scared thrilled scared thrill scared thrilled

Musical Bones

2009-03-23T09:04:00.000-07:00

People sometimes talk about having, or not having, a “musical bone in their bodies”. I wonder sometimes how true it might be, that music is carried deep inside, in the marrow, and passed like life itself from fathers and mothers to sons and daughters.

My grandfather was a Mennonite, which is (loosely) a sort of Canadian version of the Amish, and I am now officially in trouble for such an insufficient explanation. It was Western Canada in the early 20th Century and life in a Saskatchewan Mennonite colony was tough. Mennonites are sober and pacifist, and the music (strictly acapela) which drifted as a mist from their churches reflected the seriousness and dourness of life on the frozen prairies. My grandfather, with his brothers in tow, chose another path, riding from town to town on his horse with a violin on his back and a six-shooter stuck in his belt. Like a minstrel outlaw, banished from church and community, with steel that glinted from his eyes, he played in barns and halls across the Canadian prairies.
He spent his life as a carpenter and owned the enormous, gnarled hands of those who built houses before the arrival of power tools and nail guns. I remember the rough feel of his palm on my head as he told me “You look like a girl. I’m cutting your hair.” He had a rough touch. But his home was filled with instruments, brass and woodwind, guitars and violins, drums, a marimba, and when he touched them there was only gentle sighs and tenderness.
By the time I was 19 my grandfather had long since died. Most of his instrument collection had been floating in our house for years. That winter my brothers and I packed some of Grandpa’s guitars and amplifiers into our Ford Topaz and drove to Nashville to start what turned out to be five years of recording and touring as a band. His amps have blared into the night in every Canadian province and almost every American state. But that was another life and, amazing how it seems this way, must have happened to another person.
I recently visited my parents in Canada and I brought back to Seattle my grosspappa’s lap steel guitar. I bought a steel slide today and some finger picks that look just like the ones he kept in an old coffee tin. I hope I can hear him when I touch the strings. And hopefully the music in my bones will remember when it was inside Grosspappa, and how he opened his body’s rough-hewn cage and let it out like a dove.

first of the blueberry sessions. working stiff.

2009-02-16T20:50:00.000-08:00

I get stiff in this chair, with my fingers splayed across the keys like they're covered in vaseline. I stretch my neck to catch the freshest glimpse of the screen.
It was re-entry for me, like a meteorite. Like a srone I fell to this chair and I'm stiff from the flight.
A mainsail flaps just beyond the windowpane, clean like the wings of a dove and the smell like the sweat of strange lands, the tamping of dust by the tropical wash on the sands.a promise of masterrless days, stubbing my toe on a cobblestone laid by a slave. A sailor's curse I lay on the stone, though I own one myself and before I was born its identical twin sat listless and still in the dust on some shelf in ny room.
And I'm not sure what's to be done, right? It seems so easy to fall as a stone. But really, truly, the stars that shone as suns on the way down could never be matched by the fuzzy points that crossed my eyes when my poor old head hit th ground.

How one should start

2008-08-26T01:36:00.000-07:00

I’m not sure how to start this story. Maybe it should start with a hooded silhouette and the shadow of exhaled smoke moving across a brick wall. Or the feel of the saddle on a thirty year old motorcycle. Or a white and pointed curve of leather over a foot with a round worm-scar, and the leather swinging and placing over dirty spots of sheep’s blood and leaking trash. Or the scratching jump of the line on a hospital computer monitor. I’m not sure where, but I think it should start.

the Wind and what it brings

2008-05-22T14:39:00.000-07:00

I've just finished reading an incredible article from the New York Times Magazine http://www.nytimes.com/2008/05/25/magazine/25internet-t.html?pagewanted=1&hp

It's a tell-all from a serial (in fact professional) blogger, and it's worth reading through all ten pages.

My relationship with my blog (and everything else) has developed in the two years that its been alive. I've often wondered about its value for me, for others, for the canon of online self-flagellation. I have always preferred two-way conversations and I confess to checking for comments a lot. I don't know who reads this thing. Some of my friends, some of my family, some people I don't know. I have bounced back and forth between conservativism and full-blown narcissism but to this point have refrained from betraying anyone. Yet I have often wondered, should I sell the farm and really write all that's floating, ricocheting, through my head? The last post and its "vaguaries" makes me feel impotent and listless, and I hate this. But what's the alternative? Taking liberties I have no right to take? Or do I, indeed, have the right? This is the only life I've got, after all.

Let's just say I am at a cross-roads with my blog. I have to question my desire to tell you everything. (And there is much more to tell you than what you've read.) The terrain where I was raised suggests that I owe many things to many people, to God, to the planet. How do I balance that with making my own way through this world? How do i become "a man" in my online presence? How do I become a man in my real life presence?

I've spent most of the last year wandering the globe "like a half-dead zombie" (to quote my brother) trying to come to terms with some of the developments of my life. I had specific goals for the months I spent in Africa, and amazingly some of these have been realized. I find myself changing, moving. And I just need to quote quickly from the article I mentioned up top:

"But even though this sense of disconnection from my old self and my old life was confusing, it felt mostly good. After all, what was so great about my old self and my old life, anyway?"

It's taken out of context, sort of. Anyway, the sentiment is important. It's important for me to write it down and publish it online so that I can see it and mark it as a milestone. It may be indirectly important to you, if you know me and would like to understand me better. If you don't know me then it may or may not be important. You have to be the one to answer that.

The nights are cool in Paris and I'm sleeping like a baby, now that I'm no longer on the malaria meds. I'm going to bed now. Thanks, Emily Gould, for walking this bizarre path and for telling us what you've learned from it.
Friends, goodnight. Others, goodnight.

Leaving Africa

2008-05-14T09:42:00.000-07:00

After three intense and unforgettable months I am leaving Africa. Tonight I'll take Royal Air Maroc, leaving at 2:40am, to Cassablanca and from there to Paris.

This is a big continent. I've fairly sprinted through nine (10 if you're counting Western Sahara) of its 54 countries. This is not a subtle continent and there are few private corners to it. It is overwhelming to all the senses and pretty much every adjective I know in the English language could probably be used to describe something on this trip.

I came to Africa to do some losing and some finding. It has been directed wandering. The most dangerous and frightening spaces have been the insides of my own heart and head. Africa has served as a physical backdrop for existential exploration. It's a dubious luxury, all this time for stewing, and I am a bit worn out from the experience. I have left no emotional stone unturned, at least of the ones that I've found. I can only hope this translates into a total and thorough experience of losing and of finding too.

At this point the world is open to me in a way I have never before known. I leave Africa tonight different than when I arrived. And I return to a world that is different too. Sorry for the vaguaries...

For now, my time at the cybercafe is up. I'm going to go buy an empty liquour bottle filled with roasted peanuts for the trip. Then I'm going to go home and eat all the fruit I bought before I get back to Europe and can no longer afford such luxuries.

The Roll of Glory

2008-05-12T04:19:00.000-07:00

For those of you who don't know, I really enjoy a good roll. I instigated a weekly bowling night when I worked at Canlis (best restaurant ever) and while it turns out bowling once a week is a bit much for all but the diehards (lookin at you jer and lin), the tradition remains, and I believe the crew still heads out to Sunset in Ballard every once in a while. I can only hope they roll a frame for me now and then!

I have seen Pétanque played in all the dusty corners of West Africa. In donkey poop covered yards in Maroc and muddy trash filled streets in Côte d'Ivoire I have seen the silver boules flashing in the sun like the winged heels of Hermès (reading Homer right now). American style bowling however, lacking the imperial introduction, has not exactly caught on in West Africa.

But some days ago, while exploring the crumbling and mouldy shell of what was once West Africa's premiere hotel, the Hotel Ivoire, I stumbled on, of all things, a bowling alley! The hotel is a fitting symbol for this once grande city, laid low by so much conflict, yet pressing on. Empty swimming pools, broken windows and long vacant corridors give a depressing site. It seems the old ship is holed below the water line (just finished a book on the US Exploring Expidition of 1838) but she refuses to sink. I was at the hotel to attend a lecture celebrating the release of a book about the most recent conflict here. It was a grand affair with numerous speakers and dignitaries speaking to about 400 people gathered in the hotel's cavernous and dank movie theatre. There were traditional village chiefs in attendance which was great cause they have the most unique sense of style. Confidence I guess.

When I walked in to the bowling alley I felt I must have been the first customer they'd seen in years. The old man in a faded vest and tie was sitting smoking behind a counter covered in dust and old bowling score cards. The alley itself was like a set from a film about old timey America. The boards were cracked and run with ruts. The balls were made of wood stained with oil. The ball returns were adorned with chrome fixings like Buicks from the fifties.

My first roll I went for a powerful twirl, slipped on the oily floor and fell right on my ass. My spinning ball caught the rough pine and headed straight for the gutter, about two metres from where I lay laughing. The man keeping score (a child of the electronic age, this is a skill I will never learn) gave a quick chuckle and marked me a 0. It took some time for me to figure the lane out. Spinners were impossible and I switched to the old straight roll after a while. Teddy Twisters were out of the question. My first game was a dismal 72. The second game a respectable 138.

I never imagined bowling as really proper exercise. But let me say, when you're bowling in 98 degrees with 85 per cent humidity you can expect to sweat a touch. After two games I looked like I'd fallen out of a boat.

That's it. End of the story. I miss you, bowling crew!

Rainfall on Tin Roofs

2008-05-06T05:13:00.000-07:00

May 7th, 2008. Treichville, Cote D’Ivoire

I’m sitting next to a window in a third floor room in the offices of La Pierre Angulaire, an Ivoirian HIV/AIDS NGO. The air is cool thanks to a blessed air conditioner, yet I can still feel the heat of the morning air coming through the cracks around the wooden window frames. It rained this morning, and condensation rises from the colourful sizzling jumble of streets like steam from the busy woks at Thai Tom’s.

I have a friend in Paris who runs a gallery (of sorts) of all kinds of building materials. Sounds at first like a fairly obscure occupation catering to a very niche market, but thanks to a particular feature of today’s view over Triechville I can feel a small slice of empathetic excitement about what might seem like a less than thrilling topic: corrugated tin.

When I was 13 my parents moved the family to Belize, Central America so we could spend a year becoming infested with flesh eating worms and learning that the world is a big big place. Excepting a few vacation style forays, coming to West Africa has been my first return to the bizarre world of the tropics. As I moved South I began encountering familiar sensations, smells, sights, like old friends. Or maybe more like old acquaintances, as the gluey feeling of humid skin and the smell of molding shower curtains cannot truthfully be called “friendly”. It’s more like a high school reunion, or returning all grown up and barely recognizable to the hometown of your youth. Some reintroductions are glad, others distasteful and the rest just are. One of these reintroductions has been with corrugated tin roofs.

Corrugated tin is a colourful character; the local drunk or the old narcolept who falls asleep at town meetings and wakes with a jolt and a hearty laugh. Tin roofs run along an aesthetic continuum that starts out trim and proper and ends as shanty-looking as fingerless gloves stretched towards an oil-drum fire. Icing on the cake is when tin roofs are held down by old tires or trash. No matter how straight the cut or how even the rivetting, tin can never remain tidy. Entropy's posterchild.

And oh the sound in the rain! This is a friend for sure.

Catastrophe!!!!

2008-04-22T08:10:00.000-07:00

After changing from guilt-induced and reluctant journalling to near fanaticism I have now lost my journal. I took a bus from Ouagadougou, Burkina Faso to Kumasi, Ghana. We arrived in the middle of the night. I got off, but my journal stayed tucked neatly in the crevace between the seats. The bus continued to Accra. I've tried calling. Somebody at some point actually laughed at me.

I've been writing a lot lately. Some of this has made it onto this blog. Some has made its way to some of you in the form of email letters. But much of it stayed right there, hidden like wide eyed and fearful smiles, in the pages of that leatherbound journal.

And now who knows where it is. I try to imagine what the reader is thinking right now... for who could resist a peak really? Not I. It could be they think I'm crazy, vain, stupid, confused. They would be right.

At any rate, it is a major loss to me. And irreplaceable. But I let it go. I cast it out on the waters and it becomes soggy and sinks to the bottom with the old car tires and beer cans and the mud coloured fish with their buggy eyes. Surprised.

Thoughts from Ougadougou

2008-04-20T16:53:00.000-07:00

Really, Ougadougou has got to be the coolest city name ever. It really sounds like Africa (what do I mean when I say that?)

I have been reflecting lately on the the different stages of feeling that I've been through on my trip so far. At this point I've been in Africa over two months. I've seen seven different countries, travelled thousands of kilometres. Been to the desert and the sea. Travelled by car, bus, truck, boat, motorcycle and foot. It hasn't always been easy, but it has almost always been good. And this seems to be my preference anyway. For things to be good rather than easy.

But the most important passings I've made so far in Africa have not been through physical landscapes, but the frontiers of my heart and my mind. It's like there are little hands inside my body, inside my head, feeling constantly for the boundaries of mind and soul, mapping them out with little strokes, testing the strength of the perimeter and pushing where they feel some give.

Lonliness has been one of these regions of exploration.
The last few years have been some of the most rewarding and exciting of my life. But they've undoubtedly been the saddest as well. I am typically a very social person. I have always had a lot of friends. At the same time I have found, in the last couple of years especially, real solace in solitude. I enjoy being alone. I especially enjoy it when I'm travelling, as I have some confidence, at this point, in my ability to handle the new and the bizarre without freaking out or making a scene. I'm petrified of making scenes as a traveller. Of course, all the cultural sensitivity in the world doesn't change the colour of my skin, and in many of the places where I've been in the last months this alone is enough to cause a real stir. Some of these places, I think, see few whiteys. The kids yell at you when you walk by. Toubab! Blanco! Le Blanc! Depends which country you're in. It is said sometimes with malintent. Sometimes without. It's easy to know which is which.
But I've met many people and made some friends along the way. I've stayed many nights in the homes of those I've connected with through the couchsurfing and hospitality club networks. But I've spent as many nights in the homes of those I've simply met along the way. Sometimes I enjoy this and sometimes I don't.

I began the journey in Morocco, with lots of fear and no lonliness. This lasted until I guess a few weeks ago when I first started to realize that I did, in fact, want to share these experiences with someone. My inability to capture the truth and beauty or the extreme discomfort of moments is a constant frustration to me. In the right circumstance I can write something which, i think, translates a bit of the feeling of a particular experience, but the limits of my skills and equipment in the realm of photography means that the visual interpretation of my time in Africa cannot possibly live up to the experiences themselves. And this is a pity. I really wish you all could see these things. The red dirt roads tunnelling holes through green walls of trees. The broad and sultry mango trees with their cool leaves and their fruit hanging thick, ready to drop from the sky like gifts from god. The site of a truck loaded with twice its own volume of straw, or wood, or sacks of grain, or people or flipflops and padlocks. The smooth brown walls of the mud mosques in the Dogon. The stars in the desert. Too many things. I'm not a photographer. It's a pity we can't all stand and look at these things together. Tant pis pour nous.

So I've switched things up a bit. I'm not as fearful, and I'm more lonely. I guess it's an even trade. I worry about the lack of fear though, and worry that it's accompanied by other things less desirable. Like callousness. I had a large argument with a man today, explaining that I didn't want to buy a small motorcycle made from old beer cans. I was less nice than I usually am.

And I'm bad at budgeting time. I have to post this quick like before my credit runs out.

tomorrow to Ghana. ciao my friends.

m

more photos

2008-04-20T06:05:00.001-07:00

you will have to flop your head to the side to view some of these. sorry kids.

1. Returning from the Bijagos to Bissau I decided to take once-weekly big boat rather than chance it in a littl one again. The loading of the boat is an unbelievable mess with people, animals, cargo and enough "dried" fish to feed the subcontinent. People crowd on the pier, throwing money, tins of food and cookies, sachets of water, straw mats back and forth. This guy, who must work for the boat company, apparently was in charge of making the departure "safe" or at least punctual (impossibility). Without warning he started beating everyone within reach with his short little club. Amazing how little effect this had. He was fighting a losing battle.

2. Bissau. The capital of Guinea-Bissau is in an unbelievable state. The country, according to the locals, is run completely by the mafia. The best evidence of this is that nothing, actually, seems to be "running". As far as I can tell there are no public services at all. If you're waiting for a bus, or for a truck to cart off your garbage you're going to be waiting a long time... There is sporadic electricity and the streets are completley unlit. At night it looks deserted, completely black. So strange to walk down streets in the busy central district and not be able to find a light. As far as I could tell, the country has no running water. My host had a beautiful bathtub with shiny chrome shower head and a polished ceramic toilet. But nothing works, and you stand in the beautiful bathtub and wash with a bucket of water drawn from the well in the backyard. The streets, even in the downtown core, are lined with cars long abandoned and stripped of anything strippable. Many of them still carry bulletholes from the last war. But I loved the city! I spent an amazing five hours just jamming on the street with a group of Cape Verdian men. I was glad for my education in the ways of Cesaria Evora! They fed me green mango mixed with peppers and cold beers and I sang them songs about the heartland. It's a beautiful city in it's way, and I loved my time there.

3. Travel in West Africa, but especially the Guineas, is an extreme exercise in patience. I spent 36 hours at this gare routiere waiting for a car to Labe. Guinea had to be the worst though, as the country experienced, overnight, a 60 per cent increase in fuel costs while I was there. Prices for passengers went up immediately and nobody could afford to travel. Because cars leave when they're full this meant extra long waits. As well, to make up for lost revenue, the drivers would pack even more (is this possible?) people into already full spaces. Longer waits. Fuller cars. If Guinea wasn't so unbelievably wonderful in every other way I would've said good riddance and lit a shuck for Mali. But that country, especially the Fouta Djalon region, turned out to be a highlight and somewhere I hope to return. Hopefully with my own transport...

4. Bonne Chance... every little bit helps. 14 people in this car, for 12 hours.

5. The sun setting on Africa. Travelling at night is much preferred to travelling during the day, though it is probably more dangerous. The more exhausted you are the better, and the night air is a mercy.

photos at last!

2008-04-20T05:22:00.001-07:00

After a long absence (involuntary) the blog is back with some photooos. Not quite sure how these will come out, but we'll give it a try quoi.

