Weather Report One

It is overcast here, and a tad wet as the marine air continues to take over our mornings, often burning off in the afternoon. Soon, it won't matter and the subtropical air masses that dominated our summer will be gone, replaced by cool ocean air and the moisture it carries. Then the rain will come. Hours and days and weeks of gray and rain, with glimpses of the sun as clouds break only to cover us over minutes later. Those who work by windows will stop what they are doing and bask in the radiance while they can, returning to their duties when the stratonimbi block out old Sol once again. No umbrella carriers we, and life goes on as normal, biking, driving, walking through the drizzel, thankful for the life giving rain while cursing it just the same. That which was brown will become green again, and the grass and forests will strike a pose against the mist of the sky. Come May, we'll emerge to frolick and stare at the view before us but until then, we'll prepare to pack up our scenery, put it in the summer chest and haul it up to the attic.

Should we stay or should we go?

The war in Iraq has not turned out to be an easy one. It was poorly planned, the aftermath has been executed haphazardly, and our leaders have failed to understand its true nature. The coalition forces are in a difficult position, and their political leaders are at a crossroads of decisions. Whether to fight on or leave further counter insurgent operations to the Iraqi government is a matter the US Congress is currently facing. It is a decision that will shape the region for generations to come.

The growing numbers in opposition of the war would like to see the US pull out of Iraq regardless of the ability for Iraqi government forces to take over security of their country.

This is a dangerous time. Past wars that were unpopular in the United States (Vietnam) saw domestic dissatisfaction result in the pullout of US military personnel and the fall of the government. This was expected by military experts who feared the South Vietnamese forces were not ready to take over. It resulted in a unified (though Communist) Vietnam that represented a nationalist majority in the new country.

Iraq has similar parallels militarily but not politically. The government may not be ready to take over security and it may not represent the population well. Unlike Vietnam however, there is not an organized opposition prepared to win and provide a stable replacement upon victory. Losing in Iraq now would result in a similar situation as Afghanistan in 1989, when the Soviet Union pulled out and left the various factions of the mujahadeen to fight upon removing the puppet regime. The fighting continued throughout the 1990s and resulted in the Taliban controlling most (though not all) of the country while war raged throughout its regions.

Various politicians are supporting the removal of American troops from Iraq in the very near future. This may sound like the right thing to do; no one wants to fight a war that doesn’t make sense or seems to have no end. It would be hard to overemphasize the instability this would cause.

Much of the opposition to the war did not support the war from the beginning. There has been a great deal of frustration among many Americans that the Bush Administration has not been accountable for their failures in this and other regards. Supporting an end to the war as soon as troops can be removed would be black mark on their record that many believe would be well deserved. This author would agree that accountability is paramount in any democracy and that enough has not pained this administration as might be called for. However, instability in Mesopotamia will be rampant as a result, and the damage done to US interests will be long term and deep.

After funding the mujahadeen in their fight against Soviets in Afghanistan, the US pulled out its support for the rebels as soon as the latter withdrew. The resulting power vacuum brought much bloodshed while the various factions fought for power. When the Taliban took over, they brought a hitherto unheard of extremism to the country that allowed al-Qaeda to find a home. Helping Afghanistan stabilize politically would have been far cheaper in both economic and human cost. Voters should take note.

Electorates are incredibly irrational, knowingly voting for candidates that tell them what they want to hear and avoiding ones who tell them what they need to hear. Irrational policies result; with hindsight they are analyzed and dissected by the historians who mercilessly point out the errors while explaining the reasoning of the decision makers. The understanding of these errors is also available at the time they are made, but the voters are usually not interested. They prefer decisions to be black and white, leaving the gray area for future generations to tangle with. There is an opportunity now to avoid a major foreign policy mistake, but due to its own hedonism, the Bush Administration’s cult of personality has run out with its constituency. If the US pulls out prematurely, the Middle East will suffer, affecting those regions that have interests there; a scary prospect indeed.

Voters beware: pay attention to who you listen to as we approach this next election. The war in Iraq is a mess, and your president is to blame. Unfortunately, pulling out now would not just punish him, but the rather the whole region therein. It is likely to make matters worse, not better. Some politicians (e.g. John McCain) are telling you what you need to hear. You can listen now, or in a few years time, listen to another politician tell you about his plan to fix the Middle East. Of course, by then you’ll know that the time to do that was in 2007, but public support prevented our leaders from getting the job done. If you wonder why history repeats itself, take long look; the stage is being set for another such event in the debate over Iraq.

Real Help for the Global Poverty

The poverty of the developing world is rarely on the mind of most Americans for but an instant following a news story or a commercial for an aid agency on television. Less time still is spent trying to understand the root causes of this pressing problem; it is indeed a complex web with many strands. Solving it has proven elusive. But many have tried.

Like most complex problems, there is no panacea. Like most complex problems, politicians develop programs to alleviate the symptoms, but not to end the suffering for good. Most typically throw money at a problem or support direct investment, trying to improve economies from the top down. These actions result in little change for those at lowest end of the income scale. But all is not lost.

Of course, there are people who do understand world poverty, and they know the solution is complex. Working against great odds, their organizations impact the daily lives of millions of destitute citizens worldwide. The best of these teach people how to make a living and support themselves; all that anyone would ever ask in such a situation. One of the best is the Rural Development Institute (RDI). This organization works to secure land rights for the poorest people on the Earth. By using the law to enact change, generations of people benefit.

The majority of the world’s poor live in rural areas, where agriculture is predominant way of life. In most cases, the people who work the fields do not own the land, and see little out of its return. Improving land tenure laws and expanding opportunity for rural peasants to own land has many benefits to individuals and the economy as a whole. Individually family incomes rise and lead to savings accumulation; nutrition is also improved. Communally, overall crop production increases, infant mortality decreases, and environmental concerns improve. Further, the increased ownership of land by rural workers helps stabilize the economy against shocks and provides a stable basis for growth. As the rural masses invest in their future via land ownership, their social standing improves and the potential for social unrest is dramatically reduced.

In the first step, RDI works with governments, NGOs and aid agencies to develop land tenure rights. Part of that process is an intricate study of the different political, cultural, and agricultural landscapes must be done before solutions can be developed. After policies are completed, RDI often implements a pilot program to help the government facilitate their new solution. Then they act as consultants to the country, moving their main efforts to the next country and another challenge. After all, the beneficiaries can now move forward on their own. For the most part, that’s all they wanted in the first place.

This top-down approach has an immediate and lasting effect on the lives of rural citizens in the developing world, helping to overcome conditions that resulted from traditional land tenure or the legacy of colonial rule. I can think of few better causes to support. If you agree, look into the Rural Development Institute at www.rdiland.org. Your dollar we go a long way to solving global poverty, not just helping this year.

Guns, Guns, Guns

Guns don't kill people, people kill people. At least that's what the gun lobby tells me. I do think that it would be disingenuous to state that guns don't make killing exponentially easier, especially for multiple murders in one sitting.. They are less personal and quicker than any hand-to-hand method. To kill by firearm is cowardly, all one need do is point the barrel and squeeze the trigger. One need not soil their shirt with blood by thrusting a weapon into their victim.

No other legal weapon is as effective when committing mass murder. How many people in a crowd could be killed with a knife before the killer was overtaken by his potential victims? With two guns in hand, the shear fear injected into the masses would be enough to keep the crowds at bay. The ease of killing any who approached or tried to escape defines a scale of power projection unmatched by any other personal weapon. The number of mass murderers who committed their crimes in one sitting using hand to hand weapons attests to this fact: zero.

