000 pictures I have snapped so far. Rather than ramble on and write about a myriad of subjects that come to mind , I'd rather make this post more visual. Click on each picture and see how you feel about yourself, the world around you, about conservation, or about art and beauty.

For me, this trip has been about all those subjects. If these pictures bring you some joy or knowledge or peace, then you will be in touch with the vibrant positive life source I have been experiencing these past weeks. There is a time when the expression "smell the roses" is best taken literally. I hope that, for a moment, this may be that occasion.

Men of Colombia

2011-09-29T17:55:00.000-07:00

Two years ago, while in Tanzania, the director of the local farm collective chastised me for taking pictures of exotically dressed villagers, tribal people and the poor. He pointed out that it gave the wrong impression of his country to the West, because I had eliminated showing all the progressive, successful, fashionably-dressed, modern-thinking people.

I have chosen the three pictures of men of Colombia without including a modern big city businessman. Yet so many other faces are missing as well, so in the end, this post fails miserably to describe this country's people or its character.

The bottom picture is Nelson, my host in the Orinoco. This seemingly simple-looking chap, together with his father, own a huge 30,000 acre cattle ranch consisting of jungle and savannah and which also serves as a nature preserve. He is now doing a little eco-tourism for the truely adventurous, since, as I have told in a previous post, it takes a three hour boat trip downriver through the jungle to get to his place. Aside from knowing seemingly everything about local plants and animals and, of course, ranching, Nelson is an incredibly accomplished oil painter and, of all things, harpist. After eating one of his sumptous all meat meals, he seranaded us. It is strange to hear such sweet tones wafting through the forest. The above photo was snapped when his son Sabastiano and he took me piranha fishing.

The second photo is of Pablo, what other name did you expect?! His family has lived along the river forever, subsisting almost entirely on local foods and making everything in traditional ways. Homes are built entirely of bamboo and palm leaves. You may think he looks primitive, but he exhibited such a gentle understanding and has clearly developed a unique level of knowledge coming from the ingestion of certain psychotropic plants.

I know the least about the top photo. I took it the other day of a cowboy who agreed to pose for me. I liked his hat, his shawl and his tough expression. So many of these rural Colombianos are so staunchly proud of their environment, their culture and their history. He lives in a enchanting valley on the western slope of the middle range of the Andes and is probably accustomed to rounding up cattle at 9,000 feet.

These fellows are small pieces in the puzzle of Colombia. I could stay here for years before I had a clue what the final picture might even remotely look like.

Brother, Can you spare me a .....?

2011-09-28T04:16:00.000-07:00

Unlike other adventures, and especially because my guide is an agronomist and conservationist by profession, the emphasis of this trip has been almost entirely on experiencing the amazing nature of Colombia rather than its people. Nonetheless people have been asking me about what the quality of life is in this 3rd world country and about poverty.

First of all, Colombia has a population of 44 million people with incredibly diverse cultural groups and living situations. How to judge poverty would mean having criterion which is both objective and subjective. Whenever I try to get a handle on this subject, I feel like I have a mountain of sand in front of me and I need to look carefully at each grain for color, size and texture and then sort them out to understand what they mean.

First of all, it appears that rural people have abundant food and water and often share collectively in villages. The fact that they have little electricity or running water seems to be less of an issue than other places I've been. I am told, for what it is worth, that there is less craving for additional material gain than in other Western societies. They appreciate the serenity of their life style, but this bucolic description may be a myth, I just don't know. Then there are the remote-living indigenous villagers who, I am told, for the most part love their simple lifestyle, view it as spiritual abundance, and vigorously defend it from the encroachment of modernity.

The cities are a teeming cacaphony of sounds and odors, primarily from an army of obnoxiously loud-buzzing motor bikes, groaning overladen trucks and diesel-spewing buses coursing through potholed streets which lodge everything from super modern office buildings and shopping malls to barios of graffiti-littered rundown storefronts and houses. There are wealthy, fashionably-dressed professionals, intelligent-looking university students and lots of small business folk who are surrounded by a sprawling mass of humanity, who probably must be viewed as the urban poor. These people can be seen crunched on buses, jetting about doubled up on motor bikes or found relaxing or busying themselves in front of a myriad of overstocked, metal screened shops, unsanitary-looking workshops or cheap cafes. There are also the usual homeless people lying in doorways, many victims of continual coca use and, much less so, alchoholism. There seem to be not as many as I expected and, perhaps fewer than I've seen in some American cities, but I am told, exist without any support in terms of soup kitchens or temporary lodging.

Are these Colombians poor? Do they feel disadvantaged or does feeling disadvantaged really qualify as actually being poor? Are these folks poor at all when compared to the people I saw in Tanzania or Bolivia? How should I view the poor of America, many ofwhom have a car, a tv, a cellphone and medical and nutritional support poor in relation to others who have no water? I suppose adressing these questions really would make a more thought-provoking post. Instead I must confess that my answers fluctuate daily depending on my mood and my level of caring.

I am glad to hear your voices on this subject from your own tiny soapboxes. You may think that you know this subject well from personal experience and dare to generalize. For me there is only caution. There are a myriad of lives. The beach is huge and its particles shift capriciously with the wind.

Where never was heard a dicouraging word.....

2011-09-26T17:44:00.000-07:00

When I thought of the Orinoco Basin, I imagined steamy vegetation and chocolate-colored rivers with exotic animals lurking near the shore. My last post showed such a landscape, but that type of scene comprises only a fraction of the land. Such a jungle ecosystem is only found as narrow strips along the waterways which bisect a mindbogglingly huge savannah, the llano. This great plain stretches 350 miles East to the Orinoco River which defines the border with Venezuela and about 175 miles north and south from the ocean to the Amazon Basin. The few people who live out there raise cattle and have to travel sometimes 3 days by boat or by jeep over incredibly rough, rocky, muddy indistinct trails just to reach some semblance of civilization. Likewise, the men have to drive their lifestock these remarkable distances.

The hardy stock of residents of this desolate area are called llaneros and recall the American cowboy of 150 years ago. To get a taste of the life on the llano, our host asked my guide and me if we would like to ride out a bit to visit one of his outposts. I was not sure I was up to being four hours out and back on the saddle, but yup pardner, that's me on that white nag heading out into the wild blue yonder. I found the grassland really muddy and loaded with countless deer and families of capybaras. There were odd turtles, large iguanas and countless species of birds wherever there were ponds. In addition, numerous scrubby hillocks interspersed the landscape where cougars and jaguars sleep during the day and come out at night to hunt. Then there were the herds of cattle. This section of ranch had over 6000 head of white mooers.

After an exhausting ride in searing heat, and nursing a sore butt and bruises on my legs, I arrived at the above hacienda and was treated to a great meal and to watch horses lassoed and others being ridden for the first time.

This day showed me yet another a side of Colombia I hadn't expected. Never have I been in a country so diverse in culture, climate, geography. It is so wild and and untamed like that proud horse above.

Btw, the toothy animal in the last post was a male white spectacled caiman, a relative of the crocodile. It is identifiable by a high pointed forehead and looks like it is wearing glasses. As far as its sex is concerned, I didn't roll him over to look but was told by a reliable source! The second picture is of a family of capybaras swimming and frolicking in a pond.

Capturing the Moment

2011-09-24T16:01:00.000-07:00

Tonight I am back in Bogota after having spent the last three days far to the northeast in the Orinoco Basin. It was an intense whirlwind trip and I am still on such sensory overload that I can barely express myself and wil be glad to share details on my next post.

I know that I toured an area so physically and emotionally distant that the remaining sensation of my travel is like the feeling I often have of struggling to hold the memory of a snippet in a dream that evaporates with the morning light. In this case I am drenched in a kaleidescopic eddy of brilliant colors, strange calls, and incomprehensible people.

The wondeful part of taking pictures is that that they play a serious trick on the amnesia brought on by the passing of time. They serve as a testimonial which preserves more clearly and convincingly some unique scenes of an amazing adventure after the magical picture book has closed.

Rather than continuing to rattle on with etherial thoughts, I decided that, through the above photos, I'd enjoy introducing you to some characters I encountered the other day along the river. Do you know what these animals are or for that matter what they are thinking? !!!

A Message from High

2011-09-20T05:44:00.000-07:00

Please understand that this shot is a picture of Bogota facing West. Imagining panning the camera to the left for another 30 degrees and seeing just as many buildings!
Since we could not leave yesterday, as described in my previous post, and since the showery weather had cleared, I was able to take the aerial tram up to Montserrat, a historic church built on a ledge above the city.

I looked down feeling amazement and sadness. There just seemed that this high plain had too many people. My mind wandered to places I had been which gave massive views of cities such as the Sears Tower in Cicago, the Empire State Building in New York, The Space Needle in Seattle,the Eifel Tower, and the Christ the Redeemer Statue in Rio de Janeiro.
Damn, I thought. There are sure a lot of people. Even more, these below represented only a tiny fraction of the millions I had seen in villages and towns along the roads throughout my adventure. I looked over at the historic chapel and listened to mass broadcast through loadspeakers which blared a message of hope and faith. Trivial guitar music and the drone of the priest's voice mingled with leftover electric Christmas ornaments which littered this height.

I stood there in the cool mountain breeze and forced away my urge to explain what I saw or to come up with ideas to problems which were, in themselves, too great to tackle. So often I have said on this trip to my naturalist guide whose life is dedicated to preserve natural resources from unbridled consumption, that there are simply too many people.

I turned away from the view and began taking numerous pictures of flowers and plants in the lovely garden. I wanted to see the small more than the large. It felt safer that way.

In Rome do as the ..........?

2011-09-19T08:10:00.000-07:00

Well this was the day to hit the road again. It was going to be a long drive to the Orinoco. Instead I am still in Bogota for a peculiar reason.

In Colombia's larger cities, to keep the already amazingly congested streets from being more congested, every workday is assigned numbers. A person is not allowed to drive on those days which correspond with the last number of the car's license plate. Today the number 8 applies to Monday in Bogota and so our rental car is out of commission. The fine for violating this rule is the equivalent of $250.00. Police are heavily on the lookout for violators. I understand it works like this: the car keys are taken to the precinct, the car is parked on the street and then after 8pm the keys can be released to the driver after the receipt is shown for having paid the fine. In this way, about two days a week, people must find alternative transportation. Trucks are exempt.

What is your opinion of this law? Does it really provide value? Should something similar be instituted in any of the big cities in America? I ask myself these questions and relish the enjoyment of experiencing the small oddities of other cultures.

The Beauty and the Beast?

2011-09-18T18:33:00.000-07:00

Once again I appreciate everyone who supported me during the tough day I had on Friday. I feel almost fully recovered and count, in a bizarre way, the disgusting event as one of the most interesting days of my life. Since I lost several days of pictures that were still in my camera, I have posted these three from this afternoon. a gray, showery, cool day.

I am in Bogota, Colombia's capital, located on a 7,600 foot plain below some amazing Andean peaks. As a child I had learned the name Bogota from collecting stamps. It had a magical, far away ring to it, so I looked forward to seeing this famous city of now eight million inhabitants with great curiousity. I arrived last night only to find a massively sprawling, chaotic and, in many parts, a particularly dirty city with little or no redeeming architectural value. Every storefront, wall or sign was smeared with graffiti. Totally disappointed, I barely wanted to leave my hotel this morning.

However, I was blessed by the good fortune of meeting Sergio, a local naturalist and conservationist who urged me to take a better look at his town. He whisked me through rather mundane or tawdry neighborhoods to see the prize of Bogota, the old Spanish city.

After plying the narrow streets filled with quaint buildings from the 17th century, we happened upon an amazing roccoco church and eventually came to the main plaza. Across from the seat of government was a massive church and the archbishop's quarters. I had seen a different and far more rewarding side of Bogota, one which showed beauty and care in its detail. I think I will remember this positive side as strongly as the negative and for this I am glad.

With the knowledge that I have scratched off one more entrancing place from my list of places to see, tomorrow I leave for the Orinoco. This river's name has always had a magical, mysterious sound, don't you think? I wonder already what lies ahead and what content it will add to my daily adventure.

The Bittersweet Nature of Life

2011-09-16T18:08:00.000-07:00

This may be the most difficult post I have ever written. My guide Emilio decided that we should revisit the paramo below the Purace volcano. On Monday we had had such an amazing time so we thought we could explore more today. The Paramo is a climactic and geographic zone so incredibly rare in the world. It is a flat cold plateau at 11,000 feet and is usually shrouded in clouds. It may rain three hundred days a year. All living things have adapted to this severe climate, which makes seeing them a unique experience.

We trekked out into bush and took many pictures. I even finally found tracks of the highly endangered mountain or woolly tapir which I carefully photographed. Muddy, wet and tired we returned to our car to look again at the sulphur spring which I posted about on Monday.

The top photo is the main road, a rather isolated stretch between any houses of indigenous people. Just past this spot two men dressed in military fatigues who identified themselves as revolutionaries jumped out from behind a hill and demanded we stop. One was masked and carrying a machine gun and the other packed a pistol visible from his open shirt. Anyway we got robbed. I lost both of my cameras, some money and my cellphone which only works in the States. Fortunately they didn't take the rental car or kidnap me and hold me for ransom. I also didn't lose my credit cards and I didn't have my passport with me.

Although I was calm throughout this ordeal, the shock is wearing off and I feel sick to my stomach, disoriented and anxious. I don't know anything right now about anything. My present, past and future are a muddle. I feel damaged and the adventure feels damaged. That's all I can say tonight.

Lost in (thought) in the jungle

2011-09-15T19:10:00.000-07:00

I normally post only one or two pictures, but today I thought I would make a futile attempt to convey the feeling of the vastness and complexity of the jungle. The pictures have been placed in ascending order from the bottom picture upwards. Every dot of space is drenched in radiant beauty. Life and its renewal fill the air and are accompanied by the sounds of birds, monkeys and cicadas. Sometimes there is a rustling of something moving nearby. Whatever it is, it is cloaked within a magical green garment. Who knows, it may be a coatimundi or a mysterious nothing. It doesn't matter. It merges with the light, the air, the earth, the odors, and the essence of all living and dying things. I walk through the rainforest in awe. Its message to me feels so powerful, although what that it actually says about the purpose of life, I don't really know. I experience it as an entwined vine wrapped around my trunk. Nonetheless, like all else, I live fervently under the canopy searching for light until my end.

