It was much longer than Avatar, the latest Hollywood blockbuster. Even breaking James Cameron’s own record for box office revenue, which clocks in at some 2 1/2+ hours. And at about 3 1/4 hours of low tech, high acting and great storytelling, Warren Beatty’s 1981 film “Reds” seems to get lost in dungeons of old and classic films. I had a chance to use up more than 3 precious hours and experience this film the other night. With three Oscar wins (a slew of nominations) including Beatty as best director, Maureen Stapleton as best supporting actress and best cinematography (Vittorio Storaro), the film was sheer joy to watch.
I’m feeling a bit nostalgic about films. While I am appalled that Cameron’s Avatar won best picture at the Golden Globes, and will likely lose any respect for the Oscar’s if the film takes away best picture later this year. But along the lines of “Reds,” I’ve queued up “Lawrence of Arabia” for another 3 hour + stint sometime later this month. Eager to watch Sir Lawrence hammer the Ottomans and giving rise to power of the Arab and Beduin people. And, where we are today.It seems a good time to watch a film about the Russian Revolution and the fervor in left-wing Americans in their own war of trying to give rise to both Socialist and Communist parties here in the United States. This takes place in the early 1900’s — in both America and Russia, with a few scenes taking place just over the Russian border in Finland. It’s about love, friendship, art, politics and dreams. Yet I couldn’t help think about the tea-party movement that is building so much fervor in our present day political climate and t he spin-offs and in-fighting in the dozens of different tea parties. And those behind many of such tea parties efforts to make the current administrations efforts to move the economy, improve healthcare and fight the war on terror appear like “Bolshevik Plots,” might take a few hours of their day and take a trip back in time and reflect.
Apple released a major upgrade to its photo management and editing software, Aperture, last week. My upgrade is on the way and I’m confident that once and for all this will put those still hanging on to Adobe’s LightRoom effort will ultimately give in and recognize the superior tools, advanced features and ease of use that has been the case as Aperture has matured over the last three years. Just might inspire me to take a short trip into the desert or baja or somewhere for a little diversion and exploration in creative photography. Stay tuned.
For those of you who’ve been reading The Digital Tavern over the years, you certainly will attest to my lack of consistency ever since taking off on my around the world motorcycle trip. But I’ve been ba
ck long enough. And I’ve let the dust collect on the tavern after each false start in trying to get it up and running. Suffice to say, I’ve got a lot of irons in the fire. And I do have another blog that also is in dire need of attention. But as blogging goes. It’s still a passion. And no matter how I try, I’ll never be able to share the breadth and depth of any discussion in 140 characters.
But for those who’d like to follow my Twitter feeds, which in the past have been updated much more often than the blogs. I invite you to hop on over to any of my feeds and follow me. There’s more coming down the line.
And for those of you who followed that crazy motorcycle ride around the world, and want to be updated when the books and speaking engagements are announced you can become a WorldRider Facebook Fan and subscribe to updates at the WorldRider website.
Imagine California more than 150 years ago. Until Spain recognized Mexico’s sovereignty in 1821, California was a Spanish colony. This colony was separted by two missionary factions. In the North, Alta California was governed by the Franciscan missions and to the south Baja California was under Frandiscon mission rule. But the young sovereign Mexico soon had its hands full when a perhaps overly zealous US President James Polk seemed bent on fulfilling our nations manifest destiny pushed Stonewall Jackson, Zachary Taylor and a talented group of junior officers which included Ulysses S. Grant and Robert E. Lee into Mexico. U.S. Troops battled their way through Mexico until they occupied Mexico City and thereby setting the stage for the Mexican Cession of 1848 when Alta California and Nuevo Mexico were ceded to the United States — a condition that ended the war.
As the cliché aptly dictates, ‘the rest is history.’
Modern day Alta California, or the 31st state to join the union, is the fifth largest economy in the world. But southern California, a significant contributor to that position, is an unlikely oasis smack in the middle of a grand desert — unable to sustain itself with local water sources. Thus, the on-again, off-again rival with Northern California and the other Colorado River basin states — many of which, ironically enough, were part of territories negotiated from Mexico.
Water is life. And while I certainly didn’t need to span half the globe to find evidence of this notion, it hit me harder than I ever imagined as I skirted the border of Namibia and Angola while trekking Kaokoland and the African nomadic tribe of the Himba. And then seeing how water is also death as the mighty Zambezi spilled and spilled its bounty into the flood plains of Mozambique and Zimbabwe forcing people to migrate and spreading disease along the way. We see it when the media makes it news. But until you really see it and see the people does it move one into action.
But here in California, we’ve somehow negotiated not only the state from foreign hands, but the water that we need to stay alive. Except we’ve negotiated that from our domestic brethren and neighbors. Fortunate to turn the tap and have the magical elixir quench our thirst instantly, this seemingly basic American privledge disappears once you cross that line once drawn by the missions which now is a wall separating the United States from Mexico and California from Baja California.
My around the world odyssey also took a turn when I crossed that line and entered Baja, California a few short years ago. On a rough yet beautiful road that parallels the pristine coast along the Sea of Cortez from Puertocistos to Coco’s Corner through the Sonoran Desert, I found myself out of water. With temperatures north of 100 degrees fahrenheit, the often rocky and washboarded road eventually caused my shock to blow — overheated, overworked and over done. Sandy washes caused me to dump the bike. And my overworked body was nearly dehydrated — and there were no services, no taps, no convenience stores along the way. Exhausted and spent, I was saved by the one-legged man known to all as simply Coco.
I often wonder what Baja California would be like had it been part of the Treaty of Guadalupe back in 1845. For more than 150 years it has remained wild, beautiful and host to wildlife that reaches the tops of its mountains to the coral reefs of the Sea of Cortex and the surf-pounding waves of the Pacific. And while its natural beauty is compelling on its own, the dolphins, whales, lizards, turtles, rays, birds and more all make for a fragile ecosystem that is in serious jeopardy.
The road from Puertocitos to Coco’s Corner — I’m told this is being paved today. I hope not.
The road often not forgiving.
The man only known as Coco.
Recent changes in Mexican law have opened the door for foreign ownership and development. And if not tended to with commitment to care and conservation, Baja, and what makes it so endearing and seductive could die. And that’s why I spent my Saturday morning viewing amazing photographs and listening the words of the photographers that shot them at San Diego’s Natural History Museum.
Ralph Lee Hopkins has been shooting nature for more than twenty years. Leading many photo adventures with National Geographic’s Lindblad Expeditions, Ralph has traveled the waters from Alaska to Baja – and along the way touched whales, swam with dolphins and observed from afar the amazing polar bears. While the beauty cannot be denied, Ralph isn’t shy to share those photographs which are not so beautiful — photographs of places where human intervention and development have left open wounds and irreparable scars on the face of our planet. Ralph has teamed with WildCoast, a non-profit that aims to protect and preserve coastal ecosystems and wildlife in the Californias and Latin America.
This is just one of the amazing photographs of Baja California you’ll see at Baja – the photo exhibit featuringRalph Lee Hopkins at the Ordover Gallery in San Diego’s Natural History Museum.
While Ralph’s photo work focuses on the ocean, sea and coastal areas of Baja, Saturday’s exhibit and talk also included work and stories by Miguel Angel de la Cueva, who just weeks ago endured and watched the damage caused by Hurricane Jimena.
If you find yourself in Downtown San Diego (Balboa Park) I urge you to check out the exhibit of photographs by Ralph, Miguel and others on the fourth floor in The Ordover Gallery.
I’ll never forget. You won’t. They won’t. And in the rare case of memory lapse, the media won’t let you.
Today’s long list of errands forced me to burn fossil fuel by driving around. I opted to listen to the radio, rather than my iPod. There’s plenty of talk about remembering what happened eight years ago today. Our president made comments. The mayor of New York commented. And those survivors and relatives of those killed in New York, Pennsylvania and VIrginia also reflected and solemnly prayed or otherwise remembered.
Eight years later and there’s no memorial in New York City. And yet we’ve got a fantastic memorial at the Pentagon and while we’ve got the Garden of Reflection in Pennsylvania, construction for the official Flight 93 Memorial has yet to break ground. What have we been doing? Arguing. Politicking. Special interests. Selfishness. Greed. Indecision. Ego. And what else? It amazes me how something so important to our country can quickly become a red herring.
Enough of that.
Did the events of 9/11 change your life? After the shock, sadness and anger subsided and the flags slowly disappeared from houses, cars and fashion, what did you do? Were you affected? Or did you think you were affected because you should?
Me? Yeah. The events changed my life. Big time.
I was in a stuffy conference room at the Hard Rock Hotel in Las Vegas with about 20 of the leaders of my company at the time. It was all business. But somehow I felt that the company I founded was becoming more distant. Like a shooting star, when I first had the vision there was excitement, movement energy. But in that conference room we weren’t waving flags. We were stunned. But we continued with business. We had to. Then the golf tourney. The decadent dinner and wine.
My wife at the time managed to find the only rental car available in all of Las Vegas. A convertible Ford Mustang. Flights were cancelled. Everyone was in flux. With one of my partners, I drove back to Orange County, California, with the top down.
A week later I drafted my resignation letter. Good god. I resigned from the company I founded. I was giving up my baby — my shooting star. But it felt good. Liberating. Then I had to tell my friends.
After a few months of counseling, my wife and I decided we’d be happier apart — so we amicably split and divorced. I started another company. Then I decided to ride my motorcycle around the world — alone.
And I did.
I’ve been back for a year now. And the Digital Tavern has been given a facelift. And today I’ve committed myself to being more tenacious and prolific when it comes to writing. After all, 9/11 did change my life.
I guess I’ve been out of it. Well, at least out of this country. For three years. Wandering the byways of distant locales in search of some truth I already believed but needed to prove to myself, dodging erudite donkeys while avoiding potholes and pitfalls of solo adventure travel, lots has changed around here – in California – in the USA. And no. I’m not referring to those evolutionary technological metamorphoses like how social network usage has surpassed e-mail or mobile web usage will likely outstrip home usage by next year. No. Evolutionary change happens. It’s not forced, planned nor predictable.