You may believe the NRA is right. You may believe in the Second Amendment. But beware: to allow firearms to be unrestricted in the U.S. will lead to continued disaster on scales of Columbine, Austin, and now Blacksburg. It's just naive to believe that situations can be easily controlled when a mentally unstable person gets ahold of firearms. Guns don't kill people, people kill people. But people with guns can kill lots of people. Unfortunately, they can kill lots of people pretty quickly.

Audio Tourist

Sometimes a song hits you. It may be one you know, or a new tune that hooks your ears and leads you to new pastures. The pull is often strongest when it is a familiar one heard unexpectedly in a place or time you hadn't experienced before.

I have just heard one. It jolts me awake and changes the evening's paradigm through its slow melody and haunting progression. Listening to it at home would not have been the same. The context of the background voices and conversations, the kitchen noises and footfalls create a reality that stands apart from my abode; livelier, surrounding, isolating.

The song invades my psyche and slowly lowers the tone of the action. It separates itself from chatter of the those around and visually emerges as a shiny monolith in my head. It remains there throughout its play and I ride the wavelength through. As it begins to fade, the sounds of the patrons and staff rise again like the tide washing away a sand castle. It sinks my heart briefly as it dies, but brings a smile to my face, knowing that I am but an IPod button away from reliving the moment at another place and time of my choosing.

Sub-Five

I stood tall, waiting at the line, waiting for the starter. I was always nervous at beginning, tense for those first few moments before the sound of the gun set us all in motion. My racing spikes dug in, my arms set back as they made contact with the adjacent racers on either side. We were packed along the line that was curved to even the playing field a little by allowing those of us on the outside of the curve to start a little farther ahead. It was common in all track races; the fastest runners started on the inside lanes.

I had always been a capable runner, faster than most other kids and able to keep running too. In middle school gym class, I was able to run long distances faster than most anyone else. My gym teacher suggested that I try running distance when I entered high school.

Bang! The starter’s gun fired its blank shell, and the nervous system of each runner jolted in response. A mass of thinly clad athletes set off, stampeding in organized fashion as one entity like a flood of river water released from a dam. We started on a curve of the limestone gravel track and the battle for pole position began immediately. I was not one of the fastest in the race. I was only a freshman, and we had a number of juniors and seniors on the team who were positioned ahead of me, along with our competition. I would have to weave and pass my way through the light nylon uniforms, avoiding the half-inch spikes on the front of their track shoes. It was rare for another runner to step on your feet but spikes grazing calves were common injuries, especially at the beginning of a race.

We had an excellent coaches at Poland HS; Don Smaltz headed up the distance runners and Dave DiRenzo the sprinters and field athletes. Coach Smaltz taught us how to train in the off-season, how to pace ourselves, and how much energy to save for the final sprint to the end. He taught us through running but also through mental exercise, particularly how to fight through those tough moments of a race when we feel alone on the track, when our bodies are fatigued and our mind is telling us to give in to the pain. He taught us how to win that personal battle, how each of us must think of the team during that pain, and that our performance counted for more than just our own goals.

The first lap is an easy one, as my energy is good and my mind is occupied by finding my position among all of the racers around me. It seems like a blip in time and it’s over. I pass our assistant coach who is providing splits for us and he reads off the times as we pass; “65, 66, 67.” There is a change in the second lap as the adrenaline rush tapers off and my pace becomes established. I am gliding now, and it feels good though my fear begins to build. I pass a few runners along the way but as I make it down the stretch, I am dreading the third lap. This is the hardest stage. This is where racers may hit the wall; the place where running is no longer easy and their legs get heavy and their tanks empty. I need to fight through this one, to keep my pace, to hang around enough to give myself a chance. This is where the voice will visit.

The hardest part about running distance is the time spent alone on the track or course. Each runner must occupy his mind while maintaining his racing pace. There are no teammates to help you out, and your coaches can only yell as you pass them by. You become your own cheerleader; some runners talk to themselves, others allow their thoughts to do their cheering. Friends or teammates that stand along other parts of the track to cheer and encourage can provide powerful lifts to the spirit, but it is all too often an unknown or forgotten part of high school track. You are left with the repetition of each stride, the sweat pouring down your face, and the pain that builds in your quadriceps, your hamstrings, and your gut. It’s the last one that is the hardest; it tears away at your strength and stamina, but it strikes right at your soul. All you need to do to end it is to slow down or stop and admit defeat.

As I turn into the first curve of the final 440-yard oval, the cheers of the crowd, my coaches, parents, and friends dissipate and I am left to tackle the far straightaway on my own. The runners are fairly spread out now, though there are a few ahead of me, in range of my stride. I gear myself up for passing them on the front straightaway, avoiding the turn. We had been taught not to make any moves on the curves; passing on them requires that you run a longer distance to get around someone when using those outside lanes. I’ll wait for the crowd’s cheers to lift me up, to refill my spiritual tanks for the final stage. No voice visits, no wall emerges, no stopping me now. The weather is a perfect Ohio spring day, warm and sunny. The smell of blooming flowers from the lowlands of Yellow Creek that runs just below the outside fence surrounding the track filled the air. I had been trying all season to do it, to break the barrier that kept eluding me. There were no meets left for me after this one. Summer would be here soon, and the track season would end. But not yet. Not for about another 67 seconds.

I quicken my pace, just a little, and pass an opponent or two before entering the turn again. I am feeling good; I’ve made it. Now I just need to pick it up, catch a couple more runners. As I enter the back stretch I realize that this is the day, this is when it will happen. My stride lengthens, and I can feel my spirit rise with each footfall. As I go into the final turn, I pass a senior who squeezes out encouragement for me with all the breath he has left in him. I don’t care about overtaking him on the turn, I have energy left. A few more steps and the afterburners will be lit.

About half way around the turn, I let loose. My legs are churning now, moving as fast I can lift them. This is a tricky maneuver to perform sprinting the last 100 yards or so. Bodies are tired, and extremities are flailing. Distance runners lack the great form that sprinters employ, so there is always the danger of a collision or fall during this stage.. As I approach the finish line, my ears perk up for the sound of my time. I cross the white strip, and hear the magic words from the time caller. I had done it – 4:56, a sub-five minute mile.

Ethereal Neighborhood Games

The aerial view descended upon the twisting river and the lights of small hamlets that appeared on its shore. The rocky outcrops were many, increasing the difficulty of building a settlement here that could be reached by water. The view closed on one such settlement, the scale of vision dropping as if attached to the nosecone of an incoming rocket.

Flash Forward

We walked towards the group of buildings closest to the river. They were set off from the water by about 50 yards of open floodplain that was dotted with basaltic rocks; clearly the river rose over its banks regularly here. The town seemed unoccupied at first, but soon we could here voices. A group of men approached us, but all was not well. They took an antagonistic stance and shouted a few insults. One raised a rifle.

I yelled at Goldilocks to run, run quick into town. Find a place to hide while I dealt with all this. Off she went at full sprint. An old Winchester rifle lay against the tree beside me. I picked it up and took aim at the shooter, who had by now taken cover. We exchanged a few shots old-west style, with our bullets ricocheting off of the tree bark that protected each of us. Soon my rifle stopped functioning, though whether or not it was empty of shells or just old I cannot say. I dropped it and ran after her.

*Flash Forward*

Goldilocks was now running through yards and even house to throw off the trail of her chasers. Somehow my vision became hers though our bodies remained separate. The homes were very blue collar, and had been transformed from the small river hamlet to a more suburban neighborhood similar to my hometown area in Ohio, yet unfamiliar to me. She dashed around trees, over fences and through houses. They showed obvious signs of being occupied - lights on, kettles boiling, doors unlocked - though for the most part no one was home. The chasers had spread out and were now closing in on her.