1.My hostess for a full week in Dakar, Virginie. This pic was taken on the Isle de Madelaine, a tiny little scrub of rock and bird poop with a gorgeous natural pool, interesting rock formations and some squat baobob trees.

2. This is Dakar from the big boat which goes to Ziguinchour in Senegal's separatist Cassamance region. The 15 hour trip was enjoyable, though next time I will spring the extra 3000 CFA for a bed.

3. First haircut in... a long time, performed with a leatherman. My hair is in a real state at this point, but getting it cut here is out of the question. "White hair" is the dark side of the moon.

4. Lost at Sea! Failed attempt to hail a boat for some help.

5. A turban is one of the most practical thing for an overland/overwater traveller.

Scattered Thoughts on Difficult Landscape

2008-03-31T13:09:00.000-07:00

POVERTY AND DEVELOPMENT. I~M NOT SURE WHAT TO THINK. MARCH 30. BISSAU.

POVERTY:
What is poverty, in fact (there should be a question mark here, but I can]t find one on this computer). I thought I knew what it meant, but I have found it necessary to develop a new definition. It´s frustrating to be resourceless while working on this. No access to internet, a library with books on the subject. Even a dictionary would be helpful at this point. But none of these things are at hand and I fumble through my thoughts like the lonely fish who creates a vision of the world above his frontier, the world of air and what it must be like. No chance for a real visit and no one to tell him what it~s really like up there.
Aside> I wonder, when fish take their occasional jumps out of lakes or seas into the air to shake shake shake, if they feel the same as I do when I plunge into their world. The rush and plunge and feeling of being in another element and another world, unable to see clearly and unable to breath. Both of us are compelled by force (gravity for the fish, buoyancy for me) to return to the habitat where we belong. But when i surface i am almost always smiling. I don~t know if fish can smile. <
I thought I knew what poverty mean, having nothing, being poor. But I am no longer so certain.

In Achmeddan´s village they had, pretty much, nothing. No electricity, no running water, just thatch domed houses, a fw goats, a donkey, tea, couscous... I think that´s it. They were so poor, in fact, they didn´t even have garbage. To throw something away you have to have something to begin with., If you start with nothing, nothing can become refuse. Nothing to cast off. And your garbage looks like it does in Achmeddan´s village, bits of expired flip flops and expired goats. That´s it. They were extremely poor, but I´m not so sure they live in poverty. It may be that in my four days I was treated to a very easy time there. Basically we slept under the stars, rose in the morning to feed the goats, went back to sleep inside the hut to wait the heat of the day, rose in the afternoon to make the rounds of friends, to visit and drink tea, to eat the sour couscous with chewey camel meat.
Another aside> On crunching a piece of sand in my first bite of camel I tried to make a joke. I told A that on the Pacific we say you know the clam chowder is fresh if you crunch a grain or two of sand, and that the same thing must be true for camel. As most jokes delivered out of cultural and linguistic and context, it fell flat like a dead goose. A was worried that I was offended there was sand in the food (of course, there is sand in everything there) and I said no no, I was trying to make a joke. The camel is delicious. <
And after the camel, singing under the stars! A life with very little, but not a life of poverty.
Of course, my exposure to the daily routine of hte women was less complete. And I know that A grows carrots and dates (he showed me the plots) and there must be busyness accompanying the different stages of planting, tending and harvesting. But from our conversation I concluded that this toil is not so much to keep him from the generous enjoyment of his life.
My conclusion, after the experience is that poverty is not, in fact, lack; rather it is want. If you lack nearly everything but have want of nothing, I don~t think this can be called poverty. I spoke last night with an economist from Portugal about this idea and he said that its fine to think of lack as existing in balance in a closed system, but what systems are closed these days (again, can]t find the question mark). Point taken. But this seemed to be a system without want, closed or not.

Achmeddan himself is a good example. He studied economics in Noakchott before returning to care for the family after the death of his brother in law. I was interested in how he felt about his life now, having known another life in a bigger place, having known what else is out there. He looked at me straight when he said `this is a good life`. Poverty is want, not lack.

DEVELOPMENT:
During my protracted journey on the sea, helping deliver the giant ice machine to the island of Orakan, I had opportunity to think of this machine and what it would mean to the people of Orakan, and the larger Bijagos community as well. I don´t know the history of these islands, but I imagine there were people living on them long before they became islands, long before they became Africa´s only archipelago. And I imagine they must have always taken fish from the sea. First enough to feed their families and then (the big shift in thinking) more than they needed for their families, enough to trade to others. Then to trade for money. Each transition bringing a new range of upgrades for family and community. The structures of a community. But their community had always been there, before the infrastructure and before people started ‘investing’ in developing it. So I wonder, what will this giant ice making machine, purchased with money given by the government of Japan, do (question mark). It will make it possible for fishermen in the Bijagos to take more fish from their waters, to more easily transfer these fish to market in Bissau and to sell them. Then the extra money, the money they do not have now, they will use to buy more things for their families and their community. Maybe they’ll build a health clinic, build another school. More. As I walked through the water onto the beach of this tiny island village I couldn’t help but think that life here must depend on balance. With more money there will be fewer infant deaths, and this is a good thing of course. There will also be more children born, more surviving and more born and surviving. And I’m not sure where it stops. In all cases an increase in the availability of food means an increase in population growth. The western world with its huge surpluses and declining birth rates would be an exception were it not part of a larger system that follows the rule to the letter.

The life of the dead. When you talk to people in these societies about death there seems to be an understanding that the occasion is an integral part of life. Laye~s wife dies in childbirth. It’s sad of course, but he shrugs and says it is a part of life. The woman in Lauren’s village loses a child. There is crying and a burial but soon she is pregnant again. The occasion of death is loud and no one in the community skips the party. From where I am writing I can hear the wailing of mourners coming from the other side of a tall wall. They will do this for a week. There will be crying and dancing, the slaughter and preparation of goats and chickens, a feast. People dying in the houses where they lived, and sent on their way by the whole community.

I’ve never seen death. Even the two or three dead bodies I have seen were so wax-like in the cascading folds of their coffins that they scarcely resembled real people, especially not the real people I had known in life. We’ve banished death to the fringes. We’ve dissociated ourselves from it and no longer recognize the forms it takes and the steps along the way. Death for us belongs mostly to those far too old to be alive, and is accompanied by beeping machines and the stale antiseptic odour of the hospital. And we visit at the last moment possible, shocked to see that the person we loved for so long, the person we left in this place is gone. Could never be this folded bird on a paper bed. And we conclude that death has already happened, somewhere in a white room far from the bustle of our daily lives.
I don’t think the removal of death from the life cycle is necessarily something I want to give to others. To Achmeddan in his Saharan village. Death is already there in the frail father who lies all day in the shade, rising only to say his prayers to Allah. Do we want to give this dissociation to the people of the Bijaogs. Is this what the ice machine does. What development does. Surely it does more and things are not so simple. At any rate, it’s time for bed.

A letter to a friend.

2008-03-31T13:07:00.003-07:00

Below is a letter to a friend. I´ve included it here and I hope he doesn´t mind.

LETTER TO MARK CANLIS. MARCH 29. BUBAQUE, GUINEA-BISSAU.
Dear Mark,
You gave me three material gifts on my departure from Seattle, and I think it proper to describe to you their utilisation on my trip so far. You gave other, non material gifts of course, and these I hold in my heart and use every day. For them I will thank you in person next time we meet. The gifts materio:
1.Helly Hanson Anorak. Red. Folds into a pouch.
2. This journal, in which I am writing.
3. REI soft-shell. Black with pit vents and waterproof zippers.
UTILIZATION:
1. Anorak
This piece I have used just once, though I will say the occasion had such great need of it that I would gladly carry the tiny red package through many months of non usage in order to have had it available. A `rain coat`by definition, its location of use was, ironically, the Sahara. There is a train which carries iron-ore from mines in the deep Sahara of Mauritania all the way to the coastal city of Noadhibou for transfer to waiting ships. On the return journey the wagons which had carried the iron ore are empty. As is only possible in Africa, such an arrangement means that the big iron wagons are free to carry npaying passengers, along with their assorted packages, livestock, furnishings, vegetables, etc deep into the desert. I joined the hundreds waiting next to the tracks in the afternoon sun for the train to stop, and scrambled onboard into a wagon near the train~s end. I don~t know what iron-ore looks like, but judging from the the thick black residue coating the insdie fo the wagon I would guess it resembles coal. There was a fine black dust covering everything, though the iron of the wagon itself was black as well. The lightest touch to any surface left the hand covered with a greasy black soot. I stretched my raincover over my backpack and brought out the first of your gifts, the anorak. It provided a perfect barrier against the blowing dust. With the anorak covering my torso and arms, the hood drawn tight around my neck and a scarf wrapped around my head and fae, the only part open to the dust was eyes and hands. The first four hours of hte journey we were enveloped in the blowing and swirling iron ore. I imagined it filtering deep into my lungs, coating them in black.After the first four hours the iron ore had mostly blown off and we were eating the desert dust kicked up by the 2.5 km length of the train ahead of us. This was far preferable, as it seemed to me much healthier and the black of hte wagon began to be covered in a layer of white dust.
We left Noadhibou around 2 or 3, in the heat of the day. The anorak, performing its intended function, kept all external elements out and all internal elements in. The wind at full speed minimized the sweltering effect, but each time the train stopped at a village I could feel the sweat starting to run beneath my protective shell. But then the train would begin again and my own temperature would level out. I would suggest an anorak, like your generous gift, to anyone else taking this journey. It was perfect.
The atmosphere in the wagon was congenial. There were perhaps 12 others, plus the three Japonese tourists and myself. Some of the men had bags of sand which they poured into the corners of the wagon to make beds for the coals which would heat the tea. Tea was made and passed around. Most Mauritanians, and Western Saharans as well, carrying with them at all times a small tea set. It consists of:
-a small stainless steel teapot, often painted with a thick green lacquer. Usually old and battered, but beautiful to my eye in its miniiarized mimicry of the shapes that poured the strong black tea of my childhood.
-three small glasses, chipped and cracking
-a ridiculous quantity of sugar
-a metal tin of green tea
-a bag of fresh, sometimes not so fresh, mint.
The third glass is for keeping the froth of the high pouring of the first pot in order to start the frothing pour of the next pot. Like sour batch bourbon.
It was too loud in the wagon for easy talking, but some communication was made shouting style. The guitar was produced and I played country music, surrounded by clapping men, pairs of shining eyes from the depths of their long turbans. The guitar was passed around and performed its function of lowering barriers and equalizing everybody. I can only say it has been the best travelling companion imaginable.

The trip lasted some 13 hours. We]d begun under the full sun, so had seen the Sahara pass through all of its daily phases, save the sunrise. As the light began to fall, the shadows of dunes and scrubby trees stretching westward, the desert took on a warm and reddish glow. It softened and revealed all the contours which had been washed away under the midday sun. Occasionally we would pass herds of camels, grazing on who knows what. Small villages went by with the men waving and the children running and shouting after the train, the women of course shut inside. I murmured quiet apologies to each little village we passed for the dust storm we left in our wake. Occasionally the train would stop to pick up more passengers. Black and dusty bodies would emerge from the wagons, the passengers scampering down to kneel in the sand to relieve themselves, quick before the thunder of the train pulling at its clanging connections 2.5km away signalled the shocking jolt of departure. The train started slow, and catching it up was no problem if you didn]t wait too long. The real danger was to be climbing the ladder or straddling the wall of the wagon when the train gave its thunderous jerking start. In my mind these have been the most dangerous occasions of my journey so far.
Oh, and the stars in the desert night are incredible!

2.This Journal:
The heat of Africa has undone the glue keeping the leather cover bound to the paper. After breakfast i will see if i have a needle strong enough to stitch the two together. I~m nearly halfway through this notebook. At this rate I will easily fill all the pages before leaving Africa. This will mark the first time in my life that i have actually filled an entire journal. What is usually a guilt-induced chore, journaling, has become a real joy. Also, the impossibility of venting electronically (bloggy style) has made these pages the sole recipients of my recorded thoughts.

Number Three. The Soft Shell (ooh, i could use a taco right about now)
You referred to this jacket as `your piece` and a security blanket. In the last six weeks it has been both of those things. I have felt that sense of invulnerability in its tight and warm hold. The design is really a work of genius, undoubtedly the best designed garment i have ever worn. I had thought it would become impractical as I moved south. I think i imagined i would lose need of it somewhere in Mauritania, but en effet I used it as near as two nights ago, lost on the sea off the coast of Guinea Bissau.

It has proven useful in all climates so far. From the rain and cold of Paris where, combined with a couple of layers and a heavy scarf, it was enough to keep me warm, to the muggy chill of the nights in Guinea Bissau. A quick explanation of the last time I used it, as I have already recorded this event in previous pages: I was in a boat carrying myself, 5 others and a giant ice making machine from Bissau to one of the more remote islands of hte Bijagos Archipelago. Our boat lost power and we were stranded at sea, the five hour trip becoming something like 27. We ran aground three times during the night. I was glad for your soft shelf figt, as it kept me warm during hte night and gave me the invincible feeling required to fall asleep, perched on a gas canister on a pitching boat somewhere off the coast of Africa.

Thank you for all these three gifts. They have all served me very well. More, thank you for the invaluable gifts of your friendship and your hospitality. Mostly, for your belief in me, for your belief that I have something to contribute in this strange and difficult world. I truly cherish your friendship and lean on the memories of my time as your employee, your friend and your houseguest.

Warmest Regards from Warmest Africa,

Marty

Lost at sea

2008-03-31T13:07:00.001-07:00

MARCH 28. BUBAQUE, GUINEA-BISSAU.
I made the news! I think it sounded something like this:
´´a small boat transporting the fishing authority~s new ice making machine ot the island of Orakan lost power yesterday somewhere between Bissau and the Bijaogos. They are presumed to be in distress. Any boats in the area tonight please keep a watch for the stranded landing craft, its crew and its faluable payload. They are all presumed lost at sea until they are found.´
Not sure if that was exactly it, but I guess its lcose. I know from tlaking to Titi that there was no mention on the radio fo the tagalong Canadian. International calamaties in the making are best kept hush hush if possible...
Like the best journalists in the biz, I had anticipated the story, embedded myself with those destined to make the news and rode the whole lot out, always ready to record the events for posterity.. actually I spent mos tof hte 27 hours trying to remember rhte words to Gordon Lightroot~s touching ode to another lost boat, the Yarmouth Castle.
My dad started with a neat fryup of eggs, garlic, butter and tomatoes, eaten with bread. I was cooking, and wondered while I was shaking the pan back and forth if I wasn~t making the very same meal my dad might be making in his eastern European abode. Chances are good I was. He loves a good fryup, though the tomatoes were my own addition, taken from the englihs tradition, and might have thrown jake a bit. After breakfast I walked down to the docks and started asking around for a boat to the Bijagos. I was told it was impossible and that I would have to wait for the big boat which leaves only on Friday, retuning to Bissau on Sunday. TIA. This is Africa. Sometimes TIA means you jus thave to suck it up and wait for a day, a week, whatever, but sometimes it also means that if you just keep looking for a solution you wil eventually find one, probably in a manner and sense of hygiene\saftey unimaginable anywhere but Africa. So I kept asking, dialogue bing extremely difficult thankjs to my no Portuguese. Eventualy someone told me there was a boat going to Orakan, a small island near Orango, and that it was leaving at 1pm. I was told Orakan was not where I wanted to go as it has no auberge, no shops and no Blancos. I said this was fine and ran off to buy enough food to last me for a week or so. I fel t if I could just get tot he islands I would be fine, even sans infranstrucruet. The guineans are noted for their hospitality and I knew they wouldn~t let me starve. In this fine weather I could easily sleep under a tree or on the beach, making a tent of my mosquito net and my turban. I don~t eat much, so I igured the two baguettes, 2 cans of sardines, two tins of poulet presse and a roll of biscuits could easily last me five days, a week if I need it to. Oh, nd a jar of green olives. Yum. I was taken to teh part of the pier from which the boat was meant to leav. There were three others waiting there, so I sat next to them and got out my book.
Eventualy a 30 foot landing craft, rusting, battered and powered by a 150 yamaha outboard pulled up with a large square box wrapped in plastic. This turned out to be the congilateur, about 3 metres square, it was being transported to Orakan to help make ice for packing the fish caught by the Bijagan fishermen so they could transport it to market in Bissau. The others jumped onto the reasy old boat and I waited for a surly nod from the captian before jumping on board as well, with my pack on my back and my guitar in my hand. In case I needed another reminder that when travelling, light is right, here it was... my 10 kilos plus food was just ok. Anything more and I would have been in the drink.
We cast away our lines around 1pm and set off from Bissau, leaving the pier with its listing trawlers still tied fast, holed and sinking lower every year, abandoned long ago and left to rot. Amazing to have a working pier with the rusting hulks of shipwrecks scattered between the crumbling rock and the working trawlers. Like a port for ghosts and people at the same time. A port on the River Styx. We headed up the coast for a few miles before turning west into the open sea. I was amazed at the slowness of our progress but the captain assured me the trip was a simple five hours. I spent part of the time working on adding some things to the leather and sea shell charm I had bought that day in the market. I had some help from the first mate, a powerful and sinewy man who himself was wearing a magnificent waistband charm of leather and shells. No one on board spoke a word of English or French, so we made do with hand gestures and a few words of Spanish. ]
It was about five oclock when the motor started to give its first unhealthy rumbles, and 6 when we finally cut power and threw anchor into the shallow green water. The sun hung low in the sky and the suggestion of the Guinean coastline was just barely visible to the East. Through sign language I was led to believe that there was water in teh valves of the Yamaha and that we would have to just wait. To the great worry of the crew I took the opportunity to go for a swim. The guide book had said something like this: ¨Protected for ages by vicious currents and treacherous sandbanks the Bijagos have remained virtually untouched by colonial and even continental African influence.¨The part I had focused on, of course, had been the `virtually untouched`bit, but I was soon reminded of the rest of the sentence. We had been pitching in the rocking waves for hours, a good grip needed as the swells bucked bulging and unpredictable. As a lifelong swimmer I hadn~t been too concerned about the prospects of a dip. Certainly, in my first dive and splash from the bow I was worry-free, rejoicing in the feel of the cool sea washing over my sweaty skin. When I first surfaced though, I was instantly reminded of the guidebook~s warning, : vicious currents and treacherous sandbars. I emerged already far from the boat, and I could see I was being pulled quickly from its anchored location. A few minutes of strong, almost frantic swimming brought me back to the stern, where I looked up to the worried glances of the others. On my first attempt to climb back into the boat I was kinocked back into the sea by a lifting surge. The boat risthing high above me, like being in the bottom of an elevator shaft and watching a departing car. The second try saw success, with the help of the first mate, and I climbed aboard pretending not to have been worried at all. I dried in the setting sun, holding fast to the pitching boat.
We tried the motor again in the last light of the setting sun. We were at maybe a quarter power and continued this way, sailing completely blind into the dark night. I had taken a bearing of the barely visible coast on my compass, and saw we were still heading south by southwest. There was nowhere to lie down on the greasy old boat, but I eventually found a gas can to sit on, leaned against my pack and fell asleep.
It doesn~t matter if you]ve never run aground in a boat before, the first time you feel it you know exactly what it is. I had fallen asleep to teh constant and varied slap of the hull on the waves, and had a good feeling for the bottom dropping out, for the motion of hte falling boat being smoothly arrested and transferring its energy into upward buoyancy. I woke on the first slap of the hull on something solid, sand, la sable. We lifted and slapped again, again, the waves swinging the bow around, and we were stuck fast. The grumbling motor was killed instantly and I helped the first mate drop anchor. As the tide was on its way in the only thing to do was to rest on the anchor until we were lifted enough to stumble our way off the sand a back into the open sea. This took some hours, I suppose, and eventually we continued with our grumbling motor and tired and frightened crew.
I had been carrying the terrifying impression that I was more prepared to pilot this vessel than its captain. There were no charts on board. No radio. Mine was the only compass and my headlamp was stronger than the only other light on the boat, a windup flashlight. We were a bat flying in the middle of the grand canyon, certain there was something out there but unable to see it until we were already upon it. We ran aground two more times during hte night and eventually just droped anchor to wait for the dawn. In the morning light we again started to limp our way west. We were met finally by another boat which towed us to Orakan. We were greeted by the entire village, its matriarchal chieftess performing a dance in the shallow water where she took her breasts out of the billowing folds of her dress and held and pulled them this way and that. She was joined, stomping and splashing in the water, by the other women leaders of the village, the children singing, naked on the sand, and the men standing under the shade of the plams. We were all kissed with vigour, sailors rescued from the clutches of the sea, but I think the biggest thanks were given for the safe arrival, at long last, of the congilateur, the magic giant ice box.
I debarked happily and settled myself with some nice young guys who offered me a mat in their mud hut. I ate fish and rice with a man named Augusta and his family. I intended to stay until the next boat to... somewhere else. That boat brought me here, to Bubaque, a town of maybe 1000, the biggest in the Bijagos. I passed a wonderful day alone on the white expanse of beach on the island~s windward side, accompanied only by three cows and four kids who traded me cashews for biscuits and who I, one by one, managed to capture and toss, laughing, into the sea (the kids, not the cows). I am now in a bar, about to leave for the restaurant which serves spaghetti with hard-boiled eggs and mayonnaise. After this I will probably go straight to bed. Ciao for now.