I’ve never been one to go overboard in waxing nostalgic. Though its no secret that I’m fascinated by history and believe that perhaps the best thing to come out of the United Nations is its UNESCO World Heritage Foundation. And that I abhor those developmental homogenizations that gave us planned communities and corner strip malls in the 80’s and 90’s and the big box retail pimples on our landscape in the late 90’s and 00’s. I applaud advancements in transportation, healthcare, technology and education. And while globalization is a double-edged sword, I believe that as humanity we are working toward making the world a better place for those of us here now and those to come in the future. The “green” movement, also evolutionary, continues to gain momentum and has resulted in changes — good for everyone.
But there are some things I believe to be, if not sacred, very important. Some things should stand tall and serve as a reminder of another time – whether good or bad. And such things need not be hundreds or thousands of years old nor warranting a place on the UNESCO World Heritage List. You know what I’m talking about. Things like the Redwood Room at the venerable Clift Hotel in San Francisco. The Clift Hotel, was built in 1915 and was the biggest hotel in California. After the end of prohibition, a lounge with massive redwood paneling and bar rumored to have been carved out of one redwood tree was added in 1934. The room designed in classic Art Deco, was the epitome of swanky lounge and along with the hotel ushered and represented what must be considered California’s renaissance. Movies were talking. California impressionist artists were wandering the Sierras and the foothills painting ‘en plein aire’, John Steinbeck was immortalizing California growth, prosperity and challenge, the automobile was changing America and California freeways set the standard for the roads of ‘tomorrow’.
The Redwood Room in the Clift Hotel in San Francisco, was a favorite stomping ground of mine in the 90’s and early 2000’s. In that room I felt different, filled with emotions I can’t explain but only could feel. Those dark panels stretching 20-30 feet above me. The classic Art Deco appointments pushed my imagination and the bartenders, the bartenders. They were as old as the hotel. One bartender who’s delivery of one-liners could challenge Henny Youngman, told me that he’d been working there for 39 years. As the other bartender polished a high-ball glass, he revealed, “Yeah. I’m the new guy.” How long I asked, “I’ve only been here nineteen years.”
For me, sliding into the Clift Hotel and off the streets of San Francisco’s tenderloin, just off Union Square took me back to another time where my mind could drift, wander and wonder about who walked here and who these bartenders consoled and poured for over the years.
I admit, it’d been awhile since I ducked into the Redwood Room, but on that brisk January evening earlier this year, I was startled, taken back and disappointed. Purchased in 1999 for $80 million, Ian Schrager and his modernist designer Phillippe Starck supervised a massive renovation that has sucked out its spirit and ruined the Redwood Room. Sure, the tall redwood panels are there, but trendy red lighting obscures its beauty and all but hides the grain. Starck-designed furniture is uncomfortable and out of place. And the dark red lighting hides the beautiful bar. Digital portraits on LCD panels hanging from the redwood feature young 20-somethings in color tinted and continually changing expressions. It’s not modern. It’s trendy and it’s distracting. There is no history. No feeling. Other than cold. The music, instead of lounge – infused jazz is hip-hop, trance and house served at volumes that make conversations difficult and ordering confusing and often misunderstood. Schrager and Starck changed the place from a classic art deco lounge to a “see me, dig me” nightclub. And in the process tossed out one of California’s true historical treasures. And those bartenders? Where did they go? Servers and bartenders look like the portraits on the walls and I found it difficult to find someone over thirty.
Some of the Redwood Room spirit was retained, not the sconces and not seen art deco chandeliers, but the rest is an abomination.
Flat panel screens hung on those classic redwood panels show silly pictures of beautiful people whose expression changes subtly as the images dissolve.
Lounge tables and chairs are low, you must hunch over to talk or interact.
As I would expect in San Francisco, the changes to the Clift didn’t go without some community protesting, fist banging and foot-stomping. But ultimately Schrager won. Don’t get me wrong. I enjoy some of his properties. The Mondrian has always been one of my favorite. But when you butcher a classic under the guise of modernization, I think you’ve gone too far. The renovation was completed in 2002, I’ve learned — about the time I started planning my around the world motorcycle journey. It took me six years to get back to San Francisco and see the progress. And it’s enough to make me sick.
Oh. And the other change that perhaps doesn’t poke and prod me as bad as the Redwood Room fiasco? The Wall Street Journal. When did THAT happen. Today I saw a headline on the front page that read “Cash For Clunkers Program, Runs Out of Gas.” Color photographs and a kicker in red ink above the Banner/Masthead pointing to the weekend journal entertainment section — Hollywood? And get this: display advertising on the front page. Gotta pay to play, I guess. But, boy! Things have changed. While I know that newspapers are limping and gasping for air, and soon they’ll all go the way of the Redwood Room — or worse. Just fold. But the WSJ another venerable more than 100 year old institution has also been ruined. Not that I care so much about this, but like Schrager, the new owner felt that the only way to make a profit and continue the enterprise was radical change. The smaller format, inclusion of political stories, color photography and poorly designed graphics makes me feel like I’m reading USA Today. And I don’t mind USA Today. Except I know what I’m getting with USA Today – my expectations are met. But the Wall Street Journal? Something’s rotten here.
So I’ll just flick my fingers over my iPhone, load the AP news, search Yelp for a better bar and play with my koi pond – happy that I’m not using old or unfriendly technology. For modernization, the iPhone is happening.
Photo on front page has nothing to do with the news features on front page. Note the red ink above masthead: Hollywood unleashes….?
I’ve never seen puns in WSJ headlines in past — at least on the front page. And full color display advertising?
While it’s been long since I’ve posted to The Digital Tavern, today someone suggested I explore using MacJournal. So this is my first test blog.
Here I insert an image…. but I wonder how I can tell MacJournal where to put the file when uploading?
After my test, I find that I can insert an image and it uploads correctly, but I don’t know where that file is uploaded to. Also, it appears that MacJournal doesn’t allow me to use a thumbnail and an active link to a full size or large image of the file.
On first view, there is no intuitive interface. Just making a word link in the copy is not standard. The command-K keyboard pair handles this. Nor is there an intuitive way to center that photograph above. Or what about putting the photo inline?
So while in five minutes I’m able to write this text and insert a photo, I’m still lost. Is there a way to access or download a list of all my previous entries?
I notice there isn’t a quick “publish” button anywhere and must use the “share” menu to publish a blog entry.
Okay. I’ve figured out how to download all the entries from my blog. Though when doing so the program freezes this entry screen.
Social networking and blogging have become more popular than sending email, according to a new report from Nielsen.
More than two-thirds (67%) of the global online population now goes online to visit social networks and blogs.
“Social networking has become a fundamental part of the global online experience,” says John Burbank, CEO of Nielsen Online.
“While two-thirds of the global online population already accesses member community sites, their vigorous adoption and the migration of time show no signs of slowing. Social networking will continue to alter not just the global online landscape, but the consumer experience at large. This study explains why.”
Facebook is the most popular social network and is visited monthly by three in every 10 people online in the nine markets that Nielsen tracks social networking use. Orkut in Brazil has the largest domestic online reach (70%) of any social network in these markets.
One in every 11 minutes online worldwide is accounted for by social networking and blogging sites.
The social network and blogging audience is becoming more diverse in terms of age. The biggest increase in visitors during 2008 to “Member Community” Web sites globally came from the 35-49 year old age group (+11.3 million).
Mobile is playing an increasingly important role in social networking. UK mobile users have the greatest tendency to visit a social network through their handset, with 23 percent doing so, compared to 19 percent in the U.S. These numbers are a significant increase over last year- up 249 percent in the UK and 156 percent in the U.S.
“The Ides of March are come,” Julius Caesar tells the soothsayer who warned him to heed the pending doom on 15 March 44BC.
“Aye,” the soothsayer said as he glared into Caesar’s triumphant eyes, “but they are not gone.”
It was later that day that Caesar, in the shadows of the theater at Pompeii was brutally executed by his senators who believed the killing would retain democratic leadership for Rome, as Caesar had declared himself dictator to Rome for life some time earlier.
So today here we sit on 15 March 2009, the Ides of March. Soon this day will pass and yet one can’t seem to escape the messages of impending doom and gloom on our financial system, the economy and those who criticize or support our new president’s stimulus plans. The Ides of March are come, but are not gone.
Late last week, watching the ABC News with Charlie Gibson I felt a positive lift as the news program focused on the market rally, GM’s recent disclosure it may not need the extra cash it had warned just weeks prior and of community support by laid off workers, Bernie Madhoff in handcuffs and Obama’s often infectious optimism one could hardly say that Friday the 13th delivered much bad luck — at least if network news is a barometer.
And two days later on the Ides of March, dovetailing into place after an often perceived unlucky day? Well here in California the sun is shining, there was a line at the Starbucks and signs of spring are abounding. I’m trying to stay looking forward. And with unfettered optimism.
I was grateful that my long-time Kiwi friend and Rugby aficionado Stefano invited me to attend the IRB World Series USA Sevens – the largest Rugby even in North America. I joined him several years ago at what then was my first even Rugby event. As live team spors goes, Rugby garners about as much airtime on the sports channels as say does Cricket. Admittedly, while I don’t fully understand the rules of Rugby, I don’t think I’ll ever grasp the concept of Cricket. At least with Rugby you know when the team crosses the goal line, there’s a score involved.
But here in San Diego it was an international affair. And since the last time I saw the USA Sevens, the game, or at least the crowd and teams seem a bit closer to me. There’s some sort of a bond because I visited many of the countries these teams originate including Argentina, Uruguay, Kenya, South Africa and others. This is truly an international sport. And for two days fans from all over the world and from our own melting pot show up to cheer their team — their country.
The USA Sevens is a two-day event that this year took place at Petco Park in downtown San Diego. This was the first time I’d been to the new home of the San Diego Padres, and to the USA Sevens. I was amazed how neat and tightly packed the stadium fits into San Diego’s burgeoning downtown district. Awash with lofts, new hotels and the ongoing gentrification of what San Diego has successfully branded as the Gas Lamp Quarter, the convention center and the redeveloped bay front complete with the floating aircraft museum aboard the massive USS Midway — yes the aircraft carrier that played an integral park in defeating Japanese in the Pacific during World War II — Petco Park is just one more notch in San Diego’s successful transition from its hey day status as a city heavily dependent on defense contractor business.