She stepped upstairs in one of the ramshackle homes found a window that provided access to the slanted roof and climbed onto it. Strangely, a chicken-wire fence about two or three feet high rose from the edge of the roof enclosing it as if to contain kids or animals and prevent them from falling off. Goldilocks found a spot along the fence, laid down, and curled her body against it. A young pale-face boy appeared at the window she had crawled through. He had short bangs that could have him pass for a medieval monk if not for his age. He stared at her briefly with a sullen but silent face that was interrupted by the sound of mens voices. The chasers' voices. Voices that were looking for her. Voices who intended to harm her. He raised his index finger to his lips, and turned back inside, away from her view.

A woman's voice, one that would seem to be the boy's mother, spoke to the men. No woman had been seen here today, she told them. As Goldilocks stared down, she could see about five men standing at the side door of the house, facing the woman whose body was just in view over the edge of the gutter, her small son standing next to her. The next house was about fifteen yards away. The yard between the two homes contained at least one mature tree whose root structure raised the level of the adjacent soil significantly, creating an uneven walking surface.

As the men turned away, one of them looked up at the roof, scanning it for anything unusual. He stared directly at her position now, holding his eyes for a few seconds. It seemed he had spotted her. Sweat began to pour from her face as she processed the terror of the moment. She met his eyes, but suppressed her instinct to act, and she lay still. The man's eyes soon drifted on and soon he appeared satisfied that there was nothing to investigate up there. It was like she had been covered in camouflage, and his gaze could not penetrate through it.

The men dispersed, though she could still hear them talking to each other as they moved among the houses across the street, farther and farther away but still audible. She turned to find a man, an unfamiliar man whose face was somewhat similar to the boy who had stood there just ten minutes ago. As he took notice of her, his expression changed to one of distress. He turned his head toward the street, and called out. Goldilocks rose and moved quickly to the window. In one smooth desperate motion, she kick the man. Her boot heel caught him square in the mouth, and he fell back onto the floor of his son’s room. His head impacted with a dull thud and he appeared unconscious. She ran down the stairs and out the side door at full speed. She could hear the voice of the mother behind her calling out to her husband. She was sure the woman had not seen her, but she wasn’t staying around to give her a chance. She opened her stride, ran through some fence gates, and towards the street that ran behind the previous one. She continued running, running until the voices of men had all but disappeared, and then some. She was away from them and away from the danger. She found a place to hide among some trees, and she remained there for some time.

*Flash Forward*

We walked out of the neighborhood where I had found Goldilocks, across a small bridge and into an urban area that I did not recognize. The bridge spanned a canal that resembled one in Bangkok, full of sewage. Beyond to our left was a construction site. We made our way to it and walked inside the I-beam maze of its interior. My friend Damian appeared, and guided us through the site. There were a number of African-American children around, and it became apparent that this was a play site of theirs. It was indeed an urban church that was being renovated. Upon entering another room, a group of African-American women were working, washing laundry by hand in a series of deep wash basins. Damian’s son Aidan joined us briefly to say hello, but soon we left them behind as we began to exit through the back of the church.

Entering a dark room on our way toward the rear, everything was dark though a strange glow illuminated a miniature cityscape much like an architect’s model for a neighborhood, or perhaps more accurately, the model of the Map Room in Tanis from Raiders of the Lost Ark. Upon closer inspection, the landscape was not full of buildings, but of monuments and gravestones. Most were small, but some monoliths and towers jutted up from the floor. The light gave each a small shadow that in turn created a chilling scene before us.

We navigated through a pathway that crossed the model-train graveyard that in turn led us to a sun-lit enclosed graveyard, perhaps the real version of the model we passed through. A small white house that might be mistaken for a mausoleum stood in the center before us, but it seemed more of a temple of sorts. From our right, and old man dressed in white approached us. He had a bald head, though long white hair extended from the back and sides. His eye sockets were large, and held dark pupils that were at once frightening and soothing. We felt safe but cautious. He silently opened his left palm as if to motion us to the right, to show us something important there.

Then I woke.

Gaggles of Girls

I have always found hanging out with women to be entertaining. This weekend I spent time with four women who were out on the town. My friends Jeri and Erica live here in Portland and are both graphic designers. Meredith is a budding chef and a friend both of them who I met at Erica's wedding last summer. She brought Shari, a high school friend who she reconnected with recently in Seattle. They were reuniting because Meredith had decided to move back to Iowa to be closer with her family, at least in the short term. Eventually, Chicago or another city in the midwest would be her future home if all went according to plan. It had probably been awhile since I had been with a group that was tight knit and comfortable, that had conversation come so naturally between them. I had forgotten how much I thrived on that interaction, whether as an active participant or an included outsider.

We men have a lot of similarities with women when taken separately as a group. We talk about and make fun of each other, talk about things we wouldn't say in mixed company, and love to laugh. The differences in these dynamics is really only the subject matter. Women might prefer to talk about clothes, men about sports. Both talk about the opposite sex in direct and often cutting ways.

I love talking sports or any other male subject, but having grown up with three sisters I also crave a little female group interaction from time to time. I think it keeps me energized, balanced. I also get reminded about what women truly find funny; not just giggle-in-front-of-the-boys funny, but laughing deep from their guts funny. I don't like to do it all the time, as you take risk of becoming the boy who is hanging out with the girls - not my scene. But a good dose of estrogen by association is often entertaining if you allow it to be.

When groups of men and women get together things change. Each side (save a select few mavericks) becomes more conservative in their speech, eyes up their opposites, and either engages or retreats. Men, being visual, usually make their decisions faster as we become attracted at first glance. I used to think that women operated the same way as men did, just in reverse. Oh how wrong I was. Women look to identify those who they might truly have a connection with. They'll become excited by conversation, or even by a single thing a guy says; looks are definitely secondary in most cases.

In mixed groups of single people who know each other well, the interaction returns to a more comfortable level. Both sexes speak freely again with little concern for impressing or offending the others. These groups often form "urban tribes". Urban tribes are best defined as groups of urban professional friends who develop into familial-like units, providing emotional support for each other in place of their more distant (geographically or otherwise) real families. I was in the middle of one and enjoying it.

We all went out on Saturday night for drinks and dinner (though I smartly ate first), then to a strip club - totally normal in Portland, unheard of for mixed company in most other cities. The conversation was good, but it really wasn't until the next morning that the estrogen really began to flow. Against my gut, I met the girls for brunch. This was going to be a little challenge to my masculinity; Easter Sunday brunch at an expensive restaurant with four women who are completely dressed down. I needed to be comfortable in my skin - I wasn't worried, just aware of what the morning would entail.

They all got alcoholic drinks, I abstained - it was Sunday and I certainly didn't need a drink today (strike one against my maleness). The real fun began as they caused problems for our male server by asking for soy milk, artichokes on the side, and adding goat cheese. I ordered straight up with no fluff. They tortured most anyone walking into the restaurant for their Easter outfits, and I helped out (strike two); some of those outfits were amazingly bad. They loved talking about our waiter, and how he put up with them or even liked them.

It was pretty much the same thing I would have done with my friends, though we probably would have done it at a cheap diner, ordered directly off the menu, and ripped on our waitress. Differences between men and women among friends? Just semantics. And maybe a little estrogen.

Just Baseball in John Day

John Day, Oregon is a small town in the river valley of the same name in the center of the state. Its economy centers around ranching and logging, and has a long history of pioneer settlers impact on the region. This night, I sat in an old west style dinner house getting ready to order when a small boy rather matter-of-factly asked what I might like to drink. I told him that I wanted a beer, and he smiled and informed me that he would have to have someone else to assist.