Catching Up.

2008-03-31T13:02:00.000-07:00

MARCH 20. ISLE DE MADELAINE, SENEGAL.

Catching Up.
I know I~ve skipped a few things here and there, but i have already had one remark about the length of my entries, so i will just carry on as is.
It was nearly a week agot that I came to Dakar, the throbbing and sweaty capital of Senegal. I~ve been staying with a young French nwoman named Virginie in the posh and Toubab neighbourhood of Mermoz. Consequently, my picture of Dakar has been pas complete, thought it has been a realy nice picture indeed. I could fill pages with records of the events, but instead I~ll just list them and move on to other things. More interesting, or more pressing at least.
-visited a fete celebrating the hopeful inauguration of a building site for a new elementary school. Surrounded by clamouring kids with puffy sores and very premature hair loss, the effets of malnourishment.
-visas visas visas. Guinea, Guinea Bissau and Cote d~]Ivoire.
-Danced till 4 to the sounds of Senegal at Balfort Bar. At the end a drunken man introduced tous les blancs in the audience...
-swam in teh piscine olympique
-visited Isle Ngor and Virginie~s relatives there, the kings of the island.
-Now on Madelaine, a deserted and tiny island, preserved for the birds. It]s beautiful here.

MARCH 25. BISSAU, GUINEA-BISSAU.
The voyage enbatuea from Dakar to Ziguinchour was an absolute, treat, though next time I will certainly spnd the extra 5000 to secure a bed, as there was little sleep to be had in the well-lit anteroom with its reclining chairs, crying babies and strong odour of feet. It wa a solitary journey for me, as I was feeling a strong need for some pivacy. Staying with people has, of course, a world full of advantages, but time to oneself is not one of them, and the experience can certainly be exhausting. The boat is enormous and brand new, a replacement for the one which capsized in 2002, killing over 2000 people, nearly its entire passenger load. Ther was coffee served, and a sandwich of grilled meat which I enjoyed very much. I ate alone, though I did bump into the two overloaded Canadians I~d met in Mauritania, as well as the swiss woman adn her Senegalese escort who had attended the party for the school in Dakar. The boat left shortly after sunset and arrived in Ziguinchour just before noon.
The1000 km of longitude spacing Dakar from Ziguinchour was immediately apparent itn eh new ferocity of the sun and in the style and kind of people. Moving further south has truly felt like becoming more }African^}, as ridiculous as that looks in print. This is just to say that with each km travelled towards the south the landscape and people have corresponded more with my preconceptions of what Africa looks and feels like.
AsideÇ it appears to be no problem for young guinean girls to carry large platters of bananas on their heads while dancing with vivre to some unheard internal rhythm.
There~s more in this entry, much more, but i move on to other things now

Get ready!

2008-03-31T13:00:00.000-07:00

I have been away from a computer from some time, so these entries are transcribed from my notebook. Included is a letter to my friend Mark, which has some nice descriptions and info and whatnots. Enjoy! Take a break if you get bored!

continued

2008-03-14T04:42:00.001-07:00

Achmeddan and I spent our days sleeping on grass mats in the "cage", a thatched hut, round with tiny holes for doors and windows. The cage looked like a giant hershey's kiss, though slightly melting and listing to one iside. Not having Achmeddan's ability to sleep easily with heat and flies I spent my time mending my gear, installing a vent in my sleeping sheet, reading and writing. In the evenings we would join his firends four couscous, tea and singing under the stars.

MARCH 11. ST. LOUIS, SENEGAL.
It's very difficult to keep up with the recording of daily events. A lot happens and I have feelings and thoughts about all of it. I'll try to catuch us up right quick style.
I left Achmeddan a few days ago, saving money by ridin gin the back of a little Hilux from Agadir to Noakchott, a "five hour" ride that took a full eight. I shared the back with a few hundred pounds of carrots, eight adults, one child and two goats. From the looks of other trucks I would guess, impossible as it seemed, we were a long ways from setting any kind of cargo record. This time the goats were loaded into gunny sacks, the bags tied around their necks so their little heads were poking out. Poor little guys were loaded first and then some netting was stretched over them. On top the netting people and bags were piled higgledy piggledy. Kind of a tough journey for the little guys, and whenever I was feeling uncomfortable I would just watch their tired little faces and I'd feel a bit better about my circumstances. During the last few hours of the journey they'd let out occaional bleats of protest. The white goat had the funniest voice, like a person trying to imitate a goat. His poor thirsty tongue would shoot out to the side as he would shout bllEEEEEEHHH! The guitar came out at some point, but I wasn't in the mood after a long and difficult conversation about Islam and the obligatory request for help getting to Canada, despite the fact that my interlocutor knew nothing about Canada, not even that it is located in the Americas.
Finally arrived in dusty Noakchott, a flea-bitten town of sand and garbage and bustlying streets. I took a taxi to the Lycee Francaise where I met my host Chloe, a beautiful French girl halfway through a two year contract with a french development ngo in Mauritania. I spent the evening with her and her ill Mauritanian boyfriend, enjoying cold coke and my first real wash since takin the train.
I soaped and rinsed twice and was still appaled at the dust and grim left in the shower afterwards. Eventually I gave up.
That night was my first with teh mosquito net. It was awufl. There is a trick to using the net and it's one I'd yet to learn. Rather than keeping mosquitos out I kind of created a little mosquito zoo inside that net. I counted 40 bites between my left elbow and the top of my shoulder. I should get that malaria medicine.

ok. that's enough for now. as a real time update. It is the 14th of March and I'm leaving St Louis today or tomorrow for Dakar. Take care out there!

Mauritania

2008-03-14T03:50:00.000-07:00

I forgot to mention earlier that what I'm writing here are the transcripts of things already written on pen and paper in my journal. I don't like writing with pen and paper, despite the romance of it, as I find it difficult to actually compose and find myself simply recording instead. These entries are recordings. Some day maybe they'll find their way into compositions. that would be nice!

March 9. Writing from the village of Tay-Arrette near Atar, Mauritaia.
Some borders are aptly called borders, others are frontiers. Crossing from Morocco into Mauritania is crossing a frontier, and the experience is accompanied by all the accoutrement thoughts and feelings associated with the term, at least for me. After getting your stamp on the Moroccan side you go through a gate and the road disappears immediately, our crumbling van trundled slowly through a dusty swirling wasteland of blowing plastic bags and debris, scrubs of grass and the hulking and charred masses of burned out cars. It continues this way for 9km before one reaches another gate and encounters the Mauritanian border officials. I had heard horror stories of this literal no man's land. The 9km stretch is claimed by neither maroc nor mauritanie and it is officially administered by the UN, though no administration is apparent. The area has beome a garbage dump for all materials which don't have the required paperwork or enough baksheesh to get into either country. It is also filled with people who have the same problem, stranded in no man's land without the papers required to leave. All are refugees, most are from Africa but some come from as far afiel as Bangladesh. They wait, trapped in this nether zone, for the chance to float their way to the Canary Islands. Because neither country claims the territory neither country claims the problem, and the refugees are left to beg for water from the few who do pass through the frontier. While the only figures I saw were far away, walking along distant dunes and silhoutted against the setting sun, the knowledge of what exists in that godforsaken stretch made me sick to my stomache. The shock that people can live in such a condition without anyone seeming to know or care is multiplied by the feeling that this must be one of many such places in the world.
The border offices themselves gave a clear indication of what the economic difference between the two countries. On the Moroccan side, a well-used but neat cement block row of two offices and a mosque served by electric lights and a toilet with a plumbed faucet. On the Mauritanian side, a shack made of sticks and used linoleum with a gas lantern for light and men working on an old board for a table.
I continuied on to Noadhibou and was treated to some fine Arab hospitality as I waited for my host Ibrahim to fetch me from the grocery store where I borrowed a phone, was given a special and comfy chair and bottles of water and fruit juice. Free, with smiles. The next dya I left for the East of the country and the deep Sahara. The trip on the train must be its own entry.

It remains a necissity for me to write about the epic journey on the iron-ore tain, but for now I will record the passing of the last three days in the village of Achmeddan. Here's a teaser for the train:
The world's longest train (2.5 km) carries iron ore from the mines in the Sahara to the coast for loading onto ships. On the return journey into the desert the cars which carried the iron ore are empty, and hundreds of people hop aboard for the epic, 12 hour journey through coal dust and sand storms to arrive in the middle of the night in Choum. It is epic. From my ore car near the back of the train I can hear the train beginning to pull up at the front, 2 km away. As the cars pull taught there is a slam of iron on iron with the passing of energy from car to car. The sound comes rolling like thunder and you hold on like hell cause when it hits your car there's a shocking shudder and a lurch forward into motion. If you're caught outside the car, or even worse on the ladder, when you hear the thunder beginning it can be a very scary thing. It's terrifying.

Like the sound of the bomb on its way to your town, or the air round his fist on its way to your mouth.

More about the train later:
The train stopped at Choum before continuing on to its next destination. It was about three or four am when we stopeed. Complete arkness and lots of scurring around, people throwing packages to the ground and jumpin gfrom the waagons with haste, making sure they got everything unloaded, bags, tea sets, stoves, my guitar, and as I learned later, goats, before hte train left again. In total darkness I descended, jumping from the ladder with my pack on my back having refused the help of Adam the Cote D'Ivoirian. I wiped out on the landing, of course. Pridefall. I said goodbye to Adam who had been a big help, and moved to a waiting truck. I loaded myslef into the back and was carried a short distance to a spot where I joined with the other four tourists who had ridden inside the train's passenger car and anyone else travelling to Atar. After some uneccessary and fear-induced haggling by the Canadians and the dutch guy we finally settled the price, the same as the price quoted intitally, and loaded 9 people with bags and five goats into the back of a tiny toyota hilux. I don't want to travel this way, afraid of everything and certain everyone's trying to rip you off. Certainly, you will pay more than you should for some things when you travel in places like Africa. But you have to pick your battles, and the middle of the night in a 1 goat village in the sahara when there's ONE truck going anywhere and the people have been generous and helpful is not the right battle. Before leaving we swung through the dark village to pick up a very elderly and ill woman for the trip to Atar. Before getting in the cab of the truck she performed what seemed to me a very efficient and interesting bathroom ritual. With one quick and smooth movement she dug a small trench in the sand with her bare foot, then squatted over the spot, her long robes touch the ground ensuring full privacy. After a few moments she stood, filled in the trench with her foot, washed her hands with sand and was helped into the truck. It was beautiful and shocking at the same time. Like real life, I suppose.
The trip was very pleasant. We passed through fields of sand dotted with rock outcroppings and thorned trees under the incredible light of the desert night sky. With no light around save the lamps of the truck, the stars were out in full force. Of course the guitar was revealed and I spent the next few hours singing for the other passengers, for the Sahara and for myself. We followed what was at times a track, a road, a collection of sets of tracks or simply nothing at all. There was a really nice Mauritnaina man travelling in our boatload. The goats were his of course. He and I traded singing back and forth and he sang with me a bit. From his manner I thought him to be younger than me. His turban covering his face made it difficult to assess his age. He spoke French and was very patient with me. We made good conversation and after a couple of hours he invited me to stay with hima nd his family in his village just shy of Atar. This is where I have spent the lat few days. His name is Achmeddan.
Achmeddan lives in a tiny village 9km west of Atar. As it turns out he is 33 years old. He lives in a little compound with his parents, his two sisters and their two little girls. We jittissoned the Toyota Hilux, the onlky truck in the desert it seems, and walked throught eh sand to the square mud house where his family was, of course, sittin gand making tea. He introduced me and I sat in silence while his family, quite happy at his return, chatted. Along with the ea I was offered my first taste of zrig, a drink made of sweetened curdled camel or goat milk. It was ok.
Over the next few days I enjoyed the legendary hospitality of the Mauritanian people, exhibited in exemplary style by Achmeddan and his family. We ate couscous, drank a kind of breakfast drink made of grain and sour milk, had heaps of tea, visited his friends in teh village and so on. His neighbours were hosting a grande fete for the marriage of one of the dauhters and there was nearly constant singing carrying through the dusty air for two of the four days I passed there. I was invited to dance in front of everyone to the frantic and savage sounds of the traditional Mauritanian wedding singers, groups of middle aged or older women singing fiercely into microphones and making driving rythms on drums, steel bowls, bottles, whatever. I love to dance, and the experience was wonderful.
On arrival at Achmeddan's I was offered a place to wash, welcome after the 16 hours en route. With a bucket of water drawn from the family well I washed an unbelievable amount of dust/iron-ore from every nook and cranny. The family lives much like they must have for hte last hundreds of years. The ony modern accoutrements I could see were the occasional plastic bowl, a butan gas burner for making tea, though coal was used just as often, cigarettes and cigarette lighters, flashlights, a battery powered radio and, amazingly, cellphones! They would need to take trips to the city every few days to charge the phones.
power just went out on the other side of the room so i'm going to publish this quick so i don't lose it. then, hopefully, come back and finish.

one more

2008-03-13T05:19:00.000-07:00

This is Achmeddan, walking through the Sahara in his village. The Mauritanian men wear these beautiful blue robes which make them look like kings. Also, I forgot to explain, one of the previous photos is of a type of board game played on a flattened stretch of sand and using sticks and donkey poop for pieces. Heads up Cranium, you've got some competition!

more photos

2008-03-13T05:14:00.000-07:00

I spent four days in the home of Achmeddan and his family in the Sahara. We met on the truck from Choum to Agadir, and I just got off in his little village. It was amazing. No water or power, sleeping in a thatch hut, drinking curdled sweetened camel milk in the mornings, sleeping all day and singing under the stars with his friends in the evenings. He was a true prince of the Sahara. Also, there's a picture of a goat in a bag, perfecting for chucking into the backs of trucks. Poor little guys.

photoos?

2008-03-13T04:38:00.000-07:00

I think it's working! We'll see if these babies take.

Photoo 1: dead rabbits on the streets in Marrakech
Photoo 2: the no man's land between Mauritania and Mali
Photoo 3: jamming in the back of a dusty van. A guitar is the best travel partner I could ask for. It's been a ticket into hearts.
Photoo 4: waiting for the iron ore train to Choum
Photoo 5: on the train.

something to chew on

2008-03-11T08:20:00.000-07:00

HI Everbody. Sorry for the non postage lately. I have been quite off
the grid for a while now. But I am now in Senegal in what must be the
fastest internet cafe in west africa. So after many failed attempts
from... ahem, less well equipped cafes... I will try to make a huge
deposit onto this bloggy. I'll do my best to keep days and things
separated. I also have little faith in the blog site's ability to
actually post things, so if it doesn't work it doesn't work. I'll also
try to post some photos in the next few days. We will see. Inshallah.
Also, this keyboard is sticky and is tiresome for the arms. Please
excuse the spelling errors.

