Back to school

It’s not really raining in my part of Belgium tonight. Just that pittering of tiny drops on your face. Cricket morse code, beginning tap dance class for lovable spiders, limited engagement precipitation which only shows up quicking under a street lamp, making facet instants on the gutter water, and those pecks on your cheeks.


Riding home I pass through and over sounds and smells that are coming to mean Belgium to me. The honest reek of a field soaked in horse urine, the stink grown mossy and powerful in the damp, like incense in an ancient cult that’s going to take a lot of getting used to. The pop of acorn husks under my tires. When I get to the rich oil smell of the fries-shop, I know I am almost home. Just come abreast of the pharmacy with its sleepless and standard electric sign chanting the time and temperature religiously in little green dots like a Night Bright, then I’m home.

I am coming back from class. The first time I realized I needed to go to bed early because it was a school night I felt a chuckling nostalgia for the grimace that came back with surprising familiarity after all these years. School.

So I am a student again. I bought a textbook with matching workbook. I bike to class on Mondays and carpool on Tuesdays. I bring two pens, a pencil, and a notebook, though I generally scribble any notes in the book’s margins. I need to buy more lead for my mechanical pencil before it runs out.

I am taking Dutch classes at a local night school with all the other immigrants and mail order brides. This tongue-tied community is deepening my welcome to Belgium with their Filipino names, Cuban gold teeth, Polish haircuts, Romanian giggles, Dominican accents, Congolese cool, Armenian eyebrows, and ridiculously broad Latvian shoulders. The Eastern Europeans came for work, the Latin Americans married Belgians and moved here, and there is a rumor that the Congolese guy plays semi-professional soccer, which may explain his customary absence.

Our skill levels span a decent range of the very bottom of the scale. I think the Spanish speakers have it the hardest, especially since the Cuban and Dominican accents heavily aspirate (to the point of deleting) “s” and the ends of syllables, which just doesn’t fly in Dutch. And none of us are proficient at the Dutch “u” sound, where we almost always replace it with “oe.”

But spirits are generally high, though Tomasz the Pole still whines horribly at any sliver of homework, and also-Polish Bogdan’s absences are competing with Congolese Tchite’s. Bogdan’s wife still comes to class, and I wonder how long she can keep up her explanations for his absence; he has gone from sick to working late to breaking an ankle playing soccer. But that’s probably okay because when he did come he refused to take notes, insisting that his wife was doing it for him.

Oh and one time, Tomasz, the whiner, on his first day actually, knowing full well when class ends interrupted the teacher with 6 minutes left to say “isn’t it time to leave?” I thought that was about the balsiest stunt I’ve ever seen from a student.

But other than those couple humorous Poles, the class is sweethearts. There is Shushanit, from Armenië whose husband has finally stopped patrolling the hallway outside the class with their daughter all three hours. I suspect she is the best Dutch-speaker in the class but she is so soft-spoken it is hard to say. Or the other Armenian woman, Lilit, whose eyes are always laughing. I biked home with Romans from Latvia the other day, whose bicycle has no brakes, and though I couldn’t understand all of his enthusiastic English I enjoyed the company. Eduardo from Cuba had a son born two days ago. I think Traian has a crush on Ewelina.

So even though the class moves pretty slowly, I am happy to be there, watching my classmates, learning the language, integrating with my new...home?

How do you tell?

How do you tell if someone’s opinion is just different from yours, from when they are a cold, calculating, vile, Cheney-like human being?

Today’s case: the people who say investing in Green Energy is bad for business and the economy, insisting that the staff of their oil rigs outweigh everyone else, and meanwhile China is cornering the market on solar panels and wind turbines in an industry providing well over one MILLION jobs. (1.3 according to this article: http://www.nytimes.com/2010/01/31/business/energy-environment/31renew.html)

In California right now, Texan oil companies have spent 7.9 million dollars (out of 8.2 raised) on a proposition eliminating a clean energy bill we passed in 2006, and they are expected to spend even more as the election approaches. (http://www.nytimes.com/2010/09/17/us/17pollute.html?_r=1&hp) They are trying the same old scare tactics to justify their blatant self interest (at the expense of the REST OF THE WORLD) by saying the initiative will cost jobs and raise gas prices. Boogedy boogedy.