A Face Every Mother Loves?

2011-09-14T04:56:00.000-07:00

Yesterday afternoon, I arrived in Macoa, a bustling town on the East side of the Southern Andes. It lies in the foothills and is the beginning of the Amazon Basin. It was a dramatic change from the cool mountain weather of the previous days. The plants and animals are now totally tropical. I find myself in a hot jungle adorned with palm trees, strange strangling vines, butterflies, monkeys, colorful strange chirping birds and, as shown above, in the habitat of that weird looking character, the lowland tapir.

In a small animal sanctuary owned by the district and created for illegally kept or hurt animals, I was able to see up close this amazing endangered animal, which is incredibly difficult to stumble on in the wild, since it is scarce and lives, usually solitary, in the densest of jungle.

The tapir is an ancient animal and has changed little since its inception in the Eocene, forty million years ago. It is an herbivore, munching on a wide assortment of leaves, and is distantly related to horses and rhinos, since like them, it has an odd number of toes, similar teeth and wriggles its nose. There are four species, three of which can be found in Colombia. They have strong powerful legs, well adapted for walking in mud and on steep slopes. They also love swimming in ponds, which are essential for safety from jaguars and as a way to keep cool. For more information on tapirs you may want to check out tapirgal's website at http://www.tapirback.com/

Today we are going back into the highlands to spend several days among indigenous peoples around a sacred lagoon. I understand we will boat to some villages and meet with some shamans my guide knows. I will be out of touch during this time, but my spirit will send you loving thoughts.

In the Beginning

2011-09-13T05:20:00.000-07:00

After much frustration, I finally have been able to access Blogger to write this post. I have no idea when I will be able to do this again since my guide Emilio and I leave shortly to a more remote spot in the Amazon basin where we should see some incredible animals and flora.

On Monday we drove Southeast from Cali to visit what is reputed to be one of the most valuable sites in the world to experience biodiversity. This lush, verdant, almost idyllic cloud forest is called the Purace, a park managed by indigenous people nestled around a 15,000 ft. volcano in the Southern Andes. It is home to thousands of different species of plants, including rare orchids,bromeliads, and giant ferns. Likewise, the animals are unique and, personally most important, contains the largest remaining population of the highly endangered mountain tapir.

If you can take the time to click on the first photo, you may understand better the deep feelings I experienced while visiting the park. I am standing at an active crater below the volcano. Hot steam and sulpher bubble out of the ground and meld with a crystal clear spring to form a creek which then flows through prisitine landscape. It is cool here and the spot is shrouded in almost constant mountain mist. These vapors promote a magical, prehistoric sensation. It feels truly like I am witnessing the source of life itself and, understanding through this scene's watery essence, that all living things receive its spark of beginning at a place like this. I imagine seeing even dinosaurs grazing among the strange plants in the meadow. Here there is such a peaceful stillness also that I know that I am before something that many consider sacred.

The second photo was an afterthought intended to thank all of you who have supported me and who have shown me such love. This petal is from an Erythrina, one of the numerous flowers that adorn the landscape. I offer it to you today as a gift from Colombia.

Hail Colombia!

2011-09-09T21:36:00.000-07:00

It's a magical theater, that's all I can say. One moment you are in your home environment and then puff, bang, you are in a picture you saw in your 8th grade social studies book.

Tonight is my first night in Cali, Colombia and, by tomorrow, will embark on a month's journey around the country to explore native plants, animals and the culture of indigenous people.

Of course I am wired after two days of long plane flights and from the excitement of having been lucky enough to pick out my guide Emilio from a throng of taxi drivers and local folks who had collected outside of baggage claim.

I know nothing yet, except that, as we sped away from the outlying airport through the darkness toward downtown Cali, I felt totally thrilled to have transported myself again to a different part of the world. I sensed a feeling of stress and toxic energy slip away that I had built so strongly these past months back in the USA.

Yes I know this is no shangrala here. I already saw all the signs of poverty indicative of this part of the world, but I am strangely unafraid. Instead I look forward to diving headfirst into a refreshing pool of ideas and experiences. Tonight I am in a clean hostel in the big city, but tomorrow we fill the car with supplies such as cameras, binoculars, identification books, and collecting jars and head out to explore some foothills of the Southern Andes. I am no Darwin nor work for National Geographic nor know the first thing about science. I am an explorer of boundaries though, so what the hell...... Livingston is that you?

Mad Hatter?

2011-09-09T07:47:00.000-07:00

Well how does it go? "leavn on a jet plane....." This morning I am in the airport in Dallas, waiting for my flight to Miami and then on to Cali, Colombia.

I have fond memories of the airport here. When my children were young over twenty years ago, and my family was here waiting to change planes, I would keep my children busy by giving them money each time they saw someone wearing a cowboy hat. It was great competition and ilicited much speculation as to what kind of horse this Texan rode. Today I have seen no hats. Times have changed Whoops there goes a Pakastani in a turbin. Let me give you a rupee!

A Night to Remember?

2011-09-05T18:09:00.000-07:00

I know! It is another one of those typical, sophomoric, sunset pictures. There are so many published daily and which are certainly more dramatic than this one. So forgive me for being trite. Simply put, I like the way the pointed-shaped roofline of the picnic shelter at Bend's Old Mill Park directs the eye skyward. In fact the form reminds me of the pyramids of Egypt and most of all, the delta, fourth letter and number of the Greek alphabet.

This thought stimulated me to look in Wikipedia, where I learned of the many ways the delta has been used over time to descibe amazing concepts in such fields as mathematics, physics, genetics, astronomy and, in addition, has been marginalized by the naming of airlines and hurricanes.

What I enjoyed the most was reading that this symbol also has represented the Greek mythological scientist and inventor Daedalus, who, aside from creating the maze for the minotaur, is most remembered for replicating wings from wax and strapping them onto his son Icarus. The youngster, both blessed and cursed by his father's creative dreams, proceeds to fly upward toward the sun and then melts down to his demise.

This black triangle, silhouetted by the evening sky, like a schoolmaster's pointer, reminds me tonight of the value of unbridled imagination. It directs me away from the mundane and offers me a lovely, comforting handprint of clouds floating above. Most of all, it provides encouragement that I must write these thoughts down without any other apparent reason, if only to relieve stress, and record them in this post as a reminder of a fleeting moment in my adventure.

East meets West

2011-09-03T23:32:00.000-07:00

To appreciate this picture it may be necessary to click on it and enlarge it!

Several years ago while touring the East Coast I found myself in a small industrial town in New Jersey. I was hungry and began to search for a place to eat with the hope of finding a mom and pop place serving local food. Much to my surprise and mirth I came upon this eatery.

Just imagine the possibilities.... a scrumptious chow mein enchilada or a tasty frijole-loaded spring roll. In any case the ownership was obviously looking for a broader appeal. Perhaps they might have thought to rename the place The Sombrero Dragon.

Personally I like both Mexican and Chinese food, but for some reason I lacked confidence in a chef who clearly had an identity problem. Come to think of it, a little tequilla instead of tea could help wash down some of their zesty Egg Foo Young. Then again I decided that a fortune cookie written in Spanish would be a major disappointment. What could it say? "Senor, you must learn to use chopsticks!" With that in mind I said adios and sayonara and moved on.

Training the Eye

2011-09-02T20:40:00.000-07:00

All aboard! Looking through the glass window of the entry door of an idle switch engine, I suddenly had the feeling that I was revisiting a dream. It was an all to common one where I, the passenger, found myself racing through familiar landscape at the mercy of a reckless driver who I couldn't even find.

The photo works like a collage depicting my somewhat disturbed mind. There is a chair waiting to be filled and the tracks beyond. You might think that symbolically it is time for me to confidently take my seat and steer forward without Angst. Were it possible, I could, at this late date, reinvent myself and chug joyously down the line. Yet the door is locked and the seat is facing the wrong direction. It is not for me. I guess I am forever derailed! Instead my wheels happily wobble and screech and have taken me far. I have had an amazing journey and have seen countryside I wouldn't exchange for a different ticket.

Leaving Port and Pushing out to Sea

2011-09-01T20:42:00.000-07:00

It is hard to say why I have restarted my blog after an absence of almost a year and a half with this totally dated picture. I actually uploaded this old photo at random and posted it to see what thoughts it would generate.

The two characters in this picture are my father with the flower in his lapel and his little brother, my Uncle Paul, both highly tempremental and understandably dysfunctional holocaust survivors. The picture is taken in the Winter of 1970 when I was 24 years old at my wedding to Linda Schoenfeld at her aunt's house in New York.

From looking at this snapshot so many divergent thoughts run through my mind that it is difficult to develop even the simplest of comments. Of course, my father and uncle are long dead and my marriage to Linda ended abruptly in 1978.

It would make interesting reading to express something revealing, pithy or salacious about myself or any of the above mentioned folks in order to make this post worthwhile and that, of course, presumes that any reader has even the slightest voyeuristic interest in my life.
That being said, I realize that, above all things, a feeling of lonliness and sadness is overcoming me, caused by the knowledge that I can never listen to these important men in my life who would have so much information to give me about issues I care about today.

In addition the picture reminds me that on the day it was taken, my wedding day, I had a fever of 102 due to the flu. My illness robbed me of even the slightest joy at the event. I was dizzy, overwrought by emotion and feeling once again star-crossed. My secret voice kept pounding me with the question of why I had to be a mess at this landmark moment of my life. I cursed myself and hid my inner pain. All the wedding pictures give testimony to a pale-faced boy struggling to look happy.

Well Ahoy... I am flotsam bobbing through calm and maelstom these next months. In a week at this time I will be flying to Colombia and eager to report whenever I can.

I will do my best to answer comments and visit other blogger sites whenever I have connectivity. I appreciate so much any connection. It is going to be strange out there.

A low ha!

2010-05-07T10:53:00.000-07:00

This is clearly not Bend, Oregon. If people carry the soul of a particular animal then I am a hummingbird, a restless creature that can not sit still. Consequently I felt the need to flit off and fortunately Tapirgal was eager to spend a few days in Maui to celebrate her birthday, so off we flew. Exhausted, but happy after the 6 hour flight, we found our way along a busy winding island road to the condo I had booked hastily.

The above photo taken from the patio depicts the soothing atmosphere of tranquility which is so characteristic of Hawaii. I am not sure I can ever get my wings to stop beating so rapidly or slow my heart rate down. I am what I am. In the meantime I hope to relax, take some pictures and experience the ease in the breeze. We'll see. A turtle I'm not.

Sugaree, Baby

2010-05-04T23:18:00.001-07:00

This morning I stopped at the Backporch Coffee Shop in Bend, Oregon, as part of my commitment to break my morning Starbucks habit. As I ordered my java I spied the pastries pictured above in the glass case below the cash register. Most fascinating, sitting alongside some highly unusual donuts were three glazed maple bars topped with strips of bacon.

For those of you that enjoy a sugar high, I have included the upper third of a pile of one of mountains of sugar I photographed at the Fromme Sugarcane Plant storage building last month in Jamaica. Not to spoil the sweetness of your day, I have included a few statistics I found about sugar consumption from Wikipedia. The average American consumes between 3 and 5 pounds of added sugar a week, meaning up to 200+ pounds of added sugar a year per person.

Now I am not going to harangue about the despicable amount of calories or fat or carbs or sugar there is in most diets, since this is the fodder of much New Age conversation. I also have seen how sugar cane production has been terrible in so many ways for underdeveloped countries in the Carribean and South America, but that is a subject for another time. I just feel letting pictures today whet your appetite for some serious consideration.

A Mighty, Big Bird!

2010-04-29T20:38:00.000-07:00

A few weeks ago while visiting the Navajo Nation, my host took me to see the dinosaur tracks near Tuba City, Arizona. I had been skeptical from the moment I saw the sign that I was about to bilked out of a few dollars in order to see some carnival attraction made out of plastic.

A dirt road off the main highway took me to a few stands where Navajos were selling jewelry.

There I was greeted by a boy who offered to take me into the desert and who immediately began pointing out the many large bird-like tracks encased in the mud. He told me they were from a dilophosaurus, a plant-eating dinosaur the size of a horse. There were also larger tracks than the ones pictured above, plus skeletons, petrified eggs, scat, and allegedly the remains of a tyranosaurus claw. It then was not hard to imagine the wet fertile green swamp that once was home to these creatures that roamed 200 million years ago during the Jurassic Period.

To me, these imprints were like ancient starlight shining brightly still from a once living source that had burnt out many years before. In that quiet desert setting, the presence of the footprints of these long vanished animals evoked such a genuine, authentic quality, much stronger for me than reconstructed bones in a museum. The dinosaurs were real and they walked here. Naturally, I suddenly scanned the horizon hoping to still catch a glimpse of one that might have been left over. You never know!

To think there are people who don't recognize that these creatures existed at all and cling to biblical interpretations of creation or who believe God put these tracks in the ground like artwork to confuse humans. So much for having advanced beyond the Age of Dinosaurs!

Finding New Lines

2010-04-25T17:56:00.000-07:00

It has been over a week since I returned to Bend, Oregon, after completing my Amizade adventure. A few of you have written and wondered why I hadn't posted and were concerned about my well-being.

I have to admit it has been emotionally difficult to adjust to "normal"life, which is devoid of novelty and excitement which characterized the last four months. Also I find myself now strangely reticent and reluctant to express to others my Amizade experiences, which, predictably, seem to now be slowly enveloped in a mental fog as time elapses. What I have learned now feels strangely personal and is not easily translated. Of course I have lots of photos that will help remind me of the trip. I will eventually find a language to share these pictures so that they may inspire others to learn, serve and understand. That is for later. In any event I have decided to post in order to return to a positive activity and which may help me through what has been called by some a "transitional period".