We start in

MARRAKECH, MOROCCO. FEBRUARY 21
Well it has begun, though not without a few hiccups:
1. I missed my plane in Paris... damned 24 hour clock! I realized too
late, for sure, but beetled to the airport in great haste, running
like a madman through the metro, gare du nord and CDG Terminal 2B. Too
late. I played guitar on the RER ride back to Paris, just to take
advantage of the horrible feelings.
2. The next morning I woke to an email from my couchsurfing host in
Marrakech saying he had to run to Cassablanca for urgent famiy affairs
and could not host me.
3. Finally, on checking in to my flight with Difficult Jet airlines I
was made to pay an extra 12 E and told I had to check my utar. The
ticket agent informed me that "in this istuation I cna pretty much
guarantee it will be damaged." Are they allowed to say that?
But, I made my second flight, I connecte with new hosts on my arrival
in Marrakech and I was able to sneak my guitar onto the plane so it
wasn't damaged at all! Three hiccups, all take care of. If this is the
worst this trip can do then it's going to be pretty smooth sailing. I
bet there are more to come though.
Marrakech. I'm really feeling averse at the moment to the idea of
fillin these pages with banal and cliche statements and recordings of
the "exotic" and "enchanting", the different and the difficult. I want
to write things I'll want to read later. If I'm bored while writing
ethem I'll mos tcertainly be bored readin gthem. So if I find myself
lapsin into easy cliche i'll jusxt shut up. Maybe I'll start by makin
gshort statements, see if any catch my interest.
1. I should have listened to Zabo's advice and brought my compass
during my walks today. This city is very confusing and I've felt more
or less lost the entire day. The souks are a maze of alleys and shops.
Sections of this are completely uninteresting while others are
fascinating. I try to avoid the uninteresting and repepetive little
streets where I'm afraid of glancing into the shop windows for fear of
inviting the pesky advances of the shopkeepers. It's impossible for me
to purchase anything, as anything I buy must be carried on my back for
the next three months. No thank you. I prefer the streets with less
going on, the alleys where they produce what's sold in the shops. The
tinworkers and basket makers, the cobblers and silver smiths.
2. Colonial Africa is very itneresting. It's weird to be speaking
French here, and the little Arabic I have is nearly useless. Nearly.

MARRAKECH, MAROC. FEBRUARY 21
this part is mostly repetitive of the bad buddhist entry, so i skeep eet.

NOADHIBOU, MAURITANIA. MARCH 5
The path so far:
Paris:
Very relaxing time. Stayed with Anne Lorraine and the family for 4
days, then with the Bujons for another four. Spent most of the time
inside working on my report for HIA/Fosdick, though I was able to make
some nice rendezvous with my friends Jean Jean and Simon who I met in
Palestine, and with Isabelle, HIA senior fellow/friend.

Marrakech:
Spent a wonderful four days in the home of Jacques and Nicolas, the
best hosts imagineable. Saw Marrakech via bicycle from top to bottom
and ate like a king.

Jematt Saim:
Stayed with my friend Pedja, HIA Senior Fellow, in his apartment in
this tiny village for three days. From his window was a view of a
muddy/dusty field where donkey carts wait by the dozen for people to
hire them for haulin things. Watched them loading twice the volume of
a truck with hay bails. Incredible. We made a hell of a tajine. I
attended his English class and was struck again by how 13 year old
kids are the same all over the world. We had a nice visit to the
seaside town of Safi, where we bought some furniture for Pedja's
apartment.

Agadir:
Spent another four nights at the home of Barka, a lovely young
Moroccan woman with more energy than a three year old. Had a couple of
great days exploring the beaches north and south of Agadir. Borrowed a
surfboard from a kid and broke it in two. Paid him 120 E the day that
I left.

Tafroute:
Passed two delightful evenings with Pedja's peace corps volunteer
friends Brooke and Maury. Brooke and I went on a terrific hike through
the mountains and deserts of the Anti Atlas, and even saw the goats
that climb trees!

Tafroute to Dakhla:
Spent the next two full days trying to get to Dakhla. Started out via
bus, then cauht a ride with some guys who were oing all the way to
Layounne; a golden ticket! But after the first police checkpoint where
I received some hassle they decided they didn't have the time and
dumped me in the closest town, Tan Tan. I understood. From Tan Tan I
took a grans taxi with six other men. We waited for three hours to
find our 7th person and finally left around 9pm, packed in like canned
oranges. We lost everyone except for myself and one other in Laayoune,
which menat I had the backseat to myself from about 6am till we
started pickin gpu more passengers around 11. It took another five
hours from there to Dakhla. At Dakhlah I checked into a hotel, the
first on my journey. It was pleasant enough and I was desparate to do
laundry. My washing done I headed for the sea. Dakhla is a dusty town
on teh end of a 35km sandy peninsula. The military presence here is a
bit overwhelming, as it's the last town before the Mauritanian
frontier, some 600km to the south. People seem a bit jaded, though I
made soem very nice meetings. The best was with ________, I found him
on the end of a crumbling old sewer pipe leading from town into the
bay. He was fishing and invited me to join him in his spot as I was
having a tough time fishing with my bit of line from the beach. Short
of money, I had decided that taking a shot at a bite in this
legendeary fishin gtown might just pan out. I was using bits of what
passes cheese in Maroc and was havin some difficulty keepin it on the
hook. I had a lot of bites and lost a lot of cheese, but caught no
fish. ____ had similar luck with his escargot and we eventualy both
packed it in. When I emerged from my requisite swim ____ invited me to
join him and his family for couscous, sans poisson, that evening. We
redezvoused at 8pm in front of the Al Jazeera cafe. As we walked
through teh busy evening streets filled with robed figures hawking all
manner of goods and the smoke from thekefta stands ___ and I
established a story n case we were stopped by tyeh police. Teh
couscous was amazing. ___'s beautiful wife was a tremendous cook and
unbelievably talented in the fine art of eating couscous with the
hands. She formed these amazin glittle balls, quick as could be with a
beautiful mxture of vegetables, couscous and chicken, all while keepin
gher hand nearly spotless. I looked like a two year old net to her,
food all the way up my hand and all over my face. Their baby Younus
was shy at first but came right around after a few songs on teh
guitar.

Dakhla to Noadhibou:
A long day. I left at 8am, hpin to thumb an early lift south. I had
decided to wlak the 9km to the town's gendarme checkpoint and its
attendant6 collectio nof vehicles heading to Mauritani, but gve up and
took a taxi. Asking around it appeared the price for transit to
Mauritnaia was a standard 350 Dirhams. Accompanied by truck drivers'
scoffs I started walking in search of a free lift. I was picked up
after less than a click by a very strange Mauritanian man in a beat up
and severely overloaded blue cargo van I explained that |I didn't want
to pay and that I was hoping to ride for free. It wasn't until a half
hour into the ride that he quoted me the price, 350 Dirham. I showed
him that I quite literally had only 120 Dirham and that I had said I
didn't want to pay. He took the 100. I considered gettin out, but we
were of course in the middle of the sahara, and would go 30 or 40
minutes without seeing another car. I decided not to push it. The old
blue mercedes must've been the slowest truck on teh shaara that day. I
guessed we made between 10 and 40 km per hour for the next 10 hours.
We had two blowouts and at one point he told me that the road up ahead
was dangerous and thit if he shouted at me to jump I should justmp. As
in out the door. The border corssin gtook a long time but was
relatively ainless. No baksheesh, and the visa price of 10 E was a
nice surprise. The shock of crossing the border was immense, however.

A Bad Buddhist

2008-02-22T07:18:00.000-08:00

I'm not a Buddhist, but there have been a few moments in my life so far where i tried to be one. I don't know much about buddhism, but from what i've heard one of the things to do as a buddhist is to dissasociate yourself from the needs and wants of your physical body. To be able to detach in a way, and to watch yourself experiencing rather than experiencing yourself. Ok, I just displayed my ignorance of Buddhism. There.
1. 14 years old. Deep in a labyrinthine system of caves in a damp Belizean jungle. I was lying on my back shuffling through a tiny passage into a large room below. The bats from below, annoyed at my attempt to enter their guano-filled resting grounds, decided to vacate the premises en masse, using the only way out, my way, as their route of escape. The passage was so tight there was not room for them to fly past my prone body, rather, they formed neat rows and, starting from my toes, scurried with their little clawed feet all the way up my legs, over my torso, over my face and onto my head from where they were free to flap flap flap away. I think there were a million of them or something like that.
2. Twenty something years old. lying prone on the floor with my cousin Jonah covering my nearly nude body with papièr maché, piece by sticky wet piece. He covered my from head to toe. Over eyes and mouth and nose. I head two straws jammed up my nostrils for breathing.
In both cases I had successful dissassociation experiences. Both times I felt myself bginning to stress, the pressure and anxiety building and threatening to burst. And in both instances I chose instead to watch the experience rather than feel it. And it totally worked! I hear the US Marines (hooo ahhh or something like that) also do this kind of pain is your friend stuff... is that right?
Last night I tried again with... pretty poor results. I went last night to a Hammam, just a block down the street from the home of my gracious hosts, here in the old Medina of Marrakech, Morocco. This was not your package tour spa-type Hammam. Rather it serves the community as their regular bath. Few local homes in the Medina have baths or showers, so people go regularly to the Hammam. Essentially a Hammam is a series of typically three tiled rooms filled with steam and buckets of water, each room hotter than the next. Men and women go to Hammam at different hours of course, so when I went it was filled with men and boys of all ages. I went with a friend of my hosts, Abdu Raheem, who spent an hour scraping, and beating, massaging and pulling me in all directions. He had help from a bunch of little boys too and there were times where I had no less than four people yanking and slapping and kicking and standing on me, making kissy noises when the moves were most intense. I felt like I was melting away onto the tile floor, floating in rivulets through the griddled grout and into the gutters. And that was all great. But then came the Berber acid. As I laid on my stomache AR spread some kind of foul smelling powder all over my back and arms. The pain was instant. Like a scorching fire, or a bush of nettles or seriously some kind of acid, like the kind that gave the joker his smile. I actually wondered if he had grabbed the wrong bottle from under the kitchen sink and considered asking him if he could see my bones through my skin yet, when the real pain began. I have always believed that I have a high pain tolerance. Granted I've only really heard this from my mum and I have a sneaking suspicion this may be a mother's trick to create a self-fulfilling prophecy of toughness in their winiest kids... but my belief in my own tolerance plus my wonderful success as a Buddhist Jedininja in the two occasions above had me convinced I could dissasociate from any reasonable amount of pain. Either the pain of scalding water poured on that crazy Acid de Berber was unreasonable or I am a big wimp because in that moment pain and I were as associated as... French people and baguettes... or choose your own other close association. No matte how intently I tried to concentrate on removing myself from the situation, on watching the pain rather than feeling it, I was forced back with each splash into the present. Soon the only thing I could think was that I'd gone to hell and Lucifer himself was poking me in the back with that three pronged stick pitchfork he's always carying... It was inTENSE.
Of course I totally love the experience. Thanks to Abdu Raheem for not taking it easy on me... or at least making me think that he wasn't (scary thought). I kept wishing my brother the chiropractor to be had been there to see the beating. He would've freaked.

Time to go. I need to hit the souk to pick up food for supper. Take care out there.

ho boy

2008-02-12T06:29:00.000-08:00

Is there such a thing as a "Ho Boy"? Probably. Anyways, what I meant to say was more like, "oh geez, here we go again".
I left Seattle yesterday, washed down the jetway in a flood of tears and hand-wringing. The flight from Copenhagen to Paris was one of those great ones where you sit down, buckle up, close your eyes and don't wake till the thump of the landing.
And here we are in the city of lights and it's just beautiful.
I had a wonderful time back in the NW, and I'll have to tell you about that in a bit. For now though, I'll just introduce you to the idea of the next chapter in the life of Marty:
I'll be here in Paris for a few days or maybe a week. There's a bit of fuzziness in the plans, as I had intended to go down to Grenoble to visit a friend, then to Geneva since it's close to Grenoble. As it turns out the friend from Grenoble is coming to Paris tomorrow, so I feel less of a need to go there, which means I won't be as close to Geneva. I may instead be just flying straight out of Paris for Morocco. Of course, Grenoble, Geneva and all the places in between are, I'm sure, worthy of visits, but I've got Africa on the brain and am anxious to get there.
The plan for Africa is to start in Morocco and head south down the western coast, with trips to inland Mauritania, Mali and other spots along the way. I'm hoping to get an understand of the transition from Arab to Black Africa, in both rural and urban settings. I'm also hoping to develop more clearly this idea of "how" I want to live. I'd like to make it as far as the DRC and maybe CAF as well. On May 15th I'll be returning from... wherever I am at that point to Paris. I've somehow convinced Humanity in Action to allow me to be the intern for their summer program here, and I'm really looking forward to that. I like this city, I like the issues being discussed and there are dear friends for me here. What more could I ask for, besides some hand-crafted Northwest micro-brews?
I'll likely be heading back to the Northwest in mid-late July and from there...
It's an exciting time. But as always I feel a bit anxious and kind of more tired than usual. Maybe this detox tea will help.
Sorry for the lack of pictures lately. I'm having trouble with my computer. Also, I won't be taking the Mac(daddy) to Africa, so posts could look a bit different for a while. It's important for me to keep sharing with you through this site. Thanks for reading and commenting. It was great to be back in the NW and to hear from people who had tuned in once in a while.
Here we go. I cast my self on the water and hope I will return back... ha! Take care chickens.

Like a proper Penner (narcissism alert)

2008-01-16T19:14:00.000-08:00

I like the idea of names meaning something important. It's a strange idea, as your name is your very first real possession, yet it is pretty much forced on you like the hot potato you'll pass around in kindergarten exactly four years and six months later. Though I have no personal experience with this, it seems like when a baby is named, a few hours (somebody help me, is that right? hours?) after it's birth its pretty much exhibiting mostly baby-style characteristics. All the crying and smacking of toothless gums and being covered in fluids and shaking little clenched fists like "I have no idea what just happened over the last few hours but whatever it was it's cold and I'm pretty pissed about it". Yet names are often very particular in their meaning, and this defenseless little child is given a name by which it will be referred to and characterized for the rest of its life. And so many people grow up to be those definitions they were given before they'd said a peep or chosen a path or wrestled with their existential selves. They had no choice in this. They were assigned a part of their personhood through the naming process. Like my brother Toby. Toby means "very very strange young man". Who knew this would turn out to be exactly the case? Did mum and dad have a premonition?
For me this idea, that your name is a curse/blessing you didn't ask for and can't escape, is hitting home pretty hard right now. Not my first name, "Martin", which is traced back to "Mars", the god of war... I'm kind of a pacifist, but if you challenged me on this I would probably buckle and just submit saying "no, you're right, I'm not a pacifist, whatever you say boss, you're the boss"... and other drivels. So not that part really (swing and a miss dad), but it's the last name thing which has really been hitting home tonight.
Names mean different things in different languages and cultures too. I had a TA in the Jackson School who exhibited this for me very well. His name was Tuna and he was probably the best TA I ever had. I specifically chose to be in his section for a few different classes, just cause I thought he was awesome. And not that he gave me good grades... cause he was pretty friggin tough on me actually... I just liked him (and he was smart too). And he was Turkish. But I didn't know how much I would like him my first day in his class. He wrote his name on the board in big letters "T U N A" and then said, leaning with his arms straight against the desk in front, his words clipped and pushed into the desk in front of him; an intense and a touch self-conscious exhibition, "My name is Tuna. In your language this is the name of a fish, but in my country it is the name of a beautiful river." And I thought "Yeah!!! That's hilarious but totally awesome!"
And here I am now, sitting in a dirty bar in Seattle, typing away like a total social outcast while everyone around me laugh laugh laughs it up and the band sets up their sparkly gear (super sweet early 60's Fender Precision bass). and I've got a head of messy hair and a suitcase I've been lugging around for a while now. Seriously, who goes to a bar with a suitcase?
My last name, "Penner", was always a source of pride for me. It's Mennonite in origin. I could explain "Mennonite", but it would take some time. If you really like I can email you a copy of a paper I wrote about the role collective identity formation played in the swift and total migration of Mennonites from Russia to the New World from 1876-1917, but trust me, you don't want. At any rate, look "Mennonite" up on wikipedia or something... if you're interested.
But Penners were common as dirt where I grew up. Look in the Calgary phonebook and you'll find page after page. Here in Seattle I think there aren't any. Unless I'm in there... am I? When I was a kid we moved to Belize for a year cause my parents thought it would be good for their children to pick them up by the ankles, turn them upside down and shake shake shake. For a year. and they were totally right. Changed my life. About halfway through we moved to a Mennonite colony where having the name Penner pretty much made you either family or a rockstar... I couldn't tell which it was. Maybe it was both.
But in the last few years I've started to realize that there's more to this little etymological story. Every time I'm introduced to someone from Germany they laugh/try to hide laughter/stare/gape/snicker/try to hide snicker/swallow loudly. Apparently "Penner", in German, is kind of a not-nice name for a homeless person. When I first heard this I thought it was just funny. Like "oh yeah, haha, did you hear I'm like a Penner, like a drifter or something ha!" But then I realized, I think it's actually kind of a mean word. Like you wouldn't really want to call somebody that.
At any rate, tonight I'm a Penner. I'm here in Seattle, a city where I lived for years, where at one point I owned property and had all the big parts of a life, where I have friends I love/who love me, where I swam in the lake in the summers and walked in the rain in the winters... here I am, and I'm sitting in a bar next to a suitcase. I've been lugging it around. walking. on buses. It's not everything I own actually, this suitcase, but it's kind of my whole life at this point. And when people ask me where I live I have no answer for them. I'm trying to stretch the burden of me out across this city and the people I love in it. I'm sleeping on friends' floors, taking rides from strangers. Sitting for hours in bars and coffee shops. Walking walking walking. It's strange business. I'm a Penner, apparently. My dad held me up when I was a squiggling little squashy form and said, "hello Martin Andrew Penner". I wonder if he knew how true this could be. I wonder if he would have broke the mold and slapped a new last name on me if he had been able to see this strange and sad evening with its empty glasses, neil young on the stereo and his son sitting alone. I hope not. It may be strange, but it sure is intense, and that's worth something right?

Question

2007-12-24T18:40:00.001-08:00

Tights on men. Just for cleaning house?