A few moments later he and a friend of his sat at the bar next to me, both of whom had parents working in the kitchen. They were in middle school together, and their school was very small. There were only about 10 students in each grade, so all of them were in class together. The local high school was fed by all the towns in the county, and still had only about 100 kids in it. Neither had been too far from home, one as far as Arizona, the other only to the states adjacent to Oregon.

I discovered that most of the hotels in town were sold out because of a baseball tournament being held there. The visitors seated at the table behind me whose sons were playing commented on the beauty of the fields at the ballpark. From the reaction of the staff, it was clear that these fields were a point of pride for the community. Teams had traveled from throughout Oregon had come play games here in this pretty little town below the peaks of the snow capped Strawberry Range.

The following morning I experienced the mass of players for the first time as I went to breakfast behind the various teams getting ready for the day’s games. I had planned on leaving early for the drive south to Burns, but after getting in my truck I decided that I needed to see the ballpark and experience small town baseball again, like the kind I grew up with in Ohio. I received directions at the Town Hall and made my way over to the north side, across the fast running John Day River. The streets of the town are full of small working class houses that resemble the coal mining communities of rural Appalachia. Most were well kept and landscaped, but the general economic stature of John Day could not be denied; this was not the booming blossom that Bend or Hood River were becoming.

As I drove, I listened to an interview on NPR with an Islamic Member of the British House of Lords who was discussing Western perceptions of Muslims, and Muslims view of themselves. The exchange was a fascinating one, but I couldn’t help reflect on my surroundings as the contemporary problems of the world were dissected. How many of these players were aware of the world outside of the mountains of Eastern Oregon from anything other than television? Did they understand the turmoil that covers so much of the globe? Did it matter?

Soon I stood outside my truck high on a hill above the fields, across the valley from the extinct Strawberry Volcanoes that stand as sentinels over the town. I looked down on the players warming up for their games. All was silent; only a light wind was blowing down from the peaks above. The sound of the chatter, balls hitting gloves, and the crack of the bats were dissipated by the distance. It was a stunning, simple panorama that repeated itself in many parts of the country as kids travel to play their favorite game at tournaments far from home. Somehow I wanted to take part, but I was meant to be an observer this morning.

The problems of the world continued to reach out through the airwaves, grabbing me, beckoning to set a serious tone to the scene, but they seemed a universe away. The mountains had tucked away this little community, insulating it from the complexities of the metropolitan world. Today, baseball mattered. Just pitches, hits, runs, outs, and errors. Just baseball. Lots of it. And the mountains got to watch each and every game.

Downward Spiral to Madison Avenue

It was a small plane, small enough that the pilot was visibly accessible to the passengers. She looked Indian or Pakistani, and had a slight accent. There was no copilot that I could recall. We had departed from a strange airport, one that may have been visited in a previous visit here. This flight was taking many of us home, wherever that may be in the ethereal world.

I sat in a window seat, as is my typical preference; I like to view the landscape below during the flight. It was partly cloudy out today, so the ground could be seen only intermittently while plane cut through the afternoon air. From time to time I would be transported to an aisle seat, chatting with the female passengers around and occasionally my male counterparts. Soon my subconscious sent me back to the window. Perhaps I was in a single seat row, it's hard to recollect now.

About midway through the flight, the plane turned sharply to the left, entering a downward vortex nearly instantaneously. The passengers reacted with despair as they were pressed against the right side of the cabin, but I wasn't sure whether to panic just yet. It didn't take long for me to join in their fear as I saw the shifting cloudscape sweep past me at all angles. It was clear that this was probably a one-way trip. I turned to see the pilot, struggling with all her energy to fight the descent and bring the aircraft under control. Distress calls echoed out of the cockpit as she desparately tried to tell anyone in radio range of our predicament.

I remember wishing to myself that it was all a dream, that we weren't really falling out of the sky in this unfamiliar airplane in an unfamiliar world. With each spin of the plane my hope diminished, and I began to prepare myself for the inevitable end. I tried to imagine it, the feeling of death. Would I even feel anything? Would I sense a stinging sudden pain throughout my body before all went black? I didn't know if I should look out the window, so I alternated between looking at the other passengers I had been talking to and closing my eyes. Curiousity got the best of me a few times, and I saw the view from the pilot's seat of the ground directly ahead. I thought of all the things I never got to do, of the people I wouldn't see again. I braced myself for the impact, thinking it had to be soon. I braced for the feeling that I had never known and would only know once. I braced for the end of my days.

Seemingly as soon as it started, it was over. The aircraft touched the ground in a perfect landing, coming to rest shortly thereafter. We were on a downtown city street, surrounded by amazed pedestrians and cars moving out of our way. The captain had somehow pulled off an urban landing. An image of the stubby plane appeared in my mind, resembling a cartoon animation. It was gently moving with the traffic, its fat body and stubby wings apparently designed for navigating the tight fit between skyscrapers. The passengers sighed in unison, releasing the stress that had built inside of them during the traumatic descent. I awoke to a new day, raising my head from my pillow and avoiding the stench of sweat and urine that would surely engulf the dreamworld cabin as we taxied to an urban bus station. I couldn't help but feeling that I had been granted a lease on life, if only for a moment. However, I soon catalogued it all as surreal, and the thought of breakfast soon took hold. I rose and headed to the kitchen, leaving the experience of the dream flight behind.

Columbia Dawn

It’s a four-part scene, this panorama. Tall forested mountains rise on either side, their peaks but a doorway to grander views beyond. The spiny slopes hold hidden waters, cascading down narrow gullies, carrying the season’s runoff to the valley below. Veiled waterfalls mark the point of stiff resistance the mountains put up to the liquid’s unending assault on their bedrock. In this, the rainy season, the splashes can be heard from some distance, drawing visitors in to the coves that enclose them.

The expanse of forest that mask the streams are but a mass from where I sit; individuality marked only on the ridges where the tops of trees silhouette against the sky, or at lower altitudes, fog. Underneath the canopy is an array of coniferous stands with little underbrush, adding to the majesty of the solid trunks visible therein.

The river rules the valley floor, carrying glacial waters from far away mountains and whisking it away to the distant shoreline that awaits downstream. It is a fast mover, its currents strong and determined; a challenge to the fish that attempt to navigate her on their way home. She was here first, before the mountains. She was too fast to be brushed aside by their rise and she still is. Her channel cuts deeper then the growth of the hills, and her children run down their slopes to greet her, filling her with water from the slopes above. Stony outcrops dot her channel and banks, big rocks that refuse to give in to her power; but they too, will succumb in time.

The icing to the morning is provided by the clouds. The misty banks drift and break as they hug the mountain valleys, rest over the river, and whiten the sky. The sun brightens a spot as it attempts to penetrate the blanket, but can only be a minor player at this hour. They emerge from the hillsides like groggy children waking to breakfast on a school morning. They join the others, floating above the river on the way to the sea as the air from East descends into the gorge, bulldozing its way downstream. There, as the gorge opens to the wide Willamette Valley expanse, they will collide with the winds and clouds from the shore, and meet their end.

Khmer Roads, Take Me Home

So I'm upstairs in this open air bar in Cambodia, see. I'm watching this band of Khmers (ethnic Cambodians) whose lead singer looks like a Buddhist monk; hell, maybe he is. They belt out a couple of popular tunes that the Korean women seated at a table across the place sing-a-long to, their buzzes readily apparent to all within earshot. I'm chattin' with this Thai chick next to me who owns a shop in town here, and she has caught on to my writing. Daddy-oh.