The first photo of the shut metal gate at the home where I stayed in Jamaica serves as the closing picture of my adventure. Standing behind it is Ms. Dorothy, who represents a different race, national origin, generation, and culture and serves for me today as an archetype for the many people I met. She knew I was an unusual guest and tolerated my rants. She listened to my words and showed me great kindness and seemed to have remarkable understanding although she was of humble background and had never been off the island. Today I must declare my trip is over and the door is closed. I have lots of photos and memories to carry me from that time into the future.

The second photo taken at the Rose Garden in Washington Park in Portland, Oregon, of a raven cawing at me, even when I snapped it, felt strangely ominous. Influenced of course from my recent experiences at the Navajo Nation where there is a strong belief in the messages from animals, it put me in touch with a deep feeling of alienation and disorientation although I was now within the fabric of my own kind. After having been out wandering all over the world, now, at home, I felt more lost.

I chose the third photo of a soon to open rhododendron bud as a positive expression that, like it, I am eager to blossom in some new refreshing way. Today I am swaying quietly in the wind, so to speak, but I am eagerly open for a new challenge. I have no idea how it will relate to where I've just been physically or spiritually or when I will find it. I hope ardently to feel again the exhilaration of bursting growth. That's all I ask.

I intend to change the title of this blog to Lee's Daily Adventure and post pictures of wherever I am, including Bend, Oregon. You will be able to find me right here without changing the url. I hope you'll stay with me and keep in touch via e-mail and comments.

Navajo Children

2010-04-15T14:35:00.000-07:00

Today marks my last full day in Tuba City, Arizona, completing my stay at 5 Amizade sites. I still have so much to show and say about the Navajo Nation and the surrounding landscape. Perhaps I should end this adventure with some really significant post, but instead, being in some denial, I want this to feel like a normal day, as if there will be another tomorrow here. I think that I will be back soon, but I have had that feeling at all the incredible places I've visited.

I have often posted photos of men and women from the various countries I have visited. In some countries it was easy to snap pictures and in others, people showed great reluctance. It often required some combination of stealth, luck or money to get a good shot. However, nothing is more rewarding, fun and easy than taking pictures of children. They love the camera and are forever amazed and excited, when seeing themselves captured in the moment.

The top photo of Navajo children taken at the Tuba City Boarding School could be a school scene anywhere, except these youngsters are in a unique struggle. They are not from immigrant families that have come to America from a different culture to learn English as second language and a new way of living. They seem aware as natives of their unique place in this land's history and have to make sense of it. Even at a less conscious age, there is already an internal pull between respecting, learning, and following traditional ways and the seductive lure of the anti-cultural, "modern" world.

The second photo of my host's daughter Talisha and her friend show me smiling faces . Both children understand Navajo, don't speak it fluently yet, but are being taught. Each also have learned dances and have beautiful traditional dresses which they wear at festive occasions. They will probably, as they grow older, leave the reservation. The question remains if and whether they will ever come back.

The boy in the third photo helps his father at a jewelry stand by an obscure local attraction which featured genuine dinosaur footprints preserved in rock. This youngster gave me a tour of his turf and was quite the expert in explaining various markings. He told me he lived nearby and claimed that he didn't go to school. What will become of this young Navajo? I'm told, Arizona is last in America in teacher-student ratio, in standarized testing scores, money spent on education and first in the nation in people below the poverty line. I'm not sure this is all accurate, but clearly, if it is even in part true, what are the chances this young fellow will become an archeologist? Many of my successful friends laud themselves about how hard they worked to succeed financially and often point out that opportunities are available for the disadvantaged as well. It is said that there is no excuse for poverty.

Take a moment to look at the desolate landscape in the background. I mean this figuratively and literally. What do you think?

Canyon de Chelly Revisited

2010-04-14T16:03:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I posted last weekend's trip to Canyon de Chelly and a number of people sent kind words and asked for more information and pictures on this remarkable remote spot within the Navajo reservation in Northeastern Arizona.

Even as I include a few more shots today, these scarcely does this amazing historical and geologically fascinating scenic site justice. Also I prefer a paucity of words to best convey a feeling of essence rather than relating facts which can be found on other sites.

By enlarging the first photo you may see a sheer rock face with a cave which marks the location of the "White House" ruins. The second photo, taken from the floor, shows the ruins peaking around the corner. The last photo is of only small part of the more than 60 rooms remaining from the Anasazi community who constructed homes here between 1040 and 1275A.D. I chose this photo because of the figure prominently displayed in the rock. I think it is a sign of welcome to those who come in peace. It greets you today and perceives the love in your heart.

Btw, the cactus in yesterday's post is called "Cholla" and, along with "Prickly Pear," is in abundance along the trail.

Canyon de Chelly Viewpoint?

2010-04-13T14:18:00.000-07:00

I took many photos at Canyon de Chelly near Chinle, Arizona, and, as I review them, I am even now more amazed at the grace and beauty I experienced last Saturday afternoon. Instead of posting some of the more well-known scenes, I decided today to show some detail that may not appear into the numerous sites which promote this historic location.

At first I thought that possibly the effort to reach this isolated spot in the heart of Navajo country in Northeastern Arizona contributed to its mystique, but now I don't think so. This quietly dramatic, natural setting exuded a sacred energy which, by its sheer simplicity, eclipsed, in my opinion, the power of the Grand Canyon. Here, within its rocks, were the remains of homes and wall paintings of early peoples that reminded me of the once living and whose voices I easily imagined carried by the wind.

The first photo, taken through a rock window, shows a hogan on the canyon floor used today by sheep or goat herders perhaps during cold weather. Navajos use the land for grazing and for recreational horseback riding. It is an organic part of the reservation and not banalized as a separate entity defined by gates, fees, and concession stands, which is typical of national park status.

It is early Spring here and many cacti are in bloom. Creeks are gurgling with snow run-off and trees show signs of new leaves. In this environment of wildly fluctuating temperature and fine red dusty sand, adaptation takes so many forms. I included the second and third photo to add a touch of color which might help convey the tenacity of the plants I found along the 2 1/2 mile trail.

The last photo looking East is purely to let your eyes and mind explore a small section of this glorious place. Perhaps you will find a painting drawn near a crevice or by a cave entrance. Will it be of an eagle or a coyote or merely a puzzling symbol reflecting an innermost thought? Only you will know!

It's not New York!

2010-04-12T13:47:00.000-07:00

This weekend my host family took me to Lukachukai, Arizona, near the heart of the Navajo Nation, where I had some of the most energizing and fascinating experiences of my Amizade adventure

In this most remote part of the state, live pockets of native people who eek out their existence in a constant struggle with blowing dust, vastly varying temperatures, little work and many of the other typical malaises associated with poverty. Yet, the people I met were rugged in character and complexion and projected a pride, deeply rooted in a love of this vast powerful and spiritually-filled landscape.

The second photo shows the sandy, dusty red landscape where people homestead. The especially large hogan may be a house, storage building or a sweat lodge. Most places are much smaller, often consisting of a run down trailer,a shed, and some broken down cars.

The last photo is of Round Rock., outside a tiny community of the same name, where last night I attended a tradtional song and dance evening. Local people meet in the school gym to sing native songs, drum, and dance. It is a wonderfully gentle, graceful affair where residents old and young dress up in local costume or in nice clothes to dance in a slow circular motion around the room in a heel tap fashion to the voices of other neighbors. I was asked to join and felt comfortable even though I was clearly the only person there who was not Navajo. I did record video and sound which I will be glad to share at a later date.

I am bursting with thought and am also so eager to post about Canyon de Chelly, which was even more dramatic than I expected. I am fatigued today by the intensity of my days. I just came from a day at school and have only a few moments to post before I leave with my host family for a "short" 75 mile trip to Flagstaff for some shopping. "The distances here are staggering" I remarked, but my host laughed and explained wryly, that here it's just another day.

The final adventure-Tuba City

2010-04-09T16:44:00.000-07:00

It is always hard to know where to begin. After a long flight from Jamaica to Phoenix, I drove the next morning slowly North to my next Amizade site, The Navajo Nation in Tuba City, Arizona. I took a side trip to Prescott and then followed the scenic trail through Jerome, and Sedona to Flagstaff. As twilight approached, heading through a desolate moonscape, I past the turn-off for most tourists, namely the road to the Grand Canyon, and then found myself on a lonely stretch of highway, which led me to Tuba City.

The top photo taken from inside the quad of the Tuba City Boarding school where I spent my first day with 8th graders in the culture class. This school is a federally funded K-8 school which must have 90% Navajo enrollment and has almost 1200 students, some who live on campus, but the majority live at home with their families. Some of the children are from entirely Navajo speaking families and like my host family, speak their native language fluently. Like in all of the previous sites, I was again totally among people who were not white, and conversed in a language I did not understand, except this time I was in America!

I chose the second photo to verify how ethnic this location is. This older lady, who only spoke Navajo, allowed me to take her picture. She was selling a few handmade beaded items at an open air market I visited this afternoon with my host. This was not a tourist spot but a place where local people bought household items and food. I bought some beaded bracelets and earings from her that I hope my family members will appreciate. I can not vouch for the quality, but I felt great not shopping in the many "trading outposts" I saw loaded with tourists on my way here.

The third photo was a necessity to include. What would a first day be on the reservation without a traditional meal of mutton and fry bread! I sat on a long table with my host family who initiated me into the tribe by buying me this plate. By the way, under the corn is a long fried green pepper. In each country I have visited I have been treated to the local "delicacy" and this is one of the finest and complicated parts of the adventure, namely to eat healthily. I praised the meal to my hosts, although I'm sorry to admit that I have eaten so many carbs these past months that the paunch I so so struggled to remove last year, is again reappearing.

Instead of going to the Grand Canyon this weekend, my family is taking me on a special journey to Canyon de Chelly, a National Park which is allegedly so beautiful, private, and deep in Navajo country. There is also supposed to be a local music and songfest in a nearby community. My host's husband is from that region and has built a small cabin in the mountains where we will stay. I had to laugh when I was asked whether I minded that it had no running water or indoor plumbing! What else is new? Been there, and still doing that!

My Jamaican Mothers

2010-04-06T13:45:00.000-07:00

For the past two weeks I have been a guest of Ms. Paulette McKenzie and her mother, Dorothy. My adopted parents have been feeding me, doing my laundry, and have kept me on schedule. I believe it has been quite a challenge and this post is a tribute to them and a way to express my heartfelt appreciation. I know that I am not alone in my feelings. All the Amizade volunteers here in Petersfield, Jamaica are taken in by host families and are given incredible care. It is a credit to the program here that all the Americans are made to feel so welcome.

I am certain that it has not been entirely easy for these ladies to have me. I am referred to by many as a free spirit. I tend to roam the streets and go off on my own in search of adventure and have been somewhat hard to supervise. I think that the two women simply decided that I could find my way home and finally gave up worrying. I feel today like a part of their family and will miss them, including their nephew Roman and son Robert Jr.

One of the true benefits of the Amizade adventures is that the experience thrusts the volunteer directly into the culture. Some of the finest moments have occurred while sitting at the diningroom table and exchanging stories, or going to the market with a family member and shopping for groceries, or attending community functions and realizing that you are witnessing events and interaction that no regular tourist ever sees.

This is my last afternoon here in Jamaica before leaving for the Navajo Nation in Arizona. I feel so fortunate for having chosen to visit this site and know that the other volunteers have felt the same way.

High Fives!

2010-04-03T16:34:00.000-07:00

The above photos show the WVA students working on the Amizade classroom project in Petersfield, Jamaica.

Tonight their school is in a big basketball tournament in the United States and millions of people will be watching this "Final Four" event. The real heros of the day in my estimation are those who are before you, a team of students dedicating their time and energy to help disadvantaged people from a vastly different culture. For this we should salute the "Mountaineers".

I only have a few minute to post this evening. I will have no connectivity on Easter Sunday and Monday is a national holiday in Jamaica, so I hope to find you on Tuesday. Wednesday is a travel day when I return to the U.S. and head for the Navajo Nation in Arizona.

A little of this and that.

2010-04-01T15:53:00.000-07:00

My photos today have no central theme. This morning our Amizade group toured a sugar cane factory. It was such an intense experience to watch the cane stacked,washed, ground, separated, heated, squeezed and transformed in brown sugar. I saw mountains of sugar, bagged and loaded onto trucks for foreign markets. I have so many thoughts about sugar I hardly no where to begin other than I think it is a terrible product, but more on that some other time. Rather than showing one of the hundred pictures I took of the plant, I liked this last photo of a plant worker resting. It was at least a hundred degrees in the factory, it had an indescribable, noxious odor, and was noisy as hell.

After the tour, the group went to the larger town for some shopping. I left the group and strolled down to the chaotic market. I have so many photos of foods and vendors, but chose this one of a pickup truck bed, because it lumped together in one big pile many of the local foods. How many can you identify?

The top picture of a sign on the seawall of the nearby town, Savanna al Mar, caught my fancy. Like most places, this Jamaican town lacks public bathrooms. I would be cautious and reluctant to use them, even if there were any, but when you have to go, well you have to go. Travelers often tell one another bathroom horror stories and, so far, I've avoided sharing any on my blog. Relieving yourself in any town for a tourist unaccustomed to ruder accomadations is always a challenge. Anyway I walked over to the wall to see the beautiful blue Carribean and unfortunately it wasn't the sea air that caught my attention. So much for civic messages!

Unseen Jamaica

2010-03-31T13:46:00.000-07:00

It might have been easier to continue posting about the Amizade WVU students' progress on the classroom which was started yesterday, but instead I wanted to show some quiet scenes of the surrounding countryside which shows a Jamaica not found in flashy tourist brochures.