Enemies Online

2007-12-19T09:46:00.000-08:00

There are two primary value-added functions of Facebook. First it allows a productive, real-time connection to people whom you’ve just recently been introduced to. It helps develop friends. Second it helps one reconnect with those long-lost friends from life’s previous chapters. Elementary schools, former clubs and towns where one used to live. All come back to life, bunched together into intertwining groups on Facebook.
What if, instead of a site for connecting with old friends, there was a sight for connecting with old enemies. It’s always been my opinion that the people I disliked most in the world were the ones who exhibited the qualities I most disliked in myself. My enemies are a motley collection of the worst of me. The arrogant, the selfish, the just plain stupid.
They say you should keep your friends close and your enemies closer. Presumably the primary reason for such an unpleasant choice would be so you could watch their every move, always prepared for them to strike, banking on proximity to give the edge to your early-warning system. But there’s another reason why you should keep your enemies close. Either they have hurt you, you have hurt them or you have hurt each other. An enemy knows things about you that your friends either do not or have chosen to overlook.
Most of the time I too prefer to overlook the tough and nasty things living inside me. I avoid confrontation with my demons. When I am wronged I hold it tight like my last lighted match. When I wrong I abandon the memory so effectively that it’s not long before I can honestly wonder why in the world that person is so hostile towards me. But in the interests of personal growth and development, this is poor strategy.
It would be better to be made to face all the difficult bits of one’s past; to confront full on your errors, and to share your own grievances. And here comes the big idea: www.enemybook.com. An online network where you connect with those who know you in a way your friends do not. A network for the sharing of grievances, the illumination of wrongs, the sharpening of criticism. The goal would not necessarily be to make friends out of enemies, though this may happen. The real point of such a site would be for me to understand how what I do and who I am affects the people around me. To identify those nasty spots in me and cut them out with laser-like precision. While it’s true you can learn much about a person by looking at their friends, I think a person can learn just as much about themselves by looking at their enemies.

leaving 1

2007-12-05T08:51:00.000-08:00

The countdown is on and the first number is a 10. Ten days before I leave this place.
I arrived here unafiliated. Not Jewish, not Palestinian, not aligned politically. I’ve lived down the street from a silver-coated manger, down the road from a wall whose nooks and crannies are stuffed with paper prayers, in the shadow of a gleaming dome. Yet none of these sites are what drew me. I feel like I've been on a pilgrimage, and visits to all three sites have played an important and contributory role. It's funny how changing everything outside, the air that touched my skin, the rain that wreaked havoc with my frizzy bizzy head, the faces that filled my gazes, left so much room for plumbing the depths inside. My pilgrimage brought me to the Holy Land and to the Profane Marty. In the swirling madness of this land I've found clear notes of the peace I've been seeking. It's difficult to think about leaving.
In this fractious region I've made my home, on both sides of the wall that divides it. Each day I leave my office, a slick and modern restoration of a beautiful and ancient fortress, and ride my bicycle to the checkpoint. The sun sets early here, and it's usually down by the time I leave work. Dodging the glare of car headlights and army spotlights, I duck along a muddy path (last night there were some donkeys loose, frightened and blocking the way). The confused glances of the unfortunate youths in their green jackets who check my passport (why is this not-arab guy going in to Bethlehem at night, on a bicycle, wearing a tie) gave way some time ago to nods of familiarity, practiced phrases of English and, most recently, a call to “come visit us again”. I told them I would see them in the morning.
The change is immediate. I have been in poorer places in the world than the West Bank, but I have never cycled through them in the shadow of a wall, a physical symbol of the reason for the potholed streets and the rubble-filled gaps between the homes that line them (oversimplification alert).
There are, I think, more cats in Palestine than people. This comes in super handy when the garbage men go on strike (I would strike too if my paycheques were months late) and the bins start to return what they’ve received back into the greasy streets. It’s amazing how much can be piled onto a small bin before this happens. The cats love the garbage. They can make a serious dent in it too, and they love to jump out in great numbers as you walk by in the middle of the night (heart goes thump thump THUMP THUMP THUMP). They still burn garbage in the bins here. It’s a shock the first time you see it. The first time the acrid taste hits your tongue and the blue smoke fills your lungs, coating them with plastic. After a while your concern shifts to things like “I hope there were no cats in there when they lit it!” I’m a dog person I guess, but I still like cats.
It’s not like I’m returning to a place I didn’t like. Seattle was a home to me in the truest sense. It is interesting to me how I have translated that place into my home of the last months. The French café where I took my daily quiche and sat alone with the newspaper became a Jewish bakery where I sat with an Americano and read the same paper (God bless the New York Times/International Herald Tribune). The bar in the alley where I would sit and drink with old men became a falafel shop where I sit and smoke with old men. The daily motorcycle ride over the QA bridge, with its view of the Olympics to the left and the Cascades to the right, which honestly made me catch my breath every day, was replaced by a morning bike ride along the flowing skirts of Bethlehem with a view of the valley where the angels appeared to the shepherds, spotted with the descendents of those shepherds and their sheep and goats, with the hills of the Judean desert beyond. The catchy-breathy effect is the same.
I don’t know where exactly I’ll end up in this world, but I hope that the richness of each place I’ve been is carried with me, translated in a new language and given a new heart. It’s a lot to ask, I know, but so far it’s worked this way.
So it’s hard to think of leaving. But life and oceans both have their currents and swells, their tides and flows. How could I love the ocean so much and hate life for imitating it?
I promised myself a while ago, after reading my friend Mike’s blog (michaelcepress.blogspot.com) that I would make my entries short and poignant, that I would ask for the friendly responses I crave, and here I am blathering on, multiple beers deep, and not even leaving space for you all. So maybe, if you like, respond with some idea about how the homes you’ve had, the places you’ve loved, which have been translated and reborn in new places and new homes. This could be a phd thesis, or it could be ramblings made in a noisy bar in Jerusalem with a long and mostly uphill bike ride staring you in the face.
A final parting thought, old and sugar-soaked tea bags held by the string look a lot like dead mice held by the tail.

The Visit

2007-12-03T06:19:00.000-08:00

I said goodbye a few days ago to my sister Holly and my brother in law Josh. They visited for 10 days and it was a pleasure to have them. I feel at home enough here to take ownership and pride in the showing off of this crazy and beautiful region.
So, a few pictures just to say what what.
1. St. George's monastery in Wadi Quelt. This was a 6km hike in from Jericho. The ravine was so beautiful, with caves where monks used to live, and some caves where monks still live. We tried to give fruit to one, but no go. We probably would've caused him to break his 20 year vow of silence or something. I couldn't live with myself if that happened.
2. lunch in a Druze village in the north. They make the best shewarma I've ever had with these huge crèpe-like pitas and lots of pickled beets...mmmm
3. moustache in full effect with Wadi in background. Yes, I realize I can't grow anything in the middle. Thank you.
4. my feline doppleganger.
5. my handsome family.

Life is made of flavours

2007-11-17T14:09:00.000-08:00

I made Canlis Salad tonight. They loved it, but they didn't really understand. I closed my eyes with each bite.

What to do when the world keeps turning.

2007-11-12T06:45:00.000-08:00

If I could control the spin of the earth I would have brought it to a grinding halt maybe a year and a half ago. At that point there were three separate hearts in me, all frantically stumbling through their separate erratic rhythms, out of time with each other and out of time with me. Like three bundles of tightly stretched rubber bands and I was feeling the first chilly warning bursts of an elastic blizzard about to hit. It was awful. But the world kept turning. The sun rose every day and forced me to chase it across the city, across campus, from the kitchen out to the tables of eating people, until finally night would allow me to fall asleep on a pile of schoolbooks with my hand in a bowl of nachos. I would have given anything to stop the sun from coming up. To stay in bed. It was not nice.
So time, the old mule, continued on demanding decisions be made and paths taken. One of those paths brought me here to the Middle East, and it was here where I think I learned to stop fighting time. I came here with very high expectations for development on spiritual, personal and professional levels. This requires time, and I accepted that. My greatest fear is to be facing these three battlegrounds and to feel my feet stuck fast. I remember getting stuck like this when I was a rubber-booted kid in the middle of a vast spring mud puddle. With both boots taking root in the earth (this is how we get gum trees, by the way) and dry ground in sight our little boy has a choice to make. He can remain stuck in that puddle till the sun sets and the stars they come stealing, working his boots back and forth and sinking deeper with each effort, or he can pull his bare feet out of those clammy boots and slosh his way to the puddle's edge. Dirty and free. It's this kind of motion, the kind that hurts and that costs, that I've tried to find here.
And it's been one of the most beautiful, painful and rich times of my life. I have the freedom to really engage with this journey in a way I've never experienced. Every day I enter into dark waters and each morning I wake changed. It hasn't been about finding answers. It's been about making motion. Like a sailor with a full and strong tailwind I move swiftly carrying with me each moment two opposed feelings: gratefulness for the wind that drives me and fear that it will soon fail, leaving me stranded. Stranded like before.
There's a part of me that accepts that defeat so easily, that finds it safer and more comfortable to just sit still. But I've got a plan to kill that bastard off for good. I'm hoping to spend some time next year in Africa. From January to May, from Morocco to Egypt through sub-Saharan Africa. It's a strange idea for me, actually. I've never wanted to go to Africa. I'm full western and full northern. I get grumpy in hot weather and I have a hard time sharing a bed with bugs. I'm comfortable with a northern mentality; I understand life through a frosty filter. I know very little about Africa, but my impression is that life there is very different. I think it might be fertile ground for securing motion as an eternal characteristic for me. I want to leave that man who prefers the comfort of stagnancy behind on some dark and solitary trail. I'll walk away without a backwards glance, and hope he never finds his way out. At this point it's simply a plan. But it's a good one, no?
I'm living every day in motion, and it's addictive. To simply wander wouldn't be the same. That would be sitting still in different locations. No, it's better to be on your way to something. The route to that place may take more time and cover more miles than seems sensible, but really, this whole experience carries no sentiment of sensibility. Instead, destiny.
I'm still a wreck, in a lot of ways. I'm confused and shattered and life seems a great effort. But the other day a good friend told me "Marty, it's obvious. Your soul is intact." I almost cried.
I no longer wish to hold the earth still, but I want it to turn at exactly the right speed: not so slow that it's too painful to bear and not so fast that I miss one second.
Friends and family, thank you for being my partners in this. I need you.

water and life

2007-11-04T11:58:00.000-08:00

Much of the last few years for me has felt like a big fuzzy swirling question mark. Occasionally a moment stands clear like the first sight of land from a foggy sea. For a few breaths I'm convinced I'm in the right place at the right time. It's the most self-interested experience I can have, and possibly the most important. I've had a few of these in the last month. I am grateful for each one.
-that night swim in the starry universe of the Red Sea
-coming down the hill from the checkpoint on my bicycle, middle of the night, warm wind on my face, eyes closed as long as I dare
-my self-baptism in the Jordan River a few days ago.
-floating on my back in the Sea of Galilee and looking at the lights of Tiberias glowing soft and red on the water.

In each of these moments I found peace. It was great.

2007-10-25T02:50:00.000-07:00

Another Lesson

2007-10-24T06:47:00.001-07:00

In the event of a tear gassing, a large chunk of raw onion held up to the mouth and nose helps a little bit. It still burns like hell, but at least you get to smell freshly chopped onion, and you can pretend that the tears streaming down your cheeks are simply the result of some vigorous chopping for that delicious french onion soup you make so well.
It was my first experience with civil unrest (at least of this sort) here in Bethlehem. My first tear gas. Gershon says I lost my flower.
I'm having some trouble posting pictures for some reason, but hopefully it works. Watery eyes, gas canisters, shell casings, a piece of an IDF jeep, stones stones stones, burning garbage bins.

Miss Communication

2007-10-17T03:29:00.001-07:00

For those of you wondering why I don't call home very often.

Lessons

2007-10-16T06:38:00.000-07:00

I've been learning a lot of lessons lately. Many have come from a delightful and teeny Norwegian girl named Ragnhild, pronounced... ah forget it. I have had the pleasure of hosting Ragnhild at my place for the last little bit. She's a couchsurfing pilgrim who travels around this world only by hitchhiking. She's pictured here with her well-used can of "tear gas", which I guess is the same as pepper spray or mase. She's been to most of the places we see on the news. A couple of her lessons (my translations of them:
-obstacles are constructions
-fear is boring
-it's no use fighting seeds or dreams once they've been planted

There are more. One I discovered on my own recently is this:
-going to the Middle East and growing a beard is kind of like going to Puerto Vallarta and getting your hair braided.
Too true. Yet I still can't bring myself to shave. Not until it's long enough to be a food-catcher. Maybe I'll get my hair braided too!

Swimming

2007-10-10T02:28:00.000-07:00

Swimming has always been one of my favourite things to do. When I was little, each muddy, knee-deep prarie puddle I came accross was a brand new ocean and I was an explorer. I was most often joined by my little sister, who was also bitten by the swimmy bug. Together we confounded our more timid brothers with our willingness to plunge into the iciest mountain streams, the cow-poopiest prairie dugouts. One summer our dad constructed a backyard pool out of 2x10s and a big orange tarp. It was 10 inches deep. Deep enough. We were little Steve Zizous.
In the Aquatic world everything changes, including your own body. You become fluid, unbound by gravity. One of our favourite games was "manatee", which basically involved floating around in slow and swooping circles, like grace and peace despite your unwieldy shape. Another great game is simply doing everything upside down, with the water's surface your floor and the pool/puddle/river/lake/slough bottom your ceiling. Underwater tea parties. Underwater laughing. Underwater talking. Underwater anything.
To grow up a swimmer in Canada means you've spent more than your share of time standing on the edge of some frigid body of water, arms held tight to chest and knees shaking, trying to convince yourself that jumping in isn't actually a ridiculous idea. The thing is, almost every time you get in the water it's going to feel cold. It's going to be uncomfortable, inconvenient, a shock. And it's going to be wet. It's hard to think of how good it will feel, despite the cold or the scariness of climbing out on those sharp and slippery rocks. It's hard to remember the last time you were weightless, the last time you flew and turned and floated upside down with that smile on your face. Something I realized just last year which has helped me to make the decision in favour of the plunge: in all my life of freezing, muddy, scary swims, I have never regretted jumping in. I have, however, regretted the times I chose the safer route, the warm spot by the fire. So think of that next time. It helps!
There are a few special swims, the ones that revisit me in dreams, the ones I think about when I'm hot and far from water. Mountain lakes at the tops of long and hot hikes. That waterfall in the Cascades. Breaking through the ice in the Rockies. The rushing crystal of that river in the Kootenays. The fraternal glory of being tossed in the frozen crashing of the Pacific with my brothers (I include Donny in that category). Naked and yelling into the night, eyes wide, our breath coming in icy gasps and the feel of arms around shoulders. Of course, the many nights spent on the dock on Lake Washington, swimming and sipping till we all collapsed in piles of wet hair, empty bottles and fuzzy blankets. To wake in the morning rain and go together to the 5 points for eggs and bacon and black toast.
And now, I have another to add. It's close to the top of the list. Like many of the best, it happened at night. Swimming naked seems to make things better too. I'm not normally a naturalist, but if it's nighttime and we're swimming the regular standards of modesty bend themselves to something more pure and natural, they bend themselves to the joy of water and bodies. It's always been a dream of mine to swim with dinoflagellates, bioluminescent phytoplantkon (I can't believe there's no lay term for these things), basically, the little plankton that glow in the water at night. Last week, in the Red Sea, alone at 3 am with my trunks left on a moored fishing boat and a cheap mask on my face, I realized this dream. Imagine the most star-filled sky you've ever seen, then picture each of those points of light exploding into 10, 100, 1000 other points, then move your arm through and watch them all swirling and turning in eddies and invisible streams and landscapes. You hover in the black water and every movement sparks a million floating points of light, like swirling galaxies. You are God and you're swimming through the universe at the speed of light. I wish I could really describe it.

i feel like dancin.

2007-09-29T05:51:00.000-07:00

To quote Charles, a character in a smart-alecky and self-righteous little novel I borrowed from the beach camp in Sinai (I’ll return it next weekend):
“The people who talk about their feelings are miserable. I’m not for repression, but really, you can’t possibly take feelings seriously. The fact is-and this is science, John,- the less you talk about them, the less you even notice them, until finally, you can become a real human being and not some ball of feelings bouncing up and down all day staring at your own ass.”
Well, Charles, since I lack your calculated and self-aware clear-headedness, I stumble doggedly into the following episode of bouncy ass reflection.