But that was the 70’s and 80’s when the cold war meant business. Today San Diego with its Sorrento Valley tech center and North County bio-pharma incubation scene, could be the poster-city for rebranding. Even the homeless people have been upgraded from carboard boxes to a neat display of pop-up tents that would make a REI merchandiser jealous, all neatly lined up on the sidewalk along and underpass of the 5 Freeway. But maybe soon San Diego and other urban areas that were quick to develop and still sport hundreds of vacancies for both those tony lefts and the retail space crowding the street level. Time will tell.
Hey but so far San Diego seemingly has faired well. Even the major sports teams here have done fairly well the last few years.
Of course, all this development and redevelopment is not without cost.
So when we decided to grab a beer, we hopped out to the first freestanding kiosk on the club level — one that only sold beverages. One 12oz bottle of Steinlager: $9.00. Now I must admit, I haven’t been to a pro-sports stadium event in some time. And while the food and beverages at these venues are always priced a bit out of the park, this seemed a bit excessive. But we’re a captive audience and, in these economic times, our thirst could be tempered by price.
So when Stefan wanted to get some food we sauntered about thirty feet past the beer kiosk to a food stand. That’s when I noticed they were selling that same bottle of New Zealand lager, Steinlager. But here the price was less. Same bottle: $7.50. Hmmmm. Let’s see. Walk a mere 30 feet and you save 20%, more or less. I don’t know if the pricing for such snacks is determined by the kinda of game being played on the field. But since the stadium was at only a fraction of its capacity, we never saw a line at any of the vendors on the club level. Whose marketing this stuff anyway?
And that begs the question: Why isn’t Rugby more popular in US sports? Perhaps this American-bred rugby player’s discussion on the subject might interest you.
USA Makes a Run for a goal against Argentina in the match deciding the final teams to compete for the Cup.
Yes. The USA does have fanatical Rugby fans.
The Fiji team goes for a tackle against one of the best teams in the world: The New Zealand All Blacks.
This young fan expresses love for her favorite team: Australia.
But perhaps during a heated 7th inning post-season battle, paying $1.50 more for a bottle of beer could be worth saving the time it took to walk the additional 60 feet (30 feet each way). I don’t know. But I did find this pricing irregularity rather strange.
In the end, Argentina took away the Rugby USA Sevens cup by defeating England 19-14. Though the USA had a chance at that cup. But in a previous round Argentina knocked the USA chances of taking a stab at England in the final match. But Argentina won. The score? Interestingly: 19-14.
The beer vendor here using the calculator to add up the cost of a three Steinlagers and change from $40. Note the cost of the Steinlager: $9. And just beond you see another food stand. Yes. And there a scant 30 feet you can buy that same Steinlaber for $7.50.
My buddy Paul flashes the cost of a Steinlager from where I shot this picture. Note the sign just above his left shoulder as your looking at him.
I still want to know the story behind Western Metal Supply Company here at Petco Park, home of the San Diego Padres in downtown San Diego.
As for the price difference in Steinlagers, this guy suggested we buy from him for the next round!.
I’m not a big believer in the superstition of the luckiness or lack of in the number thirteen. Most buildings opt out of “naming” a 13th floor, even though the 14th is the 13th. But that opens up a whole other albatross. This year we’ve got two sequential months each with a Friday the 13th – February and March. And we’ll get another this coming November.
That’s three purportedly unlucky days this year. The last year so many Friday the 13th’s were found on the calendar was 1987 — infamous for the famous stock crash that year. Given the state of the economy so far this year and the jockeying and posturing going on in Washington and on Wall Street, maybe I need to harbor my jaded beliefs — at least temporarily. Three Friday the 13th’s in 2009. For each of the last two years and the next two we’ll only be saddled with a single unlucky day. This does make Friday the 13th 2009 rather unique.
“The number 13 has been unlucky for centuries. Some historians peg the superstition to the thirteen people who attended the Last Supper (neither Jesus nor Judas came out of that one OK), but ancient Babylon’s Code of Hammurabi omits the number 13 in its list of law [...] In 1881 an organization called The Thirteen Club attempted to improve the number’s bad reputation. At the first meeting, the members (all 13 of them) walked under ladders to enter a room covered with spilled salt. The club lasted for many years and grew to over 400 members, including five U.S. presidents: Chester Arthur, Grover Cleveland, Benjamin Harrison, William McKinley and Theodore Roosevelt. Despite the club’s efforts, triskaidekaphobia (that’s fear of the number 13) flourished; even today, most tall buildings don’t have a 13th floor.
The number’s association with Friday, however, didn’t take hold until the 20th century. In 1907, eccentric Boston stockbroker Thomas Lawson published a book called Friday the Thirteenth, which told of an evil businessman’s attempt to crash the stock market on the unluckiest day of the month. [...] Wall Street’s superstitions about Friday the 13th continued through 1925, when the New York Times noted that people “would no more buy or sell a share of stock today than they would walk under a ladder or kick a black cat out of their path.” Some stock traders also blamed Black Monday — Oct. 19, 1987 — on the fact that three Fridays fell on the thirteenth that year. The Stress Management Center and Phobia Institute estimates that $700-$800 million dollars are lost every Friday the 13th due to people’s refusal to travel, purchase major items, or conduct business. [...]“
So while I looked for a 1987 vintage wine in my cellar last night, the closest I could come without digging too deep was a 1991 Mount Veeder Reserve Meritage. I had stood the wine up a few days prior so any sediment would’ve settled. Decanting the wine I ensured a clean sediment free pours. After a few moments the wine revealed mild tobacco, cedar and dried cherry notes on the nose. Distinctively brick red and showing a tinge of browning in color. On the palate the wine revealed a harmonious blend of dark fruits and dried cranberry with a delicate balance and refined tannic structure. The old lady showed her age but exhibited a degree of maturity and structure one could only be attracted to. Smooth, complex and simply enjoyable. A fantastic reward for holding the wine for more than a decade. 89 points.
I threw the book of rules out the window in choosing my menu for the evening. I prepared a meal more suited to a big chardonnay or light pinot. But oddly enough it worked. I coated Mahi Mahi fillets with a mixture of crushed almonds, panko breadcrumbs, parsley and held together with a tad of butter and egg white. The almond-based crusted mixture was toasted and seared on the stove top before finishing baking in the oven. Served with mango salsa, a almond rice pilaf and oven roasted asparagus, it was a meal to remember. Ahhh. That triangle is a bit of flat-bread season with s&p and some herbs of provence and lighted coated with fresh parmesan. And to cook again. Maybe in November on Friday the 13th eve – and maybe the bad luck by then will be behind all of us.
As many of you know, one of my lifelong passions is photography. Primarily using “still” cameras, though I do like to wade in the tepid waters of digital video. I was a very early adopter of one of the first photo-sharing social network-ish sites, Flickr. Then I played with Shutterfly,the original Ofoto(now owned by Kodak for Kodak Gallery), Google’s Picasa,Photo Bucket and a handful of others.
Looking out over the Namib Desert in Namibia, Africa.
While I’m sure I have orphaned accounts at many of these online photo-sharing/archiving resources, I’ve finally committed my mind, resources and soon many more images to SmugMug. Why? It’s simply the most clean, user friendly and singularly-focused photo sharing/photo-hosting service available. Unlike most of the others, it’s not free. And this is a perfect adage of you get what you pay for. Beyond the simple fact that pages aren’t cluttered with Google or AdSense or other advertising, the site provides loads of flexibility. For those pushing toward the professional side of their photography hobby, or are photo professionals, SmugMug gives you an easy way to sell your images.
This brief post isn’t meant to be a comprehensive review of SmugMug versus the other major photo-sharing services. Rather it’s simply a day of enlightenment for me with regard to a feature I just discovered. You see SmugMug let’s you post full-size, full-resolution and even RAW images on its site. And there’s not limit to your disk space. You get unlimited storage with even the basic entry-level subscription. That’s all good, but what happens when you need to restore images that you might have lost or accidentally destroyed? Sure, all of these services will let you download an image at a time. And some may offer a free app that might allow batch downloading. There’s even a freeware utility for Windows that allows access to SmugMug images for batch download and uploading. But there’s a batter way.
SmugMug galleries, like photo albums, and the coordinate membership account are fully accessible through SmugMug’s WebDAV server. For those less technically minded or with no interest in wandering down the complicated path of computer/internet techno-jargon, a WebDAV server simply means that the directory or location where a subscriber’s images are stored can be mounted like a disk on the desktop of your computer — PC or Macintosh. This has been the underlying enabling technology behind Apple’s Dot Mac (.Mac), now branded as MobileMe — for the Mac readers here: think iDisk. Even better, these WebDAV directories are accessible using WebDAV compatible FTP clients like Transmit.
So when a friend asked if I could simply put on disk a collection of photographs that I had posted on SmugMug, I struggled to find the actual final selections on my desktop computer. I use Apple’s Aperture for photo management, but I couldn’t find an “album” of the 69 photos I had selected from an initial universe of 741. I panicked. Short of time and yet committed to fulfilling my promise to ship the CD of those 69 photos today, I searched for methods to download the entire 69 images. At first it seemed I would have to individually right-click and download each image. That’d take too long. That’s when I uncovered the WebDAV info in SmugMug’s Wiki Support Page.
Voila. I mounted a “virtual disk” on my desktop computer, navigated to the images I needed to burn on disk for my friend, and dragged them into a folder on my desktop. A few minutes later I was done. I browsed through the SmugMug directory mounted as a disk on my computer and was relieved. All of my photos were easily available. No hassles. Some of these services would rather you simply take advantage of ordering photos on disk, prints, books or otherwise hold you hostage to your own images. Or require you to use some poorly executed software program or widget. Not SmugMug. It’s simple, easy and effective. I guess just not very well documented.
I’ve had my iPhone for about five months. I love it. Has it changed my life? No. Has it made somethings easier? Yes. Has it saved me time? Not really. It actually costs me more time. Yeah. I’m addicted to it. I say that with caveats. And sometime in the future, I’ll present a more comprehensive critique.
One thing for sure is, while I’m a professed Mac evangelist, when it comes to the iPhone I have more of a love-hate relationship. For example, when Steve Jobs with his smirky smile the iPhone nearly two years ago and he not only sported his ubiquitous black mock turtle neck long-sleeved t-shirt, but he mocked the concept of using a stylus. I was put off immediately.