The top two pictures are taken on the main highway that connects Montego Bay with the Southern and Western part of the island where I presently am. What is significant here is that the area is mountainous, tropical, and rather unpopulated. Unlike Tanzania, the street is paved and not clogged with a stream of people pushing or carrying all kinds of items on their heads. The lady in the top photo is not carrying water but is wearing a large yellow sun hat to contrast her hot pink dress. Everyday the temperature has been in the high 80's with some serious humidity, so if you're not a heat lover, I suggest you travel elsewhere.

The third photo shows the landscape around the corner from the housing tract where I live. The empty carts are used to transport sugar cane, which can be seen in the background. This cane was planted in January and will be harvested next year at this time, when it is over three times as tall.

The last photo is of a little beer stand near my lodging. I'm not sure when it opens or if it opens. Such spots dot my road and, in the evening, has patrons socializing, drinking or loudly pounding dominos on the counter during lively games.

Tomorrow I promise to "people" my post, but please understand, I have not yet found the proper opportunity to snap a photo of a serious dredlocked Rastafarian, and may avoid such an encounter for the sake of, let's say,disgression. I like you guys, but.....................!

Makin' Jamaica Magic

2010-03-30T13:24:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I went to the airport at Montego Bay to meet 15 students from West Virginia University who arrived to begin a weeklong program at the Amizade site in rural Petersfield, Jamaica. For me this is the fourth location where I am lucky enough to immerse myself in a different culture and also am priveleged to watch young American students participate in a worthy project benefitting the world's disadvantaged.

The top picture, snapped early this morning, shows a handful of the volunteers at the Galloway Basic School. Over the next week these WVers will help a mason and carpenter work on building a new classroom. Today though, it was time to meet the children. For some of the volunteers, this is their first trip outside of America and, for others, it is their first time living amidst third world people. Any stiffness, that may appear in their postures as the group is introduced to some first graders, quickly melted away.

The second photo shows one of many similar scenes I witnessed this morning. Hidden in the circle of lovely children is an Amizade volunteer, whose hair is being braided. Every American student could be seen playing with or tutoring these children and thereby becoming more comfortable in this new environment. These children are, for the most part, from families of the working poor, that spend long hours in the sugarcane fields or factories. They were so appreciative of the attention given them by these "strangers.".

The third photo shows the underpinnings of a new classroom on which the Amizade students will provide labor. Through the relentless lobbying effort of our host, the Community of Clubs, the Jamaican Education Ministery provided the initial funds for new classrooms for this school. Yet this space quickly became immediately insufficient and overcrowded. This exceptionally impoverished community, like other sites I have witnessed throughout the world, depends entirely on the resources of its own community in the form of money, materials and volunteers to provide its children with quality education.

By the way, in the background, is an amazing tree. It is the Silk Cotton or Ceiba Tree and is one of the largest trees in the Carribean. Myths abound regarding these trees, as our Jamaican host explained. The silken fibers which hang freely when the fruit ripens catch the souls of the dead. To fell one of these behemoths may precipitate your untimely demise.

My mind is so full of thoughts and impressions formed by the people I meet, I could write all night, but I'll spare you. Suffice to say, this part of my adventure has again such rich moments.

My blog gives me an opportunity to preserve some these moments, to share them, and to remind me later on that this trip was not a dream.

Jamaica, mahn!

2010-03-28T09:34:00.000-07:00

For the next several days I'll be posting from Jamaica and showing you a world that is rarely seen by tourists. I am 40 miles South of the luxury hotels of Montego Bay in a small community called Petersfield. The sign on the wall is written in Patois, the mixture of English, French and Creole that the local people speak. I catch a few words but for, the most part, I understand little.

It has been quite a transition from Africa through Hong Kong and New York to here. For brief moments I feel like I'm in Tanzania because all the people are black and the landscape is quite tropical like in Karagwe, but the similarities end rapidly. The Jamaican tempo and mannerisms are remarkably different. I feel a much more agressive mood in the air and there is virtually no interest in me as an American.

This is a big island 150 miles South of Cuba is separated by miles of ocean from the rest of the Carribean nations. After it received independence in 1962, it suffered economicallywith the caprice of the sugar cane market, then controlled entirely by foreigners. Now tourism and the receipt of moneys sent from relatives in America make up the bulk of Jamaica's income.

When visiting last night with a high school history teacher, I asked about Jamaica's most important historical figures. He believed that no one has made a greater impact on Jamaica more than Bob Marley. Ask anyone and they'll tell you that Marley put Jamaica on the map. Jamaica is all about its music. It is blasted from cars, stores and people are dancing and singing at all hours. The knowledge that their music is adulated throughout the world has given this former colony of slaves a powerful identity and pride found nowhere else in the region.

I also have learned that these Jamacians are not docile people like those I met in Tanzania. Men and women are equal and express themselves strongly. The Jamaican women are really tough too. Woe the guy who tries to rough up a woman. He's likely to be beaten up himself. .

On Monday all the students arrive and by Tuesday we'll all be involved in a building project of some kind. Until then hey mahn, you be good now, eh?

Masai People of the Serengeti/Ngorogoro

2010-03-25T18:57:00.000-07:00

I am posting tonight from New York after my 15 hour plane flight from Hong Kong. Tomorrow morning I leave for Jamaica and will not know how much connectivity I will have from Amizade site.

For the past several days I have shown pictures from my Tanzania safari through the Serengeti. There is still so much I want to share of this aspect of the adventure, especially photos of Olduvai Gorge where Louis and Mary Leakey found the 1.75 million year old Australopithicus. Also I must still show photos of the 8th Wonder of the World, The Ngorogoro Crater, 18 miles from rim to rim, teeming with amazing animals, including rhinos, living safely in a deep natural pocket, lost in time.

Then again what would a trip through the Serengeti be without pictures of its living human residents, the Masai. Tribal life in Tanzania was discouraged and basically eliminated with independence in 1962, but traditional values and rural life, ujamaa, was embraced as a key teaching by Julius Nyerere, the country's founder.

The Masai have retained their tribal identity and many live in mud huts in small circular enclosed villages. Those folks, living within the park, survive entirely on raising cattle or goats, which are allowed to roam freely in certain sections. Agriculture is not permitted. The middle photo is of a cattle herder who spoke some Swaheli and asked for food rather than money. These people barter a lot among one another. By the way every marriage involves a dowry of cows.

The bottom picture of the two women was taken in a town outside of the park. Many Masai have left the confines of rural village living and have sought their fortune in nearby communities. These ladies sold me two hand-woven beaded bracelets and were amused by my horrible accent and wild gesticulations.

I snapped the top picture and included it for you to see the earings and hats worn by Masai women. Along the road the men and women pride themselves in the most colorful dress that I had seen on my travels. The women wear long silver necklaces and chokers, plus huge earings.

My mind takes me back tonight to this world that is already beginning to feel distant. I ,of course, know nothing of these strange people. Being there reminded me of scenes in Joseph Conrad's Heart of Darkness or the village in Lord Jim. Such remote places are disappearing. Herds of camera-toting tourists descend on these people every day and as cultures colllide, well, you know the rest.

Leopard spotted?

2010-03-24T03:43:00.000-07:00

A guide radioed that he had seen a leopard asleep on some rocks on a hillock not far from the road. When we arrived, the beautiful cat awoke, stretched, jumped down, hid in some tall grass for a bit and then, amazingly enough, crossed the road in front of us, intent on giving the gawking tourists the slip. We followed him slinking away through high grass using high-powered binoculars for quite along time until he disappeared entirely from view. The driver theorized the leopard had a lone tree about a 1/2 mile in the distance as his goal and decided that we should have a look. We drove off the jeep trail and proceeded to roll slowly across the grassland.

The second photo shows that we found our "friend" asleep on a high branch, pooped from his long walk, sheltered from the heat, and resting, before an evening of work. He opened his eyes for a moment, flicked his tail, and ignored our presence.

I chose to include the third photo to give you a sense of the vast open space of the Serengeti. Please look carefully at the third branch above the bend. That stick you see is the leopard's tail. From this vantage point, prey can be spotted for miles. Of course there is so much wildlife, especially gazelles and impalas, that I am sure the leopard does not go often hungry. In fact any number of animals might seek the shade under this tree. By the way, don't you think it might be a nice place to have a picnic?

Tickle behind the ear?

2010-03-23T03:01:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I posted a photo of a pond on the Serengeti and mentioned that a couple of hippos were in the background. A number of people wrote me and asked to see some close-up pictures of these amazing animals. Also one commentor mentioned that he had heard that many native people had met their demise by hippos.

While watching some of these beautiful creatures, my guide had related some information on that subject. Hippos often move from one watering hole to another and often cross long distances by land to do so. In the water hippos feel safe and are delightfully contented with frolicking, grunting and sleeping. On land, however, they are especially nervous, vulnerable and irritable, especially when traversing with young, which are easy prey to large cats. Many a villager's presence, while bathing, doing laundry or fishing on a pond's edge, has inadvertantly blocked the access to the water for a migrating hippo. The animal goes absolutely bonkers when surprised and feels thwarted in its desire to return for a bath. Like with many animals, once an imagined opponent falls down on the ground, a more agressive instinct sets off and the victim is then kicked and bitten to death.

The top picture of a larger family was taken from the opening in the car's roof and through some bushes. As said earlier, it is incredibly poor judgment and not allowed to get out and go to the water's edge. I saw a number of huge crocodiles waiting patiently for anything that might casually happen by and it is certain they wouldn't be choosy about meeting a tourist.

I watched the animals in the second picture for quite a while. Like dogs often do, hippos look like they are fighting, but place their faces next to one another, nuzzle and grunt instead of biting. Sometimes they lie quietly for hours and suddenly, for no apparent reason, the pool comes alive with such play.

I included the third picture to remind myself that night on the Serengeti means a whole new set of circumstances and sounds which I hope to show tomorrow. Does anyone like cats?

Living on the Wild Side

2010-03-20T09:39:00.000-07:00

Even though today I flew to Hong Kong on route to Jamaica for my 4th Amizade adventure, I have yet to tell about my days on the safari through Tanzania.

The above photos were taken in Serengeti National Park and are just a few of the thousand pictures I snapped. I had amazing good fortune on this trip, being the only passenger in a 12 person off-road vehicle and having an incredibly experienced guide who put up with me. He had to admit that I was the first tourist he had shuttled who forwent all the elaborate, expensive prepaid tourist accomodations and stayed and dined with him in tiny villages along the way. We established a close relationship and therefore he went the "extra mile" so to speak. (Actually we drove almost 1400 miles much on jeep track to find some of the more unusual animals.)

I am not sure exactly why I have chosen the above pictures. When I look at them now I ask myself what story do they tell. The top photo of the family of giraffes shows something of the immensity of the Serengeti, which means "endless plain" in Masai. This park is 14,000 sq. km or about 300 miles square and along with its neighbor the Ngorogoro Forest Preserve contains most of the remaining population of animals in East Africa.

I chose the second photo to show the diversity of the landscape. It is not all grassland but is dotted with swamp especially this time of year. This is the beginning of the rainy season and many animals use such spots to drink and cool down from the searing heat. By the way, it is not allowed to hike nor is it safe in most places to leave your car. Strange big things often are lurking in the grass! You wouldn't want to swim there either. What appears to be a log at the back of the pond are actually two hippos. ( I have hippo pictures from so close you can count teeth!)

The third photo of a baboon and baby reminded me how much fun it was to watch these families sometimes containing as many as 50 members. They provided comic relief on the long journey and bother everything that comes in their path. Most important for me though was feeling the freedom of these and all the animals of this wonderful park. In Swaheli it is called Uhuru and I will never forget it in their eyes.

Random Thoughts

2010-03-19T10:13:00.000-07:00

These three photos from my first day in Mwamza represent memories of what now seems like weeks ago.

I mentioned in my previous post that I had hoped to be met at the ferry landing by a tour guide. Of course, I stood in a flotsam of arriving passengers, taxi drivers, vendors and dock workers and saw no one assigned to pick me up. It wasn't exactly hard to pick me out of a crowdwith my white skin, backpack, camera around my neck, and pushing a carry-on. I waited for an hour and then, with the help of a policeman, decided to find a top-quality hotel. The front desk clerk made a few phone calls and after much confusion, located the errant guide. While waiting for him, the hotel manager introduced himself and gave me the royal treatment, showing me his hotel and even invited me to have a complimentary breakfast before leaving. The middle photo shows the manager and my guide, Peter. Most foreigners seem to take photos only of rural people and the poor and present thereby a stilted image of the country. Tanzanians, to whom I have shown my blog, have asked me to balance this bias by mentioning that there is a significant number of people of education, wealth, and refinement.

The bottom photo of some fishing boats on Lake Victoria was important to me because it conveyed such a serene view and I wanted you to see the lake. I thought of massive Lake Michigan that I had known from my childhood. Yet this lake is twice its size, borders three countries, Uganda, Tanzania, and Kenya and provides jobs and fish, mainly talapia to millions of people.

After leaving the city I realized how much the countryside had changed. There were now low plains instead of the high mountains filled with bananas plants to which I had grown accustomed. Here there were people working in rice fields. The top picture, of a youngster standing on a patch of rice, may be one of those exotic photos foreigners seem to take. Children and women are seen everywhere working the farm land all day every day, while men on loaded bicycles or cattle-driven carts clog the side of road taking huge bundles to market.

Tomorrow I leave Africa . I don't want to think about the idea that I may never be here again. I console myself that I will always have my pictures and blog to keep the memory somewhat alive. Yet, even they are so far from the reality of this amazing place.

Bukoba to Mwamza Adventure

2010-03-18T11:20:00.000-07:00

I am posting today from Zanzibar, an island in the Indian Ocean, having flown here, after having completed at 1200 mile tour of some of the most amazing countryside in the world. I hope in subsequent posts to tell something of the Serenghetti, the Ngorogoro Park, Olduvai Gorge, Ngorogoro Crater, Lake Myanara and the Great Rift Valley. Before I get to that many of you were concerned about me taking the night ferry alone across Lake Victoria to the city Mwamza where I was to meet my guide.

