"You Can't be serious." I'm quite certain Mia and I said it at the same time with equal ferocity. Jamie got it in his adventurous head that we had to climb the second tallest mountain on the continent of Africa (Mt. Mulanji in Malawi). To know Jamie, you must also know that when an idea is in his head, the Only way I'll be getting it out of there is typically years worth of quiet, feminine head work. Well, we clearly didn't have time for that.
Political unrest in Zimbabwe was rising again due to elections (voter intimidation was no laughing matter in Zimbabwe at the time). The US embassy pulled all American diplomatic workers (Peace Corp being an arm of this) in for a few weeks, yet again, to a compound that was easily monitored and protected- should the unrest become dangerous to foreign aid workers. The idea of being stuck in a walled compound with 100 other Americans with little more to do than look forward to eating red beans for breakfast and a combination of sadza and gazelle stew for dinner for two weeks or more was anything but appealing. Zim television at the time consisted of highly government controlled "news" and 'Bay Watch' reruns- and we wonder why Zim men thought all American women were 'lifeguards' happy to accomodate desires... (understand that Zimbabwean women are not permitted to show their legs in any way shape or form. Breasts are for babies- they hold no charm, but legs? taboo). Having already been through the 'Bay Watch' infatuation stage of life in our teen years, Jamie and I had no idea how two weeks more of constant Bay Watch could keep us from going stir crazy. And though we enjoyed our fellow Americans' company, our adventurous spirit pounded strong in our chests. We needed to see the world. So, we took the unusual offer.... "or you could travel at your own expense for two weeks."
We took an international chicken bus. Money was in short supply. Travelling with chickens and African nationals sounded good... to Jamie and Mia. Though usually willing to go along with Jamie's adventures, I rarely would have raised my hand and said, "I have an idea: let's take a chicken bus for 18 hours- that has no restroom, rarely stops for breaks, with no air conditioning, sitting 5 adults to a school bus seat with the occasional chicken or goat running down the aisles into a developing nation we know nothing about!" Jamie, of course, was deeply intrigued by such modes of transportation and Mia was not far behind him in adventurous spirit. So, I followed.
We wound our way through Mozambique, Blantyre Malawi and plenty of hiking from one chicken bus to the next. We were en-route for Mt. Mulanji. Whoever told my husband that we can climb Mt. Mulanji owes me a stiff drink! You know who you are and I am Sure you are out there....
Curious souls can check it out at http://www.mountmulanje.org.mw/index.htm
Mia, more adventurous than I and in better shape, giggled at the thought, but felt my pain. We conspired to back Jamie off of this mission by sheer force: "Neither of us is in good enough shape to climb Mt. Milanji with all our gear. Jamie, we will only do this if You carry All our supplies and leave we women free to carry only our own water and snacks." Bloody hell- he said, "Sure."
To my delight, a lovely hotel complete with flush toilets and hot showers was available to us at mountain's lower village. Though ordering anything outside of sadza and mystery meat stew in the attractive, though unused restaurant proved to be a 2 hour wait. We did enjoy the chicken when we got it and had faith that it was as fresh as any chicken we'd ever eaten... having heard the beheading in the yard behind the kitchen during our wait.
He had to cattle prod me to prepare our supplies for climbing the looming mountain, but Jamie had help from Mia who was also growing excited to be a mountaineer hero. Up we went, travelling in the back of little bitty pickups on pot hole filled dirt roads. Safety was no concern, nor was the puppy in the middle of the road near an enclave of rondovals (huts); this driver was all gas and no brakes- a skill we discovered common for most Malawi drivers of 'public' shuttles. We held on for dear life (though I'm less certain the puppy in our way had such an advantage).
As required, we hired a guide. Jamie could have easily hired a sherpa to carry our combined backpack, but was feeling strong (and a wee bit stingy- from this wifely perspective) at the trailhead village of the mountain. I was wearing relatively new hiking boots that did not fit well- bad idea. Up we went through the winding, beautiful trees of a foreign forest. The trail was mostly an 80% grade- few flat spots and in no way switch-backed.