So the band belts out Country Roads, and I'm thinkin', John Denver! West Virginia! Right here in the wet-dry tropics of rural SE Asia! Damn! I love this landmine infested country! They finish the Mountaineer anthem, and the Koreans are goin' nuts. The Cambodians seem unfazed, but as the lone Euro in the crowd, I feel a bit like secret agent man in the movies. The Koreans continue to cheer and sing horribly as they polish off their pitchers of Tiger beer, Vietnam's finest, and I figure I oughta let these clowns know that they did my alma mater proud with their tunes. After they finish a few more songs - sung in Khmer or Thai but equally enjoyable - I make my way over to the boys in the band. I tells 'em, like hey, I went to WVU! I'm a Mountaineer! Thanks for Country Roads!

They stare at me, smile politely, and give me that look that unmistakably tells me that they don't understand a word I'm saying. I amble back to my seat, a little deflated, and order another Tiger. Then I get excited again, knowing that this story will delight West Virginians throughout the world in the coming years. In Cambodia! Damn!

Sunrise at Angkor Wat

On Saturday I took the boat from Phnom Penh to Siem Reap, Cambodia, home of the Angkor Wat temple ruins. The trip followed the Tonle Sap River NW to the Tonle Sap, a large lake about half the size of Lake Erie. The river is unique in that it runs both directions; during the rainy season (May-Oct), the river runs toward the lake, filling it and vastly expanding its surface area (from 2700 to 16000 square km). In the dry season (Dec - Apr) the river reverses course, draining the lake of much of its water, and much of its wildlife as well. The Khmer (main Cambodian ethnic group) hold a festival each year to celebrate the reversing of the flow.

During the boat ride, I snapped lots of photos, and sat on top of the cabin most of the way. I got a little sunburn on my legs, but it was worth it. We left at 7am and docked in Siem Reap at 12pm. I was viewing the temples by 2pm.

The Angkor cities and temples were built from the 9th to the 15th centuries by the Kings of the Khmer Empire. Angkor Wat is the biggest temple, and started out as a Hindu site, but was later converted to Buddhism. Its image is reflected on the Cambodian flag. Many of the other sites are solely Buddhist, but all have a strong Hindu influence, recognizing the often close relationship between these two religions.

SUNRISE AT ANGKOR WAT

On Sunday, I got up at 5am with the intention of being the @ Angkor Wat at sunrise. As I wandered out the door, the jungle hotel courtyard was silent; the only sounds were birds chirping in the surrounding trees signaling the start of the day. The only people around were the night watchman, Chhean, who is working on his English in class one day per week, and the just arrived concierge. It was then that I realized that I had no way of getting to the temple. I thought it might be walk able, but it occurred to me that my memory of the distance in the car from yesterday was probably not accurate, so I asked for help. After some discussion between the two employees in Khmer, I was offered a bicycle that I happily accepted.

I was not entirely sure of the direction I should be headed as I pedaled out of the gate. I stuck with my intuition and rode off into the darkness, north through the forest. The road was unimproved, a mix of gravel and dirt. I passed many homes, open air shacks really, of locals who were awakening to start their day. Concern began to creep into my bones. How safe was it to ride this road right now? Was it the right road? What would I do if confronted by some locals in the dark? Despite these thoughts, I pressed on. I really didn't think what I was doing was dangerous; it was just dark and I was alone in an unfamiliar place. I was also sweating; while the sun had not
come up yet, it was warm and very humid. To make matters worse, to enter the temple you are supposed to have long pants on and a shirt that does not expose shoulders. I am wearing a pair of long linen pants and a long sleeve t. Big mistake on the latter. My shirt is stained with perspiration in about four minutes.

About ten minutes after I left, things began to look a little familiar and I arrive a checkpoint. I had purchased my 3-day pass yesterday, so I passed upon presenting it. Excitement started to hit - the temple moat was in sight, a full 70+ yards wide, and the sun lay low beyond the Eastern forest about to commence its daily journey across the sky. I was just in time.

For better or worse, there were plenty of other early risers crossing the causeway for the show. There are pros and cons to traveling alone. Pricing favors two or more in sharing rooms, rides, and sometimes food, etc. However, it was times like this when being alone pays off. I nimbly snap my photos and pass by the roaming groups stopping for each other, chatting, and constantly assessing their consensus. Soon I am climbing the various steps to reach the central tower, some 400+ yards from the moat. The steps are steep and worn; sandstone weathers easily in a tropical humid climate such as this. The way up is tenuous and the signs at the base warn of climbing at your own risk. Keeping your eyes in front of you prevents the "don't look down" syndrome that is so often associated with heights. I reach the top, and find just a few visitors have come this far, perhaps less than ten. I pray to a Buddha and light some incense sticks, dropping some local currency to the monk in attendance. A few more photos of the solar illumination of this monument to the ancient empire and it is time to reflect. I find an open stone window space to sit in, overlooking the tropical forest below and its immensely tall trees. I want to feel the energy of this place, soak it in without concern for photos, transportation, or time. I begin to cool down and my sweat stops and begins to dry off my shirt. I fall asleep.

Briefly after sunrise, most of the tourists leave, off to get breakfast. As I awake, the distant causeway across the temple grounds has essentially emptied and the louder groups of visitors have gone. The high temple tower is for the most part quiet. I linger for another 30 minutes or so and begin my descent. The heat and my effort build as I make my way down, and sweat returns. I stop for an omelet sandwich at a courtyard stand off in the tree line of the courtyard, and am immediately hounded by kids selling postcards and other trinkets. I turn them away and make my way back to the bike. The ride back is one of accomplishment. I get back at 8:15am, change, grab a chair at the pool, and relaxing in the rising tropical sun.

Siem Reap, Cambodia
August 27, 2006

Above the Pacific

The sea glistened from 36,000 feet. Small white dots on the blue carpet reflect solar rays, but I could not tell the true origin - boat, wave, or other. Cumulo-stratus clouds interrupted the view of the deep blue, hovering and creating distinctive shadows on the azure seascape. At eye level, alto-cirrus clouds acted as a local ceiling to select areas of the sky. While I admired the ocean - truly in a Pacific state so far - I longed to see an island or atoll below. I need perspective for this panorama. Earlier I had searched for a tropical storm, a typhoon, to quench my thirst for geo-relativity. I knew they couldn't form over these seas (we were off the coast of Kamchatka), but I hoped for a dying beast that still held meteorological wrath as it swept its way north.

As we continue south, thunderstorms grow off to the East. Temporary ivory towers reaching up to our cruising altitude as lesser clouds mill about below, serfs paying homage to the king of the aerial feudal system. Such is the daily ebb and flow of the maritime skyline, contrasting the timeless landscapes we are accustomed to. Within hours, it will all be gone as storms move and dissipate while others grow. Numerous empires collapse, surrounded by lesser white puffs that resemble cottage cheese below, or layers of cake icing suspended in mid air above them.

As we pass over Taipei, Taiwan (ROC), I can see the melding of the city to the rugged landscape of the island. Roads, rivers, and buildings are all visible, and ships exit the harbor on their way to offshore markets worldwide. The interior of the island is a formidable forested mountain range, from which the short but sizable rivers run. Taiwan's population is clustered along these rivers as they emerge from the highlands to show their braided stream channels full of silt from the season rains. The periphery, particularly the western side that my window faces, holds most of the island's residents. The mountains look ominously over the coastal cities through the partial cloud cover that attempts to hide them. The lowlands, however, are not to be underestimated. Industrial sites are well developed, and are surrounded by geometric retention ponds, fish farms, or rice paddies.