From the pleading of my family, concerned for my safety, I was dissuaded to book a steerage ticket, because, as expected, I was one of only two other mzungus, white people, who would be crammed in with almost 500 people and a boatload of cargo. When I arrived early in the day at the ticket office, I asked for a first class ticket which would provide me a room, but was told the few double rooms were already sold out. The ticket agent, taking pity on me, told me he would find a crew member who would sell me his private room for the night.

The bottom photo, taken from the crew quarters, shows my area, devoid of people, but housing a rooster tied to a winch, that crowed the whole night long. It was impossible to sleep so I roamed the ship and watched the people and the night sky, wondering whether I was dreaming or really on a small freighter in the middle of Lake Victoria in Tanzania.

The second photo, taken about 11:30 pm, of a port dock bathed in yellow flood lights, was a stop to load even more bananas, tea, sacks of dried fish and even more people.

I am sorry about the top photo being out of focus. Those globs of green on the deck are, of course, mountains of bananas. I arrived at 6 AM, having been up all night, so I probably forgot to find the right setting for night and movement. I was worried also that no one would be at the exit of the port to pick me up. I didn't relish being in a strange town unable to speak Swaheli and no one really to call. My fear was not unwarranted, but that it a story for another time.

Keeping life fertile

2010-03-11T07:31:00.000-08:00

This is my last evening here in Karagwe with Amizade. Tomorrow I start traveling alone and have booked safari in the Serenghetti, after which I fly to Zanzibar in the Indian Ocean for some time on the beach. Hopefully, in about a week, I will again have internet service.

Today our group visited a private school where we were invited for lunch and to answer questions. The students were shy as expected. I asked if anyone liked to draw and the kids pointed to one handsome looking 14 year old boy who can be seen in the dark sweater. I pulled out my sketch pad and he posed for me for about 10 minutes. I did a decent likeness which brought quite a lot of interest and laughter. Then I posed for him. I sat like a statue for an equal amount of time, while he drew me. The youngsters gathered around and admired our tenacity. The above picture shows me praising his work and relating something about eyes being in the center of the head.

The second photo of a sunset taken near the gate of our lodging seems to evoke a feeling of the landscape where I have been living for over two weeks. The clouds in the distance look like the shadow of a banana plantation. This reminded me how in nature large and small forms are forever repeated.

Last is a shot from the Chonyonyo water project which will provide water to a small village and eventually a new school. Funds have come from European philantropic organizations and through the generous contribution of AllPeoplebeHappy, a foundation created to help worthy projects in honor of my cousin's late son, Eric Tang. I have visited this site several times during my stay and the work is amazing. Also today, with several other Amizade members, I hiked down into a canyon in the searing heat to a spring. Along the way I met villagers carrying full 10 gallon containers of water up the hillside. The trail was at least 2 kilometers long and really steep. I was dripping in sweat when I came back to the top and I had only been carrying a camera!

I am actually anxious about leaving. The journey here has been long and the stay has had plenty of personal challenges. Yet the intensity of the experience is addicting and leaving here will give me a sense of satisfaction and loss.

Days Like This

2010-03-10T06:51:00.000-08:00

The last several days have been filled with some amazing experiences which I am so eager to share but have had such scarce internet time. Even now I am writing these thoughts in Notepad and will paste them into blogger when I am lucky enough to get online. Since I am leaving the project on Friday morning and will spend the next week touring the country without the slightest change of connectivity, I can only give a brief description of my days.

While walking on a lane the other day I spied this lad pushing an old bicycle tire with a stick. Of course he was quite startled to see me and stopped to collect himself. While taking his picture, I think he conveyed to me he was on his way to his grandmother's house with some rice, but of course I could be mistaken. I have wondered what appealed to me about this picture. Maybe for a moment I could feel the simple pleasure of his age. I felt lonely at the time too and somehow this picture lightened my mood.

The middle photo was taken at a Women's Day event at a small village near the Rwuanda border, which was chosen to host this event There was amazing dancing, singing and drumming. This was an event that no tourist will ever see. I was the guest of the district governor who gave the keynote speech and sat with him and other dignitaries. All the school children and all the local people from the surrounding area attended. I recorded music and took videos with my camera. Most important again was the realization that no matter how much American dancers might practice these local dances, they are missing a key component, being one with the sound and moment.

The top photo is of an exhausted little old Jewish guy working at bending tin sheets into gutters. The Amizade volunteers had a work session the other day on a water harvesting project I reported on last week. The tank was finished but gutters needed to be fabricated and attached to the house. Water pours from the roof, then is caught by gutters, which subsequently transports it by downspouts into the tank.

I should be able to post tomorrow, but you never know around here. In any case my fondest thoughts are with all of you from East Africa and look forward to visiting again soon.

Going bananas?

2010-03-07T02:27:00.000-08:00

These three photos describe the highland reaches of Karagwe, Tanzania, where I have been living these past two weeks.

It is banana heaven! The economy depends on growing this luscious fruit and exporting it to the lower regions of a country, the size of Texas. I understand there are many species of banana plants, but certain ones are used to raise cooking bananas, dessert bananas, plantain, and banana liquor. Incidentally, I have yet to have sample banana beer, banana wine or banana whiskey, but I may have that opportunity this evening.

I am not sure when bananas were first introduced, but newer more productive strains have been arriving for years. I know its presence has transformed the landscape. I keep on asking what this area looked like before it went "bananas" and what happened. Apparently, most of the native trees were cut down or burned up through huge wildfires. Earlier peoples mismanaged their crops and soil and then moved on to other places. Also this area and its environment was heavily impacted by large numbers of refugees fleeing neighboring Rwuanda and Burundi who, having no means of sustaining themselves, had to plunder the land and its animals. The distant hills, seen in the last two pictures, are barren and the ground suffers from terrible problems of erosion. There are also no animals roaming about and no monkeys are welcome in banana plantations. Yet, on once lonely soil there are now groves similar to the first photo and there are verdant homesteads everywhere.

Nonetheless, local people are being educated by local organizations on land management, and there is great will on a community level, to improve the environment.

Over time I may forget much of what I have learned and seen here, but I know that every sweet banana I eat at home will point me to my days in Tanzania.

2010-03-05T23:33:00.000-08:00

In keeping with the theme of International Women's Day, which takes place this week, I decided to post a few more pictures of women today.

The three photos were all taken yesterday so the images are fresh in my mind. The last photo shows a a lady peering from the doorway of a kitchen, where food is prepared for shopkeepers and workers. The lady seemed understandably fascinated by the cadre of a half dozen "white" people visiting her small town. I liked the strong vertical lines formed of the huge machete, the door posts and the woman's long slender body that are offset by the horizontal mud brickwork of the building.

The second photo shows a woman sitting mindfully. Her routine has been upset by the fact that about 6-7 small children, including ostensibly some of her own, have spotted me and others from the group taking pictures. These youngsters are clamoring for attention. It is not like we are aliens, but, on more than one occasion, toddlers have burst out crying and many younger children have run away in fear.

The top picture showing a woman looking tenderly at her child seemed worthy because I wanted to include one traditional picture of a mother. Many women are reluctant to have their picture taken, but she seemed quite receptive and like many, had never seen an immediate digital image of herself when I showed her my viewfinder.

Many of you have asked for additional information regarding pictures and thoughts from previous posts and I am eager to respond personally by email to those questions that require a more than superficial response. The "short hair" for elementary and secondary school girls I am told does not have to do with a fear of lice, but shows an identity as a student. There is some suggestion that doing hair is costly in time and money, that it takes focus away from the academic aspect of school, and that it can show distinction in terms of wealth. I have not heard this from any school administrator so some or all of these thoughts may be specious.

Girls of Karagwe, Tanzania

2010-03-04T07:10:00.000-08:00

Yesterday I posted some photos of women and felt that I wanted to represent some girls I have seen here as well.

The top picture is a girl I met walking on a lane with a friend on her way home from primary school. She was polite, spoke some English and told me, as best she could, of her family. We walked as far as her house. I assume she had, like so many others, come a long distance. All school girls must have short hair, but no one has explained to me the reason. Also all students are required to wear uniform colors representing their school.

I snapped the second photo along the main road. I had taken pictures of a number of boys when these giggling girls appeared and demanded equal treatment. They formed this pose on their own.

I am less certain whether the girl in the third picture goes to school. It is possible that she had changed clothes and then began to work, but, for some reason, I doubt it. Education costs and some families need help from all members to survive. There is much debate about whether girls are still less educated, but in any case, I have seen, I believe, an equal amount of girls and boys on their way to and from school.

I appreciate all the thoughtful comments that I received on my last post from those of you who approached the question intuitively or from studies. I gather thoughts from all sources and take my time. These ideas swirl about me like dry leaves. When I finally catch one and hold onto it, it usually crumbles in my hand. What I am left with is lots of fascinating powder to ponder.

Women of Karagwe,Tanzania

2010-03-02T07:55:00.000-08:00

It is beyond my understanding at this point to state generally how women are treated by men in this society or understand anything about their lives. How can I get an idea without knowing the language and living here a long time and not as a glorified tourist? Are women more deprecated, beaten and generally disrespected here than in other countries? Are women even more cherished in this culture by husbands who sleep huddled with them on straw in a room the size of your closet, a team requiring deep cooperation locked together in a daily struggle of survival. The answers are beyond my comprehension but I feel I need to bring some internal measuring stick and to know how women fare here.

Historically, worldwide, women have suffered so much physical and psycological abuse and, regardless of religious conundrums which profess that the woman is really supreme, the brutal fact remains, that women have had a tough go at it in a man's world. So it must be here as well.

Like all issues of this journey perhaps some clues are found in the faces. I look carefully, but on this subject, will I see the truth?

On the Road

2010-03-01T07:20:00.000-08:00

Later on this week I will follow up with an update from the Amizade water project which
has been the subject of the last two posts.

Instead, I'd like to share with you the surprised expressions I receive as I take a daily stroll along the road in front of our center. It is not every day that these people see a strange, older, camera-toting "white guy" wandering near their village. In the bottom picture this young man urged me in broken English to buy his rooster. He was very polite and I think extolled its features, but I couldn't figure out exactly how much he wanted for it.

The second photo of this older fellow stopped his bicycle to comiserate with me. A car had raced down the road pell mell and had splashed me with bright red mud. You can see the puddles in the background. It is one of the hazards of walking during this rainy season. He laughed good naturedly and seemed to know that I lived nearby. I have learned virtually no Swahili and many people know a few words of English. By the way, everybody loves Obama because his father was from Kenya, which makes him practically an African.

The top photo is one of many fellows who are transporting bananas all day long along the road. They start early in the morning, packing these bunches out of the groves, and then pushing them as much as twenty miles or more. I think this guy was especially tired when he approached. It looked like he couldn't believe his eyes when he saw me.

I have enjoyed my walks and certainly have gained an appreciation of what it might feel like to be black person walking in an all white neighborhood in America, except I am certain and relieved that no one is going to call the police.

These photos have all been of males. I have some shots of women that I am dying to share with you soon.

A Drop in the Bucket, Part 2

2010-02-28T10:32:00.000-08:00

Children look on with amazement as Amizade volunteers and a neighbor help clear a site for a tank designed to catch rainwater to provide safe drinking water for a family. Some of you have written and asked penetrating questions about this project. Catching rainwater is being practiced in many places in underdeveloped countries. It is inexpensive, environmentally sound, and takes away the stress of transporting water from unreliable streams or from tapping groundwater. For a number of reasons the tanks are made of concrete rather than plastic and are put underground except for the top. First an underground tank is supported by the earth so it is more durable and doesn't require reinforcement bar. It is less likely to be stolen or damaged and the water has to be ladled out rather than tapped. Taps leak or get left open. Amizade has donated funds and labor for larger tanks for larger families as well, and received grant money for a huge tank for a grain storage facility and school. Other organizations, a friend wrote, such as Rotary, are actively involved in supporting similar projects throughout the world.

The middle picture shows a student from West Virginia University and some bald headed guy, referred to in Swahili as babu (grandfather), moving some dirt. The family this weekend completed the hole which is over six feet deep and are in the process of amassing rock and stone to help begin the next stage of mixing concrete. I hope to show the finished work in a future post.

In the meantime I think of all the good fortune we have at home and our tough daily decisions such as, "Should I wash the dishes by hand or use the dishwasher!"

A Drop in the Bucket, Part 1

2010-02-26T06:14:00.000-08:00

After my amazing travel through Uganda, I finally arrived in Karagwe, Tanzania, and began immediately to participate in activities of the Amizade water project. In conjunction with several local organizations, especially the Mavuno Improvement for Community Relief and Services, Amizade students and volunteers are helping to install partially underground concrete water tanks for families. Rainwater is gathered from the roof by a gutter and is directed by downspout to the top of the tank. Like a well, water is then fetched with a rope and bucket. The local agencies select the household to get the tank, a daunting task since everyone here needs clean water.

Today we began installing a 500 liter tank for the above home for a family of at least five and, I think, a goat. The middle picture is of the site director Stephanie discussing the tank's location with a neighbor who will help with the construction and whose family will also be able to use the water from the tank. Tomorrow I will show you further work in progress.

The top picture gives you an idea of how tropical this area is. Every day I eat several fresh bananas, sweeter than I've ever tasted, but I have to tell you, the rainy season has begun and it has been pouring practically non-stop. As a veteran of the Pacific Northwest Coast, I know rain, but this climate produces some seriously heavy drops. Children cut off banana fronds and carry them over their heads to keep from getting soaked. Groves of these lovely plants adorn this highland and transform it into a magical landscape, but be not fooled by this idyllic description, it is as poor and problematic as any place I have been on my adventure.

Day 2 in Africa

2010-02-25T03:33:00.000-08:00

I have uploaded what appears to be three random shots I took from my bumpy bus ride across Uganda on my way to Karagwe. Tanzania. My objective is to show you the world I see and understand my struggle with its amazing contradictions.

The first photo is a typical village scene. There are some fellows sitting around chatting. You can't hear their laughter or feel their gentle gestures, but a tenderness is there. What could they be talking about and in what dialect I do not know? The trash behind them? Why don't they pick it up? It spoils the picture or is there a message here?

