It's About Time

May 26, 2006

We finally did it. We kept saying we would, but even here in Africa, life seems to interfere all too often. We get all wrapped up in other things and put off until tomorrow what we are perfectly capable of doing today. We committed on Wednesday and made good on our word on Thursday.

Thursday was Africa Day, a holiday throughout the region. We had no school so we spent the day lazing away. We went swimming midday, then came home to get cleaned up. We fed Zachary some food we knew he’d eat, loaded into In Sha Allah, and headed for the village.

The man who runs the meat counter at the mine village market is named Togolla(sp?). He speaks the most English of anyone in the store. I have mentioned him before; he is the man who commented in a previous entry about Americans being more tolerant. He is a very nice man. He owns a restaurant in the village.

The place has been open for about six months. I had told him several months ago that we would try to make it in on a Sunday evening. Apparently he heard me promise and, of course, I forgot we even talked about it. He was very upset that we did not make it in on the aforementioned evening.

Ultimately, it’s my fault. Unfortunately, my memory is about as long as my…nose. I felt terrible. I explained the situation to Carrie and she quickly explained to Togolla what a dork I am and what a poor memory I have. It took some time, but eventually he was placated and came to laugh at me as well. Whew! I certainly hadn’t meant to offend him, but I’m afraid I did just that.

Last night we went. We told him on Wednesday that we would be by around six. He asked Carrie what kind of food she liked. It was only then that we remembered that Malian restaurants often only serve what they serve. There is a main dish offered each night and that is what is for sale. Don’t ask for a menu or a Carte du Mange, there isn’t one. You take what they give you. Thus the reason for feeding Z before we went out..

We arrived shortly after six. Dinner was on the table and again we were chastised for being late. Two beef dishes, a veggie plate, fresh rolls, and a big bowl of Mango. The food was lekker! We stuffed ourselves and still had leftovers. When I queried about the bill, he asked us to pay what we felt it was worth. Aside from the fact that the place was hotter than the hinges of Hades, it was a terrific experience.

After the meal he insisted that we see his house and meet his family. We strolled through the village, gazing at this and gawking at that. It’s hard to blend when you never will. We encountered several students, rediscovered places we had been before, and eventually ended up at Togolla’s home.

We walked past several children on our way through the main gate. Once inside, we discovered a beautiful little courtyard. There was guava trees and mango trees, chickens, goats, and kids; the proper Malian household. We met his wife, sat in his hammock, and admired his livestock. As the sun started its daily farewell, we made our way back to the car and our cookie cutter white bread life.

We agreed that, barring any unsavory bowel issues, we would definitely head back to his place to engage in more culinary delights.
MJR

Learning to do without

May 23, 2006

I’m struggling here.

On the one hand I want nothing more then Mali to be prosperous. I want the country to become viable. I want the people to eat and grow and move forward.

What does that mean exactly? There are several Malian families around us who have purchased Mercedes’ and computers and all the trappings of Western culture. Is that really what I want?

The natives here live off of the land. They grow what they need to eat, they manufacture what they need to live, and they get by with what they have.

One of the things that I have learned about living here is to fix my own problems. If something doesn’t work, I must devise a way to fix it. There is no Home Depot, no Target, and no Schuck’s. If the car doesn’t run, I must fix it with what I have. I never would have believed that I could do so much with so little. The ultimate question is, “Can I fix it with what I have at hand?” If not, then it remains broken.

Picture yourself in the times of the pioneers. They found a plot, harvested the trees to build a house, diverted the stream to grow crops, and created what they needed to live. That is life here; if you cannot find it in the village, then develop a plan to fix it yourself.

From a Western perspective, it is incredibly frustrating. When I stand back and look at the life the people have, I have to reconsider. I could not sustain their life. I could not live in a mud hut for long before I would go crazy.

On the other hand, is a new Mercedes really what the family needs? I am at a loss. I really want the Malians to be prosperous, but I have no need for another Capitalist economy driving the poor laborer into the ground.

The Malians are beautiful people. They are kind, unassuming, gentle, and extremely trustworthy. Isn’t this what we would wish from everyone? How can this culture be maintained while implementing programs to eradicate Malaria, hunger, and high infant mortality? I don’t think it can. On the other hand, I want the Malians to be successful. I want to see more of their children living past their fifth birthday. I want to see the life expectancy rate pass fifty years old. Can this happen without injecting the Western idea of success?