Perhaps he felt he needed to go down the road with such gust due to the ridicule the product his former nemesis, John Scully, introduced more than a decade prior. Yes. The failed Newton was the brunt of jokes due to its unrefined handwriting recognition. And maybe Steve wanted to distance himself and the iPhone from anything and everything the Newton represented, it was unnecessary and quite possibly made the possibility of a more tactile data entry method for the iPhone further away. He may have took a jab at tactile keyboards, not unlike those found on Blackberry’s and the new Palm SmartPhone, but it didn’t stick with me like his jab at the stylus. You see I’d been a Sony Ericsson SmartPhone user for more than five years — a phone that leveraged the best of the once open-source Symbian smartphone operating system — including the implementation of a touch screen, stylus and damn-good handwriting recognition.
The SonyEricsson P-series phones (P800, P900, P910, P990 and the P1i) were perhaps the first true “smartphone” brand of phones. The P800 released in 2003 and was heralded as a return to profits for the fledging SonyEricsson joint venture as it contributed significantly to making SE profitable. I bought the follow up product, the P900. Then I got sucked into the follow up products and bought the P910i, the 990 and eventually the P1i. And all of these phones were not available nor subsidized by the major carries. I bought them unlocked and sought my own carrier. The phones all were priced north of $500. I think my first purchase cost close to $1,000. This phone, while not perfect, did impact me in many ways — at least as much as phone could (or should) do.
But like the lemmings following the market leader, despite its failed design, Sony tried to capture those customers who wanted a real keyboard. And after the P900, tried 3 different implementations of a tactile, thumb ready, keyboard. All were poor and simply not as good as the stylus based interface that was the hallmark of its initial design. And today, SonyEricsson admits defeat to the iPhone. The PSeries is dead and Sony is banking its money on a Windows Mobile design. At least until next month, I guess.
While I was an early adopter of using text (SMS) messages much to the confusion of my network of friends and family. I still remember just a few years ago, “what’s a text message?” Or, even worse, “I don’t think my phone can get those.” Times have changed. But until I bought my iPhone a scant few months back, all of my text messages were handwritten. Yes. I scribbled out text on my phone. Sure, occasionally I would mess up and a word turned cryptic, yet decipherable. It happens more these days on my iPhone — with or without the auto-correction feature activated. Fact is, I could text much faster and more efficient with my SonyEricsson than I can with my iPhone. And while my SonyEricsson was pitiful at most internet related tasks, the simplicity and effectiveness of the stylus nearly wipe s out 90% of iPhones clear advantages.
The Sony P900 and the P910i
The SonyEricsson P990 and P1i
Why? Because of the lousy virtual keyboard. In fact, any keyboard on a phone is simply a compromise to what we are accustomed to in front of our full-size computers. That’s why I just don’t get the lack of innovation when it comes to text-entry on a smartphone or handheld computer. To be sure, I know that in two-years when I read this post again, I’ll be laughing as to the fact that most keyboards will be obsolete and voice-to-text recognition will be superior to what we experience today and therefore be ubiquitous on mobile devices. But we’re talking today, not the future. And there’s nothing wrong with using a stylus to input dat into a handheld computer. It’s natural. It feels right. And it works. But it’s flawed but it requires patience — something many lost years ago — or simply never had.
But text-entry and doodling (note: I didn’t say googling) are far more easier using something a stylus. Think about it. The mouse is ubiquitous in computing today. Prior to using the mouse, computer users were relegated to using the four-arrow keys that still are found on most keyboards today. Why did our industry and society move toward a mouse? Because it was more natural and tactile.
So while the iPhone is an amazing leap in mobile computing technology and it continues inspire and stimulate a growing and passionate developer community, the designers dropped the ball on the keyboard. In fact, the keyboard doesn’t even rotate changing from portrait to landscape orientation in the most commonly used app on the device: e-mail. Who failed to throw back just one more Red Bull when that gap was made in the interface?
So some speculate that Apple will introduce a “Pro” version of the iPhone in 2010 or sooner — even thinking that the higher end phone might sport a physical keyboard. I doubt that – Apple isn’t that concerned about converting the hapless thumbs of a legion of Blackberry users to the Holy Grail of the iPhone. But if they are looking at a tactile approach to the keyboard problem, I hope they consider the stylus or the ability to simply draw or write on the screen as an alternative to the archaic keyboard metaphor.
Until then I’ll burrow through the cumbersome task of sending messages or making notes, because I do love my iPhone.
Last weekend I was surprised by a visit of my good friend, mountain climber, travel companion and legend Mr. Tim Amos. For the 16 hours he spent in Southern California, we tried to take advantage of our time together. First stop was a visit to my wine cellar (storage facility) in Irvine. Culling from the more than 1,000 bottles I’ve yet to fully access, we pulled together a short list for sampling during the sixteen hour visit.
While at the cellar we met a new member who’d inherited a unique cellar. With legendary bottles from historical bordeaux and burgundy vintages, he introduced himself and immediately pitched the wines. Humble and far from pretentious we offered him a glass of the 1995 Pahlmeyer Merlot that we’d sampled while treasure hunting my collection. Later we offered him a glass from a bottle of Wine Spectator’s 2000 Wine of the Year — the 1997 Chateau St. Jean, which sported a price tag of $27.99. Today that wine typically sells for more than $60.
Our new friend showed us some of the legendary wines, including Ausone, Latour, Haut-Brion and others he’d recently inherited and offered a couple bottles for us to take home. No. Not from Bordeaux, but a couple old California cabs and a ‘77 Port. Sadly, Tim’s flight the next morning (6:45am) didn’t leave us much time for tasting these old gems, but last night I took a chance and opened the 1977 Trefethen Cabernet Sauvignon he’d offered.
I had very low expectations. Trefethen, while a notable winery in the Oak Knoll district of Napa Valley, isn’t typically considered a premium brand. Their wines are fine, yet don’t get the press nor attention that makes Napa Valley so, well, famous. To be sure, Trefethen has been producing wines longer than many of the new “cult” favorites. But a 32 year old wine from a basic producer? I was sure this wine would be dead. The storage, according to our new friend, was questionable. And the cork showed some signs of seepage. I opened it but had a back-up bottle lined up considering the inevitable fact that this wine should’ve been dead.
I was wrong.
With an amazing boquet of cherry, jasmine and hints of cedar, the wine showed a subtlety yet explosive blast of red fruit on the palate. I thought in 10 minutes it’d be done. The wine continued to surprise and seduced me into another glass after another glass. With low alcohol levels, something hard to find in Napa today, the wine was well balanced with refined tannins and showed good structure with mild acidity and flavors of pomegranate, black cherry and hints of tobacco on the palate.
Through experience, I’ve tempered my expectations and therefore approach to aging California (Napa) Cabernets. But if this Trefethen is any example of a poorly stored, 30 year old Cabernet, I’m changing my tune.
Wow. Kudos Trefethen. And Kudos to the 1977 Vintage — hell, that’s when Pink Floyd released Animals, that same year I was in Madison Square Garden watch the band float a giant Pig over the audience — all on July 4, 1977 – about the time the good folks at Trefethen were cropping the canopy on its Cabernet vines in Oak Knoll District, Napa Valley.
1977 Trefethen Cabernet Sauvignon tasted on February 7, 2009 – 90 points. Amazing.
Remember “The Digital Tavern“? This is the blog I started in 2002 before anyone knew blogs or blogging. There are seven years of my ramblings on music, wine, marketing, macintosh and of course my favorite, travelogs. But I couldn’t keep up two blogs while riding a motorcycle around the world. So The Digital Tavern was neglected. Sure I posted stuff when I was recovering from my Bolivian broken leg incident. And occasionally I’d post a story from the road. But it’s been sadly stuffed in the storage bin and neglected.
This week yanked it from storage, dusted it off and gave it a little exercise. I hope you’ll stop by more often as I’m sure to continue the musing. Now the Tavern is searchable. And there’s more.
You see, for quite awhile my Digital Tavern blog has been replicated at two locations. Here at www.blog.digitaltavern.com and another at www.digitaltavern.com which resolves to my old host at the early Blogging platform, Radio UserLand. I longed for a solution to migrate to a more robust and flexible platform and one that I could self-host with my other sites at www.dreamhost.com.
I considered Movable Type which I use to author my WorldRider blog, but managing updates to the server software are always time-consuming and as a result I’m late and don’t get to quickly leverage new features nor take advantage of de-bugging. That’s where WordPress comes in. It’s free and my host offers “one-click installs” and upgrades/updates.
Today marks the implementation of the first new design to my original blog since 2005 – where I first tested WordPress and simply used a stock template with a modified header image. While I’m using a new template for this new design virtually every componenet of that design has been customized to closely match yet update the classic Digital Tavern design.
New features will be added over the next couple months including integration with social networks, photo sharing and geo-data moblogging. You’ll also be able to subscribe to comments and use other tools here in the future.
It’ll be touch and go as I continue to tweak things. So strap on the seat belts and let’s take this new look for a test ride. Drop me a note in a comment here. Tell me what or who you’d like to see at The Digital Tavern.
I’ve got a few video composites from my motorcycle trip around the world posted on my WorldRider account on YouTube. About a week ago I received a notification from YouTube, ironically the message was in Portuguese, that my “Riding Bolivia” piece included copyrighted material and that it had been blocked from further playback:
Prezado(a) worldrider,
Vídeo desativado
Um detentor de direitos autorais afirmou que possui parte ou todo o conteúdo de áudio do seu vídeo Ride The River – Motorcycling in Bolivia O conteúdo de áudio identificado em seu vídeo é Ride The River de J. J. Cale & Eric Clapton. Infelizmente a reprodução de seu vídeo foi bloqueada devido a problemas com os direitos das músicas.
Substituir seu áudio com o AudioSwap
Não se preocupe, temos muitas músicas disponíveis para você. Visite nossa biblioteca do AudioSwap para aprender como é fácil substituir o áudio de seu vídeo por qualquer faixa de nossa biblioteca de músicas totalmente licenciadas.
Outras opções
Se você acha que houve um engano ou se tiver outras dúvidas, visite a página Aviso de direitos autorais em sua conta.
Atenciosamente,
Equipe de identificação de conteúdo do YouTube
You see I probably uploaded this video while traveling through the Amazon in Brazil, or something like that. While my Portuguese is a bit rusty, it was easy to get the gist of YouTube’s message. I had included a short segment of J.J. Cale & Eric Clapton’s Ride the River because it was a perfect sound track to that 2 minute piece of edited video. This wasn’t used for commercial purposes nor was it the complete song. But I used YouTube’s Audio Swap feature and replaced the song with one of the songs that YouTube offered as free of copyright infringement problems.