Mia discovered that our guide's company was preferable to the bickering married couple she came with- can't say I blame her. Jamie and I grouched at each other the entire way up the mountain. His strength waning with a 45 pound pack on his back and my feet burning from new boots. Arguing was, at that time, quite like us. Jamie growled feverishly at me every time I returned one of his exertion moans with a quip, "you could have hired a sherpa!" I was relentless and he was seething. Mia and the guide were smart to stay well up-trail from us.
Along the trail, we found moments of pure wonder. Ladies and girls from the village at the base of the mountain were carrying huge bundles of tree limbs neatly tied together on top of their heads, eloquently and effortlessly walking (their skill was such that they appeared to be floating) down the mountain burdened with large wood bundles. The guide told us that these women collected the limbs from the lumber operation up the mountain to bring firewood to their kitchens.
When we finally entered trees in the clouds, the wonder of barking green monkeys became our gift to witness. They were shy creatures, owning the treetops and somewhat hard to observe. Unlike many of the primates we'd met in Zimbabwe, this species remained quite uncomfortable with the presence of humans (or, perhaps, non-native humans). But, the experience of being within their habitat and the few glimpses I got were magical.
We then came to a timber extraction operation. Both Jamie and I had worked in the United States in timber country. We were both quite familiar with US timber extraction practices. In fact, one of Jamie's uncles was a lead US sawyer and educator of mechanical sawing practices. What we found in the Mulanji forest was a step back in history in our perspective. Men were using crosscut saws and hand bow saws to not only fell these old growth trees, but were milling boards from the logs right where the tree fell. The care these timber workers took with each board was resonant. Every tree, every cut had meaning and was quite intentional. Their pace was slow by our knowledge of modern forest management mechanics and the forest did not seem to mind the gentle, small-scale extraction of this timber operation. No scar was left as each and every limb, piece of hewn lumber was used.
Timber sherpas carried two freshly hewn boards down the mountain at a time. Each board varied in length and width. No two were the same. They were beautiful, the boards, the strength of these sherpas, the slow practices we witnessed. But, what struck me strongest was the quietude. The forest, even in the midst of a fully active timber operation, was not buzzing with machinery as all US timber operations I'd been around always did. The birds still chirped, the monkey's could still be heard calling to one another, the frogs still brogged their lovesongs. Was I in the midst of the time of Gifford Pinchot? Was this the timber felling experience he got to witness?
At dark, we finally arrived at a beautiful, though unfurnished lodge. A fire was started for us by the lodge keeper. Mia and I cooked rice in our tiny camping pan... 3 times, and opened a can of beans to warm and share. The lodge was cold and we were alone in it. Our guide retired to the lodge keeper's quarters. Our sleeping bags had been purchased in Zimbabwe- where frost is rare. They were not warm enough for the altitude we slept at. By the end of the night, we were all three cuddled as near to the fireplace as we could comfortably get, close to one another in an effort to share body heat.
Our trip down the mountain was relatively fast. Though the blisters on my feet split and created endless pain in the boots I still have (though rarely wear for long hikes anymore). My lack of speed frustrated my co-adventurers for sure, but I was in great pain and could not keep their pace.
Arriving at the trailhead village was a moment of decadent gratitude. Village women sold roasted yams (that grew wild), fresh from the fire. I devoured that yam and have never eaten a yam since without due reverence to the humble grandior of Mt. Milanji, Malawi, Africa.
Of course, this was hardly the end of our journey. Our options became 1.) 'sit' in the back of the chibuku truck to return to the lower village where our hotel was nestled amongst tea fields or 2.) wait until dusk for a second possible shuttle truck. All exhausted and uncomfortable with the idea of hiking through the lower village at night, we gave the chibuku truck driver fare to take us to the lower village.
A small older Malawian lady paid the fare with us, though several other Malawian travelers stayed behind, opting to take their chances with the late shuttle. We found this strange, since our travels through southern Africa had taught us that no shuttle or vehicle was Ever passed by no matter how full it was or what it looked like: Southern Africans generally had no qualms about sitting on one another if they needed to in order to get where they wanted to go; a trait I succumbed to with a quiet smirk hiding this thought, "The whole British and American concept of personal space Was over-rated anyway..."
This question lingered strong as we stepped in the back of that chibuku truck: Why were we virtually alone in an African shuttle?