I admire the resourcefulness of this culture. I appreciate the fact that they make do with what they have. Nothing gets thrown out here. Save it and use it again or pass it on to someone else who has need of it. What a way to live! Most of the garbage I see along the roadside is of Western making; plastic bags, plastic bottles, and aluminum cans. There is no way to deal with these things so they blow around on the road, eventually finding a home among the brush.

Left to their own devices, these things would not exist, but the natives would have no hope of progressing into the 21st century. Maybe that’s okay, considering that they have no electricity, no telephones (now they have cell phones, but they have never had land lines), and no contact with the rest of the world. Their transition to the 21st century then is a really big leap!

Should I be frustrated? Maybe I should be grateful that I have been given the opportunity to see that Home Depot, and Target, and Schuck’s really aren’t as necessary as I previously believed them to be…
MJR

In Memorium

May 23, 2006

I met a man upon a raft.

I have come to understand that the water is high right now in the Pacific Northwest. All of that snow is melting, causing the rivers to run at stupendously high levels. One hundred year floods they call them, although we have experienced water this high in the last ten years. It makes me jealous.

While we are in Mali sweating because the thermometer tops 110 in the shade, folks at home are riding some of the best whitewater in the world. I read with envy the notes from River Riders every week about the phenomenal water and the joyous exuberance extracted from the flowing of that water. I want to be there. This week the news was not so great though.

The Klickitat is a beautiful river. I have only run it twice, but would eagerly sign up for it again. It is remote, technical, and tons of fun. It is always an all day trip as there are few places along its run to put in or take out. Water levels have to be just right in order to ride it. Although I worked as a guide for twelve years, I can only remember that river being run three or four seasons. A season on that river is one run or two.

The base of operations for the Klick is BZ Corners. Here we keep the gear for the White Salmon, a much more commercially viable river. Here there is somewhat of a population center as well as easy access to the outside world. The biggest challenge to working there for me was the availability of camping.

Most of the guides in the area are freelancers. They are a tight band of individuals who take care of each other. There is not a lot of room for outsiders, especially ones from Riders. We are the red headed step children of the working guides in BZ Corners. Everyone always had somewhere to stay, but no one wanted outsiders to invade.

One day I met someone different. His name was Jeff Driver. A mutual friend introduced us. I never rafted with him, in fact I only met him a couple of times. If you asked him, he would not know me. He owned a rafting company on the White Salmon. He launched his boats from the front yard of his house. He had a nice piece of land; not huge, but enough so that a person could spread out. He opened his land for camping to all guides. It didn’t matter who you were or what company you worked for; if you wanted to stay you were welcome. He offered space for your tent, a toilet, a community gathering spot with electricity, a shower, and an occasional meal. It was paradise for the dirt bag rafting guide; an Eden unparalleled in the rafting world.

The water on the Klickitat is running at twice its average for this time of year. It’s a temptation too beautiful to pass up. Jeff ran a float there last weekend. They came upon a log jam, perhaps the most dangerous obstacle a boater can encounter. Three boats flipped, putting nineteen swimmers in the water. Two didn’t make it. One of those two was Jeff.

An incredible sadness comes over me as I write this. I find these emotions strange considering I did not cry when my own father died and Jeff is a man I barely knew. He was a generous man. I envy his life. I would like to think that I would live the same way as he, given the chance. I try to take solace in the fact that he died doing what he loved. Perhaps his death would have been truly tragic had he died chopping wood, or driving down the road. Instead, he died on the river. At 50 years old, he died doing what he loved most. May we all die the same way.



MJR

Sub - Divisions

April 30, 2006

What is the difference between paranoia and fear? Is there one?

South Africa is a land of division. Everything is compartmentalized into its own little box. This seems to be true socially, psychologically and physically.

Everywhere we turned there were fences. Each house in Jo’burg has an eight foot wall topped with razor wire or electric wire. There is a remotely operated gate that allows you inside. These walls were also prevalent in Durban, although not so much in Cape Town.

Everyone we talk to about these walls has the same response; “You get used to them. Even with the walls though, they still get in.” Them, the faceless bad guy. The one that is there solely to do you harm. It is not said aloud but everybody is fearful. The society is split.