The second photo shows a lady wearing a lovely shawl. She is looking across a mud puddle at some folks on a patio. People care here very much about looking clean and presentable. The big mud puddle will serve her and her friends as drinking water for several days.

The last photo of a lone tree at dusk on the savannah instilled in me a feeling of Africa which I have imagined since childhood. You might hear the lyric "... the lion sleeps tonight", when you look at this picture. The problem is there are no lions near here. They are long gone due to encroachment of people, degradation of the land for farming, and hunting and poaching for food.

My Amizade Adventure is a maize. I turn many directions in spirit and in purpose. I end in Bend, Oregon at home, or is that just one more remote outpost?

Day 1 Africa

2010-02-24T02:52:00.001-08:00

It has been several days since I posted and my world has changed dramatically. I arrived in Kampala, Uganda, late in the evening and met Stephanie, the young, energetic and capable site director. She prepared me for the exhausting journey to the border and on to the isolated Karagwe site in Tanzania.

The above picture, taken from my bus window, is a vivid reminder of the sea of chaos I found in my first day in Africa. Intensified by torrential rain and sloppy, trash-filled mud and wearing a heavy backpack, I slogged my way clutching my carry-on luggage through throngs of impoverished people. It was a scene out of a movie I was in, a tourist out of place and caught in a morass of strange world.

As the bus made its way past the outskirts, the magic of Africa began to reveal itself in a different light. Lush tropical forests and gentle rolling savannah offered scenes of local people dressed in colorful clothing working or relaxing by their homes or visiting in the market. I saw smiling faces, relaxed and living in a simpler world. It wasn't a romantic picture exactly because there was all the trappings of poverty. It was life here, accepted, predictable, and peaceful.

I can only with great luck upload photos so I hope to show a variety of scenes, but it is an incredibly slow process. It is hard to believe that there is connectivity at all.

Deep in Oxford?

2010-02-19T23:19:00.000-08:00

These few photos fall short in an attempt to describe the incomprable beauty and intense energy that pervades this famous university community of Oxford. An array of quaint specialty shops housed in 17th century buildings, selling everything from maps or antiquarian books to exotic foods line sidewalks crowded with intelligent people. Interspersed among the finely decorated facades are large wooden doors which serve as entrances to college buildings and lecture halls. A feeling of the great educational tradition remains locked behind Gothic walls of stone.

I fantasized what it would take to move to England, be accepted at Oxford and to challenge myself again now as a more mature student. I sensed the joy of the intellectual stimulation of learning among the best and living in a community which has so much cultural activity, including the Ashmolean Museum and the Bodlean library. I saw myself rowing along the Thames, acquiring a taste for English ale, and taking occasional trips over to the Continent to tour Europe's greatest scenes.

Now I am back in London and my momentary ambition has been tempered by the realities of such an effort. Sometimes it easy to believe that everything is possible and others times even getting dressed is a struggle. I have made much of my life already and maybe some dreams just need to be moderated. Like a character in the Canterbury Tales, I have a journey ahead of me and its story has yet to be told.

An Afternoon at Warwick Castle

2010-02-18T03:40:00.000-08:00

After spending a gloomy rainy day at Shakespeare's birthplace, Stratford on Avon, Tapirgal and I were told that it was essential to visit was Warwick Castle not far away.
The castle was originally built by William the Conquerer in 1068 but has gone through many restorations since then and was still in use as a private residence up until 1978 by the Earl of Warwick until purchased by the Madame Tussaud Group. The main quarters are elaborately decorated and filled with realistic life-sized wax figures taken from the Tussaud Museum. This is no run-0f-the mill tourist attraction but is ranked on par with the Tower of London as a Grade 1 Ancient Protected Monument. It had so many elaborate rooms, gardens and outbuildings open for viewing. We didn't have the time to go in the basement to see the dungeon, but we saw the world's largest siege engine hurl a fiery boulder 800 feet.

I've always found it hard to be sympathetic with the wars, intrigues and brutality associated with these castles and their residents and, since I was raised in a working class family, it's been hard to identify with the travails of upper class royalty. I know also that in the town below, countless people lived on the edge of existence and were exploited and enslaved through the feudal system.

Nonetheless the magnificence of such a place is seductive and romantic. It is easy to shut your eyes and hear courtly music, and see men in armor marching in on white steeds or hear the horns of a fox hunt while the ghosts of the past live in vapors on the heath.

Seeing the Past

2010-02-16T23:53:00.000-08:00

Yesterday I spent my first full day in the English countryside Northwest of London in the direction of Birmingham, lodging in a 17th century inn of the small town of nursery-rhyme fame, Banbury.

The evening before, I had strolled the narrow streets, looking at statues, Gothic churches and peering into pubs. I could feel the hard solid Puritan historical character of the area floating within the moist frigid evening air. Later on within the warmth of a drinking establishment, an enterprising bartender retold tales of the interregnum of Oliver Cromwell and the subsequent restoration in the reign of Enlightenment of Charles II.

I wanted so much to see backwards. Scenes of modern, wealthy industrialized England had invaded everywhere, even here in the villages; that boring sameness which has destroyed regionalism in so much of the West. Not that I was surprised. Like a treasure hunt, I have grown accustomed to seeking out remnants of the past and romanticizing them as if they had intrinsically more worth than life today.

The second and fourth photos show scenes of the "crown jewel" of my pursuit. Tapirgal and I went to Dudley. Perched on a peak surrounded by a small zoo is one of the oldest remaining castles, dating from the 11th century. I climbed its walls, peered through its windows and growled the roar of dragons.

Awakening in London

2010-02-15T00:22:00.000-08:00

After traveling for hours from the warmth and beauty of South America, I spent my first day in over forty years in England. The quiet lovesong of the pan flute that had hummed inside me these past weeks and that was Bolivia and the magic of the altiplano, immedately was drowned out by an overwhelming cacophony of modern discordant sounds that defines London.

Surging intensely along its sidewalks or in cars, taxis or double decker buses and, especially on the subways, the city teems with a flotsam of different nationalities in pursuit of the promise of a better life. Gone was any sense of the British Anglican England, I remembered from my youth and of countless episodes of Masterpiece Theater.

On a chilly Winter afternoon amidst chestnut sellers and falafel vendors, together with Tapirgal of Astoria Daily Photo, I took to the streets to acclimate to the new phase of my Amizade adventure and to enjoy some of the fabled sights of this great city.

One the most exceptional moments was emerging from the Westminster tube station in the early evening and finding myself standing below one of London's most storied and historical monuments, Big Ben. Moments later the carillion began to chime its powerful, melodic half hour call. Like a conductor summoning its orchesta to order, the clock's tone imposed its benevolent will over its fractious city. My eyes followed the music across the Thames and over a skyline of graceful stone buildings and churches built for kings. In the impending darkness I stood feeling humbled. Before me was the throne of a once mighty empire which ruled much of the world and still today commanded front row in the international scene. I, a student of history and politics, had come to England to see its renowned sights. Here I was now in its kingdom, a mere vassal, standing awestruck before His Majesty.

Face of Bolivia

2010-02-12T06:35:00.000-08:00

This is a strange day for me. These are my last hours in Bolivia and South America. In a few hours I'll be flying to England and returning to a more familiar world. I am sad that these almost six weeks have gone by so rapidly and that I won't have the opportunity to continue learning more about these cultures and speaking Spanish for quite sometime.

The first picture comes from a museum on a tiny island on Lake Titicaca. Residents dug up and, together with an archeologist pieced together the face of an Amari resident who lived around 200BC. These were a proud people, who were quite advanced in astronomy, architecture, and medicine. There is much conjecture about what happened to them. The Inkas, whose oral tradition might have given some clues, came on the scene over 1000 years later, were so totally obliterated by the Spanish that we know little about these early folks..

The second picture is of a peasant girl selling chocolates on the street of La Paz. Her fate is in question. Without education or connections, she may at some point be faced with even more difficult choices to survive.

The last picture of this old man was taken yesterday. He came up to me and reached into his pocket and pulled out a small hard rock ostensibly sell. It was split open in the middle and revealled a fossil of a trilobyte, which had also lived many years ago along Lake Titicaca.

There is a connection between these three faces which can be seen in their similar physiology. Moreover they are emblematic of the challenging history of South American people. I am beginning to understand that story and feel deeply about it. I recognize appreciating its value as a key component in my Amizade adventure.

School Zone, Part 3

2010-02-10T09:27:00.000-08:00

This is my last post form Cochabamba and I have only an hour before I leave for my last shift at the orphanage. I appreciate all the kind words and special thanks to those of you for donations for diapers for the care of these lovely children.

On that note, a blogger wrote me and asked "Is there a solution to poverty?" The question, through its simplicity, struck a chord in me. I have already seen so much need and I haven't even been to Tanzania, Jamaica, nor the Navajo Nation yet. I feel overwhelmed already when I think of the problem of insufficient water, sanitation, medicine, food and clothing I've seen so far. It is hard to believe in the liklihood of a solution to this human condition, a fate which is faced daily by the overwhelming majority of people on this planet.

Nonetheless, it is so much more encouraging and promising to look at the grains of sand rather than the whole beach. The above photos, the last in the series of a rural school that I visited and posted about the last two days, provides a rich example.

The top picture, of some nicely dressed girls leaving school through a gate with no wall. The wall has tumbled and will require resources from already totally impoverished community members before it can be rebuilt. In the meantime local farmers take shifts at the gate to ensure the safety of the school. I have witnessed on this trip strong community involvement by those who seemingly can least afford the time.

The second photo is of three unfinished classrooms built entirely by donations and labor provided by Amizade college student volunteers in conjunction with local masons. Each room still needs the installation of a corrugated roof which cost $1500.00 a piece before the space can be used. The project started a few years ago, but has floundered due to lack of funds. The economic downturn in the U.S. has seriously curtailed the number of students able to participate in oversea's programs and reduced the ability of philanthropic organizations to raise nominal money.

The last photo clarifies what sufficient resources and international cooperation can accomplish to improve the quality of life in this region. I taught English to these lovely, eager, intelligent children the other day in one of these classrooms built through Amizade. This "friendship" is a commodity that America does well to export. It is more valuable because it is genuine. At a time, in a world fraught with fear and negativity, these acts of random kindness bring a positive message to those who, not by their own actions, but by historical coincidence, have found themselves in a labyrinth of poverty. It is appreciated by the people beyond words.

School Zone, Part 2

2010-02-09T16:00:00.000-08:00

This is 2nd of three posts I have decided to do on my visit to a rural school in Vinto near Cochabamba, Bolivia. Yesterday I showed the surrounding countryside and shared some impressions I had about the living conditions of the students that you will be seeing today.

The photo, which I am sorry is so red, shows an Algebra class with 51 students. This school has about 450 high schoolers that attend in two shifts for a half day. Education is compulsory in Bolivia, but there is no means of enforcement. Some parents need their children's labor full time in order to survive and, many families can not afford to pay for the surprisingly costly books or supplies for even one child . The classroom has no heat for the cold winter and no cooling for the humid summer. I stayed for a while and was impressed by the dedication of the students and teacher to the learning process.

The second photo is of Rey Naldo the school principal. I found him quiet and sincere. As he shared with me the demographics of the school, he projected a gracious no nonsense tone when it came to education. The children know how important their learning is to their future, their parents and the community. The school also serves 300 elementary age children and an "after-school" program providing woodshop, home making skills, and a computer room. The teachers are paid by the government but the physical plant, supplies, and the above mentioned programs are supported entirely by already destitute community volunteers.

The final shot is of a history class. It meets outside like several others, since all indoor classrooms are full. Desks and benches are made in the woodshop or are donated. Children wear white shirts and sweaters and, even though most families have no running water, the students come to school remarkably clean. I saw no cellphones, texting, or any loud, gratuitious socializing, so common in our own high school climate. I felt the atmosphere was peaceful but disturbingly spartan. I saw few books, and no pictures on the walls, except for the flag in the background. I guess those that do without, still some how do.

Tomorrow will be my final installment on the school It is also my last day at the orphange and here in Cochabamba. I feel like I have still so much to say and such little time left. On Thursday, I return to La Paz and then Friday fly to London. Then a week later, I start my third Amizade Adventure in rural Tanzania.

School Zone

2010-02-08T16:25:00.000-08:00

Today, the director in Cochabamba took me to an outlying community called Vinto where Amizade volunteeers have, over the years, built classrooms at the local school. I spent the morning in classrooms, meeting teachers, the principal, and students and even helping some youngsters with English. I hope to post pictures of my experience tomorrow and describe what I learned. First here's a brief synopsis of some scenes I captured that describe the surroundings.

The first photo, taken at another nearby school, is of a parent or family member inquirying about some school issue. I chose this photo to indicate what many of the younger ladies look like that I saw walking along the dirt lanes by the school.

The landscape of the second photo shows the community's exceptionally fertile land, which is nestled below the Andes foothills. There are fields of corn, potatoes and other row crops, but I only noticed people working with their hands. I saw no tractors or heavy equipment. School lasts only a half day so children can work the fields next to the parents. It may look idyllic, but please note the third picture.

In this last shot, a home and stall combination, where probably several students live, there is no electricity, running water, or sanitary facilities. Also some of the school children you will see tomorrow live high in the mountains and come down once a week and stay in the village in order to make their schooling possible.

It was another emotionally moving day on my Amizade Adventure and I look forward to bring you tomorrow's installment.

Saturday Afternoon

2010-02-07T07:13:00.000-08:00

After walking for hours in the heat yesterday and seeing plazas, churches and distinctive architecture, I feel mindless today and wanted to post a few pictures that through detail tell about my day.

The first photo is of the sidewalk which surrounds Cochabamba's main square, 14de Septembre. The illusion had me worry for a moment that I was experiencing heat stroke.

I took cover nearby under the umbrella of a cafe shown in the second photo. I have always loved sitting in outdoor restaurants and cafes. This particular place served delicious fruit drinks. Right now durazno, fresh peach juice, is in season. It is served in huge pitchers ice cold. I wish I could share a glass with you.