Finally, another sight I had longed to see: the Inter-tropical Convergence Zone (ITCZ). This line of thunderstorms circles the globe roughly corresponding to the Equator, but migrates north of it in the summer, and south of it during (our) winter. It marks the meeting point of the NE and SE trade winds that bring so much precipitation to the tropics. The line sits just south of Hong Kong today, with consistent cumulus clouds along its path, extending the length of the E-W horizon, and indeed around the world. Towering cumulonimbus monsters are interspersed as well; one particularly large one was easily over 45,000 ft. high. Tomorrow it may move south, en
route to its winter home. Earth is underestimated.

United Flight 869
August 16, 2006 3-4pm
Over the Pacific Ocean off the coasts of Japan and China

Why Astrology?

Not long ago, I took an interest in Astrology as I was browsing a bookstore for fun, an activity I am known to relish. It was an interesting read, and I found many parallels and connections within this particular book that I thought the concept was worth investigating further, so I bought it. This particular book had more narrow scope dealing solely with relationships. It described, in the opinion of its author, the different sun sign match ups that make marriages interesting, even including mock conversations and arguments. I found that I need more basic information on how everything worked within the astrological realm. I needed to start from scratch.

I read books, observed people I knew, and drew parallels based on their sun signs. As I observed more, I was able to see a number of patterns that matched up with astrological premises; Virgos’ unending attention to detail and self-criticism, Cancers’ moodiness and nurturing, Aquarian genius and aloofness. Pretty soon I was able to make basic analogies of my friends based on their sun sign. Lately, I have been able to guess new acquaintances’ sun sign with a high probability. I did my own birth chart online and asked my cousin, an astrology buff herself, to analyze it. As I learned more about myself, I began to see people differently. It became like a karmic realization in which the world made sense – that people made sense. I didn’t quite know what to do with it all, but I felt a little like I could see through time and space; that the world had more order than I realized, and that I was beginning to understand it.

I some cases, I am sure I have over analyzed. Like a kid with a new toy, I wanted to try out all my thoughts and observations. Astrological concepts buzzed around in my head during conversations with friends and work associates as I tried to trace their tendencies to find correlations. Most of them took it in stride, and some were quite interested. My closer friends were occasionally eroded by my growing obsession, but often asked my advice in dealing with people they had come across in their daily life. Naturally this invigorated me.

Living in Portland, one becomes used to diversity of interests, culture, and personal philosophies. Discussing astrology with most Portlanders was met with open minds if not downright immediate acceptance. In fact, many citizens of the Rose City that I came across were more than familiar with the basic facts about their sun signs, a surprising number were familiar with their birth charts. It was only when I introduced it to friends and family back East that I noticed a rise of skepticism among my listeners. Some were excited about hearing about themselves and agreeable to the generalities of a Sun sign reading, but most people didn’t want to be put in a box, often claiming that any inaccuracy meant that the whole system was a false prophecy. The lack of understanding of its interpretations and descriptions, highlighted by daily horoscopes and sound bite explanations, made convincing people to listen more difficult than getting them to accept astrological premises.

In order to learn about this system, one must first grasp the concept that astrology is not synonymous with predetermination. It might best be described as a blank slate; each of us is born with different abilities and dispositions and astrology attempts to explain and analyze this fact. It takes into account that people can and do change as they advance in life. In fact, it can help us pinpoint our weaknesses as well as our strengths. If understood, it is a roadmap to self improvement and interpersonal relationships.

Part of learning about ones astrological information is the acceptance of strengths and weaknesses. All people have weaknesses, but some who are introduced to astrology are not interested in hearing them, believing that they are perfect (at least in their eyes). “Oh no, I’m not high maintenance, it’s just that I really like my man to make me feel important.” Or, “I have an open mind, but I think nobody else does.” Astrology proclaims that we are all born with things that we can teach others and things we need to learn from others. It is a simple concept, and one that in isolation is not hard to embrace. When it becomes part of a system, one that has categories and nomenclature, it is not unusual to have people frighten with disdain that someone is attempting to sign them up for a New Age religion without their consent. However, I must admit how often I was blessed with individuals who readily admitted many of their weaknesses and faults, and were amazed to have them isolated and described. In many cases, they were relieved that they were not necessarily responsible for feeling that way, that it was perhaps hard-wired within them.

In teaching others what I have learned, I have found it best to describe my own faults first in order to put them at ease before discussing theirs. Strengths? Those are easy. Everyone wants to hear that they are friendly, smart, fun, organized, etc. But, for better or worse, Astrology is a zero-sum game. You cannot be born exceptional at all abilities; you have a composition that is a mixture of them. This mixture can be unbalanced, such as the genius musician who has trouble in social situations and cannot balance his own checking account. It can also have much balance, such as those who seem to have it all together but may not be amazing at any particular aspect of living.

The hardest part of buying into astrology is accepting that we don’t know precisely how it works. “My birth date, location, and time determines whether I am lazy or not? I don’t think so!” Well, not exactly. One astrologist refers to the currently immeasurable magnetic pull of the planetary positions as similar to radio waves; they existed in the 18th century, but we were unaware of their presence. Nevertheless, upon their discovery and measurement, we quickly put them to use in a wide variety of ways. Perhaps it shall be the same with these magnetic influences upon astrological signs.

From another angle, let’s look at the world from the top down. Mother Nature, God, Allah, or whatever Deity you claim allegiance to has organized a place that is integrated, complex, and seemingly random. Yet, as we continue to study nature, it becomes increasingly clear that chaos theory has some worth to it. Chaos theory, for those unfamiliar, is a mathematical area of study that examines complex systems, including those that appear random such as the atmosphere, to identify an underlying order. Such theories are helpful in explaining things such as global climate or the development of life on planets. The phrase “a butterfly flapping its wings over the US causes a hurricane over the Indian Ocean” is a popular analysis of this theory.

The human population is diverse not only in culture, but also in personality. Personality traits differ between men and women, but also between sisters and between brothers. This is especially noticeable between siblings of similar age and upbringing; why do two brothers, with a stable family and similar parental influences, differ in regards to these traits? There are many possible explanations, and astrology has some very valid ones. Does it not make sense for the world to be organized via a system of order that ensures a (relatively) equal number of emotional, exuberant, intellectual and practical people? If you were to design it yourself, is there a better way to do it than basing it on birth dates? Then they could be understood, studied, and embraced as humans begin to understand the system and its purpose. Based on the four elements of fire (exuberance), earth (practicality), air (intellect), and water (emotional), each of these elements controls three signs, evenly spaced out over the year so that in any four month period all elements have been represented.

Why is this difficult to believe in? It cannot be quantified - yet. In addition, the representatives, astrologers, are often people that don’t fit the mainstream. A strong dose of faith and belief is typical before diving into the Astrological realm. They often appear to be people who are a bit kooky, or odd. Weekly World News stories on the subject don’t help much either. To the untrained, astrology can appear like a substitute for religion (it is not). As a result, it has not been widely accepted in this society that has for so long been based on appearances and adherence to the conventional.

So why Astrology? If all these planets do pull on us, and affect our personalities, can’t we just learn it all on our own? Does learning about it take all the mysteries of life away? Not exactly, but in my experience, it has made many things clearer. Given the difficulties that interpersonal relationships present, that is a good thing. I have downloaded and interpreted a number of birth charts for family, friends, and acquaintances. Some of those people thanked me profusely, claiming that I had given them a true gift of self-discovery. They did not understand why “they were the way they were”, usually meaning they were different than most others around them in some particularly important way; often in a way that had caused problems in their relationships.