To be sure I found that all of these videos used the same song and currently appear to be still available for viewing on YouTube:
Today I received another Portuguese message regarding another video also shot in Bolivia and also using a short segment from the “Road To Escondido” album by J.J. & Eric. And I too replaced the video with another less aurally exciting piece from YouTube’s library.
At first I wondered if YouTube was seaching Keywords of artists as I had used J.J. & Eric’s name and the song name in the first video identified. But the second video has no tags nor names of these artists in the description. So I wonder if YouTube is using a Shazam like monitor on the tracks on the videos posted?
While I understand the issues regarding copyrigth and the laws that govern intellectual property and copyrights, but I think this is going a bit far. Are they worried that someone is going to suck the audio track from a video and pirate the digital data, or simply load it on their iPod? I wonder if this is a new effort by YouTube brought on by a court settlement or if the owner of this copyright truly singled out material on YouTube and requested that YouTube remove the infringing material. No matter what, they’ve come down on “little ole me,” what about you?
Well, they just couldn’t leave well enough alone. This from Fox News:
The U.S. Army is flagging the popular blogging service Twitter as a potential terrorist tool, the Agence France-Presse news agency reported Sunday.
A recently released report by the 304th Military Intelligence Battalion contains a chapter entitled “Potential for Terrorist Use of Twitter,” which expresses concern over the increasing use of Twitter by political and religious groups, the AFP reported.
“Twitter has also become a social activism tool for socialists, human rights groups, communists, vegetarians, anarchists, religious communities, atheists, political enthusiasts, hacktivists and others to communicate with each other and to send messages to broader audiences,” according to the report.
“Twitter is already used by some members to post and/or support extremist ideologies and perspectives,” the Army report said.
The blogging service and social networking site has previously sent out messages known as “tweets” faster than news organizations during such major news events as the July Los Angeles earthquake and the Republican National Convention in Minneapolis.
“Terrorists could theoretically use Twitter social networking in the U.S. as an operation tool,” the Army report said.
Egypt is the land of Pharaohs. Home to some of the oldest and most well preserved archaeological sites in the world. And it’s no wonder. Wit the massive Sahara desert to the west and the Red Sea to the east, Mediterranean to the north, it was very in accessible in ancient times. So while the shifting sands of the deserts and the Nile River Valley helped hide these amazing sites, visitors to Egypt today have an opportunity to drift and let their minds wander and wonder of the times of Pharaohs, kings, queens and societies so old, yet so advanced.
Considered one of the greatest and most celebrated Pharaohs of Egypt, Ramses II (also known as Ramses The Great and as Ozymandias in the Greek sources, was the third Egyptian pharaoh of the Nineteenth dynasty. Egyptian history often refers to him as the “Great Ancestor,” and believed to be the Pharaoh of the Exodus. Of course, all of this is a tall order for such a Pharaoh. But traipsing through Egypt and feasting eyes on this Pharaohs contributions it’s hard not to think of Ramses as a bit of an egomaniac. But we’ll get to that later.
About 300km south of Aswan and very close to the Sudanese border are perhaps the grandest temples in all of Egypt — Abu Simbel. Originally hewn out of a side of a mountain near the banks of the Nile sometime in the 13th century BC, they were built by Ramses II as monuments to himself and his wife the Queen Nefereti. But the same effort that helped move the Philae (Isis) Temple near Aswan coordinate efforts to move this grand monument to the shores of what is now Lake Nassar. A UNESCO World Heritage Site, moving Abu Simbel was no simple task. It had to be carved out of the mountain into more than 1,000 pieces, many about 200 feet long and weighing around 30 tons. Had they not been moved, these temples would have been lost forever under neath the waters of Lake Nassar.
Getting to these temples near the Sudan border is another exercise in patience and understanding of the bureaucracy of Egypt. In some ways Egypt wants to protect their image of being tourist-friendly. At the same time, I think they want you to believe that there are parts of Egypt that might not be considered safe. For example, the only way to get to Abu Simbel is to do so in a convoy which is led and followed by police and military vehicles. And depending on the week or who you ask, private cars, normal taxis and motorcycles are prohibited from riding to Abu Simbel and into the Nubian desert. This is why there is no land border accessible by foreigners between Sudan and Egypt. Everyone has to take the ferry. And anyone wishing to see the great Abu Simbel must go in a tourist coach, hired authorized private car or by plane — or maybe boat. And to travel by land in bus or car you must join that convoy that leaves daily at 3:30am – to avoid the heat of the desert and to arrive at the temple just after sunrise which makes for perfect lighting to see its grandeur.
Packaged tour busses and the tourists they carry make up most of the vehicles in the government mandated convoy that leaves every morning at 3:30am from Aswan to Abu Simbel.
Even if they’d let me ride my motorcycle through the desert, I’m not keen on driving with a convoy or twenty or thirty busses and nor do I fancy getting up at 3:30am and being alert enough to ride a motorcycle — that is, unless I really must. So I explore all the options. Most of the luxury air-conditioned tourist busses are run by operators and loaded with tourists who’ve purchased packaged tours from travel agents in their home countries. The locals bus sounded like the train or ferry ride I had from Sudan and wasn’t air-conditioned (it’s the ride back about 10am where A/C is imperative if you’re in a crowded bus). The flights were mostly full and a bit costly given transfers to and from each airport. The private car looked like a good option. I could sleep in both directions and it would be air-conditioned. I deserved this given the train and ferry rides of days past. It cost less than the flight and yet more than the public bus. Plus, the private car would be door to door service. So I made my arrangements and wearily plopped in the back seat of a Toyota sedan at 3:00am.
We jockeyed around a string of busses that stretched the length of the riverfront in Aswan. My rather aggressive driver rode the back-roads to try to get in front of the convoy. At one checkpoint he was chastised by the police but was let into the line. It took just under three hours to get to the temple where I paid my entrance fee, joined in on a guide and walked in and around. That’s when the four massive statues of a seated Ramses II, each standing 60 meters (200 feet) tall and shining gold in the morning light. Despite the increasingly building crowd I just stood there in awe. At the foot of these giant statues of Ramses stand his children. My mind drifted and I thought about the two monumental Buddhas of Bamyan that were destroyed by the Taliban in 2001, one of those was nearly as tall as Ramses but not quite as old. How could anyone destroy such relics — regardless of what they mean. They’re more than 2,000 years old. Clearly I’m impressed and thankful for the work by UNESCO and the international community in preserving and protecting Abu Simbel.
The seated Ramses II each are about 200 feet tall. At his feet are some of his favorite children.
Queen Nefertari is flanked by not one statue of Ramses The Great… but two!
Feet of Ramses II.
The complex at Abu Simbel is made up of two Temples. The great Temple of Ramses II and the Hathor Temple to his wife the Queen Nefertari.
Massive heads and all were cut into pieces, moved from up river and put back together here.
The mountain is actually a man-made dome.
Adjacent to the The Great Temple is the of Hathor is to the north of the Great Temple. It d epicts Ramses II’s first queen, Nefertari, on the facade between statues of her husband, of course. The inside of this temple shows Nefertari participating in the divine ritual in the same capacity as her husband. The holy of holies features a statue of the goddess Hathor represented as a cow.
Frankly it’s hard to imagine the building of these two temples more than 2,000 years ago. It’s hard to imagine the rituals that were performed here for hundreds of years. And it’s further difficult to comprehend that this temple was buried by sand until the early 1800’s when it was discovered. And what a discovery! Out in the middle of nowhere exists something as grand, meticulous and well preserved. Legend has it that Ramses II placed these close to the Sudan border to serve as a standing guard against the Nubians and to intimidate them. Once again my imagination wanders.
But today tourists carting digital cameras, video cameras travel in hordes aboard air-conditioned busses as part of packaged tours where they can see the great antiquities of Egypt. It’s not that I’m against these tours, per se. Rather it’s the machine that churns them and spits them out until the next location. Struggling vendors line up outside the exit hoping to sell miniature temples, blankets, figurines, clothing, and food. I was thirsty and fancied something cold. And that’s when the other thing that irritates me at such heavily touristed locations: price gouging. It’s blatant and it’s ugly. But those tourists on the busses don’t know any difference so they pay the exorbitant prices without question. When I asked the price of a can of soda that was nearly 5 times what the “real” Egyptian price should be and offered to pay even twice the real price, the guy just grabbed the Coke out of my hand and said “okay you no want.” Tourists that don’t stand up to the excessive taking advantage just propagates the process and the next vendor and the next will all take advantage. The attitude of the vendors is “they have more money than us, so why not charge more.”
Then there’s the standing policy of no photographs inside the Temples. Okay, I understand though it’s something new. There are two reasons for this, I believe. First, is there are vendors toting postcards and remembrance books outside that have all the pictures of the interior that you’d like. Second, the security police who stop anyone attempting to take a picture. But during less busy times they buddy up to a tourist and in the guise of showing something unique ore more interesting in a corner of the temple will then let you take a picture. But they expect “baksheesh” or a tip for letting you do so. This happens usually to individuals not on tours with guides. It’s the police thinking to themselves that “hey everyone else is making money on these tourists, I want my share.” It’s never been so blatant until I got here, and it does get tiring.
Notwithstanding, the Abu Simbel Temple inspires and moves tourists and yours truly more than any photograph could. After a couple hours wandering the temples I got back in the car and slept another 3 hours back to Aswan where I pulled myself together for a departure to Luxor that afternoon.
Recognize the images? Here are some places you might have seen these temples before (from Wikipedia)
The temple is the fictional field headquarters of MI6 in the 1977 James Bond film The Spy Who Loved Me, containing a M’s office, conference room, and Q laboratory.
The temple is a setting of the 1978 film Agatha Christie’s Death on the Nile, where the statues “sing” because of the wind in the crevices (similar to wind blowing over a bottle).
The temple is shown in 2001’s The Mummy Returns, as a way to the Ahm-Shere.
The temple also features in Matthew Reilly’s Six Sacred Stones.
The temple can be seen briefly in the background of the city-planet of Coruscant when Queen Amidala’s ship first arrives in Star Wars Episode One: The Phantom Menace.
- above photo of relocation of Abu Simbel from UNESCO.