The third picture is the top of the column found in the center of the above-mentioned plaza. It is surrounded by the park's mature shade trees, gorgeous flowers, fountain, and quaint benches. Perched on a column in the center of the park is a stone replica of an Andean condor. The condor symbolizes the highest stage of existence, the universe in traditional Indian thought. My eyes see so many little things at the plaza: clothing, jewelry, facial expressions, blankets, children and their toys, exotic plants, stone details, and food. I am too stunned by the magic in the air. I need to sit down for a while and put my camera away and ask myself again where I am.

Drawing them in?

2010-02-05T16:10:00.000-08:00

In a recent post I reported that I have been sketching the children at the orphanage. Some of you asked to see my drawings. My goal is give these little guys an appreciation for art. They try to sit still but they are so distracted by the others and the general chaos that I am dealing with moving targets. In a matter of moments, they are up and about, so any hope of having a fixed pose is useless. To my art teacher Dawn, thanks for your patience and support and yes, I see the eye in the second pose is totally off and, I know I could fix it and it is only one in ten thousand!

At my next visit I am bringing paper and pencils and will try to get the children to do my portrait. I am going to wiggle intentionally. They will laugh and then they will scold me for moving!

Hats and Hair

2010-02-04T15:52:00.001-08:00

I prefer a baseball cap myself, but the women of Bolivia sure love their hats. The above pictures show three distinct styles of millnery and express a fashion statement particular to a geographical location.

The last photo of two ladies waiting in the shade for a bus is taken here in Cochabamba. I have been told the hat is called a sombrero de chola. It is of hand-woven straw and has a wide rigid brim.

I have shown pictures of the second hat on previous posts. It is called a brombina of Italian origin and is the rage throughout LaPaz and the the Altiplano.

The third hat belongs to a lady from Eastern Bolivia, I am told, possibly from Santa Cruz. It is similar to the Cochabamba hats, but is floppy.

Please notice the hair. Most Bolivian women have contemporary hair-dos like any American or European. but there are those like who prefer the traditional look. They have the longest braids I have ever seen, in fact I think, some add some kind of extension which loops across at the bottom and ties the two braids together. I have neither the nerve nor language skills to ask. Perhaps these photos might stimulate some ideas for your Spring look. I think all these people look really cool.

How's your life today?

2010-02-03T10:22:00.000-08:00

To all of you who commented on my last post, thank you for kind words and support. In an earlier post, I wrote about the animal-themed flashlights I brought for children on my adventure. Yesterday I pulled a few toucans and exotic frogs out of my pocket and shared them with these children. I also pulled out my sketch book and have been doing quick portrait sketches. They have to be short, because the children don't sit still very long.

Some of you have written and asked about donations.

I bought some diapers yesterday for the little kids, a pack of 44 Large Huggies cost 90 Bolivianos or about $12.75. The U.S. director of my program posted the following address in case anyone wants to make a contribution in which 100% will go to the orphanage.

http://amizade.org/store/donations.html and clicking "Bolivia's Millennium Cradle House."

I suppose one of the overiding thoughts I have had on the trip is how much fortune my family has had growing up in America. I have been a vociferous critic of many of our policies, an activity which is one of the blessings our citizenry enjoys. Yet, there is so much more support in America for social welfare compared to the underdeveloped world. I know we could do more when comparing us to other developed countries. Nonetheless, as a well-traveled friend and blog follower recently wrote to express perhaps how far we have come and that, once in a while, we should count our blessings."If you're feeling abused, just look around".

My first day at Millenium House

2010-02-02T09:09:00.000-08:00

Yesterday I spent my first work session at Millenium House for Amizade here in Cochabamba, Bolivia. The pictures I have posted are the most sanitized I could find. After two and half hours, I was totally spent. There are about 35 children, most of them 3 yrs old and younger. Although staffed by, I think, no more than three young ladies under 20 years old, it is an incredible how much these people are able to accomplish. The city through the federal govenment provides 75 cents a day for only a few children, enough to buy one glass of milk. The rest of the resouces require donations. For those of you who have had or presently have little children, will understand. Supplies are totally inadequate. Each child gets one diaper for the day and one for night. There is only one washing machine for all the clothing. To say the least, I have been in better smelling places, but every attempt is made to keep the children as clean as possible.

I played with a number of the children shown above, swinging them around, making faces and drawing their portraits. In one regard though, I soon learned I had to change my approach. For those that know me,they will not be surprised to learn the first thing I did was to give a boy my cap. He wore it proudly and considered himself Mr Special. Later, when Iwanted to retrieve it, since it was my only one and I've worn it throughout the trip, I was reminded that I best wash it first, since many children have head lice. I go back later today for another shift. It is so gripping. I find myself in a guarded control mode. I have raised children and loved them dearly, but yesterday I had to cope with an atmosphere where there is so much need. I wrote an article weeks ago about the difficulty of genuinely feeling for others. Yesterday my senses went on overload, I acted almost mechanically. I did a lot and acted "as if".

Root, Root, Root for the home team!

2010-02-01T07:22:00.000-08:00

On the weekend before the Super Bowl, I never would have imagined spending Sunday afternoon watching a live fusbol match between Cochabamba Westermann and LaPaz Strongest. My host invited me to join her son and friends for what she referred to as a dose of "cultural enrichment" and I must say I wasn't disappointed.

To be frank, Bolivia may be considered perhaps the doormat of South American soccer, since it must share the same continent as perrenial powerhouses, Argentina and Brazil. Yet, that doesn't thwart the citizens love and spirit for the game.

Having been an avid sports fan my whole life and, having attended many an event, it was fascinating to feel the pulse in this stadium. Even though I grew up before soccer became popular in the U.S., so my knowledge of the game is regretably minimal, I watched as every fan identified personally with the action. Choosing sections and seats in the stands depended on how intensely you felt like rooting.

It is not my desire to measure sportsmanship nor weigh in on the merits of the game, all I wish to express is, that I was struck by a genuine intense collective feeling among the fans stronger than I have witnessed at any college or pro game. To understand the meaning and importance of this activity requires growing up in the culture and, in truth, might take years to grasp. These generally soft-spoken, quiet people came alive during the game. They bought food and souvenirs in prodigious amounts and commented vociferously about the quality of the play and officiating.

Then, after the game ended, and the crowd exited the stadium and walked to their cars or buses, even though the local team had won, the stillness I have so acutely sensed since I arrived in Bolivia, suddenly returned. For me it had been an exceptional day on my Amizade adventure, and as far as I was concerned, one worth shouting about!

Thinking of you.

2010-01-31T08:11:00.000-08:00

My last posts have illicited a number of thoughtful, sensitive, comments. I offer flowers from Bolivia to all of you who have been following this blog and, especially to those who have been willing to share their opinions. I wish you all the best today in your endeavor to find your way through this complicated life.

I am no botanist, but I am told that the flowers in the last picture are called carnivale.

They start blossoming in late January and usher in the holiday by that name, which is so important in this part of the world.

The top two photos were shot on an island in the middle of Lake Titicaca on my second day here. Diverse ecosystems abound, varying from almost barren deserts to lush tropical rainforests, consequently the markets are filled with an abundant variety of fruits, vegetables and exotic plants.

Seeing this beauty and sharing it in words and picture with you is a key component of my pleasure on this adventure.

Here's Looking at You!

2010-01-30T09:37:00.000-08:00

Yesterday I had a tour of Cochabamba, Bolivia's most famous landmark, the statue of Christ of Peace, Cristo de la Concordia, which is predominantly placed on San Pedro hill near the center of the city. It is the largest representation of Christ in the world, standing at 132.7 feet tall and exceeds the height of a similar famous statue on Corcavado Mountain in Rio de Janeiro by 2.7 feet. Allegedly, it's height of 33 meters was intentional to represent Christ's age at the cruxification.

If you look carefully, the body contains "stigmata" , which serve as windows for those that want to crawl up the windy internal staircase. The second photo shows a view of the city taken from one of the portals. It felt ironic and humorous to be a "living" Jew inside that massive structure.. The building just below the monument is the top of the tram which provides access to the statue. The starting point is not in view and almost a 1/4 mile straight down. It is my understanding that it was completed in 1988 too correspond with the visit of Pope John Paul II to this town. It was built with donations from prominent local people, corporations, and politicians and may have been intended to compete with the Mormon community here that built an extremely large temple. Regardless, its presence is helpful, as I wander the streets, as an orientation point to find the way to my temporary home.

On the Road Again

2010-01-29T12:20:00.000-08:00

I am sitting this morning in my new quarters in Cochabamba, after yesterday's long tiring bus ride from LaPaz. I believe the distance may not be that much further than Portland to Bend about 200 miles, but the ride took over eight hours. There was the snarling traffic in the adjacent community of El Alto. Honking collectivos crammed with riders, overloaded trucks and other buses belching out diesel exhaust were gridlocked by intersections supervised by overtaxed, but relaxed, traffic police. The bus wedged its way down a narrow street and stopped at a makeshift second bus station, where more passengers loaded until the bus was completely full. I had expected the bus to be like those I had seen in India, crammed to the roof, but this was actually quite a surprise. It was a comfortable double-decker, with each person having an assigned seat that reclined, and enjoying ample leg room. My red roller carry-on was stowed in the belly of the bus, but I brought my backpack on board,which I stowed under my feet, because I didn't want to be separated from my laptop. The bus had left the main terminal by 8:40 and, by 9:30, it hadn't really made it out of the city limits. Finally heading East, it passed the airport, an industrial area, more housing developments and made it to the open road.

What I had noticed also in Brazil, but especially here in Bolivia, was the vast number of uncompleted projects. Living units stood cold and incomplete, some lacking walls, roofs, windows. rebar sticking up from foundations, like iron weeds. Some units were complete but empty, and covered already with grime. Others were inhabited, but clearly lacking power or any amenities. It was explained to me that the problem with every work project is sustainability. People start with a little money from government grants or donations or loans. It is used up and then there is nothing left to complete the project. It takes years sometimes just to build a little house.

Yet, most of all, along the narrow rutted, but paved highway, I saw dirt, poor people and garbage. I had a somewhat detached feeling about the poor people and dirt. It was the garbage that effected me. I wondered whether my discomfort was a result of my German-American sense of order. The roadway, drainage ditches, creek bottoms, alleys, and empty lots were scattered with large quantities of refuse, especially plastic bottles and bags, paper products,rusting metal and broken building materials. I am sure I will be seeing the same in Africa, probably even worse. I dreaded the thought. I had seen such environmental affrontery already in India but, for some reason on this ride, I was more bothered by it. I guess it disturbed the scenic aspect of the trip. Seeing poor people in colorful clothing in front of quaint mud structures relaxing, or tending animals, or weaving blankets can look anachronistically idyllic. Yet the garbage upset the picture and negatively effected sympathetic thoughts toward the otherwise sad human condition. Instead, I was annoyed by the refuse. It was disgusting, especially when watching people picking through it or dogs and other animals rumaging amidst it. I remembered that there was no Thursday trash service and this ever-present garbage mess was minimal, when compared to the fact most the people have neither indoor plumbing nor clean water. The outhouses in the back, if there are any, are shared by many and the constant issue of people looking for clean water to drink or to bathe is a chore beyond my understanding. I take interesting pictures, but there is really nothing romantic about poverty.

As I was considering these thoughts, the bus window in front of me slid open and a portly man, who has been incessantly and loudly talking on his cellphone, pitched an empty plastic green Sprite bottle out the window. I heard it rap on the pavemment and, in spite of the millions of pieces of trash it joined, I found myself saying audibly, "You asshole." He neither heard me nor probably would have understood me. I discussed these thoughts with the site director, Jean Carla here in Cochabamba. She understood more personally and certainly even deeper than I the complex issues facing her country.

On Monday, I will be putting my first hours at the orphange and will post pictures of my experience next week. I'd love to share the rest of the bus ride before then. Just imagine a big bus on a truck-filled, narrow, windy boulder-strewn road taking 3 1/2hrs to go 60 miles crossing over a 13,ooo foot Andes pass. Must I say more!

At Peace in La Paz

2010-01-27T15:17:00.000-08:00

The day before yesterday, I sqeezed into a collectivo minivan with 18 other people, luggage on top, and made way to La Paz. I was dropped off on a side street somewhere on the hill seen in the last photo and flagged down a taxi. In my pitiful broken Spanish I asked the driver to take me to my hotel which I assumed was nearby. We were at a level even with this last picture's vantage point and it was only half way. Truthfully I had never been on such a ride. Like a car on an insane roller coaster, the cab rocketed down windy narrow cobblestone streets until we hit the bottom as seen in the third picture. The topography of 11,000 foot La Paz looks like a tiara, a valley, filled with buildings, surrounded by the steepest hillsides covered with houses and towered over and visible on a clear day by snow-covered 19,000 foot Mt. Illimani.

I found the streets noisy and crowded and to give you a sense of the divirgent growing population, I chose to share with you the not particulary interesting the second photo snapped in front of the Iglesia de San Francisco. The top picture of two older women was taken to the left of the second picture. You probably wonder about the hat worn by the lady on the left It is called a bombin and became popular in Bolivia in the 1920's. I have seen them worn predominently by middle aged and older women. It may be in vogue now and considered stylish, but have no idea how to ask or whether I should ask, and then again, I doubt that I would be able to understand the answer.

Tomorrow early, I leave for Cochabamba and begin my work at the orphanage. It is a seven hour bus ride and, let me assure you, its not Greyhound nor will I be the only person on the bus! I know I 'll be staying in a room in a house belonging to the director's mother. I doubt that I'll have the internet. This probably means that I'll be reaching you through an internet cafe that will hopefully allow me to upload photos. I still have so much I'd love to share.