Even in the countryside there are walls. Driving to Pilanesburg we observed huge communities walled to the outside. The houses within were massive, each with its own security fencing around it. Immediately outside the outer walls were the shantytowns. No fences around the shanties. Do you suppose that’s because the people there aren’t scared? Or maybe they just feel they have nothing to protect. How does one lead a life inside walls?

I know these walls exist in the US. I have seen them. Upscale houses always have large barriers to keep the undesirables out. In South Africa it starts to feel as if the entire country is walled off. Are they locking others out or locking themselves in? None of us could quite get a handle on it.

I have started reading a book on South African history. It’s rather thick, but is well written and is so far an easy read. Apparently the Dutch originally wanted to build a canal between Table Bay and False Bay. This would have effectively cut off Cape Town from the rest of the continent. A permanent barrier between us and them. In the end it was deemed too labor intensive so they opted for a giant hedge instead. It was a hedge that stretched for miles. A physical barrier, built in the seventeenth century, to keep them out.

It’s interesting to me; this trip, this exploration, these observations of a foreign land. It is easy for me to sit and be judgmental. In the meantime, I understand that the great leaders of our own nation are discussing ways to build their own walls to keep them out.

What is this fear of others? Is it cultivated or inherent? We see it even here in Mali. Let me emphasize that the West Africans I have interacted with are the friendliest, kindest people I have ever had the privilege of meeting. They are poor. They are hungry. They are not violent or vindictive. Yet we can’t find one person to help us teach English in the village. The idea of traveling to the village once a week and speaking to the natives is out of the question for the ex-pats. We have met ex-pats who have never set foot in a bar in the village. Some have semi-legitimate excuses such as a lack of transportation, but most are just plain scared to step outside their walls.

I am bewildered. I am at a loss. I am sad. It seems we are more adept at building walls than tearing them down.
MJR

Questions, Questions, Questions

Zachary:
I read a book before nap time each day. I plan it this way, so that I too can rest after work, put my feet up, and retreat from the midday heat. I love to read to Zachary as he is a voracious listener and gets completely involved. He loves to “read” some things himself. He loves to spell out the words and tell the sounds he knows. He questions the text and questions the pictures. Such fun, even when we are pooped right before bedtime.

So I sit up with another chapter of Pooh, the heavy volume propped upon my chest, look out the window at the bright green tree laden with yellow mangos, hug my kiddo, and wonder if life can get much better than this!
____
I realize recently how much I help my child learn each day! It feels so good to be a part of this amazing growth. He is asking questions all the time. I answer each inquiry with as complete an answer as possible, or as complete as he has time for. Maybe that is in part why he continues to be so inquisitive. I like to think so!

His memory is long and he has an ear for detail. No word in his story books can be left out, no song shortened to save time. The ‘conversations’ we have at dinner include everything from visiting Playland in Rye, New York to the visit to see the boats (ferry) in Seattle with Aunt Marjorie and Aunt Nancy. He recounts each detail with pleasure maybe getting a bite swallowed in between. Zachary can sit on his daddy’s lap for long stretches watching the photos compiled of our journeys and of the people he knows and narrated as each goes by. I often wonder how much he will remember of this time, these African experiences. Perhaps with lots of photographs and dinner conversations, pieces of this part of his life will always stay with him and with us.



CSN

Home Again

April 29, 2006

We are back home.

It feels odd to be here. I don’t know how to explain. It is as if we never left, but also like we don’t quite belong.

All of our flights went smoothly. We boarded in Cape Town and flew two hours to Jo’burg, arriving at 9:30 pm. Three hours later we boarded a four hour flight to Nairobi. We all passed out during the flight. Upon landing we discovered that Z had wet himself and the seat he occupied. Fortunately we had some time in Nairobi.

I had a button down fleece with me so we put him in that. It dragged on the floor. This allowed Carrie to remove his wet things and take them off to the restroom for a rinse and blow dry. Then we proceeded through security and onto our next plane. This one was an eight hour flight to Bamako. It’s almost four thousand miles from Nairobi to Bamako! Africa is a really big continent. It was excruciatingly long, but uneventful.