Once you cross the Nile River and head north out of Khartoum things turn desolate. Come to think of it riding into Khartoum from the south things were pretty desolate. But strategically located at the confluence of the Blue and While Nile rivers, Khartoum is capital to the largest (in size) country in Africa. And while north of here by many days riding is the rich Nile River Valley that is home to some of the oldest and very interesting antiquities of civilizations long ago, it’s no wonder that before these lands were divided by political boundaries that kingdoms stretched for thousands of miles in all directions. So wandering the blistering hot Nubian desert, and with less than five days on my Sudanese visa I embarked my “test” ride of this mind boggling land.
While the most famous pyramids and those we immediately think and visualize when we hear “pyramid” are located in Giza outside Cairo in Egypt, Sudan is home to the largest collection of pyramids in the world. And like Egypt there are ancient temples, tombs and ruins of palaces long ago diminished by the raging sand storms that wreak havoc on the nomads wandering these lands. So it was with much angst and excitement I embarked into the sands of Nubia.
When one thinks of Nubia typically it is the region between Aswan Egypt, where I’m headed in five days or less, and Khartoum where I’ve been for the last couple days. Moving north or south along the Nile, Nubia’s landscape changes frequently and rapidly, largely due to the regions proximity to the longest river in the world. According to online dictionaries, the region of Nubia is in “the hottest and most arid region of the world” and civilizations that live and have lived there depend “wholly on the Nile”.
The gnarly task ahead of me was not only to find some remnants of cultures dating back to 6,000 BC but trying to grasp some concept of the rich history of the region all along trying to make the nearly 1,000-km trip — nearly half of which is paved or in some sort of paved condition – in four days or less. I stopped in Shendi a few hours outside of Khartoum for fuel, a cool drink and to get out of the sun. So far Doc was holding up, but we’d been going at speeds sufficient to keep the 650cc single-cylinder motor cool.
Not more donkeys than Ethiopia but seems much more donkey darts.
In Shedi even the donkey cart pilots use mobile phones.
Something I never saw in Ethiopia nor Botswana, here in Sudan they ride the mules and donkeys.
An hour north of Shendi temperatures were already pushing 42º C (nearly 110º F). I needed more water. Another couple hours and I was ready to head into the desert off the paved road. This would be the first test of my endurance, the bike’s ability to stay cool and the condition of the corrugated and sand roads I’d contend with further north.
Desolate desert calls for extreme measures in home architecture and construction.
With temperatures pushing 110º, I stocked up on more water here. I especially like the sole chair sitting in the sun.
Nomads with dozens of donkeys cruising the desert.
It wasn’t so bad. I big squirrelly here and there. My plan was to get to the base of some of the pyramids and set up camp. The Nubian people, like the Sudanese, earn Best of Class and Gold Medals in the WorldRider competition of most friendly, selfless and hospitable. But there weren’t any people out here. Yet. I crossed over a couple sandy parts that were sort of like washes. I’m not an experienced desert rider nor do I have much confidence when it comes to riding in deep sand, but I attack it with zeal and each time I gain more confidence and learn more — often the hard way.
Sand. And lots of it.
The road seems okay. I can do this. But let me think. Let’s see. Hmmmm.
I came across some ruins – pyramids – and set my sites on a camp site on the back side of them. Then the track got sandy. Deep. And tough. The “hot” engine light started glaring as I kept my bike in lower gear but at mid to high revs as I trudge through the stuff. I didn’t want to stop in fear of not being able to get going again. But the bike was getting hot. I kept on figuring this couldn’t last more than a few more kilometers. I didn’t have to wait too long. I was proud of myself. I’d rode the sand damn well without falling. But then it happened. I simply got stuck. The more I tried to go, the deeper I’d get. Shit. I tried the ole trick where you topple the bike over, fill up the hole you’d just dug and get the bike up again. Amazingly cause I of the panniers and the relatively deep hole, I actually got my bike up straight. That was encouraging. But wasn’t good for my confidence nor my now sweating and heart-pumping body. It had to be 45º C. I started undressing. It was so hot. There was no one around. Though I knew I was close the pyramids where a gatekeeper and likely some locals would be hanging. I could walk there and get help.
Things took a turn. The first time I got stuck, I managed to get out. But….
Well Ewan & Charlie fell numerous times in this desert, but they had a crew following them. Me? I guess I had a few nomads and a camel as my guardian angels?
Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea???
These wandering Nubian Nomads – where do they come from: where do they go?
Things weren’t looking good until I popped my head up from the mess the bike and I got myself into. A camel and three nomads were approaching. I’d heard that you’re never alone out here, but this proved the point. It’d been less than half and hour. I was happy. I was lucky. We got the bike up and they helped push me (key to getting up and over that sand) and I finally toiled my way through the sand to the pyramids. When I got there I was told there was an easier way with less sand. A few 4×4 trucks sat at the entrance, one with UN markings and a handful of other camels and a few locals selling trinkets. I got the nod to ride my bike closer to the pyramids, albeit through more sand — hey, nothing like practice — and began to set up camp.
The night was bliss. As the sunset casted amazing light on the pyramids. It was so quiet and the stars that enveloped the black sky were the perfect show to watch as I lay quiet in my tent. And save the unfortunate windstorm that filled my tent up with sand and made for a rather tough night of sleeping the morning sunrise and a walk around the pyramids with a friend and his camel made this night one of the most memorable on the trip.
Sitting out here in the Nubian. Pyramids. Tombs. These are estimated to be from around 200-300 A.D.
I’ll stop and camp here.
Looking at Doc as the sun rose through the sheer screen of my tent.
Buried in sand after one night’s sleep.
I was up earlier than I’ve ever been on this trip. With that sunrise and the vast desert and it’s moonlike landscape and ocean of sand glowing orange and red. There were two ways to get out of the pyramid area. The deep sandy way and the slightly deep sand and corrugated 4×4 track. I chose the track. But found myself locked in. There was a gate by the now abandoned guard shack. And a big chain and padlock on the gate. There was a big wall and then an ocean of what looked to me like hungry quick sand — at least when it comes to 500lbs. of heavy metal trying to cross it. I jotted in my journal and waited. First a couple camels showed up. I took a walk and a bit of ride on one. Then the first gatekeeper showed up. He didn’t have the key. The other guy would be there in thirty minutes. I waited. After an hour the gatekeeper picked up the cellphone and called someone. Yes. With no obstructions even way out here in the desert, there is cell coverage. After hanging up he walked over to the lock and chain and pulled the lock off the chain, opened up the gate and let me out. The lock was never secured. Just goes to show you. Perception is everything.
Southern plains of Ethiopia. Below a new traditional home under construction.
As I moved to make time to get to Awasa I noticed groups of women carrying large round ceramic containers colored brown and with a narrow top and ringlet handles tied to their backs. The rounded belly shape seemed awkward and uncomfortable, but hundreds of women for miles carried these roadside. Still in some villages young men had concocted make shift wheel barrels with simply a flat board and no sides. The wheels were steel and only about 5-6″ in diameter and they were carrying everything from bricks to vegetables and concrete bags. I wondered why they didn’t use larger wheels. Or even rubber or pneumatic. Hard work.
Men sporting turban like headdresses walked in and out of the villages and clogged the narrow shoulders of these newly paved road. At one point hundreds were in a nearby field standing side by side and forming a large circle where other men where dancing and shaking musical instruments. I stopped to watch, but soon became the object of their attention rather than the dancers and musicians. It’s a funeral. And it will go on for 2-3 days I’m told. Two men in the now ubiquitous headdress stood nearby in street clothes with automatic weapons slung over their shoulders. Were these police ? Sec ur ity?
I passed through dozens of villages as I made my way to Awasa. Each could only be described as a dense mass of humanity where crowds of people ten to thirty deep crushed against each other so they wouldn’t spill onto the tarmac. Then there are the donkeys.
My love affair with the donkey actually stems from my respect of the dumb animal. And there’s a long history. So let me entertain — or bore — you. In October 2005 I shared a cabin with Leroy, a 79 year old motorcyclist who the year earlier was zig-zagging his way around donkeys loitering the main road through a remote Mexican village when he was thrown into the air after a donkey walked onto the tarmac and t-boned him at 50mph.
Leroy was lucky. Clayton wasn’t.
While I was recovering from my Bolivian broken leg fiasco, I eagerly followed other motorcycle travelers making tracks around the world. Clayton left Seattle in early May 2006 full of dreams and adventure as he took of on a dream of a lifetime motorcycle trip from Washington to Argentina. He would take three to four months before entering law school that fall. Though barely three weeks later he tried to maneuver around a donkey outside Acapulco. But the donkey was startled and ran into him. Clayton woke up to find himself paralyzed from the waist down. His trip ended before it really started. But Clayton remained positive and thanks to the generosity and support of the motorcycling community Clayton was able to enter law school that fall. Sadly earlier this year Clayton took his life.
Clayton’s mishap in May 2006 taught me to respect those four-legged dumb asses. As stupid they are, the donkeys demand respect. Perhaps no where in the world are there more donkeys than Botswana. And then Malawi. Tanzania. And the list goes on. But I finally had my run in with a donkey today.
I was riding into one of those congested Ethiopian towns south of Awasa when the masses of humanity crisscrossed the road, and trucks and busses weaved in and about. I was trolling at about 10mph trying not to hit any number of obstacles while keeping Doc on the tarmac which as barely wide enough for a single bus and a motorcycle. A huge bus moved into my lane as it tried to avoid the crowds of people. I throttled down even slower while keeping a keenful eye on the crowd and roaming animals. There were donkeys everywhere. But not on the road. Packed with water, firewood, clothing — you name it, they seemed to wander freely in the dirt area on either side of the road. I didn’t see the bugger, but before I new it, a lone donkey with an empty load walked up beside my bike and was nearly overtaking me when his harness struck the right handlebar. I had no speed and no space to throttle as the bike veered toward the bus crashing into its side before slamming down with me into the tarmac.
My reflex action was spot on as a bolted to attention while the crowd grew around me, spilling even more into the road. I enlisted a couple of them to help me lift the bike while noticing that the excellent work Cristof and I did in Nairobi to the Jesse bags and brackets was for naught. Another dent in the side of the bag with the bracket pushing the support block toward the gas tank. Oh well. I glanced over at the bus and noticed a slight ripple about three feet long. Musta been the other handle bar as I went down.