Do they know about those million jobs China has added to produce solar panels and wind turbines?  Do they realize they are full of shit or do they actually believe themselves?

I just don’t get it. They are a profanely rich oil company. The move towards renewable energy has to happen. It is going to happen. If not here, then elsewhere. It will create a massive amount of jobs, and be the economy of the future, with the fringe benefit of, you know, saving our fucking lives. The mind-shatteringly obvious question is “why don’t THEY do the work?” I understand selfishness, especially in a corporation where it is built into the fundamental charter, but why doesn’t Valero invest those 4 million dollars in making wind turbines instead of running manipulative TV commercials? Poor Valero, they want so hard to be the shiniest emblem in Satan’s porno magazine, but that damn BP is just too good at what they do.
Yuck, I can’t talk about this anymore right now. But I gotta say, if California passes this initiative and kills the (honestly fairly mild) green energy bill we passed four years ago... Nevermind. Optimism! It is a beautiful day!  Think about kittens!

And technologies are getting better. Like cars (looking for that silver lining pretty hard here). Did you know you don’t have to change your oil every 3,000 miles anymore? Cars have gotten better, and, depending on how severe of conditions you drive in, you can easily wait 5,000 or even 10,000 between changes.

Here, and I recommend the one about loading your washing machine and dishwasher properly too. (Yes, I was clearly browsing the NY Times while eating lunch today.)

http://www.nytimes.com/2010/09/11/your-money/11shortcuts.html?src=me&ref=business

Amerikan Kebabologist Discovers New Species

Amerikan Kebaboligist reports discovery of new species
By Harvey von Nubbinbubbler, AP


BRUSSELS - American Kebabologist Doctor Timothy Tendick is reporting in the current issue of the presitigious Kebablife Quarterly Journal the discovery of a previously unsuspected species of kebab.

The new find is said to dwarf all previously catalogued species of kebab, though no exact measurements have so far been released. According to Doctor Tendick “we took one look at this thing and knew we had discovered something...well...big. It was radically different from the conventional understandings and assumptions of kebabology.” There are apparently several key differences, but one above all made the case clear for Doctor Tendick’s team. “The bread is totally different too, but it took us awhile to notice that because shit man, have you seen the thing?”

The kebab was locally assumed to be a common Chicken Kebab, also called a Poulet Kebab, after the great Luxembourgian Kebabologist Dr. Ivan Poulet.

The mega-kebab was discovered in a small town in the Flanders region of Belgium. Experts say this makes the find even more stunning, given that Belgium is in the heart of Western Europe, traditionally known as the kebab’s primary habitat. Most kebabologists had considered this area well mapped with regards to kebabular variety, but, according to Doctor Ignatius P. Wallyflower this makes the mega-kebab’s discovery actually somewhat less surprising, since the prevalence of kebab species in the area and the tremendous success with which they have propagated in this region make such mutation all the more likely.

“And this thing is definitely not a product of normal evolution, which is glacially slow. No, that baby is a mutant.” asserted Wallyflower, whose pupils remained dilated the entire interview.

The discovery took longer than normal to report because the initial investigation was unable to fully plumb the depths of the new species. According to Doctor Tendick “We left after the first trials exhausted and feeling kind of greasy, but the dedication to kebabology is not something to be put on the shelf in the fridge and forgotten, so at the first opportunity we were back in this thing, elbow deep, although it took most of a bag of salad greens and a cut up tomato to make the research possible.”

This is not the first time Doctor Tendick, also a professor at the European Academie for the Teaching of Ingestible Things (EAT IT) has discovered a new species. In 2009 he discovered the now infamous Apparently-All-Chicken-Skin Kebab in southern Spain. His reputation was tarnished later that year however when he claimed to have discovered another new form, which he called the That-Was-A-Horrible-Mistake Kebab. Authorities examined his taxonomy and declared it a Common Kebab. But this find in Belgium, if authenticated, should jump him right back to the top of the (unnaturally homogenous colored) heap in kebab epidemiology.