Saying Good-bye to the Lake

2010-01-25T16:19:00.000-08:00

I left Lake Titicaca this morning and traveled to LaPaz and felt that I had to post a good-bye to the incredible place I had called home for the past 5 days. Not one picture can capture the enormity and power of this body of water. It is 110 miles long, in some places 900 feet deep and at 13,500 feet, has been such a life source for people of ancient civilizations into the present.

In the top picture, I am sitting on a hand-woven bench of reeds on a floating island, which has been temporarily anchored while its owners are away. It is about 50x100 and has on it two small woven houses, a cooking area, and a raised outhouse. People for centuries have floated on the lake, crossing its vast distances according to the wind and water level. It is a practical way to be near the fishing grounds and it eliminates quarreling with neighbors!

In the second photo, these fishermen have taken down the sail and one guy rows as the other lets out a purse seine.

Lastly, I shot a tranquil view of the lake beyond the resort town of Copacabana. This town is a jumping off place for tourists to visit several islands that contain ruins from both the Inkas and the earlier Amari and Tiwanaku people. Incidentally the land visible on the other side is in Peru.

(btw., if you are accustomed to seeing Inka spelled with a "c", that is now in disfavor. The former spelling was coined by the Spanish, who brutalized and enslaved the people and carted off mountains of silver and gold.)

I loved the peaceful feeling of the lake and, during my short stay, neither saw nor heard any aggressive behavior. For lack of a better expression, there is a soothing, profound, indescribable feeling high on the edge of the Andes.

Bolivians at Work

2010-01-24T04:37:00.000-08:00

I've put together a random collection of photos of people at work here on Lake Titicaca.

In the bottom picture, most fishermen use traditional sailboats to put out seines to catch fish, mainly trucha, trout, which was introduced in the 1930's, perjerry, kingfish, and a tiny fish, ispi, which is fried and battered and eaten as finger food.

In the second picture from the bottom, a lady is knitting, I think. I wish I could have gotten a better picture of the handiwork, but as I have said before, it is challenging enough to shoot close-ups of women.

In the second picture from the top is another picture of the renowned boat builder, I introduced in yesterday's blog. Here he poses in front of a small boat he has just completed built entirely of reeds which his grandson plans to use out in the lake for fun.

The top picture is a lady weaving a traditional shawl or light blanket. I don't know where she gets the yarn and I am totally ignorant about the process, except that there is a lady on the other side doing something as well.

Tomorrow I travel to La Paz where I will stay for three days before leaving for the orphanage in Cochabamba. The big city, I know already, will be an experience of coping with chaos. I'll send you some shots.

Faces of the Altiplano

2010-01-23T04:31:00.000-08:00

Each picture plays a part in my Amizade Adventure here in the high country of Bolivia along Lake Titicaca near the border with Peru. I know regardless what I say, the true message of this post is in the faces of the people.

The top picture is dedicated to Dawn Emerson, my art teacher and friend, who last year saw the power of a toy, and especially to Tapirgal, of Astoria Oregon Daily Photo for her continuous support and understanding. It shows a mother and children holding animal-themed flashlights I brought as gifts from Tapir and Friends Animal Store for lovely children around the world. This family was the first to let me into their lives. The father, a fisherman, not pictured here, is behind the wall hand carving a new boat, which can be seen behind the mother's elbow.

The second picture is the children's aunt. She and three other ladies were sitting in front of the house and were doing beadwork. At first they waved me off when I gestured if I could take their pictures. Finally they allowed me to approach. After taking shots of the boat, the boat builder and the house, then the children arrived. In miserable Spanish, I conversed with them and finally I was able to take pictures of the lady above and then the rest of them at work. Perhaps, I'll share these photos at a later date.

The last picture is, of one of the most famous residents along the lake. His name is Paulino Estaban, and he and his sons constructed in 1970 the Ra II for Thor Heyerdahl, the Norwegian ethnographer and adventurer of Kon Tiki fame. An amazing working replica is tied up in the water to the left of this scene. It is a large sailing boat made entirely of reeds, exactly like the one Heyerdahl used to sail from Morroco to Barbados to prove once again that South Americans had the know-how to sail to Polynesia, and that the Egyptians could have built similar ones to voyage to the Americas. This fact is important to Mormons, who have heavily evangelized Bolivia, that the lost tribe had the ability to travel to and settle in North America. This man's son, also a master of the ancient art of boat building using only reeds, took me in his motorboat out onto the lake to some islands for an incredible day, which I hope to share shortly.

I am having trouble accessing blogger and making comments on city daily photos, so it has been difficult to follow your own posts. I may not be commenting often, but I certainly am there in spirit, and will try to read older posts when I can.

Taking my first steps

2010-01-22T04:17:00.000-08:00

It has been a bit of a job acclimating to the rarefied air here on Lake Titicaca. I feel better now and have able to go out and have already had a flurry of interesting adventures which I will gladly share over the next several posts. As I ventured into the near deserted village yesterday morning, I spied this young man tending several llamas. He avoided me and with a small whip began herding his animals further into a field. I walked on and I saw several people glance at me and then basically look away. They seemed guarded or uninterested in another camera-toting tourist. I took some landscape shots and pictures of the lake, but I realized that to show you the people would take a special effort.

These highland people have established themselves in a totally hostile environment. Imagine what it takes to flourish at 14,000 feet. It is cold, wet, and the terrain is really steep on which to grow crops or raise animals. I finally figured out what I needed to do to talk with the people and had some great success later in the day. On my return to the hotel, I came across the same fellow. This time he was packing a baby llama and was quite proud. I am sure I will see many more, even thousands of llamas, because they are as stable food source in the region. Ironically, the hotel served llama for dinner last night, feeling inundated in shame, I sampled. I'm sure hoping it wasn't this little fella.

First hours in Bolivia

2010-01-20T14:45:00.000-08:00

This post is to let you know that I made it to Bolivia. I snapped this while leaving the airport in a taxi for Lake Titicaca. You might wonder where all the other photos are. Well, I was so tired, after having spent two hot nights in airports and as predicted, the minute I got off the plane, the altitude really hit me. like it does most people with rapid heart beat, nausea, and dizziness. La Paz is at around 13,000 feet and doesn't remotely resemble Bend, Oregon, but at the moment is 45 degrees. In fact it is so exotic and yes, I've seen llamas, that I didn't have the energy to take any pictures. I kept wanting to see everything and, at the same time, struggled to stay awake. Once I didn't know if I micro-napped or passed out. Now I am at my hotel and still haven't slept much and feel pretty crappy An adventure has some hard parts. People who know me have heard me say before, "It hurts so good!" Well, this is one of those times.

Last Samba in Brazil

2010-01-18T11:49:00.000-08:00

This is my last post in Brazil. Hopefully someone will be picking me up at 4:30 AM and taking me to the airport, where I will be traveling to Bolivia for my next stop on my Amizade Adventure. The internet at the site is down, so I am writing today from a cafe down the street. The computer is old, the keyboard is strangely configured, the place has people waiting and, if I took off my shirt, it would feel like I were taking a sauna.
This probably is more indicative of the conditions, by which I will be doing subsequent posts. It may be a while until I check in again. I don´t arrive at my hotel on Lake Titicaca until late tomorrow and I don´t report to the orphanage until January 27th. In the interim I hope to explore my new surroundings and may even cross into Peru.
For my last picture of Santarem, I had intended to enlarge the above shot. It is of a fisherman waving good bye. I enjoyed the hospitality of the Brazilian people, the diverse and never dull culture, and especially the natural beauty of Santarem, its vicinity and, of course, the rivers. The power and sheer size of the Amazon and the Tapajos leave me at a loss for words. We took a small boat out the other day and I kept on catching myself from thinking I was on the coastline of some ocean. In any case, my next stop will be high in the Andes. The first time I see a llama or an alpaca I´ll think of you.

Work in Progress

2010-01-17T13:22:00.000-08:00

There have beeen those of you wondering when I would finally show the project that the Amizade organization has been working on this year in Santarem, Brazil. The above picture is the almost completed first two classrooms of the first stage of a community after-school facility for a small neighborhood on the outskirts of this middle-sized town in Para province along the Amazon.

Briefly, Brazilian public school provides only four hours of school a day regardless of grade. To supplement the childrens' education and to provide day care during the time when students are not in school, parents and other volunteers help in local centers to provide a safe, educational, stimulating environment. Amizade has helped build, together with community workers, 4 0r 5 such

facilities throughout the area. Funds are obtained through donations from philanthropic groups in America such as Rotary International and by a portion of the fee paid by college students to take part in the work program.

The second photo shows some of the group of 10 volunteers from Wake Forest. They spent many hours spreading dirt to level the area outside the building and they plastered the walls inside. I arrived two days before their departure, but I saw them return twice from the site covered with red dirt after working in the heat. They had made friends with some of the locals, were full of stories, abounded in laughter, and beamed with a sense of accomplishment.

The first photo shows the site director Geli with some of the local children. The little boy is already of school age and the girl on the extreme right is a seventh grader. They are all brothers and sisters. Three children are not in this photo. I spent time in the tiny shack on the edge of this picture where, including mother and father, nine people live, but more on that later.

I have a few pictures of me shoveling sand to make concrete for the floor to prove that I got my hands dirty too, but my main purpose, here in Santarem, was to chronicle the total experience.

A Day in Nature

2010-01-15T09:42:00.000-08:00

The other day I experienced what might have been the highlight of my Amizade Adventure so far. My host arranged a private tour through the only remaining old growth rainforest about 70 miles South of Santarem along the Tapajos River on the Amazon Plateau. It is a huge protected area accesible only through locked gates and has a few jeep trails, which lead to research and ranger outposts. I had a veteran guide who drove us in and then, armed with a machete,hacked us back for hours on game trails. Since the rainy season is only just starting, walking was easy but would have required special boots to tromp through wet ground later on in the season. Also mosquitos were at a minimum but can be savage at dusk, and certainly all day long later on in the year. I had memories of old movies of expeditions through the jungle, in which I was now a character. The forest was exceptionally tranquil, with its quiet only disturbed by strange bird calls, warning others nearby that the natives were coming. There were also small, croaking frogs, purple, yellow and black-spotted, sitting on hundred year, moss-covered ironwood logs or on giant palmate leaves. Also we were accopanied by large flourescent blue butterflies zigzagging through the undergrowth. Of course I was hoping, however vainly, to see a tapir or at least some tracks, but not a jaguar or leopard for obvious reasons. The guide assured me that stumbling on a boa wrapped on a tree was a remote possibility but I never felt afraid. Fortunately we came upon a troop of howler monkeys high in the canopy in search of pods or looking for a better place to sleep.

I took many pictures but have displayed only these three for your review. It would be easier to capture a dream than to do this experience justice through only a few pictures. The thickness of the foliage, the quality of the air, the sheer size of the trees and the number of little things, too many to mention are each a subject of its own that compose this indescribable whole.

The top picture shows one of hundreds of bird-of -paradise flowers which adorned open spaces. It was serving a banquet of nectar to worker ants who filed past a queen located near its center.

The second photo, when enlarged may do a better job indicating how large this spider was. The body was at least as long as my index finger, which I chose, understandably, not to put up next to this beauty. The strand of its web behind her was not paricularly sticky but was thick and of the texture of rope.

Last, I chose to show you the canopy. Looking upwards is like seeing leaves inside a kaleidescope and gave the sensation of a patchwork green -doily covering the sky.

It was a day to remember. Yet, as I write this account now, the images are already slipping away. I recall them to you now like scenes of a movie, I once saw many years ago.

Santarem, Part 3

2010-01-14T09:29:00.000-08:00

As a City Daily Photo blogger and as an Amizade volunteer, today I have included a few pictures intended to give a glimpse into commercial aspect of Santarem, Brazil. The top photo which lacks a focal point, actually is typical of shopping along busier outlying streets. There are vendors and small stores selling just about every food and household good and service imagineable. Here a man offers fresh fruit juices, and behind him, a butcher has meat for sale. For obvious reasons, I avoid sampling any foods, however delectable they may appear, which most likely will bring about unpleasant intestinal consequences.

The second photo was taken inside a modern downtown department store. My intent is not show architecture but to help understand what items cost. Today, the exchange is 162 Brazilian Reals, pronounced( he-eyes) to the dollar. This means that "Made in China" remote control "must-have for Christmas" toy costs Mama and Papa $163.00 or 1/4 of an average monthly salary. I saw cartoon- covered, better quality school backpacks for over $100.00, although cheaper ones for 30 R's can be found in smaller shops. I don't understand why such imported items are so expensive, but inflation has been terrible here and certainly has outdistanced wages.

The third picture is a hoot. Behind the wall is the Eros Motel, where rooms are rented by the hour. Where homes lack privacy, young lovers are without cars, and husbands wish to "lunch" with their secretary, places with names such as "Intimus" and "Hippopatumus" abound. Drive in, lock the gate, pay and no questions are asked. Many an unsuspecting tourist, unfamiliar with Brazialian custom, and exhausted after a long bumpy bus ride, ask where they might get a good night sleep at the nearby motel!

Last is a narrow business street in the old downtown. Although most commercial streets are wider, this photo is a typical scene. Parking is terrible, trucks, buses, taxis and motorcycles whiz by pell-mell making driving a continual peril. By the way, do any of you believe anyone here stops for pedestrians? I'd like a show of hands.

Home Sweet Home

2010-01-13T14:14:00.000-08:00

Yesterday, I posted four pictures of Santarem, Brazil, similar to those found in a guidebook.
They showed the attractive waterfront, the town square with church, and a smiling tourist. Today, as a seasoned city blogger, I feel compelled to develop a more complete image.

All three street scenes may convey poverty as we know it, but, relatively speaking, these images are fairly typical and do not represent, by any means, even remotely the lowest level of existence around here. I feel that sometimes it is better in a post to encourage the viewer to look at the details. I think some of you may say that these photos may remind you of places you've been, like Mexico for instance. What may be worth considering is that these people and neighborhoods have electricity, running water and are relatively clean. A majority of people in the world have none of the above and would gladly trade their situation to be as rich as we see before us. Tomorrow I hope to share several pictures describing the commercial district and then on to the Amizade project.