Astrology helps us answer questions about our own drives and quirks that help and hinder us as we go through life and associate with other people. It helps us understand others around us who are different, yet enrich our experience on Earth. Would a Taurus love it if everyone were as practical and patient as they were? I doubt it – how else would they stand out? Who would be our leaders and stage stars without Leos? What would a world be like without Gemini talk show hosts chatting up every guest with abandon, or Cancers to be our nursing the sick back to health? We need Sagittarians to develop the causes important to our world. We all have something to teach, and something to learn.

So go get your birth chart done. Learn about yourself. Take a look at a good friend’s chart and see the differences. Open your eyes to the complexities of the world. You’ll be glad you did.

Hunters

Hunters moon, killers moon
The hunter draws his bow and releases
The arrow is bloodied
The buffalo falls, and the tribe eats

Hunters moon, killers moon
The hunter raises his rifle and fires
The bullet penetrates
The buck falls, and the head is mounted

Hunters moon, killers moon
The soldier illuminates the building
The bomb drops
The house explodes and the bodies are counted

Hunters moon, killers moon
The official raises his pen
The oil flows
Blood money erases a thousand years of culture

Hunters moon, killers moon
The people tune in
The words mask the truth
The people tune out as lies perpetuate innocence

Oh yee suckers!

I was a sucker. I will fully admit that I have had my political favorites over the years, and that I gave them some leeway with regards to their actions both personal and professional. However, by and large I don't tolerate most illegal or immoral acts by such men and women. This administration is the bottom of the barrel.

I am not sure I have seen as much blatant disregard for US and International Law in a seven-year period. Illegal wiretapping for five years straight is one example. While during a related civil court case, a US judge declared that the President "undisputely violated" the First and Fourth Amendments of the Constitution, and also statutory law. The Justice Department did not move on filing criminal charges.

The administration organizes illegal prisons world wide, in countries where torture is acceptable. The Bush Administration feels that if we torture abroad, our agents are not subject to US law. I don't care what has been done to Americans, torture is never an acceptable measure. It has always been what separated us from so many of our enemies, and never been any more important than it is now.

We watch movies like "Clear and Present Danger", where the President oversteps his bounds. We cheer the main character as he uses US law to put him in his place, to make him pay for his crimes against the people. Now, as we are faced with a real life example of the illegal misuse of power, I shudder that most Americans will ignore the threat to their liberties that it poses. The Monica Lewinsky affair got Clinton into some serious trouble, but Bush's illegal wiretapping is apparently acceptable. Perhaps if they knew their name was on the list of those affected Americans might feel differently.

Haliburton, Bechtel, and other US firms getting unbidded construction contracts in Iraq and Afghanistan? Bush's ties to these firms aren't just traceable; their executives are some of his best friends. In addition, these contracts are not only construction based; they are far more intricate, and it explains the core of US involvement there. Read Confessions of an Economic Hit Man; do it now. It will open your eyes to how these firms work, and our government's foreign policy with them. You may never look at our relations with the Developing World the same way again. If, after reading it and learning about how our world works, you find this acceptable, prepare for a long, unending war. A war with no winners, no real solution. We may not have started the fighting, but you may be shocked at how many seeds of violence we have planted.

No American wants to think that we (the US) hold any blame for terrorism. But then, that's what makes us such suckers...the mover and shakers in many of our corporations and government count on that. We are becoming those enemies that the US has fought in past wars; Nazis, Communists, British Imperialists. Now we wiretap our own people, torture our prisoners, and form a global (though unspoken) empire for our economic gain.

It is one of the scariest things I have had to come to terms with, to admit and understand.

But you don't have to believe me. Read all you can and find out for yourself.

The evidence is there.

Don't be a sucker.

Sky Scene

My return flight from Orlando last night was late by over an hour. It was pretty empty, with maybe 10 passengers with a 9:30 departure.

Within about a half hour of Reagan National Airport, the full moon shown through crystal clear skies above, lighting up the sea of the clouds below us. Off to the east, the main part of a storm appeared to be settling, with cloud-to-cloud lightning flashes rumbling like a father into his chair after a full meal. From inside the quiet cabin, it was perhaps one of the most beautiful views I have experienced in my life. Breathtaking. Without sound, the distance and vastness of the scene took on new importance, presenting just a glimpse of the feeling astronauts must get when looking out to the heavens. Pure, dynamic, colorful.

July 28, 1999

Birkenau Walk

I remember listening to the sound of the wind as we ambled through the camp. Most of our thoughts were too frightening to speak, so we shared an occasional affirmation of the view that lay before us. What lay beneath those words was something far more terrifying to confront lightly; the brutality of man.

My companion had been to Dachau, outside of Munich. That concentration camp had been razed to the ground, and all that remained was a memorial landscape. He conveyed this to me expressing the difference he felt while absorbing Auschwitz II, aka Birkenau, the Nazi death camp that we now tread upon. Here, the original buildings still stood, the train tracks still ran, and the fence still encased. Most of the wooden barracks were relatively dilapidated, though a few were modestly renovated by the Polish government so visitors could peek in to try and imagine the horror that they once contained.

As we walked toward the rear of the camp, huge chasms appeared in the ground that in the past held the bodies of those who were brought here to die. The end of the train tracks were marked by a memorial for the victims, and the flames of candles lit in their memory were the only sign that any people had recently passed this way. Beyond the memorial were the cremation ovens that lay in rubble, their backs broken when the Soviet army arrived in early 1945.

October was not the height of tourist season in Europe, especially SW Poland in 1992. The Berlin Wall was a memory, but still fresh was the West’s disdain for the East for all but old relatives seeking their families across the rusted Iron Curtain. We were alone this day, the only others around had left the physical world long ago. The wind was still here, making the same sound it had forty eight years earlier. Only now, we were there to hear the voices it carried through the years, and to try and listen to what they were saying to us.

Driving in the Mekong Delta

Yesterday was a big day. Flew from Hue to Ho Chi Minh City, then motorbike into town, and got a ticket on a bus (really a van) to Chau Doc in the Mekong Delta close to the Cambodian border.

The ride was to take 6 hours, which for the most part was fine. Why it took 6 hours is another matter - especially since our driver was interested in getting there in 5. You see, the roads in Vietnam are often less than satisfactory, not to mention busy with motorbikes - but I've told you that before. Now, put them under construction too. That was the ride to Chau Doc.

Beep Beeeep!

Our driver passes every bicycle, cyclo, motorbike, car, van, and truck on the way there. Each time he passes he honks the horn, about once every 10 seconds or so.

Beep Beeeeeeeeep!

For the full 6 hours.

Beep beeeeeep! Beep! Beeeeeeeeeeeeep!

The view outside is nice - extensive waterways running all over the place, each filled with paddled canoes and motorized junks, crossed by foot bridges. Palm trees have taken over the vegetation realm, and hang over the canals and rivers like a canopy, protectiing boats and homes parked underneath.

Beep beeeeeep!

Now we hit construction. The driver is still flying, and as we hit potholes in the limestone gravel road, the van bounces back and forth in teeter - toter fashion. From the amount of give in the shock absorbers, this van has clearly been here before. It's really fun.

Beep beep beeeeeep!

We're passing vehicles on the shoulder that has developed in the middle of the road so the van is tilted to the left about 30 degrees, with oncoming traffic veering off to make way for us. Strangely I don't mind. I am giving us a 50-50 chance of rolling, but somehow it's adventurous.

Beep beep bebeeeep!

I am certain he is going to take out a motorbike or bicyclist with his right rear-view one of these times. We narrowly miss whole families with livestock on single motorbikes who appear resigned to the reality of their local byways. Our fearless leader would have been arrested in the States at least 16 times by now for reckless driving. And I don't mind one bit......except for the horn.