At Bamako we had to gather our bags and then head off to the departure terminal to catch the charter to the mine. Bamako is perhaps the slackest airport I will ever be in. Upon reaching the terminal, everyone is required to fill out a slip of paper with pertinent information. Once this is complete you wait in line to give your passport and the document to the officer in the cage. After that you can go to baggage claim. The airport itself is very small. From the line you can see the carousels and the exit door. As we waited in line a woman came through from the other side (baggage claim) to chat with the man behind us. He left the line and went with her, returning to his place several minutes later. No one even blinked an eye. There is no customs desk. One just has to claim their bags, have them x-rayed, and leave.

Our layover was only supposed to be an hour, but that dragged into two. After having traveled for twenty hours we were ready to get home so those two hours seemed to last two days. We tried in vain to contact Mohammed so that he could pick us up as our phone quit working. Zman passed out on Momma’s lap and just as we started our descent he upchucked all over both of them. We disembarked, the heat hitting us like a right hook and noticed that Mohammed was nowhere to be found. Wimpie was there though and he agreed to take us home. We took Mohammed by surprise, I’m afraid.

The good news is that the car is fixed and running like a champ, and the sandbox is complete and filled with sand. Unfortunately, the washer is still broken, the electric kettle no longer works, and we still don’t have internet at the house. We are spending our Saturday catching up and sorting out these issues.

I am not sure why it feels so odd to be here. This is, after all, our home. Nothing changed dramatically while we were gone, although the new development is now fully lived in. Our things are exactly where we left them, yet it doesn’t feel quite right. It is a very strange feeling that we will all have to explore. Tonight we have been invited to a dinner party. Monday we start back to work. Perhaps once we establish our routines again things will feel different.
MJR

Ostrich Farm

April 27, 2006

We took a beautiful drive from Plettenburg Bay to Oudtshoorn. We dawdled along the way, but ended in a great little valley in the Little Karoo. The town sits between two mountain ranges so gets little rain. The semi arid soil is good for growing port wine grapes and raising ostriches. There are ostrich farms everywhere!

We had a short day of driving so we checked into our B&B early. We relaxed through the afternoon and then went out and had a fabulous meal at “The Godfather”. We got up bright and early the next morning and headed up the hill to an ostrich farm. We toured the facilities, stopping to interact with and feed Linda, one of the oldest females on the farm.






Next we went to the corral where we had the opportunity to ride one of the big birds. Unfortunately, the guide took one look at my big belly and decided that I weighed too much to be able to ride one. Carrie and Z each sat on one, then we spent some money in the curio shop and blazed a trail.






Our second stop was a play farm. They had trampolines and a sandbox for Zachary. Mom and dad rode the bumper boats, the zip line, and the quad buggies. We also took a bucket of food for the pigs, rabbits, goats, ostriches, and geese. A good time was had by all.




We then proceeded via the back way to get to the highway. We still had some driving to do so we pressed on. We felt compelled to stop at Ronnie’s Sex Shop. As you drive through the unpopulated, undeveloped countryside, winding through mountains and valleys you are suddenly taken by one white building standing all by itself. I passed it by at first, but Carrie insisted that I go back. It was nothing more than a little saloon and sandwich shop for wayward travelers like us.




We journeyed on most of the day, dropping through a hole in a rock into the more fertile wine country. On through the evening until we entered the longest tunnel I have ever seen and ended up back in Cape Town. Back to the same spot we stayed in on our first foray through here.

Mom went to the airport yesterday, while we gear up to head that way today. We will arrive back in Mali twenty three hours after we leave South Africa. It’s going to be a very long night.
MJR

So Many Animals...

What amazing wildlife we saw in South Africa, some I had never even heard of before :
Giraffe
Zebra
Nyala
Blue Wildebeest
Red Hartebeest
Impala
Springbok
Bush big
Wild boar
Hippo
Kudu
Water Buffalo
Monkeys – 12 different species
Lemur
Lots of Baboons – even in someone’s car!
Crocodile
Penguins on the Beach
Seals by the Ferry
Ostrich – sat on one
Ginea Fowl
Huge Blue Crane - the national bird
Crested Crane
Flamingos
Peacocks
As well as loads of other birds including parrots perched on Grammy and caught in Daddy’s hair!

And those are only the ones Zachary saw really close up!