“My team was really unprepared for a find of this magnitude. I mean, I can barely carry the damn thing.” Admitted Doctor Tendick, seen below posing, like a goober, with the kebab, which is even larger than his also-famously-oversized noggin.

Border Crossing and Zambia

Traveling is full of different challenges from back home.  Taking public transport when you don’t know the language, the system, or any of the place names.  Bartering properly, which changes between countries.  Ordering food when you have no idea what any of it is. (Just do it! Play the culinary lottery! I love this one!)

And of course, border crossings.

Crossing from South Africa to Botswana involved a moderate amount of bureaucracy, a couple forms, a couple stamps.  The best part was when a guard peered in the window and saw the copy of Obama’s The Audacity of Hope that I was reading and came around to talk to me about it.  Despite his not speaking English, we got by on a few words, several smiles, and a big thumbs up.  (We would continue to see Obama bags, posters, and shirts throughout Africa...it is a better time to be an American.)  As we were leaving, another guard looked at our friend Lisa’s shirt, which had kind of a sherbet-colored swirl of reds and oranges and said in a soft, deep voice “I like your shirt, I want to eat it.”  We laughed and smiled politely and drove on up the road.

I crossed the border between Zambia and Tanzania on a train, sweating and gritting my teeth because I had substantial food poisoning and you can’t use the toilets (which are just holes in the ground over a short curved tube) when the train is stopped...particularly when the train is surrounded by women and children selling bananas, casava root, and balls of clay to passengers.  The clay is apparently to clean out your digestive tract...maybe I should have bought two.

We crossed from Botswana to Zambia at the Kazungula ferry over the Zambezi River.  The Botswana side was only a little waiting, filling out forms, and stamping, then we drove down to the river, past a mile-long line of trucks waiting about a day to cross.  Luckily cars cut to the front.  The ferry is a rickety platform of splintered planks falling into dust, and the rustiest, oil-leakingest motor I have ever seen hanging off the side.  It fits a couple trucks at a time, and when loaded unevenly the entire thing has tipped, killing everyone on board. Oh, and the river is full of crocodiles and hippos too, just for comic book good measure. Crocodilicious.

There were two trucks on the ferry when we drove up, and they gestured us on behind them, where our van basically fit, though when the ramp was lifted it also lifted the little trailer.  The poor thing looked kind of embarrassed, like it was at the Zambian proctologist.

There was a guard in camouflage walking around with a Kalashnikov, looking very conscious of the fact that if anyone actually made trouble for the ferry he would be desperately out-gunned.  Although the truck drivers might be able to back him up.  He stopped me from taking a picture, but turned out it was because he wanted to be in it.

On the Zambian side trucks sat in the central African heat and dust, piled with jagged scrap metal, massive pipes for the mines, and who knows what else, going through a mysterious and largely invisible process to get their cargo across the border.  Luckily a local guy just happened to be there, yup, to help us, guiding us from office to office to pay our entry fee at Immigration, and get our entry stamp, and then our Customs and Excise stamp, and then pay the Counselor Fee, and then pay the Carbon Tax, and then pay the Road Toll Tax, and then get Third Party Insurance, which involved substantially more negotiation than your local State Farm Agent.  And no, I did not make any of those up.

While my two valiant compatriots were navigating this web of suspicious extravagance, I was our security guard and spent the three hours standing in the dust by our van and trailer, though I left my Kalashnikov at home.

First was a hustler-vendor, who wanted to sell me tourist kitsch, and to whom I eventually traded the hat I never wore for a safari mask.  Then there was a group of children, girls aged maybe 6 years old?  They had trays and baskets of brown bananas and a few small apples to sell to truckers, though I never saw anyone buy; their playground the massive dusty tires of semi trucks.  We stood in the shade of a shipment of mining equipment and looked at each other, my attempts at communication invariably met with indulgent smiles and clipped answers of “yes, yes” no matter what I said.

I gave them some of our carrots.  We smiled some more.  A prostitute walked over and climbed into the cab of the truck.  We all just kept standing there and smiling at each other while the stagnant stream of activity seeped along.  It was bizarre and heart-breaking.