For those of you who don’t know, I’m a natural self-doubter, a second-guesser. I’ll question my motives for everything. I’ll question anything I can find in myself that’s good, and anything that’s bad. I’ll even doubt my motivation for questioning. At a certain point it becomes ridiculous. Actually, it’s probably ridiculous right from the start…
While I’ve received much encouragement from friends and family about what I’m doing here, I confess to periods of doubt. There are times, of course, when I surge forward with head high, thrilled with what I’m learning and relishing each new thought and sound and feeling and taste. In these times my warm gaze is reflected in the welcoming visages of the wonderful people I’ve met here, and it seems to make sense. Each of these moments is met with its evil twin, where I wonder what on earth I’m doing here. What I hope to achieve. How this will fit with my future. In these times I wonder what I’m running away from back home. I wonder where home is.
Last night was one of these times.
It gets dark early here, like 5:30 or so. I don’t know if it’s like this in all Muslim cities, but in Bethlehem most recreational social action occurs in private homes, among families and maybe close friends. Shortly past dark the streets are empty but for the occasional group of teenage boys who’ve abandoned their customary spots on hard couches in dusty living rooms, choosing instead to wander, optionless, through the empty streets. My evenings in Bethlehem, to be frank, are long and lonely. And last night as I sat reading “The Future of the Israeli Settlements in Final Status Negotiations” by the vintage and flickering light of my kerosene lantern, I felt especially down.
I was about to go to bed, to wage the long battle of the bored and overslept, when I heard, faintly through my open window, the sounds of Arab dance music and shouting. It wasn’t a difficult choice. The nights here are cool enough for a sweater (which I love), and a walk through the steep and winding streets and passages of the old city is always enjoyable. So I threw on a scarf and tried my best to find my way to the music.
I made a few twisty turns here and there, trying to follow the sounds of the music through the maze-like passages. Finally, I turned a corner and entered the little square, which butts up against the mosque. A group of about 30 young Palestinians were dancing in the middle of the street to the frenzied beats coming from a pair of speakers hooked up to a car battery. There was a table where the dj sat surrounded by stacks of cds. He had a mic and every once in a while would shout into it in Arabic, turning the volume of the music down in the self-styled way of insecure djs the world over. The ages of the dancers, and watchers, ranged from 8 or 10 to probably 35. Every one was male.
My plan was to lean against a wall and watch. This lasted maybe 10 seconds before I was pulled into the fray, protesting and tugging at the hands which gripped mine tightly. Immersion into the dance was instant. Faces smiled and shone and hands beckoned me into the middle of the circle, and I was dancing with them all. Arms around each other. In the west it seems like most places where dancing occurs are populated with people who would rather be having sex. This changes the feeling of the experience, and usually means that I end up dancing quite alone, lost in my own enjoyment of the collision of music and movement. Surrounded by people and utterly isolated. Here, under the Palestinian night sky, isolation was not an option. As a group of men we danced with each other. Not the self-conscious, stiff-armed and gruff-looking man-dancing that used to happen when my oil-rig co-workers and I would put on our best workboots and trundle into the closest, and least fortunate, little northern Alberta town. This was the flash and snap of hips and shoulders. It was heads thrown back and arms lifted to the sky.
The separation of men and women and the “impossibility” of homosexuality in countries with strong Muslim majorities means that men behave differently towards each other. Affection, sensual and fraternal, runs in waves, unhindered by the fear of appearing “gay”. It’s a shame that this freedom for the straight men of Palestine extracts enormous costs from those who are gay. It’s more than a shame.
But this dance with these wonderful and kind young men lifted me out of my own loneliness and planted me firmly within a moment of family. It was beautiful. And as I sat dancing high on the shoulders of a young man I’d never met before I remembered why I love this place.
Message to the boys: Quit trying to shag the birds and fight the geezers. Go dancing!

the wall

2007-09-22T05:50:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, a Friday, I had the plan to go into Jerusalem to buy some guitar strings and maybe a sweater (it’s starting to get chilly here at nights, which is welcome). I took my guitar along with the thought to do a bit of strumming on Ben Yehuda street, a type of pedestrian promenade.
I arrived at the checkpoint at 9 am to find it choked with Palestinians trying to cross in to Israel so they could perform their Friday Ramadan prayers at Al Aqsa al Sharif (the dome of the rock). There were a few thousand people milling around, pressing up against the barrier formed by a solid row of IDF armoured trucks and jeeps, the soldiers in with their flack jackets, M-16s and earpieces sitting on top of the trucks, fingers on triggers. No one at all was getting across, and no one seemed to know if the crossing would be opening in a minute, an hour, ever. I knew Israel would be closing the crossing that evening at the start of Yom Kippur, but finding it closed in the morning was a surprise to me and the crowd in which I floated and bobbed in surges towards the barrier, then back away and back again.
I took a few photographs and was pleased to have the assistance of two fine young photographers: Mohammed and a little girl whose name I didn’t catch. So here are some of their pictures, and some of mine.

2007-09-22T05:48:00.000-07:00

2007-09-22T05:47:00.000-07:00

2007-09-22T05:45:00.000-07:00

2007-09-22T05:41:00.000-07:00

the wall

2007-09-20T07:40:00.001-07:00

In an earlier post I made reference to a picture which I didn't post. So here are a couple of pictures of the wall, the missing one included. Peace be with you, indeed.

and more

2007-09-20T07:29:00.000-07:00

On our trek into the wilderness of Sinai we were guided by two bedouin boys and their donkeys. While it's true that donkeys are stubborn beasts, I think I would probably be stubborn too if I had to walk around on those rocks all day. I wasn't sure exactly why we brought the donkeys... my best guess being if we got lost and thirsty and needed to drink somebody's blood it would be better to start with Eyore than with one of us people-types.

In one of these photos you'll see young Aburachman showing you how tough his feet are. The little feller went the whole way, a two-hour hike up a legitimate mountain covered in rocks so sharp they sounded like clinking glass when they moved against each other, in his bare feet!

few more

2007-09-20T07:24:00.000-07:00

At Basata we took a trek into the wilderness. We stumbled upon a camel corpse, all picked clean but bones and hair. For some reason I have a disturbing memory of some ridiculous cartoon from my childhood where a skeleton plays a xyolophone-tune on the bones of his own ribcage. This reminded me of that.

I tried to offer the camel some water but I guess it was too late.

the last pic is just nightime on my balcony.

moresies

2007-09-20T07:20:00.000-07:00

Mum and Dad came to visit this last week from Moldova. It was good to have them here. We took a jaunt down to the Sinai (Egypt) and stayed at a beautiful place called "Basata". Very simply and hippy style. Sleeping under the stars. Swimming and snorkeling, sleep and reading. Lovely. Eating. it's an eco-friendly place where they recycle everything and the food is all bought on the honour system. Fantastic.

quick post

2007-09-20T07:02:00.000-07:00

hi all. just popping a couple o pics on here cause it's been a while! I'll do a wordystyle update from home, but it's easy to do these pics from the office. Today starts the weekend, and because it's Yom Kippur I'll be stuck at home for the next couple of days. Apparently, if you dare drive during the holiday you will have stones thrown at your car. I don't think I'll risk it. At any rate, I have no car, and the border between the West Bank and Israel will be closed, so it looks like a weekend of reading and Arak. Should be good. I need to relax after that trip to the Sinai...
photoos:
-Dad found some moustache brothers at Abu Shanab.
-One good thing about big hair is that it serves as a defensive device against small objects tossed, with malintent, by one's father
-taxi view
-friendly (maybe hungry?) goat
-This is the wall. Looks peaceful to me!

more pics (blogger only allows a few per post, hence the multiple posts. blah)

2007-09-09T01:10:00.000-07:00

-This photo is right after I was very nearly bitten by this bastard camel. Camels are famous for their mean temperments, but when you've had a few beers and a self-portrait of you and camel sounds like the best idea in the world concerns for personal safety take a back seat. My lightning-quick relfexes amazed everybody around, and allowed me to keep both ears. The photo was taken mid-jump. Look at his wee beady eyes. You can tell he's mad that I got away.
-Hanna Siniora, our Palestinian co-director, gave me this huge cigar to smoke while I was working. I only made it through a quarter of it and it took hours. Smoking while working is a good way to stay awake!
-again, the church of the nativity
-martyr poster
-view of a minaret and the palestinian sky from a service taxi

picky pics at last!

2007-09-09T00:59:00.000-07:00

Pictures:
-my apartment
-the church of the nativity where Jesus was born
-Jean Batiste, Simon et moi on the roof of the Austrian Hospice in Jerusalem's Muslim Quarter
-the view from my nap

2007-09-07T10:30:00.002-07:00

I've had the good fortune to be introduced to many wonderful people here in Israel/Palestine since my arrival, both jews and palestinians. I've enjoyed many passionate political discussions about what's going on here (many end with hand-wringing and worried remarks about the future -"hopefully things will change, inshah Allah (if God wills it)"). But tonight was my first conversation with someone about what "it" was like. If you've got the time, read the short (yet unabridged) description of the seige of the church of the nativity I found on wikipedia (the most trusted source by elementary school students the world over ... ok, it's a good place to start at least). This is all that I found there. When you're done that I'll highlight a few things, and tell you what Saliba told me.

"From March to April of 2002, the Israeli Defense Forces (IDF) carried out “Operation Defensive Shield” in the West Bank. As a part of these large-scale military operations, Bethlehem was invaded in a declared effort "to root out militants". On April 1, 2002, Israeli tanks surrounded Bethlehem. The next day, Israeli military planes, tanks and troops entered the city, sparking heavy criticism due to the nature of the site. Approximately 200 Palestinians--including a number of militants--fled the advancing Israeli forces into the Church of the Nativity. During the siege, the Church bell-ringer and nine Palestinians inside the Church were killed and many more wounded. A monk was also killed in his residence by indirect fire during the siege. By early May, Bethlehem was the last West Bank city where the Israeli forces were still present in the wake of “Operation Defensive Shield.” A large fire was accidentally started during the siege. According to a PBS documentary, an IDF flare was responsible. Frontline The Israeli Army left only after the full evacuation of the Church of the Nativity on May 22. At least one monk had been trapped in the basilica with the Palestinians." wikipedia.

First, it's good to know just a touch about Saliba. I was introduced to him through Walida, someone I met on the street. Saliba and his family own a restaurant which sells hummus and falafel (best I've ever had). So Walida introduced me and told me Saliba would give me a good price (ie, not the price for tourists but the local price). That was a week ago, and since then I've eaten at Saliba's almost every day. It's really really good. It may be the case, however, that hummus gives me gas... So, Saliba and his family arrived here in 1948 as refugees from Jafa (the Israeli state being created in 1947, many Palestinians found themselves refugees shortly after, their homes and property appropriated. Many ended up in Lebanon, Jordan, Egypt, many stayed in Israel, many moved to what will one day, inshah Allah become the Palestinian state. Saliba and his family are of this sort). Saliba was telling me how difficult life was during the first and second intifadas. The most potent story though concerned the seige of the church of the nativity. First remove from your mind the idea that this is some far off place where things are always violent and it's not really a big deal for people. This is Bethlehem, the birthplace of Jesus. There are buses with tourists. There are universities and monasteries. This is Saliba's home. The city of refuge for his family since 1948. Through their hard work and industriousness they've built a life and a business, and invested themselves in this rich and colourful community. They are friends and family and this city is the fuit of their labour. So when he describes the tanks rolling through his streets, into the square in front of the church of the nativity, past his shop where he sells falafel, he is not a journalist or a politician or a political analyst. He's a son and a father and a student and the owner of a falafel shop.
During the seige the IDF (Israeli Defense Forces) set up a tower in Manger Square, in front of the church. From it they were in position to snipe anybody who moved. Also, as a form of psychological warfare, they played an obnoxious hissing sound, "SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS" night and day at an obscene level. Saliba lived a ways away, but it was still enough to drive him nearly crazy. He doesn't know how those living nearby (remember, this is the center of a densely populated city) retained their sanity. Perhaps they would have been convinced to leave, except that for that entire period of time (Saliba says it was 40 days) everyone in the greater vacinity, including Saliba and his family, was forced to stay indoors, or face the sniper's gun. With the lights extinguished at night, Saliba described the entire family on the floor, hugging the walls of the rooms and not daring to move. In the day, he said, you could possibly move from room to room, but at night you simply sat against the wall. There were a couple of days in that period where they dared venture from their homes to try to find something to eat. But for 40 days they were essentially confined to their home, out of sight of windows, staying low. Though he didn't give me numbers of those killed during the siege the figure of 11listed by wikipedia would probably make him furious. He mentioned the priest, the bellringer, who was killed. He gave his name, which I've forgotten, and said he was the sweetest man. That everybody knew him and he said hi to everybody, even those he didn't know. Imagine this man, this important figure in your community, the one who has rung those bells every day for ages, on his way to ring them for the last time. That was when he was shot.

Saliba also told about the time his apartment was shot at by tanks, how his mother felt the shards of glass. He talked about the German doctor who was treating a wounded person in the street outside Saliba's apartment and was killed with a missile shot from a IDF helicopter. The pieces of his body, he said, were on the trees and on the rocks. There was nothing left larger than a coke can.

Saliba's story, the story of every Palestinian affected by the violence of the last 60 years of occupation, the story of every Israeli whose dream of a homeland was affected by the reciprocal violence, these are all a part of the human history of this place. The political history, comparatively, is a giant ball of shit. And it's the human history which moves me. It's what makes the politics matter. It's what makes people know that now is the time for peace, for compromise, for good and true politics. Tanks must not roll through the streets of Bethlehem again. Saliba's children must be able to grow up without the fear that the guns will be trained on them as they were their father. And the walls surrounding this place must fall like the walls of Jericho. Things must change. Inshah Allah. If God wills it. I believe he does.

Political post script: the conference to be held (hopefully) in DC in November must include all the countries of the Arab world, specifically Syria. The US must swallow its pride and allow this. Syria, it seems, is desparate to cut its ties with Iran, they have the power to effectively disable Hezbollah and Hamas too, they are ready for a new ally and the US needs to get off its high horse and allow, encourage, this. The problem with being on a high horse is you're a long ways from what's happening on the ground. A peace conference without Syrian support will produce another failure. And every failure makes true success even more difficult. There. Blah.

That's it. I've had enough Arak to put me well to sleep. Tomorrow I got to Taybeh, a teeny vilage in the West Bank, with a couple of friends. There's a festival there. Should be fun. I apologize for the lack of pictures in recent posts. I get very sketchy wifi at my apartment. But I've got a number of them to show you all, I just need to haul my laptop in to the office to get a good enough connection. Maybe that will happen Sunday.

Ok. cheers all. Thanks for reading this whole thing, if you did.

a wordy update

2007-09-05T01:05:00.000-07:00

This is an email I sent to the fam the other day. It's now a couple of days old, and still quite long, but if any of you are bored it might make a moment or two of interesting reading. Allons-y!

I passed my first night safely in Israel. My apartment was not
ready yesterday (I've been a bit uncomfortable with how that's been
handled, but I've been told "relax, this is the arab way".), so I
ended up staying at a youth hostel on the edge of the old city, just outside the Damascus Gate in the Muslim quarter. Hokey Dina it was hot as blazes in that little
room. But I was able to sleep a bit. I spent the evening with three
nice french persons, Jean Baptiste, who is an intern here for one more
month, and his two visiting friends. We walked around the old city
(amazing) and had a fine dinner which, of course, included hummus and
pita. Oh, and they have this terrific Palestinian beer called Tay-beh
Bira. Tasty!

I haven't really been given the LD on what I'll be doing here, beyond
the broad concepts of working with the Strategic Affairs Unit and
trying to figure out how to market the "walk the green line" event
(check out walkthegreenline.org). I should get a full briefing from
Dr. Baskin on Thursday. This is quite an interesting office.
I've never worked in an office before, so I don't really know how it
compares. The staff seem like nice folk. Very brilliant and huge hearts for the
Palestinian people. David, who sits next to me, spent a good part of
yesterday trying to secure permits for Palestinians living in the West
Bank to come participate in a conference that's happening this week.
It was hard to hear him telling some of them that there was no way.
Frustrations all around.

You wouldn't believe how good the coffee is here. mmm.

My new place is much much better than the hostel! Still no ac, but it's set on the
edge of a hill (like the whole city of Bethlehem) and the breezes flow
through nicely. You should see my palace! the patio itself is almost the size of my old apartment.
Nice tile floors everywhere and a gorgeous kitchen. The patio is nearly the size of my old apartment at the Oxford, and overlooks a busy street with a view down the hill
and of the countryside beyond. Beautiful! I'll try posting some pics to the blog
tomorrow. My landlady is a peach. I went walking about tonight, met
some nice people, had a delicious dinner (at the "friend" price -12
sheckels or $3 USD. easily the best falafel I've ever had in my
life) and wandered till I thought I was lost. The city is
unbelievable. Thousands of years old. Tiny tiny streets with dark
little passageways that lead you to other streets. In my wandering I
suddenly heard the sounds of bagpipes. I followed them for a while and
stumbled through a doorway into a big courtyard where there was a
group of people all standing around with marching band instruments:
bagpipes, drums, horns. Weird to see those unfamiliar-looking
Palestinian faces and hear such a familiar sound! While the music
itself was great, the clash with the visual created some funny dischord for
me. This is a super interesting place. Israelis aren't really allowed
to go here, and there are no foreigners, so I kind of stick out. But
most people I've met speek pretty good english, excepting the elderly
who are so sweet it doesn't matter what language you speak. Everyone
is very hospitable, inviting you in for coffee (super strong,
Palestinian style with cardamum) and chatting you up. I promised those
I met today that I would come see them again in their shops and
restaurants, and I intend to cement that tomorrow. I've been writing
down their names as I go so I don't forget. I'm not sure if that's
something you do, Dad, but I'd be suprised if it wasn't. Tomorrow
Laurice, my landlady is going to show me the market and whatnot.
I have entertained the idea of trying to move into Jerusalem at some
point, and have arranged with Laurice to pay month-to-month here.
There's much to see here though before I move. I'd like to get a real
feel for the place. It's quite close to the offices: about a 5 minute
taxi ride to the checkpoint. Then they let you out and you cross, then
it's walking distance to ipcri. I haven't done this yet. tomorrow will
be my first try. It's very strange to move so freely from israel to
the west bank, when that very trip is illegal for the people who live
here. Israelis are forbidden by the Israeli government to go to the
West Bank (though few of them have want or need to go) and
Palestinians aren't allowed to cross without permits which are very
difficult to obtain, though all of them want and have need to go. It's
really messed up. But if you're Canadian... it should be no problem...
we'll see tomorrow!

Ok, that's the end of the email. It's now a bit later, I survived my first checkpoint crossing, met up with a friend in Jerusalem and had delicious Ethiopian food and now I'm back at the office. Voila.

comment away!

2007-09-03T02:24:00.000-07:00

Like most things computery, all it took was a couple of seconds of trying before I figured out how to allow people to leave comments on this bloggy blog. Alors, write comments if you like. It's lonely out here and I like to hear from you.
Burgundian Escargot anybody?

The City

2007-09-03T02:02:00.000-07:00

Of course, it's quite something. I stayed in a youth hostel last night just outside the Damascus Gate. Hot as blazes.
Pictures: youth hostel. dome of the rock at night. the gate to ipcri's offices. the walk to the office from the bus stop.

The Walk

2007-09-03T01:54:00.000-07:00

Yesterday we walked through the hills surrounding Jerusalem, mapping out the proposed path of ipcri's event, "walk the green line" which will mark the anniversary of the creation of the border which would separate the states of Israel and Palestine. Sixty years later the Palestinian state is still a dream, and this UN-created border has been prodded, tweaked and pulled beyond recognition. The walk will be demonstrative and educational, and if any of you are interested -www.walkthegreenline.org.

For me it was a terrific chance to get out into the countryside, on my first day here, and to see this land for myself. The following pictures show part of this experience (for those who don't recognize the fruit, it's a fig).