At a greater distance, we also saw:
Water buck
Bush Buck
Duiker
Mongoose
Rhino
Elephant
Ibis
Parrot fish and rainbow fish while snorkeling in Kosi Bay

And my personal favorite…an enormous Dung Beetle rolling a ball of poop the size of a softball!

Almost unbelievable, except that I was there!
CSN

Beware the Cockatoos!

April 26, 2006

We went to Monkeyland and Birds of Eden! These are two parks close to Moonshine.

Monkeyland takes in monkeys from around the world and sets them loose on their three hundred acres. These primates come from zoos, parks, and private owners. They will never be released into the wild as they have become too accustomed to humans to be scared of them. There are twelve different species of primates encapsulated within the grounds.







Birds of Eden is a similar park next door. It houses many different varieties of birds under a giant aviary. Some of them are perhaps a little too friendly, but they are all beautiful and somewhat tame.












MJR

Plettenburg Bay

April 23, 2006

We left Cape Town later then we had planned. Traffic was bad so we had slow going. We went east via the coast and ended up in Swellingdam.

We spent the night at a great little B&B that was just like grandma’s house. We got a late start the next morning as the folks who ran the B&B talked and talked and before we knew it, it was much later then we wanted it to be. We drove straight on to Mossel Bay where we enjoyed fresh oysters on the half shell.

Eventually we arrived at Moonshine on Whiskey Creek; our self-catering cottage for the next four nights. The cabins are beautiful. They are all hand crafted and individually designed by Albert, the German fella that runs the place. All the water is run off caught in big cisterns. Drinking water is treated and everything else is straight from the sky.



The playground was created by his hands as well. The seesaw is beautiful. It’s one piece of wood, an alien species that needs to be removed. He has also built really cool wooden toys and a natural swimming pool. His garden is watered with the grey water from his sinks and washing machine. There are monkeys in the trees and a really steep trail running down to Whiskey Creek. It is beyond amazing.






We rested the first day. The next day we hiked out to the end of Robberg Point. This is a promontory that extends out into Plettenburg Bay. It was an especially challenging hike for my mother. She was a champ. She required some assistance through the steepest parts, but completed the loop without complaint. We even hiked down to the beach and dipped our feet in the Indian Ocean. There was a tremendous downpour in the afternoon. Fortunately we were inside a market at the time. Of course this meant that we spent more money than we had planned on, but oh well…



This little piece of the world is certainly beautiful. It is more developed than the north coast, but also more lush and green. We took a steam train ride yesterday that traveled about 70 km along the coast and through the country side. We saw the back side of many places; some of them subtle and quiet and others squalid and packed together. The entire length of the trip we were waved at and greeted with awe by spectators.



It is much like America, this far off place called South Africa. Perhaps it is more similar than we would like to admit. I for one would like to believe that we are enlightened and certainly not racist; but I know this to be untrue. Grim reality is always easier to see and therefore judge in others then in ourselves.
MJR

An Island of Separation

April 23, 2006

Robben Island is the place where Nelson Mandela spent most of his time in incarceration. His crime was participating in an illegal political organization.



He was part of the leadership of the African National Congress (ANC) when he was arrested in 1963. As such he was kept in a special wing of the prison reserved for the leadership. The hope was that by separating the leaders from the others, no further planning could take place.

Robben Island is quite large. There is a thriving community there as well as the prison museum. It was originally used as a leper colony by the Portuguese. In those days the men were separated from the women so as to discourage pro-creation.

The first place we visited was the maximum security facility. It was reserved for political prisoners. At first they housed the political prisoners together with common criminals. They soon discovered, however that the political prisoners were recruiting the criminals into their ranks. This would not do.

There are eight wings. A and B were reserved for leadership. C was solitary confinement. D, E, F, and G were for the rank and file. The kitchen housed kitchen staff. A, B, and C had one person per cell while the rest had as many as eight to a cell. Toilets were buckets. There were no beds until 1979 when the Red Cross essentially pressed the issue. All meals were delivered to each wing. In this way the prisoners never had an opportunity to mix with anyone outside of their wing.




Coloureds and Asians were given shoes while the blacks were not. This was meant to create dissent amongst the incarcerated. Meals too were different. Blacks got less then the others, although they all got the same thing every day. There were no whites and no women within this prison.