AIDS is killing its second generation in Africa, and there, just above and behind the heads of these children, maybe it was taking another victim, adding another link.  This stretch of highway through Africa is sometimes referred to as “The Corridor of Death,” as truckers drive up and down it, going to prostitutes and spreading the disease wherever they go.  Condoms are still a concept for NGOs, not daily people, and the spirit world is credited and blamed for many ailments, from Robert Mugabe’s power to the symptoms we would recognize as AIDS.

I stood by these children, totally overwhelmed and helpless in front of the situation, wishing I could spend a lifetime talking to them.  Instead we just stood in the dust and the heat and the noise.  They were no different than before she climbed into the cab, such things are everyday there.

A new voice behind me said in the slow slur of the drugged “hey man, howzit,” the South African slang for “how is it (going).” I looked at his bloodshot eyes, stained thick yellow by disease, then back towards the children. They were gone, leaving a tray of bruised bananas in the dust.

He proceeded to spend an interminable hour trying to sell me drugs and bum stuff off me, his speech barely intelligible and gaze unfocused. Once he found out we were headed to an orphanage he told me about a daughter he had, and how she needed some of our stuff and my money. He tried until we were literally driving away. The kids never came back to get the tray.

Near death experience on the banks of the Zambezi River

The word "soothing" is itself soothing; is that onomatopoeia?

I guess that's not enough for a blog post, so I'll tell you about the time I almost died by the mighty Zambezi River.

We were in the middle of driving from Pretoria, South Africa, to Mansa, Zambia, which took four full days of driving.  And I mean FULL days, we didn't really even stop to eat, except once in Mazabuka, where I went into the American-1950s-diner themed fast food place (restaurant is too exuberant of a word for it) and as if it wasn't already weird enough, I perused the menu and asked for the rice and chicken.  No rice and chicken.  The curry rice?  No curry rice.  Meat pie?  No meat pie.  (Not sure what these were all doing on the menu of a place with drawings of Chevies with James Dean and Marilyn Monroe driving past Route 66 signs, but it's Zambia, so we'll give them the benefit of the doubt.)  What do you have?  Kentucky fried chicken and fries.  Despite the fact that this was not on the menu.  Okay, I'll take that and a soda called "Tingling."  It was actually a pretty good meal (Tingling turned out to be an excellent ginger ale).

But anyway, it was four full days of driving, so we stopped off halfway to rest for a couple days, which just happened to be at Victoria Falls, which is truly one of the most ridiculously epic places on Earth.

It is the largest waterfall on Earth, a mile long, 360 feet tall.  It was incredible.  If the falls don't take your breath away, the cold mist that rains down on you will.  It is chilly rain under the clear, hot African sun, kind of a trip, no?

A couple of local guys moonlighting as Vic Falls tour guides took us out along the top of the falls, walking first on a handswidth-wide submerged concrete wall where you had to grip tightly with your toes to resist the remarkably strong Zambezi current that wanted to sweep you over the edge, then down to the very edge of the falls.

Then we went river rafting past class 4 rapids with names like Devil's Toilet Bowl, Oblivion, and Gnashing Jaws of Death.  It was fantastic, but not when I almost died.  No, I almost died at the malicious hands of something far more evil.  Tiny little evil hands.

This, my friends, is a vervet.

Cute, right?  WRONG!  This is a deceitful, cold-hearted little servant of Beelzebub who is just waiting for you to let down your guard.  Here is another picture.

Did you let down your guard?  You let down your guard, didn't you?  Yup.  Sorry.  You're dead.

Was it the hand that got you?  The cute little, furry hand, that holds the piece of bread the tourist in front of you just gave the little guy?  Pretty cute, right?

Then I bent down to take his little itsy-bitsy-picture-wicture...
and the vile little son of a bitch was after me.
But I had no bread.  Oh but he wasn't after bread, no no no, he was after something fresher, bloodier, living-er.

What had been a cute and somewhat irascible presence in our campground on the first day was transformed into a half dozen remarkably fast-moving furry forms of flesh-seeking malice.  Especially the little one, he was the worst.

Okay, not that small.

There, like that.  Inside that pooched little mouth are way too many needle sharp teeth, and those cute little hands were suddenly far too eager to rend my skin like jello in the sun, man.