Chibuku is the widely supplied, high alcohol content cross between raw whisky and small beer adored by many native African men and a few women. To this American, it smelled like vomit. Though I never tasted the stuff, Jamie told me that it tasted like a 'bad, cheap home brew with lots of sediment in it.' Once we crawled in the very back of this enclosed chibuku distribution truck and the driver closed and locked the door, the smell overwhelmed me. I nearly lost the one yam in my belly several times on that hour-long, treacherous journey.
The chibuku driver was every bit as speed oriented as every other Malawian "shuttle" driver we would encounter. The problem was that we were stuck at the very back of this truck with crates stacked precariously all around us. We had very little more than the flying crates and each other to hold on to. It was the first time I had ever experienced being inadvertently beat up by crates in the midst of vomit while being tossed violently every which way. I think I kissed the ground when we were finally let out of the back of that chibuku truck. Now I knew why most Malawians chose to wait for the shuttle.
Our hotel was a sight for sore eyes and that hot shower was among the best things in life. I slept for a day and a half. Jamie's desire to leave the next morning and embark on our next adventure was seriously hindered by the wife that was clearly not going ANYWHERE unless he carried me and all our gear himself. A trial he himself was hardly interested in again just yet.
Then we were off, to the next Jamie inspired and Mia endorsed insane Malawian adventure....
Saturday, February 16, 2013
Friday, February 15, 2013
A Puff of Santa Ana Rage- Southern California
The firestorms Old and Grand Prix were merging. Both my husband and I were working feverishly in the combined fire camp to serve the people of Southern California in this devastating 'natural' disaster. 'Natural' only in that the forests burned. All the 10 firestorms that were set upon Southern California at that moment (during Santa Ana wind season) were arson and quite strategically set at that, in my understanding.
We were supposed to be getting sleep- much needed sleep; but, that was impossible. We spent the early part of the sleeping hours watching the Grand Prix and Old fires merge. It was a choking, gripping moment. Like watching a tragic movie that you don't want to see, but can't tear yourself away from.
When Jamie and I finally went to our tent, it was perhaps near midnight. Our tent was in the middle of a baseball field, secured within tall chain-link fencing, filled with perhaps 60 other uniform tents of our fire camp coworkers. We were a rare married couple sharing one tent in this field of singly occupied tents.
As I went to sleep that night, my gut wrenched at the image from within our tent: a ring of pulsing orange flashing with yellow rimmed our tent nearly completely. There was fire on the hills and mountains in almost every direction. A complete circle of spitting combustion. The smoke should have been choking, but it wasn't (an eerie sign to a wildland firefighter- a preface of an unforgiving saint).
Sleep did not come easily for me in this moment of painful reality, though Jamie had less reservation in succumbing to the 'Sandman'; but, I did finally fall to sleep.
Not for long. About 2 am, powerful Santa Ana winds pummeled our neck of the woods. We both woke to our tent flattened by deafening wind (near 80 to 100 miles per hour we guessed). An unusual experience to witness the top of our tent hovering just above our noses as we lay in our sleeping bags shaken out of sleep. Though laying next to each other, conversation was lost to the wind. We were unable to hear each other.
When Jamie and I mustered the nerve to look out of our misshapen tent which was clearly wishing to become the kite our two bodies and weeks worth of personal supplies provided grounding in resistance of: what we saw was a once in a lifetime image. Ours was the only tent remaining in the middle of the baseball field. The remaining 59 or so tents were heaped against the western fence line, a roiling snowdrift of tents with wild haired people working to unwind themselves from the drift and resurrect their personal effects from the jumbled mess of tents and people.
For the first time ever, this young lady was grateful for being bigger and heavier than the average American supermodel. And, for the first time, Jamie complimented me on my indulgent need to pack way too much unnecessary stuff. Our weight, for once, saved us.
I don't recall laughing that night. The effect on my heart was too harrowing and shocking. The knowledge that so many homes were burning down in the midst of this unfathomable disaster weighed too heavily on me to crack anything but a few emotionally charged tears. But, now, so many years later, I find that very strange moment hard Not to smile about.
This moment was the stuff that dreams are made of... but it was no dream.