Hard labor was the order of the day. There was a limestone quarry on the island that the prisoners worked by hand (remember the blacks had no shoes!). They dug the rock, broke it up, and hauled it to its final destination all under the watchful eyes of the guards who had orders to shoot to kill. A hand carved cave in the quarry served as the restroom, lunchroom, and school. Since education was at first forbidden, they would teach each other during lunch breaks using the sand and their fingers. They quarried the rock for the prison and built the sports fields for the wardens.



Pictures: Top; a door at the prison. Middle; the limestone cave, called university. Bottom;the prison

On the journey to the quarry we passed a house. Regretfully, I can’t remember the name of the fellow that was housed there. He too was part of the original leadership. When his sentence ended in Pretoria, legislation was passed to keep him locked up. He was moved to his own house on Robben Island. He was allowed to wear his own clothes and eat the same food as the guards. He was allowed no visitors. He was also forbidden to talk to anyone, even the guards. Eventually he was allowed visits from his family; for thirty minutes every six months. He developed throat problems from lack of use and was finally released after he went insane.

Another sobering day. It is difficult to fully condemn the South Africans knowing that our own history is not all that different. It is impossible, however to come away from this experience without being profoundly affected. Having entered this country knowing very little about their experience, I come away with a tremendous respect for the courage and determination of those who struggled against apartheid. I hope their future is brighter than their past.
MJR

Cape Town

April 22, 2006

Cape Town is a beautiful city. It appears to be surrounded by mountains that look as if they are giant wrinkles of land. The north side is bordered by Table Bay.



We arrived the day before Easter. We had already decided that we needed a bigger car than the one we had in Durban, but Budget was all out of bigger cars. Instead the clerk (Claire) decided that we should be upgraded to a Mercedes free of charge. It’s not really bigger then the Nissan, but I quickly agreed that it would work much better.

Our “hotel” turned out to be in the basement of a mansion on a hill to the south of the city. It had a huge living space with two bedrooms and two bathrooms and a tremendous view of Cape Town. We picked up some pizzas and settled in for the night.



I promised my mother I would attend Easter services the next day. This I did, if maybe just a little grudgingly. Sunday afternoon we drove around Table Mountain and up the western side of the peninsula. The views were astounding, the road was beautiful. We found our way into Cape Town and enjoyed dinner at an honest to God steak house. It was heaven.

Monday we got an early start and headed down the peninsula towards the Cape of Good Hope. We meandered through several little towns, stopping to window shop, drink coffee, and enjoy the penguins. The African penguin is indigenous to the area and can be found on several beaches. We stopped at the Boulders where there are boardwalks over the beach that provide excellent viewpoints for observing the birds. They were originally called jackass penguins because their call sounds just like the bray of a jackass. Once we had been thoroughly whipped by the wind we moved on.





We encountered baboons and ostriches on our way to the point. There are actually two points of land; one is called Cape Point and the other is the Cape of Good Hope. We rode a funicular to the top of the hill where we could overlook both points and the crashing of the sea beyond. The hikes were long and fairly arduous so we opted for lunch. After eating we drove around to the Cape of Good Hope.



Pictures: Top; Cape of Good Hope, Bottom; Cape point

We had been warned about the baboons. They tell you never to leave your car open or food accessible. On the way to the point we encountered a fellow who had done both. His little white car had been invaded by two different primates. A large male came in through the open driver’s door and a smaller female entered through the rear hatchback. The female had removed pillows and blankets and was busily examining them when the driver slammed the hatch shut. The male inside the vehicle went ape shit (pardon the pun) and ran out of the door after the man. Once the man was away, the baboon climbed back in to investigate further. He apparently found something he liked as he climbed out and perched on the ground next to the car. The man, trying to be sneaky, reached across the hood and pushed the door in an attempt to close it. The baboon reacted swiftly. He leapt over the door and onto the hood. I believe the man may have soiled himself in his hasty retreat. Solid entertainment.

After watching zebra grazing by the side of the road, we continued on our way. We traveled along a spectacular road that rivals California’s State Route 1 for its beauty. A narrow, meandering road with a steep cliff dropping to the sea on the left and a cliff face on the right. Up and over a pass and down the other side. Incredible! The speed limit was about thirty miles an hour and that was too fast. We wandered about, ogling the scenery until dinner time.

Tuesday we packed our bags, loaded the car, and headed for the Garden Route with a detour to Robben Island.



MJR