Beeep beeeeeeeeeeeeep beep beep!

CHAU DOC

We arrive in the city of Chau Doc around 6pm, and I quickly get a hotel room for $10 and a ticket on tomorrow's boat to Phnom Penh. I then splurge on a dinner at the Victoria Hotel - a 4 star style resort right on the water and out of my typical budget for this trip, but hell, they take credit cards (few places do in Vietnam) and I earned it today. After dinner, I sip a glass of Bordeaux on the deck, the lights of the opposite bank of the Mekong
in view as I write.

Tommorrow, I travel the "Mother of All Waters"

Chau Doc, Vietnam (sent from Phnom Penh, Cambodia
Thursday, August 24, 2006

Roads of Vietnam and the Cu Chi Tunnels

Today's Vocabulary:

Cyclo (-taxi): A bicycle with two wheels and a passenger seat in front, and
one wheel and driver in back. Typically piloted by a skeleton with skin and
inconsistent teeth who, after hire, will pedal you around in circles, claim
he is lost, and demand payment. AKA a rickshaw.

Motorbike (-taxi): A 100cc scooter dominating streets and also
found parked on all of its sidewalks. Drivers will hound you on every corner
in attempts to earn a 10000 Dong ($0.65) fare, even when you tell him you
are walking another 20 feet.

Street Food: Noodles, typically served pho-soup style, literally cooked on
the sidewalks and served at plastic table and chairs best sized for a
toddler tea party. Frequented by locals at all hours of the day. Frightening
disregard for the principles of hygene, especially in utensil cleaning and
meat refrigeration (complete lack of).

Typhoid Cafe: Same as street food except found in open-air store fronts with
motorbikes parked in them.

Viet-frogger: Crossing any street in , dodging motorbikes, cars, and
cyclos while they beep at you and ignore traffic signals despite the
presence of policemen on each corner.


The Cu Chi Tunnels

Today was an experience; I met my driver at for my trip to Cu Chi, where during the war the Viet Cong had an extensive tunnel system that the US Army was unable to take over. I was definitely interested in the trip, but a bit apprehensive about the 40 km trip on the back of a motorbike. Each day you should try to do something that scares you, so I committed.

I have to admit, just riding through the city was pretty fun. I was finally on the other side of the game of Viet-frogger I'd been playing the past two days. Imagine a flock of birds in flight avoiding objects in their path, flying in unison. Riding a motorbike is pretty similar, with lots of beeping horns but no road rage. Traffic signals are a guideline at best, but typically irrelevant on everything but the most major thoroughfares.

My driver takes me to a staging area and transfers me to a subordinate, a woman of about 30. We got under way, riding through the real Saigon, away from the tourist sites and hotels. We followed a polluted creek for awhile, and it was trash day so all the containers were out cooking in the tropical sun and smelling up whole city blocks as we passed numerous typhoid cafes and motorbike repair centers, but friendly people and actually decent neighborhoods in general. We then got on to a sort of interstate highway that was a little bit like US Route 1 but wider and with less stops (kind of like NJ). The only holdup was a jack-knifed cyclo, a 1970s model that was nearly completely covered with rust.

After about 20 minutes, we turned right on to a back road, and the scenery quickly turned rural, with rice paddies, water buffalo, and cyclos carrying fruit and rice. The smells changed too, directly related to the cultural landscape we passed: bad (standing water in a small town), decent but strange (rice paddies), and good (forest / open country).

25 minutes more put us in Cu Chi. My driver let me know where to find her when I was done, and I made my way to the ticket window. I was quickly escorted to a video room where I was shown a 1970s film about the fighters of Cu Chi. It was wonderful Communist propaganda (a lot like the Guinness brewery: "as soon as I could take nourishment..."). "Trinh dong Nguyen was awarded the ____ medal for killing 23 Americans, all while growing rice during the day; a true hero of the revolution!"

I then met my guide and two companions: guy about my age and his retired father both originally from Boston and they make good company. The first stop our guide shows us an entry hole into the tunnels that is (no lie) about 2' x 1'. We stare in disbelief as he places his 4'6" frame into it, pulls the door on top, and disappears from the forest. I look in and claustrophobic doesn't begin to describe it. Craters from B-52 bombs are all over the place, and we can hear AK-47s being fired on the firing range some 100 yards away in the forest ($1.6 /round - anyone can do it).

We tour a number of other sites there, and finally come to a place where you can crawl through a section of the tunnels. I quickly jump at the chance, but my tour mates decline. Upon getting in and waddling about 5 yards, it takes all of about 10 seconds for me to just about freak out. It's dark, hot, and completely cramped. There are numerous turns and I get a little lost, but eventually find my way out, sweating like a champ, rattled, and respectful of what the VC did here.

The tour ended shortly thereafter, and I walked over to the typhoid cafe where I found my driver asleep in a hammock. She woke up, ordered us some noodles, and we ate. I knew it wasn't good for me, but I blew it off. I'd had food poisoning so many times in the past that I figured my hardened stomach could take it. We ate and then waved goodbye to the slackers in the hammocks and were on our way. I was right - a few abdominal grumbles on the ride home would do it, and I survived.

On the way home I took my camera out and snapped photos directly from the moving motorbike of the scenery. My favorite is the one on a country road where I held it backward to get a look at my head and the big truck riding about 6 ft. off of our asses and beeping its horn full bore in attempts to pass.

Ho Chi Minh City - Cu Chi,
August 19, 2006
9:30am-2pm

Driving at Night

Summer is over, autumn is here - the road tells the story. Gone are the tourists of the season that crowded the highways of the west; the mini vans, the SUVs, the stations wagons. Some cars and pickups (both beat-up and new) with local license plates remain, along with cargo vans and semi tractor trailers. This is the North Country. Construction, begun at the height of the summer, is in mop-up stages, but single lane traffic has little effect on one car, all alone. I pass through countless zones with minor difficulty; a moments delay, if any.

Goodbye to population, hello wilderness. The grid pattern roads and farms of Minnesota and eastern North Dakota give way to the hilly "Badlands" topography of western ND and Montana. The interstate begins to twist and turn, passing tiny hamlets and dry creek beds as it grips the shores of the Yellowstone River. Radio stations that had strong signals a short time ago, disappear into static and no replacement can be found. Through a foggy patch of cirrus clouds, the crescent moon pokes through, illuminating the cockpit of my stuffed car. Its light siloulettes the conifers standing tall on the top of the surrounding hills, giving boundary to the night.

110 miles, 90 minutes to go

Off ramps pass, some occupied, some not. These nameless exits lead to empty roads, few or no houses in sight, that in turn provide passage to ranches deep in the interior of the hills where Montana has gone to retire. Its residents are home now, nestled under blankets, bellies full, skin warm, bodies tired, minds fading.

50 miles, 40 minutes to go

A short stop at a rest area finds a surprise; silence. Trucks parked, drivers and engines sleep. A well lit but unoccupied rest station stands as a sentry for the traveler of the northern crossing. The wind is dead, and the desolate highway emits no sound. An engine starts, a truck awakes. A return to the car brings music that contrasts the peacefulness outside. I turn it off and quietly depart.

Arrival

Like an oasis, the horizon comes alive with the lights of civilization. The white bluffs and buttes the locals call rimrock encase the city brighten with the reflection; beyond them is wilderness. The river, too, reflects the city. Pair of deer approach the neon abyss, look down, sigh, and turn away into the night.

Billings, MT, 10:30pm, Mountain Time October 2000