This is an old land, and bitter. Four thousand years of animal husbandry have meant those plants which survive are the ones which really don't want to be eaten: thorns and stickers galore. The hills are covered with the rocky borders off ancient terraces. The earth has long since been carried away, or compacted, so what's left looks skeletal, like the thinly covered bones of an old man whose flesh has sunk within his jagged framework. And there's an obvious wisdom which accompanies such an aesthetic: this is a land which has seen some interesting times and known some interesting people. Like the elderly man, the terroir of Israel/Palestine has earned its stripes and thorns.
And the fences and walls... When I stand on a hilltop, or trace the lines on a map, and see how these barriers are not just straight lines, but cages, the photographs I've seen in newspapers are instantly inadequate.
Stay tuned...

LHR-TLV

2007-09-01T14:14:00.000-07:00

here goes. boarding now. there's no turning back. scared. excited. scared. excited. scared. excited. a little drunk. excited. scared.

2007-09-01T04:53:00.001-07:00

a couple more

Cheerio London

2007-09-01T04:47:00.001-07:00

Tonight I fly out for Jerusalem. It's been nice to be in England. Here are some pictos.

Paris. City of (fill in the blank)

2007-08-28T03:32:00.000-07:00

Here are a few shots of Paris.

The rain in France falls mainly on the pants.

2007-08-22T16:23:00.000-07:00

After a wonderful week in Burgundy I am back in Paris. And it's raining.
I've attached some pictures. The first is the garden I finished (King Louis would be proud) with Chateau Changey (where I was staying) in the background. The next two are the dog, Sushi, who is also dissapointed with the rain. The last is a view of the rainy street from my window. I'm staying in Baptiste's room. The bed's a bit short, but other than that quite comfy.

Into the looking glass.

2007-08-19T07:50:00.000-07:00

As I took those first halting steps into the unknown it became immediately clear that the world, my world, has changed forever. It's a new planet I'm visiting now, and whether the future brings me back round to the places I've known and loved or on into the bright, but lonely, newness, I know the act of those steps has made its mark.
So, about this new world:
I arrived in London Thursday. Excellent timing, as my good pal and former band-mate Johnny 5 was playing in town with Tegan and Sara (like Tintin's Tomson and Thompson, only shorter moustaches). So I connected with my hosts, Lor and David, then met up with Nic (another friend from Nasvhille times) and her mother. Nic's mother is exactly like her, only more crazy, if you can believe that. I suggest we refer to her as "mother superior". Nic added "mother inferior", and Janice named herself "mother posterior". Oh my but we all had a good larf! The show was great. Johnny played with more vivre than I've ever seen from him. Really fun times.
So, after spending all but two hours of Tuesday night packing, Wednesday night on the plane and Thursday night...not in bed, I departed for France early Friday morning. I've said for a while that I choose to ignore the idea of jet lag and it seems to work out fine. The problem with jet leg is that it's kind of like God. As they say, it doesn't matter if you don't believe in jet lag; jet lag believes in you. Suffice--> i discovered i was fine as long as I didn't sit down.

It was wonderful to be back in Paris. Not that I needed it, but it was good to be reminded why I fell in love with that city. I spent the day there, just wandering and visiting old haunts: the place where we used to drink beers after long days in sessions, the spot on the canal where would pass around bottles of white wine and paper cups, the apartment where I stayed (tried to ring up but seems noone was home), the shop where I bought my favourite shoes of all time (if that seems an unlikely attraction you have not seen how cool are these shoes), the café where I went with friends to eat ice cream after watching a film. It was beautiful. I left that evening via train for Burgundy. My good friend Anne-Lorraine's family has a "house" (read "pre-revolution mansion") in a little village near Beaune (wine drinkers will know where this is, and would be enraged with jealousy if I was callous enough to let them know what we drink out of tumblers with dinner...). At any rate, this place deserves many entries of its own, and this one is already long enough, so I bid you adieu.

Here are a couple of pics.

The World on this side of the door.

2007-08-15T07:20:00.000-07:00

It's 7:21 am the morning of my departure. I've been packing my apartment all night. Tried to sleep but after an hour I was woken by a very disturbing nightmare involving Billy Corgan...
It's been an unbelievable week. I feel like this is the craziest day of my life. I'm standing at the doorway of a new and strange world. I've been scared to take this step for a long time now, because I know what I leave behind. I really love this city. In the four years I've lived here I don't think there's been a day where I haven't stopped at some point, made speechless by how beautiful this place is. The mountains and the trees and all those clear bodies of water from which we draw our strength. And there are people... harder by far of course... My last night at Canlis was a dream come true. Sitting in the bar with a guitar, joined at various times by my brother Josh, Walt (seriously...) and Jeremy P. There was so much honest communication and love flowing around that room. We stayed for hours. It was less like a concert than a group therapy session. I felt like everyone was a participant. it was the kind of moment I dream about, and the kind I cherish forever.
And of course we ended up in the lake at some silly hour. It had to happen... It's one of the things I love most in the world: swimming in that lake, at night, with people I love. Laughing and collapsing on the dock in a big nest of blankets and towels and wet hair. It's magical. It's what summers are for. I need to continue packing. Ciao chow!

Skirts and Bats!

2006-12-07T21:05:00.000-08:00

This was written as a comment for my friend Mike's blog (michaelcepress.blogspot.com), and I thought, since it's high time for a new entry, it should find it's way here. That way I can be sure I won't forget it too... cause it's a nice story!

I bought a skirt a couple of years ago. Really simple, black, strong canvas, a type of wrap-around, fastened at the waist, very straight lines and a kind of thin-A-line silhouette. As a straight man who cherishes his masculinity, yet thinks clothes can be important, I'm used to being made to feel a bit out of place. I'm typically quite confident in my own dress sense, but sporting the skirt around my neighbourhood in Seattle brought a few more critical glances than I was used to. It was not, however, the critical eyes of passers-by that convinced me to stop wearing the skirt. My reasons were far more pragmatic. I ride a motorcycle daily, and it was the first time I came out of the battery street tunnel on Goldie wearing my skirt that Function delivered to Fashion the fatal blow it had been saving up for years. As I exited the tunnel and picked up speed my carefully-tucked skirt succumbed to physics and became un-tucked. Riding along on an early 70's, golden motorcycle wearing nothing but a t-shirt, a pair of tighties and this, very strong and masculine, skirt flapping behind me like fury, I'm sure I looked like I was being raped by a giant bat. Since then the skirt has remained carefully folded in the drawer where I lovingly placed it after riding slowly home and thanking God that the bat didn't get a wing caught in a tire.

The bike in the picture is not golden, and obviously not Goldie.

A response.

2006-08-24T14:27:00.001-07:00

This is a wee something I wrote to my HIA fellows after the shooting of six women down the street from me a couple of weeks ago. It's not beard-related, but I think we're past that at this point.

A couple of days ago a man walked into Seattle’s Jewish Centre, three blocks from my apartment on a street I walk every day, declared that he was a Muslim American upset at Israel, and shot 6 women, killing one and wounding the others. The blood of one victim was washed from the steps of a coffee shop where I sit and read newspaper stories about lands far away.
Welcome Home.
Today I walked by the Centre, stopping to read the notes of support and smell the flowers left by sympathizers.
There’s a sense of relative peacefulness here in the United States that allows the starkest realities of hatred and conflict to remain somewhat esoteric. As I listened to the sirens last Friday filtering through my window, and watched the live news reports showing bleeding, frightened people running down streets I know, past the little park where I sit, the reality of the wars in Lebanon and Iraq changed. In a small but important way they became palpable, hold-able, feel-able. More than pictures. More than ideas.
Shootings are not particularly uncommon in Seattle. Thanks (possibly) to 226 days of cloud/rain per year, this city has the highest rate of suicides and serial killings in the United States. But there's something different about murder, as response, as statement. I had first heard that the shooting started simply as a bungled hold-up of the coffee shop around the corner. Death is always tragic, but as the motivation became clear my heart sank further.
In Seattle we have somewhat consoled ourselves with reports of the shooter's troubled psychiatric past, and it has been wonderful to watch the Muslim, Christian and Jewish communities join in support. But some things remain; the sensation of the world shrinking, the feeling that we are accountable for the policies of those we've elected, Michael Johnson's question, what can we do. What can I do? This is my city, my neighbourhood.
I have been glad to see, here in Seattle, the response of a culture which does not allow or support such callous demonstration. This city is a left-wing outpost, and support for the Bush Administration's policies in the Middle East is probably as low as it is in Paris (ok, maybe not quite). But criticism, anger, even hatred, must be held in check by a commitment to higher values. Easy to say when the effects remain removed by oceans and continents. A bit harder when a small taste is delivered to my neighbourhood. Harder still when it’s my sister, brother, friend who falls.
This summer we engaged in a program of study whose stated goal was to help create societies where violent expressions of hatred will not be tolerated. For the first time in my life, the form of my own commitment to this ideal was challenged. What does it mean that I care about the plight of marginalized groups? Where are the boundaries of that commitment? What do I expect to actually do about it? Have I allowed the complexities of context and nuance to create vast gray areas in which my own complacency is rationalized and my inaction accepted?
There is nothing gray about the shooting of six women in Seattle, or six men on a mountain road in Bosnia, or the bombing of a truckload of Lebanese refugees. These are real events and they are death and life to real people.
As someone whose closest connection to such tragedy is a common coffee shop, a shared locale, how can I understand those whose connection is common blood, or a shared community? Until a tragedy touches me in such a way, I have to operate without the unfortunate advantage of empathy. In its place must come a powerful, sensitive and intelligent sympathy that allows the real colours of these tragedies, their blood reds and deathly blacks to compel me to engage the foggy world of context and realpolitique with deliberate sensitivity and passion.

Moustache? No Chance.

2006-08-24T14:22:00.000-07:00

It only took about 20 minutes for my first moustachioed day of work to land me in trouble with Boss Boss. Ah well, it was pretty gross I guess. It's gone now, and I feel younger with my clean-shaveness. Anyways, here's a photo of the moustache in all its glory.

the beard is no more.

2006-08-17T11:40:00.000-07:00

It's true. She's been wittled down to a wee moustache, which is still pretty fun. I work at a job where they like their employees to look professional, and I discovered that the point of a beard, for me at least, is not to look professional. I want a mountain man's beard, not a doctor's. I want a leftovers-hiding beard, a beard that has its own personality and its own odour... not likely to be allowed at Canlis. I could just imagine setting down a plate of seared scallop with Steiber Farms Duck Egg topped with Meyer River Salt (is that what it's called?) and having a button mushroom from my lunchtime sandwich drop from my beard onto the plate. Not cool. So I shaved it. Not that the moustache is any more professional, unless you're a professional cowboy or pornstar (and I am neither), but one of the chefs where I work has one, so I figure I should be able to get away with it.

The picture is alittle menhir I made out of beard-hair.

The Icelandic- Salt of the Earth

2006-07-18T15:09:00.000-07:00

Hey all. Just arrived back in the land of yankee doodles and dandies, and will remain here in New York for 5 days or so. And it's hot as blazes up in this joint too.
Andrea rightfully criticized the lack of pictures on this blog of Debbie, my travelling companion of the last few days. For those who don't know, Debbie is an original friend from way back, a veritable adopted sister and a bosom buddy and ex-roomate of Single-Andrea and Married-Andrea-and-Marty. She's the best, and just happened to be in Moldova working at the camp my parents were running. She decided to travel back with me as far as Budapest just for hangout's sake. After a wonderful couple of days, and some killer Hungarian goulash, we bid a sad farewell in a Pest metro station and went our separate ways. She remained in Budapest another night for the Eric Clapton show, and I flew to Copenhagen. My flight was due to arrive around 11 pm, and I was set to leave the next day around noon. The cheapest hostel I could find was 35 Euro, so I decided to stow my bags at the train station and see what a Monday night in Kobehagen would look like! Well thanks to four wonderful Icelandic young guys who adopted me and treated me like their own, it turned into an amazing night capped with the unexpexted multiple blessings of sleep (in a real bed no less) and a shower. When I arrived in Copenhagen, I made my way downtown and eventually wandered into a Karaoke bar. I sent one out to the Ole Scarlet Tree, poured some liquour in her memory and went to town on "She's got the Look". Met two girls there from Seattle, of all things, but more importantly I met these really cool guys from Iceland. We ended up closing that place out, then heading to another place with some Danish people we met. At the second spot we just danced and danced till the sun was up in the sky, then they let me crash on the extra bed in their hotel room. I got about three solid hours of sleep, a hot shower and was at the airport in perfect time. Seriously, I must go to Iceland. I posited that maybe they were just professional Icelandic goodwill ambassadors, supported by their government to spread the good name of Iceland around Europe by doing nice things for total strangers, but they said that wasn't true. Anyway, I'll pop some pictures of them, and Deb up when I next connect my lappy to the world wide web.
For now, I need a shower.

Old as Moses

2006-07-17T04:04:00.000-07:00

So before I'm even used to seeing so much grey on my head, I today found a grey hair in my beard! Ah well. What are you going to do.

The slow train home.

2006-07-17T03:35:00.000-07:00

So, made it to Budapest with Debbiedoo. Had a highly enjoyable night on the train drinking probably the most unbouvable wine I've ever coaxed down my gullet and hanging out with Romanian girls on their way to see Robbie Williams play Budapest! Arrived here this morning, soaked a bit in a Turkish bath, had a great lunch and now we're chilling. The pictures are, as far as I can remember, in no particular order:
-mum eating a potato doughnut thing in the market where she shops
-me with some english campers on cowboy night... british cowboy night
-on the train with a Slovenian David and Moldovan Stefan. they didn't like shirts apparently
-Mum and Dad with the applications for their Moldovan passports!
-my visa to Moldova and possibly the most terroristish picture of me ever.

Ok. Gotta let Deb use this beast. Take care all.

East is East

2006-07-16T00:06:00.000-07:00

Howdy doody to all of you! Here's a brief synopsis of the last week or so since my last post. As Andrea calls it, here is the play by play:
-Budapest is great! I spent two days there walking around with my backpack and the guitar from Linnea and Alicia, which made the most wonderful of gifts for my dad. Thanks girls. He almost cried when I gave it to him. Guitars, apparently, are a bit hard to come by in Moldova. Actually, you could say that about a lot of things. Beautiful city though. I climbed the giant hill carrying all my gear at 6 in the morning, which was a good thing because another couple of hours later and it would have been too hot. I explored the catacombs with Harco, my travelmate, discovering an underground wine fountain (a very bad and smelly idea if you ask me) and a post-modern art exhibit that we didn't think was very funny at all. Fake fossils of computers and coca-cola bottles. Hungarians must have a weird sense of humour. I decided to treat myself to a nice dinner and ended up the only person in a huge restaurant listening to a guy sing "My Way" by Frank Sinatra in Hungarian, playing along on a little casio keyboard. A couple glasses later we were singing together and good pals.
-Took an overnight train to Bucharest. I had a whole sleeping couchette (usually sleeps 6) to myself, and enjoyed the privacy. Passing through the Carpathian mountains early in the morning, wrapped in a blanket against the cold and staring out the window as mountains and forests and sleepy villages rolled by was a proper holiday.
-Got stuck in Bucharest because I wasn't able to get a visa to Moldova. It was impossible to find a room for less than 80 Euro so I ended up staying with this guy Dani who I met while I was playing guitar on the street for two wee gypsy girls. Dani was the nicest Romanian I met, but that didn't make sleeping on the bare floor of his apartment any more comfortable. We spent the evening watching France/Italy, which was fun, but not fun too. Poor guys.
-Finally got a train to Moldova, another overnighter. Spent the evening with two Slovenian guys who had hopped the train and managed not to get thrown off simply by virtue of their charm and good humour, and the mayonnaise and tuna sandwiches they offered to everyone who was hungry. We visited other sleeping rooms, chatting it up with everyone on the train. The train was pretty remarkable, like stepping into a time machine. The windows wouldn't open, which made for a very hot night, but it was clean enough and the company was very pleasant.
-Arrived in Moldova expecting... not much I guess. Turns out it's an absolutely beautiful country, with green, rolling hills and beautiful, noble people. It's very hard for people to make a living in Moldova, so many of them end up leaving the country to find work. This means that Moldova is understood as a place to leave, not a place to go to. The border officials couldn't believe that my parents had actually moved there. In fact, during their move, the border guards told them "big mistake, big mistake"! But as I was thrilled to learn, the place is absolutely wonderful. As the family scout, I feel so much better to be able to tell my brothers and sister that they are enjoying life there, living comfortably, and that there are many people there who love them and are helping them through the difficulties of new country, new language(s), etc.
-Spent the better part of the week hanging out with mum and dad at the English camp they were running outside the city. Good and important times.
-It was also great to run into old-time-friend Debbie Mitchell, who was helping them at the camp, after spending a couple of months in the Middle East. Debbie decided to travel back with me, as she's heading to Prague anyway. So we're back in Bucharest now, being proper tourists until our train leaves tonight. We'll be in Budapest tomorrow morning, play tourist once more then I fly out for Copenhagen.

Enough is enough. Sorry for the play by play. Next entry will be sooner and shorter. I promise.
While traveling, thoughts of friends and family become even more important. Just wanted to thank you all for your place in my thoughts and heart. Take care of each other!

marty

Into the sunrise

2006-07-08T05:15:00.000-07:00

Off I go for Bucharest. My train leaves tonight, arriving in the morning. I'll then spend the day there, leaving that night for Chisinau, Moldova, unless I get convinced to stay another day to watch the final. I would love to watch France one last time. It's been an important part of my trip, bonding with my host family, sharing the victory over Brazil with the French fellows. It might be too difficult not to see the final. I'll let you know how it goes.
But for now I have to run. I need to get in a Turkish bath before my train leaves.
ttfn.

Serial Killer? this guy?

2006-07-07T06:17:00.000-07:00

Pictures:
-Michael K. and I enjoying a fabulous sandwich in Amsterdam
-Me and the International Criminal Tribunal for the Former Yugoslavia... somehow it felt like home
-My roomates in Amsterdam: Aimer, Pedja, Mathew
-My first smokeable rolled cigarette. Thanks Harco.