We were supposed to be getting sleep- much needed sleep; but, that was impossible. We spent the early part of the sleeping hours watching the Grand Prix and Old fires merge. It was a choking, gripping moment. Like watching a tragic movie that you don't want to see, but can't tear yourself away from.
When Jamie and I finally went to our tent, it was perhaps near midnight. Our tent was in the middle of a baseball field, secured within tall chain-link fencing, filled with perhaps 60 other uniform tents of our fire camp coworkers. We were a rare married couple sharing one tent in this field of singly occupied tents.
As I went to sleep that night, my gut wrenched at the image from within our tent: a ring of pulsing orange flashing with yellow rimmed our tent nearly completely. There was fire on the hills and mountains in almost every direction. A complete circle of spitting combustion. The smoke should have been choking, but it wasn't (an eerie sign to a wildland firefighter- a preface of an unforgiving saint).
Sleep did not come easily for me in this moment of painful reality, though Jamie had less reservation in succumbing to the 'Sandman'; but, I did finally fall to sleep.
Not for long. About 2 am, powerful Santa Ana winds pummeled our neck of the woods. We both woke to our tent flattened by deafening wind (near 80 to 100 miles per hour we guessed). An unusual experience to witness the top of our tent hovering just above our noses as we lay in our sleeping bags shaken out of sleep. Though laying next to each other, conversation was lost to the wind. We were unable to hear each other.
When Jamie and I mustered the nerve to look out of our misshapen tent which was clearly wishing to become the kite our two bodies and weeks worth of personal supplies provided grounding in resistance of: what we saw was a once in a lifetime image. Ours was the only tent remaining in the middle of the baseball field. The remaining 59 or so tents were heaped against the western fence line, a roiling snowdrift of tents with wild haired people working to unwind themselves from the drift and resurrect their personal effects from the jumbled mess of tents and people.
For the first time ever, this young lady was grateful for being bigger and heavier than the average American supermodel. And, for the first time, Jamie complimented me on my indulgent need to pack way too much unnecessary stuff. Our weight, for once, saved us.
I don't recall laughing that night. The effect on my heart was too harrowing and shocking. The knowledge that so many homes were burning down in the midst of this unfathomable disaster weighed too heavily on me to crack anything but a few emotionally charged tears. But, now, so many years later, I find that very strange moment hard Not to smile about.
This moment was the stuff that dreams are made of... but it was no dream.
Saturday, February 9, 2013
Ostrich Love - Zimbabwe
I have always been curious about the native american philosophy of animal spirits. I am told the animal spirit chooses its human counterpart. I wonder, then, if my husband was chosen one humid day just outside of Harare, Zimbabwe.
Our walk through an enclosed savannah area set aside for many of Africa's beautiful animals (minus the large predators) served to be entertaining... at least to me. It was a guided hike with the usual, "watch for snakes, but enjoy the gazelle, our giraffe pair, the kudu and the ostrich."
She was huge. Every bit as tall as my husband who sits at 6'2". I have always found my husband quite magnetic, of course. I, clearly, was not the only one to be magnetized to him. It was not long at all before this female ostrich was standing among us- a group of visitors eager for a modified adventure. She was more than willing to indulge us.
I suspect it was love at first sight. Her intensity of appreciation for my husband grew in front of my eyes.
She did not leave him; not for a minute. Every bit as tall as my husband, she kept step with him for our entire journey, walking just behind him with her very large beak nearly sitting on his left shoulder. Jamie did not stop moving... ever, for fear of this large ostrich sitting on him or something. Though a biologist, my husband was unfamiliar with the biological tendencies of ostriches- having been raised to understand North American fauna.
It was a hot and humid day. The lemonade and cookies our guide brought were well received by the small group of tourists. Though, my poor husband was unable to sit at "tea time" and enjoy this offering with the rest of us. He kept walking circles around the group of us who sat enjoying the break on a rock outcrop. My husband barely spoke to the ostrich, but when he did I could hear grunts of frustration and uncertainty. My laughter reached deep and was hard to control. I struggled to find the situation as intimidating as my husband did: telling of my youth and inexperience, perhaps, since I later learned that ostriches do have the ability to gravely wound a full grown man with their very powerful legs. This knowledge seemed a bit more obvious to my husband.