Actually, here is the actual picture I took, the only one I managed before the hunt was on.

That long tail is used for balance while flying through the air prior to biting off innocent Americans' faces.

Seriously!  The little one was pissed that I had no food, and got aggressive.  Then the adults, including the (suddenly much larger looking) alpha male picked up the mood and things got freaky, fast.

Now, I must insist on a little credit here.  I was with two women, and I let both of them go first while I stayed firmly placed between them and harms way.  And by "firmly" I mean "gradually backing away while visions of a cross between Outbreak and the Texas Chainsaw Massacre play in my head and I wonder why I didn't sign up for health insurance before coming."

We made it into the parking lot, an arbitrary boundary that they luckily seemed to respect.  Our hearts were racing, skin chilled, limbs rubbery with adrenaline.  At the far end of the lot a taxi was just pulling away and the driver shouted out his window "be nice to the monkeys!"

Yeah.  Thanks.

They haunt my nightmares...

Nurturing smiles

If a picture is worth a thousand words, then let me summarize the differences between the Zambian orphanage and the South African ones.  First, South Africa:

Some of the boys, seeing me walk past as they were waiting for their turn at bean-bag toss game.



And Zambia:

Any questions?

Of course it's not actually that simple, or at least not that drastic.  There were smiles in Zambia too, some cautious, some half hidden, and some radiant and warm.  But there was a clear and definite difference between the children in the centers in South Africa and their counterparts in Zambia.

In South Africa it was laughter, dancing, clowning around, and occasional shyness, such as when they presented the Thank You cards they had made for Katrien and myself.



In Zambia we found serious looks, watchfulness, caution.

But this is good news!  Not as good as finding happiness everywhere, but it's not a fairy-tale world.  The centers that we saw in South Africa have been running for years.  The kids have spent time there, received attention, kindness, and hopefully some affection.  It's not all hugs and baby bunnies, but they were shown, at an elemental level, that someone cares about them.

The Zambian program is just getting started.  The orphan center was barely more than blank concrete walls.  There were rusty pieces of unknown machinery in a corner.  Prior to our arrival they cleaned out the dusty rooms and everyone who spent any time in the building came out with little red sores all over their arms.  They fumigated for bugs, but the rashes continued.  Then someone noticed the sepe (no idea on the spelling) tree outside the window, whose seed pods are covered in fine hairs which irritate the skin.

The place was being set up as an orphanage and they had a full grown semi-poisonous tree right outside the window.

Now, this isn't a particularly big deal in Zambia, where you have to iron your clothes after hanging them out to dry because bugs lay eggs in them on the line, but it still indicates the degree to which the program is just getting running.

So: children in the established programs in South Africa were clambering around, laughing, singing, and dancing.  Children about to begin the program in Zambia were quiet, reserved, almost nervous.

I don't know about you, but I take that as a clear sign that the programs are making a difference.  I may not agree with everything that particular organization does (my feelings on religion and missionaryism are another topic) but if their work takes a kid who looks like this when standing with his coloring and gift bag...





 and help him become a kid like this..?  Work well done.

Newsworthyness

We got back from our time in Africa to find that a local Belgian paper wanted to do an article on us.  So we met with the journalist, gave him a few pictures and an interview, and received an email that it would be in today's paper already.  Cool.

So we drove around town until we found the paper, and leafed through it a few times until we were satisfied that we weren't actually in there.

Turns out a cop in Antwerp has been molesting children for years and the newspaper was putting all its energy into that instead, so we got cut.  Obviously this is FAR bigger news than our little trip but thinking about this commonsense ranking for a minute is...sad.

It is at least 100 points of Horrendous that someone would do that, and a bonus 50 points when it is someone in a position of authority we are supposed to be able to trust, whereas our little excursion is only maybe 10 points of Goodness.  150 far outweighs 10.

I just hope that one point of Goodness outweighs one point of Horrendous.

What do we really want to spend our attention on?

The article was edited down to an abbreviated form and posted on the website.  It is in Dutch of course, so probably of limited interest to most of you, but if you want to take a look, you can find it here:
http://www.gva.be/antwerpen/heist-op-den-berg/booischotse-katrien-feyaerts-trok-naar-weeshuizen-van-aids-slachtoffers-in-zuid-afrika-en-zambia.aspx

(And can someone teach me how to do links on blogspot?)