Soon the crowd was in the hundreds. And forming a suffocating circle around me. I tried to keep an eye on everything. Then a transit cop of some sort starting breaking his way through the crowd by swinging a narrow diameter stick about 4 feet long, often smacking the heads and shoulders of those in the crowd. He spoke no English. Finally a man in his early thirties pushed his way through the crowd.
“Can I help you,” he asked with a look of concern on his face. Meanwhile, I noticed the bus driver had come up close to me. I explained what happened.
“This man wants to know what you will do about his bus,” he explained while the transit cop continued to whack people who got too close to my motorcycle or spilled onto the road and blocked traffic.
“I want to know who is going to fix my motorcycle,” I objected while pointing at the damage to the Jesse bag. This is when I realized that I was okay. The bike was, for the most part, okay and while perhaps my bike put a mild dent in the bus, it too was okay.
“Where’s the donkey?” I yelled confidently and with a sense of anger in my voice. “It’s the donkey’s fault,” I explained. The man translated my concern to the transit cop and the bus driver. Passengers were leaning out of the bus looking down on the commotion in the street. Hands touched the bike, pushing switches and trying to blow the horn. One man fancied looking at himself in the broken mirror. “And my mirror is broken,” I explained though not truthfully acknowledging that it was broken earlier.
“Where is the owner of the donkey,” it was time for me to entertain myself while testing the waters of this slight predicament I was in. “I want to speak with the owner of this donkey now!”
More chatter in Amharic of which I knew a total of about ten words.
“This man would like you to pay for the damage to the bus,” my English speaking friend explained for the third time.
“It’s not my fault,” I postulated. “The donkey ran into me and caused me to crash. It’s the donkey’s fault and the owner of the donkey should pay.” I further explained testing my abilities in tort and liability law. But this concept was unknown to the people in this remote village more than a days drive from Addis.
“No. You hit the bus, so it’s you who must fix,” the man explained.
“I want to talk to the owner of the donkey,” I demanded while drilling the bus driver and translator with eye contact.
You have to understand the ludicrousness of my statement. Nobody knows who owns these donkeys. That is, until the donkey is hit by a car or injured or killed by some accident. Then you’d be surprised how many owners of the one donkey start to come forward. The donkey wandered around the crowd with another thirty or forty in company. I knew there’d be no talking to the owner of the donkey, nor would I ever be able to communicate the idea of negligence or contributory negligence to my translator or the bus driver.
“The owner of the donkey isn’t here,” I was told.
“Then I’ll wait,” I just sat down on the motorcycle while pushing more roving hands away.
I could see the furor in the bus drivers face. There were other dents and scratches on his bus. But here was a white man with a big motorcycle. In his eyes, I am a meal ticket. Winning the lottery. I just sat there.
To be fair, my translator understood my concern. But the crowd continued to grow, the transit cop continue to smack people with his stick and the traffic continued to jam up this small town.
“Can you just give the bus driver something so he can go away,” he asked.
“Okay,” I said finally emoting some sort of hint that resolution would follow. “I’d be happy to work this out in the office of my embassy in Addis,” again suggesting the impossible, “and I would like to have the owner of the donkey and the bus driver present. Then we can decide if I need to pay something for the bus driver.”
The bus driver continued to exude anger and dissatisfaction. I remained stubborn. It was a test of patience and will. Who could stand it longer. Free roaming donkeys are a hazard. People are injured, die and property is damaged. Donkey owners need to accept some responsibility. This was my position. And while as insane as it sounded to these people, my translator agreed. I repeated my request for a meeting at the Embassy. Then I suggested the Ethiopian consulate.
My requests were falling on deaf ears and the bus driver was hanging tough. That’s when I pulled out my insurance card and handed it to him.
“Okay. Jot down my insurance information and feel free to call them and they’ll pay for the damage,” I rambled on as the translator explained in Amharic to the bus driver. “What about the other damage to the bus,” I asked. “Who paid for that?” The bus driver was livid. And I was laughing deep inside. The crowd just stared.
As the sun inched lower in the sky and my afternoon entertainment quota fulfilled, I decided it was time to get out of there. So after another ten minutes of talking insurance and embassies I planted about 40 Ethiopian Birr into the palm of the bus driver — about $5. He looked at disgustedly and then started grabbing at stuff on the bike. Whack. My transit cop companion smacked his hands with the stick. Nice move.
“You have more?” I threw another 50 birr and showed my pockets with only about 25 Birr more.
“I must buy petrol,” I explained. The bus driver withdrew and the stick whacking copy cleared a path through the humanity and I rode on.
Damn donkeys. I love them.
I made it into Awasa 30 minutes past nightfall and after jockeying around traffic circles where the only traffic were pedestrians and bicycles and the occasional small cc motorcycle or scooter. I looked for the lake. Then stumbled upon a guest house with a restaurant attached. Italian. Italian in Ethiopia you ask? Not so unusual as while it was never colonized, Italy was mildly successful at colonizing neighboring Eritrea in the late 1800’s and efforts over the next fifty years by the Italians have left an indelible impact on some of the culinary arts in this African country. Perhaps Ethiopia is most proud of the fact that they are the only country that defeated a European power when it finished off Italy at the Battle of Adwa in 1896. Though in the early years of World War II, Ethiopian enlisted the help of the British Royal Army to help push out threatening Italian expansionists.
Happy to devour a plate of pasta and drown in a cold Ethiopian beer I relished again in the quite courtyard of this hotel while making my plans for touring Ethiopia and praying that the Sudanese will grant me a Visa in Addis Ababa.
What was supposed to be an early start for the Ethiopian border crossing now was looking to be a mid-afternoon departure. First things first. I had to get the bike unloaded from the lorry. My preference was to unload it somewhere away from the hustle and bustle of this Kenya border town. Getting both the bike and I suited for the ride into Ethiopia would be project. I needed to change out of my lorry riding clothes and into my riding gear. I needed to refit the bike with the top box, Jesse Bags and pack the few items I’d been carrying in the cab back into my Ortlieb duffels. Simple enough. But this is a process. Everything has its place. I’d rather set up and change without standing on stage in front of the glaring eyes of dozens of Kenyans.
As you can imagine, the bike was a dusty mess. After unloading shoes, clothing, and some bags of dolomite it took about six people to pull the bike down. Covered in white powder, sand and dirt, I only could think about the chain. It’d need a good cleaning along with the forks, brake discs. Abdulah refused to unload the bike where I wanted: an unused building just 100 meters from the border post. Instead, they unloaded me on a side dusty dirt side street. And soon enough I was surrounded by peering eyes of dozens.
My bike was destined to get unloaded amongst a crowd of Moyale locals.
Everyone wanted in on the unloading action — anything for a few shillings in this poverty stricken border town.
First the shoes, clothes and then the dolomite – that messy powder.
Huge sacks were unloaded before Doc could be freed.
Despite the rough roads, slamming around and nearly tipping in the mud, the bike didn’t move.
A gang of ten unload the machine from its home for the past 60+ hours.
The poor old AirHawk “ass pad” and everything else got covered in sand, dust and dolomite.
It’s Alive!
I tried to perform my duty as methodical as possible while keeping my eyes on my gear. At one point an inebriated man plowed his way through the crowd and pushed his face and with alcohol tainted breath simply put his arm around me and demanded, “Give me something muzungu!” He leaned over and picked up one of my gloves and started walking away. I grabbed the back of his shirt color and yanked him back.
“Give it back!” I demanded. Meanwhile the crowd backed away and I pushed the drunk into the circle. He came back.
“Give me something.” I ignored him and pushed him back again. My patience was taxed. I didn’t have much time and I knew crossing the border could take more than an hour. The last thing I wanted was to stay on the Ethiopian side of this remote border post.
The crowd just stood there watching forming a semi-circle completely around me. Perhaps thirty or forty people. “Isn’t there school today?” I asked. It was Good Friday. Even though I could hear the praying from the speakers of a nearby Mosque, this town and all of Kenya recognized Good Friday as a holy day. “Am I that interesting?” I asked again. I played a few language games and impressed the crowd with a few funny phrases of Swahili I’d learned, while I equipped the bike for my journey into Ethiopia.
The drunk finally disappeared and as I stripped down to my underwear and pulled on my riding pants, I remembered my cell phone in the pocket of my light-weight Ex-Officio convertibles. Sitting on the concrete step of a closed-up shop, I had hung my heavy BMW Rallye2 Pro jacket on the padlock latch of the store behind me to keep it off the dusty and dirty ground. I was almost ready to go. I packed away my “street” pants and then turned around to put my cell phone in the zippered breast pocket of my riding jacket — where I’ve always carried my cellphone since departing on this journey nearly three years ago. I then sat back down and put on my boots. Took only a few seconds and I popped up and went for my jacket eager to blow this town.
That’s when I noticed the breast pocket was unzipped. I reached in and came up empty-handed.
Someone ripped off my SonyEriccson PIi mobile phone. I was flushed first with desperation. Then emotionally spent. I’d spent all but about five of sixty-hours in the cab of a Mitsubishi truck across perhaps the harshest terrain in Kenya, I was hungry and while I could see Ethiopian hills just a scant few kilometers away, I seemed stuck and down and out in the dusty dump of Moyale. I wanted to cry.
With a cracked voice wreaking of disappointment I addressed the crowd while rising up my hands in angst, “Don’t do this to me Kenya!” As I walked into the crowed the space around me thinned, “I’ve travelled for more than two years and no where has anyone stolen anything from me,” I turned to the oldest and frailest man in the crowd, “do you really want Kenya to earn the first price of thievery ?” I asked.
The crowd that gathered here on Good Friday staretd wiht kids and before I was ready to leave it few to more than 30 people. Who stole my mobile phone?
Silence fell and a two stroke motorbike buzzed by and stopped to listen.
“Who stole my phone?” I demanded. “I want it back right now!” I’d try anything but overreacting with anger or rage would only worsen my predicament. “Someone here saw the thief who stole my phone.” My back was to the jacket as I put on my boots, but more than 20 eyes had a clear view of the robbery. “Who stole it?” I address a young boy on a bicycle. “Did you?” I asked turning to young Muslim woman. “You?” I thrust my arm with forefinger extended pointing at the forehead of a man with five inch scar going diagonally across his cheek.