I controlled my laughter long enough during that tea time to hand him cups of lemonade as one would hand a drink to a marathon racer. He and the ostrich kept circling our rock outcrop. The laughter did not stop. My husband was none too happy with his wife in evident joy at his expense. Thirteen years later and I am still laughing. Though, my husband is less angry at my laughter now and rather used to it.
This lovely ostrich Clearly adored my strong, tall, handsome husband. She remained behind him, batting her long eyelashes the entirety of our 4 hour (or so) hike through the savannah. Only when we came to the lodge with tall gates did she finally melt away from my husband and go back to her fellow ostrich who remained at a distance.
Ah what a day!
What is it to be chosen by an ostrich? If anything? I still seek, through my laughter, to answer that question.
And my giggling continues....
Our walk through an enclosed savannah area set aside for many of Africa's beautiful animals (minus the large predators) served to be entertaining... at least to me. It was a guided hike with the usual, "watch for snakes, but enjoy the gazelle, our giraffe pair, the kudu and the ostrich."
She was huge. Every bit as tall as my husband who sits at 6'2". I have always found my husband quite magnetic, of course. I, clearly, was not the only one to be magnetized to him. It was not long at all before this female ostrich was standing among us- a group of visitors eager for a modified adventure. She was more than willing to indulge us.
I suspect it was love at first sight. Her intensity of appreciation for my husband grew in front of my eyes.
She did not leave him; not for a minute. Every bit as tall as my husband, she kept step with him for our entire journey, walking just behind him with her very large beak nearly sitting on his left shoulder. Jamie did not stop moving... ever, for fear of this large ostrich sitting on him or something. Though a biologist, my husband was unfamiliar with the biological tendencies of ostriches- having been raised to understand North American fauna.
It was a hot and humid day. The lemonade and cookies our guide brought were well received by the small group of tourists. Though, my poor husband was unable to sit at "tea time" and enjoy this offering with the rest of us. He kept walking circles around the group of us who sat enjoying the break on a rock outcrop. My husband barely spoke to the ostrich, but when he did I could hear grunts of frustration and uncertainty. My laughter reached deep and was hard to control. I struggled to find the situation as intimidating as my husband did: telling of my youth and inexperience, perhaps, since I later learned that ostriches do have the ability to gravely wound a full grown man with their very powerful legs. This knowledge seemed a bit more obvious to my husband.
I controlled my laughter long enough during that tea time to hand him cups of lemonade as one would hand a drink to a marathon racer. He and the ostrich kept circling our rock outcrop. The laughter did not stop. My husband was none too happy with his wife in evident joy at his expense. Thirteen years later and I am still laughing. Though, my husband is less angry at my laughter now and rather used to it.
This lovely ostrich Clearly adored my strong, tall, handsome husband. She remained behind him, batting her long eyelashes the entirety of our 4 hour (or so) hike through the savannah. Only when we came to the lodge with tall gates did she finally melt away from my husband and go back to her fellow ostrich who remained at a distance.
Ah what a day!
What is it to be chosen by an ostrich? If anything? I still seek, through my laughter, to answer that question.
And my giggling continues....
Thursday, February 7, 2013
Thanksgiving - Death Valley NP
They were curious. 2 little kit fox pups. Mama sat at a distance, but watched carefully.
We found ourselves with potential to enjoy Thanksgiving Day uniquely. It is my favorite spot to camp. A simple spot. Unassuming. You'd pass right by it normally. It is nothing to most people. Just a hint of desert.
It invited me at 2 am one stormy February night, as my husband and father hurriedly packed our 2 tents and supplies in the midst of a passionate monsoon. I held tight to our toddler son, waiting in the car anxiously for the men to pile all gear on the top of the subaru. Through the rain and rising water beneath our car (the road was becoming a river), I looked up the hill to see a space of desert unphased by the rising water. It was an invitation I could not pass up.... eventually. That monsoon gave us pass to leave with a warning: as we floated, in part, out of Death Valley NP that early morning, though we learned later that several fellow campers required rescuing from the canyon in which we camped.
Our next trip to Death Valley National Park was rewarded by 3 grazing bighorned sheep eloquently moving through the campsite we were previously invited to.