I'm officially on my own now, and it's a
wonderful and different experience. I spent two extra days in
Amsterdam with some friends from the program, then caught a ride with
a Hungarian guy named Lazlo through hitchhikers.org. While Lazlo was certainly an odd bird, he turned out not to be a serial killer, which was nice. After 17 hours in a tiny car with three other people, lots of luggage, my guitar in my
a tiny car with four people and loads of luggage and my guitar in my
lap and no window-opening during the rain (which continued almost the
whole way) we arrived here in Budapest at 6 this morning. 55 euros
for the ride. Not bad thinks I! While Lazlo went to catch some zzzs
before continuing on to Brezcexebeaba or something like that, Harco
(one of the other riders) and I walked around the city, visiting a
palace, a cathedral, the subterranean catacombs which have housed, in
their turn, prehistoric cave-persons, Hungarian royalty in hiding,
stores in preparation for the seiges of Buda, German Nazis (apparently
10,000 of them) and now us! We then walked around the city
till it was time for him to meet Lazlo to continue on the journey. I
decided to stay in Budapest at least for tonight, possibly tomorow
night as well. The idea is to check into a hostel, found some good
ones online for very cheap, then coerce them into helping me figure
out how to get to Moldavia by train from here. So far it sounds
difficult and slow, but very exciting. The region of Transylvania and
the Carpathian mountains must both be crossed before I reach the
fabled wonders of Chisinau. I'm taking extra garlic and wooden spikes
in case I meet the count.
I'm getting excited about my trip through rural Hungary and Romania, the only dilemma is whether or not I leave Budapest before the final on Sunday. Allez Les Bleues! Vous avez volé mon coeur!
Got to go. Much research to do. Hope you're all brilliant and that it's not as hot where you are as it is here.

here i go

2006-07-06T04:08:00.000-07:00

Well, here I go to meet Lazlo. I'll try to update from Budapest. Hi to all. I miss you.

farewell from Amsterdam

2006-07-05T18:17:00.000-07:00

July 1st (Happy Canada Day) we "French" fellows travelled from the wonderful marvel of Paris to the fair country of the Netherlands. We spent four days in sessions at a hostel whose terrible food was offset by it proximity to a beautiful stretch of Dutch beaches on the Atlantic coast. Many long nights of playing guitar and swimming with the phosphorous. After program's end, which was sad for sure, I came back to Amsterdam and have been here for a couple of days now. I've been staying with a friend named Aimer, who's been very hospitable. Tomorrow afternoon I leave for Budapest with a Hungarian named Laslo and two other people in a blue car leaving from Amstel station at 2 pm. Laslo has short dark hair. Thanks hitchikers.org! In Budapest I will try to catch a train to Chisinau where I will finally be able to sleep a little... hopefully. Anyways, sorry I'm curt but it's time for bed for reals. And the picture is Carole and I wearing Hajibs. I think we look great.
Cheers all. I'll hopefully write tomorrow morning before I make the decision whether its safer to risk my computer being hurt in transit if I ship it back to Seattle or to risk it being stolen in these ridiculous flybytheseatofmypants journeys. We'll see which fear is greater.

Encore... Allez!

2006-06-28T00:26:00.000-07:00

This is the image to accompany last night's blog. That's Mathieu, the son of the family where I'm staying, celebrating the big win in the streets. As his friend Armand said, "They have to win. If they lose he won't be able to sleep".

Allez Les Bleues!!!!

2006-06-27T21:57:00.000-07:00

It’s nearing 2 am now, and I’ve just returned home from a number of hours, and a lot of ice cream, at a little shop where I was writing a paper. Crazy how the scenery can change so much, but the activity can remain the same. I’m sitting in my favourite place of course, the rooftop, watching the searchlight from the top of the Eiffel tower swing its slow gazeacross the gabled rooftops and Mary Poppins chimneys of Paris. If I wait a few minutes I’ll get to see the light show: the whole of the tower, top to bottom all covered in a billion blinking points of light. It hours now since I was at a bar with Armand and Mathieu, jumping around as France wrapped up its convincing 3-1 victory over Spain in the World Cup. The street below me is still mad with honking and flag-waving. It was as I was riding my bicycle home, with the refrain of the Marsailles ringing in my ears and a blizzard of feathers from some street-scene pillow fight gone horribly right floating around my head and marking my path with their swirling and diving, that I realized I’ve fallen in love with this city. But some loves you eventually have to leave. I leave in three days for Amsterdam. There’s so much I still want to taste of Paris. But unlike a lover, a city will always stick around for a return visit. That said, as people change, so do cities. There will never be another visit to Paris that will feel like this one has. The city will lose and gain and so will I. This has been a special month and the only place it can really live the life it deserves is in my memory. Pictures and stories are blinks of an eye. A faulty noggin is the only place where the real experience will live, and change, and get fuzzy in spots and eventually be gone. It’s sad, but it’s life. Thank you Paris. I’ll hold this summer in my memory until it fades from view. At that point all I’ll be able to cherish is the knowledge of a memory. It won’t be enough, but it’ll be all I have and I’ll be glad of it. C’est la vie. And there go the lights. Such timing! Bon nuit, à la Ville des Lumières.

Procrastination in the Nation.

2006-06-27T07:34:00.000-07:00

I'm sitting in a gorgeous little park on a bench, surrounded by leafy trees and lots of elderly Parisians. I'm supposed to be writing hte paper we're handing in tomorrow, but blogging is too easy to justify. Here's a couple of photos. The first is from the fête de la musique, an amazing city-wide music festival which happened last week. I got to see Césaria Evora, which I never though would happen in my lifetime. This photo, however, is artist David Walters, as seen through the rain. It was such a wonderful festival, but quite crazy. This event was held in the beautiful courtyard/garden of a very old building complex called Hotel de Sully. The act following Walters was a reggae band. They were absolutely fantastic, and the crowd was right there with them despite the rain. But apparently the courtyard had become so packed with people that they had swung the ancient old wooden doors shut, locking out all those who had been waiting in the street for an entrance. Some time after this they turned off the speakers, the band stumbled to a stop like a wind-up toy running out of juice, and somebody announced that they were rioting in the streets, and the concert was over. I later found a video online that someone had shot of what was happening. People were yelling and shoving. They had made a battering ram out of something and were trying to break down this beautiful old door. There were cries of "La Bastille" and something about rich people. It was fully frightening. When we eventually made our way out of the concert the mood in the street was expectant and sharp, like the first sight of blood. And almost every single person had a bottle of wine in their hand. Revolution is in the ancient paving stones in this city. Sitting just under the surface. But that night I could've held it in my hand.
The other picture is from my roof, again. For you poor devils dstined to be subjected to a slide show on my return, you'll probably find that a good 65% of the pictures will be from my roof. Ahhh. Again, I'm the boss.
That's all, lovelies. Keep up the good work! Now I'm out of batteries, so more excuses to procrastinate! Yesssss

no no no... I decided to try the beard!

2006-06-27T01:41:00.000-07:00

Apparently I wasn't clear in my last posting; I AM trying to grow a beard. I hit the point of no return and decided to proceed along the straight and narrow path of beardhood. I guess Toby is growing one too... once again outdone by older brother. Well shoot.
They're nutty about soccer over here. One of the many important things I've learned is how to hold the ball on your foot, like in this photo. I was pretty stoked when I figured it out. Everytime there's a world cup game the streets of Paris fill with the fans of the winning team, driving around tooting on horns, wearing the country flag and painting themselves up a bit. I get a bit nervous on the ole bicycle when I hear the beep beep beeps and hoots and hollers coming up behind. Like the hounds of hell nipping at my heels. So i put the pedal to the sickle and take the bus lane. Much safer.
The second bit of photographic proof documents the base of what will soon become the greatest beard I have ever worn. The last legitimate effort occurred over my 16-year old summer in Alaska. I came back all wooly and whispy with huge hair and the patchiest neck beard on earth. That's when Andrea broke up with me. I'm banking on the hope that returning with a far more manly beard will ensure we don't have a repeat performance! What do you say Andrea?
Also, if you look carefully, you can see a red spot on my nose. Lesson learned: sometimes when you're trying to get that last tip of the cigarette and your judgement may be slightly impaired, you get a burnt nose. Let it go marty, let it go. TTFN.

The point of no return

2006-06-26T08:58:00.000-07:00

Somewhere, somehow, I'd lost this spirit of this blog and its commitment to documenting the growth of my beard. Maybe it was the money, the fine wine and the glory of fame. Or maybe beard's are just itchy and I lacked the willpower. At any rate, I decided recently that I was fast approaching the point of no return, and that if I was going to actually grow a beard I had to commit, dammit, and just let it ride. So, such is the case at this point. I think I'm four days in. I'll let you know how it goes.
And the photo is Iver, Alicia, Linnea and myself dancing in hell.

2006-06-21T01:06:00.000-07:00

the view from my rooftop where I sit with my guitar and possibly un peu de vin. Not bad.
a night shot on my bicycle.

2006-06-21T01:00:00.000-07:00

The charming vistas of les banlieues.
Tatevik and Agnès, who could be speaking no language other than French
I forget.

pictos

2006-06-21T00:50:00.000-07:00

Finally! Here's a few pics. First is some great Danish sausage design framed nicely by Incomparable Alice. The sausage was tasty. Zach ate three. Also, Callum cheering his heart out for B.O. -French rugby champs. And the last may be my bicycle... unless I've remembered that wrong.

More to come!

so sorry, or sairry as you yankees like to say.

2006-06-18T05:34:00.000-07:00

Sorry for the no-postage in a while. I had all my fingers stolen while I was sleeping on the Metro. I had to buy these ones from a pawner at the marché aux puces (flea market).
Paris is lovely of course. Had a great day yesterday. Went to a flea market, more of a crap market actually, then had an amazing dinner with intern-Michael from Berkely. Seriously nice food, the best meal I've had in Paris. After dinner Michael and I walked about 9 miles to a nightclub to meet a bunch of the kids. The poor girls kept getting harrased by this drunk guy who would sneak up behind them and roar in their ears. Like a lion. Not sure what his deal was. I ducked out of there a bit early and rode, just a touch tipsy, through the night streets to the Moosehead, a Canadian expat bar which was showing the oilers game, starting at 2 am. So I sat with some very nice Candians and drank La Fin du Monde and watched Edmonton kick the crap out of Carolina. Ahhh, it was a wonderful night. The sun was coming up when I rode home at 5:30 to collapse into my bed. And then this morning I wiped out coming down the spiral stairs/death trap of my chambre de bonne. My little morrocan slippers have slick leather soles, and my bruised and bleeding elbow is paying the price. Ah well.
Tried to put some pictures up, but no go with the sketchy signal here. I'll have to do that later.

The program has been varied and of a very high quality. They warned us from the beginning about the amount of information we would be exposed to, and they weren't kidding. I think my favourite trip so far has been the visit to the appeals court for those who have been denied refugee status. Noble noble work. We listened to a father plead the case for his family not to be sent back to Croatia, where they were in constant threat of violence. His wife too sick to sit up. His little girl, who had spent two years in the custody of kidnappers, looked around the room with a big smile and bright eyes, unaware of the gravity of what was going on. It was intense.

Well, I need to go. We have a meeting this afternoon and I don't like being late. Hope you are all well.

weefee

2006-06-11T02:20:00.000-07:00

I'm sitting on some steps in a small stree named Rue Clément in Paris, having wandered here in search of some wifi signal. And weak as it may be, I have certainly found some! It's warm in Paris right now; too warm for my Canadian blood. But if that's my biggest complaint about the place, and it is, thtings will be just fine.
Sorry about the double posting of pictures on here, by the way. I never claimed to know how to use one of these computees... Seriously though, Paris has been fantastic so far, but I should say a bit about Copenhagen first.
Copenhagen: actually, we didn't stay in the city, but outside of it in an idyllic village called Krogerup. I know it looks like it would be easy to say, but if there's one thing I learned from Aladin it's not to judge a book by its cover. Basically, if you filled your mouth with gravel, after washing it, then made a gurgly noise that started with K and ended with P you'd probably be far closer than I ever got. I think it was probably good that we were outside the city. The program was very intense and demanding, but the pleasantness of the surroundings, the cool night air, the sea, the green of the grass, the down duvets and amazing food, all contributed to a feeling of holiday and relaxednessitude. It was also an intense time socially. There were approx 100 fellows there, all motivated and smart as whips. As sessions ended we would head out into the warm sun and cool breezes for coffee or cigarettes and the discussion and debate would simply change venue. Never before have I been around so many people with like interests. Issues which bore so many of my regular companions are bread and water for these people. It was an honour to be surrounded by so many of them.
It was also sad to say goodbye. Those heading to Berlin, Warsaw and those staying in Denmark will not be joining us for the final part of the program in Amsterdam, but will be meeting together in Berlin. While I may have far simpler goals for the social aspect of this trip than some of the younger students, it is amazing how an experience like this can connect you to people in the space of a week or so. The last night in Krogerup we danced and drank and talked till the sun came up, which in Denmark this time of year is much earlier than in Seattle, but nevertheless, it was great.

So this is too long already, so I'll simply bullet-point some highlights of the Paris experience so far. If I have time later I'll come back to them, or else I won't. It's up to me. I am the boss.
-my place-amazing location in the 7th arr. my room is on the 8th floor (122 spiral steps). I climb out onto the roof and see the Eiffel Tower in one direction, Notre Dame in the other.
-the people-the fellows here are fantastic.
-dinner at a Basque restaurant-enough fat to float a boat, and soooo good. Common tables. Stumbly French speaking.
-riding home last night at 3:30 on a beautiful old bicycle loaned to me by my friend Iver.

there's so much more. Have to go tho. Love to all of you. Drop me a line if you like!
martypenner@gmail.com

Paris

2006-06-10T06:30:00.000-07:00

Blogspot seems to be letting me down, so this is a test.

photososos

2006-06-10T06:21:00.001-07:00

Had some trouble adding photos, but I'll give a try from here.

photososos

2006-06-10T06:21:00.000-07:00

Had some trouble adding photos, but I'll give a try from here.

There's something lovely in the state of Denmark

2006-06-06T09:49:00.000-07:00

Photos:
-c'est une grande fenêtre at the Lousiana art museum. And art as well.
-This is how we spend our days. Tough discussion with very smart people.
-The whole HIA group. 104 fellows from the United States, France, Denmark, Holland, Poland, Belarus, Georgia, Ukraine, Germany... I think that's it.

It's been an amazing day. I'd write more, but i have to dress for dinner. we'll see what I can do afterwards.

Still no beard growth.

2006-06-04T23:53:00.000-07:00

Photos:
-drinking Danish beer on the street with my roomate Iver-Norwegian living in Paris.
-post-dinner chatting and counting glasses of wine and chatting human rights
Well I'm hoping that if anyone's reading this blog they won't be so dissapointed in my growin-beard failures that they stop tuning in. That would be a shame. I've still got time! Hang in there everbody!

Yesterday was the first full day here in Denmark, and it was fantastic. We're staying in what is called a "Folk High School" which is really a beautiful old mansion in a tiny village on the eastern coast of Denmark. We can walk to the water in about five minutes and see Sweden staring back across the blue. It is magnificent here. So cute it's like a caricature of itself. I almost feel bad... like I'm stereotyping or something. It's so absolutely Danish and wonderful.

The subject yesterday was the roled of mass media in democracy. We discussed the topic, both explicitly and implicitly, through the lens of the Muhammed cartoon crisis Denmark. There were media representatives, including a gentleman from the paper which produced the cartoons, a Danish foreign ministry guy and a local muslim leader. It was fascinating and insightful. The group here is made up of a lot of very smart students, and they asked brilliant questions. I was in heaven.

I've got to go now, as the first session is about to begin. I'll be trying to limit my intake of the wonderful Danish coffee today. I learned my lesson yesterday sitting through long sessions with a very full bladder.

cheers all.

off we go!!!!

2006-06-02T13:19:00.000-07:00

In the airport in DC just waiting for the flight and I thought I should put in an entry to say goodbye. It's been intense and fantastic here the last few days. We've spent almost all of our time at the Holocaust museum, which has been amazing, but emotionally exhausting. The disconnect of bodies from souls has been hanting me.
Onto the plane.

Phase I: Washingshon Dee Shee

2006-05-30T19:15:00.000-07:00

I'm sitting outside my dorm on the campus of George Washington University typing away in the swimmy mugginess of a D.C. night. It really is too hot here. The campus is located on the "foggy bottom" stop of the metro. I've been told this refers to its historical topography of swamphood, and judging from the heavy air and the bugs on my computer screen I'm tempted to think its true. After a fantastic farewell dinner with Andrea, Josh and Wendy at Wild Ginger (thanks Richar), I boarded the red-eye to DC. The airline lost my luggage so I spent most of the day being very sweaty and smelly. Feeling much better now, thanks to a shower and a clean shirt from my recently-arrived backpack.

Part of the getting-clean process was shaving the four days of growth I had planned to use as a base. This is going to be a tough project! big ups and respect to all you bearded men (and ladies) out there. Growing a beard is no easy task apparently!

Well, I've got one more paper to write over the next two nights, and this is just simple procrastination. Gotta get at it.

The beginning

2006-05-27T11:52:00.000-07:00

So I've created this bogsplot to document the trip I'm about to take. Documentation becomes especially important when you have a memory as faulty as mine. Also, this is shaping up to be a pretty important summer in my life, and I'm excited to share it with whoever cares to take a peek.
Here's the scenario: In two days I leave for Washington DC where I will begin a six-week program with Humanity In Action, a New York based NGO. HIA's goal is to create and maintain a trans-Atlantic network of people in multiple fields who are committed to the protection of vulenerable populations, and who are concerned with the issue of minority rights within democracies.
I am one of approximately 40 students from the US (you should read the bios on these people-I have no idea how I squeaked in) who will be joining students from Europe in a really unique and incredible program of study. I'll be spending most of my time in Paris, but will also be in Amsterdam and Copenhagen. After the program ends I'll be taking a couple of weeks to make my way from Amsterdam, en train, to Moldova via Croatia and Slovenia (if I can swing it) to visit Mum and Dad who've been living there about a month now.
So this is the intro to my summer. Right now I have to go so Andrea and I can do the cleaning bee I promised her before I leave. Watch out tub! Here's comes Marty and he ain't fooling around!