Finally a young boy who stood barely to my waist came forward, “I saw him.” Then another older guy came forward questioning the kid who spoke very little English. “Who? Where is he?” I demanded. Just then another motorcycle rode by with two older men wearing clorox clean white robes with white traditional Muslim caps. My voice cracked again with disappointment, “Can you help me please?” I asked slowly, “Someone has stolen my phone and someone here saw it happen.” The men questioned a few people in the now growing crowd.
“You must go to the police,” they insisted, while another boy offered to take me to the station. I wasn’t about to leave my bike here. My pleas for someone to go bring the police here fell on deaf ears. It’s just not done that way. Just as I was riding to the station a police truck pulled out of a side road only 300 meters from where the theft took place. And the crowd along with my informants and witnesses still lingered.
A bunch of Swahili and what sounded like an angry diatribe went on for about ten minutes. Turns out the chief of the police was in the truck. He and his deputy got out of the truck and disappeared down an alley into a maze of ram-shackled buildings, dusty tracks with goats, chickens and an idle bull. I stood and waited. And waited. Twenty minutes passed and the police were still gone. Then I heard the buzz of a small motorbike and the crowd shifted to let the bike get close to me. It was the two while gown and capped Muslim men. One of them was holding my phone.
“Is this your phone?” he asked. I assured him it was and he took the phone and whirred down the alley in search of the police. Ten minutes later and the guys and police emerged. One boy urged me to just take my phone, not cause any problems and make no report or file no charges. The police asked me to follow them to the police station where I could retrieve my phone.
I wanted to heed the boy’s request and just get to Ethiopia. But the chief, David, his deputy Joseph and Simon the sergeant explained that in order to stop petty crime they needed support and asked if I’d file a statement. I did and headed for the border.
Passing through customs and immigration on the Kenyan side of the border was a breeze. The customs agent even helped find me a money changer and let us do the transaction in his office, ensuring no funny business and a good rate. This blew me away, cause nearly every other border crossing guards shoo away the hordes of money changers and any transaction has to be done outside the view of any official. Here there were no money changer hordes. My Kenya experience ended on a positive note.
I rode into Ethiopia at about 4pm where a glitch on the passport reader (something I pointed out and perhaps shouldn’t have) in immigration caused a 30-minute delay but soon enough I was free and crossing into the 29th country of my journey.
He was very formal, personal and service oriented if not a slightly meek. When he brought me a bottle of the local beer in a 330ml bottle, I admitted my surprise. Most beer in Africa is served in 500- 1.0L bottles. Rarely does one find what we are accustomed to in the US: the equivalent to a 12oz can or bottle, except in a tourist-oriented hotel, restaurant or other service establishment. When I asked for the larger bottle, he said they couldn’t get them. I begged to differ and suggested if there was a problem finding the larger bottles, I’d be happy to offer my assistance in talking with the distributor so that they could better service future customers with the more customary bottle. Of course, the reason the up-market Indian restaurant in the Rwandan capital only sold small bottles was simply to increase per table sales and revenue. Overhearing our conversation, one of the Indian owners of the eatery joined my waiter table side. I repeated my offer to help discuss the situation with the beer distributor all in an effort to increase customer service at the restaurant. He promised he’d look into it.
Sure he will.
Continuing to be friendly while learning more about Rwanda and its people, my waiter, Emmanuel slowly opened up. Learning of my journey he was awestruck.
“You’re a very strong man, Mr. Allan,” he said. Often my African friends describe me as strong when learning about the journey and my time on the road, alone. But there’s a translation difference, I think. The word strong connotes certain strength physically, but also can mean emotionally or even spiritually. We can have strong beliefs, strength in our conviction, be strong willed among others. Perhaps Emmanuel meant any of these things, or perhaps a better translation is “brave”. I don’t know.
“How you can do such thing means you must be very strong,” he continued. “I could never do such things. I would be afraid.”
He admitted that jobs were difficult to find in Rwanda and while he liked the restaurant job and was thankful of the Indian owners who gave him the opportunity, he would like to do more and earn more money. Though he liked serving in this restaurant because of the diverse clientele.
At about 27 years old, he was about 14 years old during the brutal genocide that left nearly 1,000,000 Rwandans dead in about 100 days in 1994. Less than two years earlier, foreseeing the pending doom in Rwanda, his parents, both Tutsi’s sent Emmanuel and his younger brother to a refugee camp in Uganda with a promise to reunite with their children in a few months. A few months went by. The UN eventually moved them to Tanzania. Then less than years later he was delivered the news: both his parents were killed.
“No, Emmanuel,” I consoled and confided, “you are the strong one here.” Uncharacteristically tongue tied and lost for words I knew my journey and adventure, though taxing, could never be compared to living through what many Rwandans did. “I don’t know, Emmanuel. But I’m sorry. I can’t imagine living through the pain and loss you and your brother have. My journey is nothing compared what you went through and go through every day.” My heart bled over the Indian goat stew with marsala and other spices and the wonderful garlic nan. “You have much more strength to be able to get up and face very new day. To learn was you have done and to be able to still have dreams and hopes. You, Emmanuel, are the strong person at this table.”
Though no genocide is short of atrocities and horror, I find the Rwandan killings more brutal. While planned and incited by extremists in the military, the killings were done by everyone — not just military or the organizers. No. The killings were performed by the hands of co-workers, brothers, husbands, kids, employees and next-door neighbors. People were hacked with machetes, bludgeoned with picks, chopped up by axes. Infants were swung by one foot and slammed against bedroom walls until they stopped breathing. Limbs were chopped off and backs stabbed and then the victims left to bleed and suffer to death. Teenaged girls and young children were raped, then stabbed and tossed into latrines left to die among human waste.
And this happened just over a decade ago. In today’s modern society.
Thirteen years later and they’re still finding bodies. The actual number of deaths may never be known.
Emmanuel’s father and mother were bound together in rope their home and then doused with gasoline while the killers locked and barricaded their house shut,. The outside of the house was lit afire. They sat in terror as the flames inched closer to their bodies until minutes or hours, who knows, later they were engulfed in flames and burned to death.
“A few years ago I got real sick,” Emmanuel confided. “I woke up one night and felt so hot, like I was burning.” He spent two days at the hospital but still has nightmares of his parents burning.
About three years ago, at the tenth anniversary of the brutal genocide, a memorial was built on a hillside over looking Kigali. And on this hillside are mass graves of more the 250,000 Rwandans. The site serves as a reminder of the savage and barbaric killings and how it happened. Genocide is a sad part of human history. And while there are patterns, one would reason that with all we’ve learned from Hitler, Pol Pot, the Hereros (another African massacre from German hands in Namibia) Serbia and more that racial cleansing would have relegated to the history books. But here the truth, disgust, horror and skeletons or the Rwanda Genocide are on display. A special exhibit shows photographs of children, their age and how they were killed. It’s mind numbing if not sick.
Though not “technically” a different ethnic group, it was the Europeans who before the turn of the century divided the Rwandan people into two groups – Tutsis and Hutus. Those whose families owned ten or more cows were identified and given I.D. cards as Tutsi’s, while those with less than ten cows were Hutus. The majority of the people were Hutus. And after gaining independence Belgium, the segregation continued. And it got out of hand. Over time the discrimination, alienation and fear of the minority festered in the psyche of the Hutus. Starting slowly, but by the 1990’s the military systematically enlisted more than 92% Hutu. Government was barely more diversified. The Tutsis were left out.
Perhaps the sad part of the story is how the Western world sat back and watched the genocide. The UN refused to offer more aid in terms of troops or supplies to the opposition. And in many ways, the young EU refused to acknowledge what was happening. Though slightly “Hollywood”, the recent movie “Hotel Rwanda” provides a superficial overview of the days of the genocide and the lame Western response.
I came to Rwanda to see for myself. And today I see a new Rwanda. But history will not be forgotten. And ideally not repeated.
Looking down from the gardens at the Rwanda Genocide Memorial at just one of six mass graves where more than 250,000 Rwandans killed during the genocide are buried on this hillside.
The identities of all those killed and bodies uncovered or the actual death toll may never be known. But a wall at the Memorial lists a fraction of the names of those known to have been killed. It’s mind boggling.
Today as I wander the streets of Rwanda’s capital it’s impossible for me to look into the faces of the people and wonder if they are Tutsi or Hutu. And if Hutu, how many people, friends did they kill. Those Hutus who were moderate, married to a Tutsi, sympathized with Tutsis or showed disdain or opposition to the ethnic cleansing were killed too. Many people I spoke to left the country going to Uganda, Zaire (now Congo) and Tanzania. “What could I do?” was the most typical response.
Dealing with the past is something that both the western world and the Rwandans are still contending with. Western guilt is evident in the amount of aid, which seems disproportionate given the size of the country compared to other African nations I’ve traveled. Massive western style high-rise buildings and industrial/business parks are under constructed in Kigali, new home construction in the countryside is overwhelming and a steady stream of UN supply trucks weave through the network of new — and largely pothole free — roads. Yes. This is the new Rwanda.
But where’s the justice? A War Crimes Tribunal held in Arusha has been going on for years. Sadly, the number of convictions processed by the tribunal amounts to no more than two digits – a fraction of the actual killers who brutally massacred one million or more innocent women, children and men. Yet more than 40,000 have been accused and imprisoned. And bringing them to trial has been a testy process. So where the Arusha courts have failed, Rwanda is trying something different — something uniquely African. On hilltops and under trees around the country villagers hold court. The bold experiment is called gacaca – or, justice in the grass. Gacaca is an age old African method of settling disputes. Judges, known as the upright ones, are elected in each village. To date more than 250,000 gacaca judges from university professors to illiterate peasants, have been sworn in. The whole process if very informal and none of the judges are lawyers. Village residents gather and sit under trees, while families of those killed in the massacre listen to the accused, some who confess ask for forgiveness while detailing the horror that led to the deaths. Anyone may air accusations against the accused or anyone in the village. It’s something I wanted to see and experience for myself. But my time in Rwanda didn’t coincide with a gacaca I could find.
So I continue moving on through this journey of adventure and discovery. Riding by the barely six-month old shiny fortress that serves as the US Embassy, I’m proud to be an American and doing what we can to contribute to better living conditions for these people, but sad that we were blind to the atrocities of their past.
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de J. J. Cale & Eric Clapton. Infelizmente a reprodução de seu vídeo foi bloqueada devido a problemas com os direitos das músicas.
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