Rich has pictures. Scroll down in this link, if you seek visuals of the place I reference here. http://richalaska.blogspot.com/2010_02_01_archive.html
As the sun sank on Thanksgiving day, many years and many Death Valley NP trips later, I was not surprised to see the flashing, curious eyes of 2 kit fox pups and a distant mama fox. My children were delighted to watch the playful pups in the distance.
We were careful that Thanksgiving evening to not leave turkey and mashed potato crumbs on the sandy floor of our campsite. However, the next morning when we climbed out of our tent to the humble magic of a radiant desert sun, we spent quite some time cleaning our campsite of fox poop. It was a resounding weekend. Nature spoke to my family and we were grateful.
http://www.nps.gov/deva/index.htm
We found ourselves with potential to enjoy Thanksgiving Day uniquely. It is my favorite spot to camp. A simple spot. Unassuming. You'd pass right by it normally. It is nothing to most people. Just a hint of desert.
It invited me at 2 am one stormy February night, as my husband and father hurriedly packed our 2 tents and supplies in the midst of a passionate monsoon. I held tight to our toddler son, waiting in the car anxiously for the men to pile all gear on the top of the subaru. Through the rain and rising water beneath our car (the road was becoming a river), I looked up the hill to see a space of desert unphased by the rising water. It was an invitation I could not pass up.... eventually. That monsoon gave us pass to leave with a warning: as we floated, in part, out of Death Valley NP that early morning, though we learned later that several fellow campers required rescuing from the canyon in which we camped.
Our next trip to Death Valley National Park was rewarded by 3 grazing bighorned sheep eloquently moving through the campsite we were previously invited to.
Rich has pictures. Scroll down in this link, if you seek visuals of the place I reference here. http://richalaska.blogspot.com/2010_02_01_archive.html
As the sun sank on Thanksgiving day, many years and many Death Valley NP trips later, I was not surprised to see the flashing, curious eyes of 2 kit fox pups and a distant mama fox. My children were delighted to watch the playful pups in the distance.
We were careful that Thanksgiving evening to not leave turkey and mashed potato crumbs on the sandy floor of our campsite. However, the next morning when we climbed out of our tent to the humble magic of a radiant desert sun, we spent quite some time cleaning our campsite of fox poop. It was a resounding weekend. Nature spoke to my family and we were grateful.
http://www.nps.gov/deva/index.htm
Tuesday, February 5, 2013
Disabled or Resonant? - Great Northwest
Ben was 23. An amazing man, locked in his own body. He had cerebral palsy. He shifted my axis. I was 16. He could not communicate with me. Or could he?
The courage was not hard to find. Looking in his eyes was a gift I wasn't expecting. Ben lit up, perhaps delighted that a beautiful teenage girl showered him with attention... at least that's what everyone present thought. It was more than that. Ben could not spend his time kicking balls, going to college and living on Mac n Cheese like his same-age peers did. He had all the time in the world to connect to a universal portal (God perhaps) that most of us could never fathom, much less witness.
Ben showed me, in a brief instant, what might be out there. He was the first. He would not be the last connector to show me who they are in the eyes of one much larger than me.
Ben spoke resonance.... his eyes, his chakras were alive and beamed beauty to everyone in that hall lodge which comfortably sat in the shadow of Mt. Hood, Oregon. Sympathy for his condition began melting out of me. It had no purpose.
His life was different than mine yes, but Ben lived in a world of truth much larger than my own. A portal I now seek.
The courage was not hard to find. Looking in his eyes was a gift I wasn't expecting. Ben lit up, perhaps delighted that a beautiful teenage girl showered him with attention... at least that's what everyone present thought. It was more than that. Ben could not spend his time kicking balls, going to college and living on Mac n Cheese like his same-age peers did. He had all the time in the world to connect to a universal portal (God perhaps) that most of us could never fathom, much less witness.
Ben showed me, in a brief instant, what might be out there. He was the first. He would not be the last connector to show me who they are in the eyes of one much larger than me.
Ben spoke resonance.... his eyes, his chakras were alive and beamed beauty to everyone in that hall lodge which comfortably sat in the shadow of Mt. Hood, Oregon. Sympathy for his condition began melting out of me. It had no purpose.
His life was different than mine yes, but Ben lived in a world of truth much larger than my own. A portal I now seek.
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