And while I am splattering this post up here, and speaking of news and "news," and if you have another few minutes before you go write an actual physical letter to a friend or family member, I think this is worth broadcasting:
http://www.ceasespin.org/ceasespin_blog/ceasespin_blogger_files/fox_news_gets_okay_to_misinform_public.html

Ithemba La Bantwana

These are the first three pictures I took in Soshanguve, the township outside Pretoria, South Africa where we did our volunteer work in July.  We had literally just stepped out of the car for the first time at the orphanage and childcare center called Ithemba La Bantwana, whose name means "Hope for the Children."  A flock of children ran over shouting "makuwa!" which means "white man" and swarmed us with hugs, smiles, and laughter.  No words exchanged, but the communication of happiness and affection well underway.

The center was a rough concrete building in a bare dust yard next to a red brick church.  It had bars on the windows and holes in the walls, five spartan rooms plus a basics kitchen, and was absolutely filled with exuberance and warmth of human spirit, from both the kids and the amazing people who work there.

Our main project was painting the rooms.  Here is the "before" picture, putty patches on the holes.

The top layer was going to be "Shrimp Toast," a pink color that seemed iffy at first.  The kids would sometimes watch us paint, and when we asked if they liked it, they would solemnly shake their heads no.  *gulp* right?

I admit to nightmarish thoughts of hearing that everyone hated it and they had to pay someone else to come in and redo it.  But once we started putting the bottom color, "chili," on, it came together.


Katrien thought so too.  And luckily so did the kids.

As I puttered around on the last day semi-successfully cleaning up materials and paint spills, Katrien drew vines and stenciled flowers and butterflies in the four class/bedrooms.

The mattresses were set up again after we left as the center transitioned back into a functioning orphanage.

The final product was a big improvement on the beginning, and best of all, I think we (which includes everyone who donated) got to show the children that we cared about them, and the place they spend their time.

65th Wedding Annviersary

Today I went to my girlfriend Katrien's grandparents' house because yesterday was their 65th wedding anniversary.  65 years.  (*Pause to think about that.*)  And they, being adorable people, and Belgium, being an adorable country, hosted the town mayor who presented them with a letter from the king recognizing and blessing their marriage, a copy of their original marriage certificate from the town records, a box of local cookies, and a medal.  A medal!  And a box of cookies!  It was awesome.

Allow me to reiterate, her grandparents are adorable.  In fact, they deserve a certificate from The World and a trophy for being the Two Cutest People on the Planet.  Here's a picture Katrien took of them today, with their medal and cookies.

A dozen other family members came for the occasion too, and I spent the afternoon entertained by their stories and jokes, despite not understanding a word of it.  It's amazing how you can ride the ebb and flow of conversation without actually being party to it.

Then a good dinner, and now a glass of wine, good book, and bowl of straciatella ice cream at my side and I sing from the rooftop that Life Is Good.

And in the spirit of randomness, my judgement clouded by straciatella, here is a poem I scribbled in the margin of my sudoku book last night while reading.

Kings
Where have all the kings gone?
Any vestigial individuals walking around today,
Poking at their own irrelevance with scepters stamped Made In China
Are only clowns,
Understudies to a deck of cards,
Bicycle
Kings don't ride bicycles
Arthur rode no bicycles.
Arthurian, a man so great his name became an adjective.
But now it's an Orwellian world
Kafkaesque
And perhaps McCarthyist
And cynicism is a tide with no ebb.
And then my girlfriend says
"I don't know if I want to read an entire article about scrapbooking"
and it's all the royalty I need.

Pilanesburg game park and "food"

Before starting the "work" in the townships we were treated to a weekend in the Pilanesburg Game Reserve a couple hours northwest of Pretoria.  It was my first time seeing the (as my old university professor put it) "charasmatic mega-fauna" that Africa is so famous for.  We drove in, and almost immediately saw three giraffe heads sticking up above the low bushes.  Cool!

Then it was an elephant off in the distance, and I was well on my way to being a happy camper.  Then the two small cars in front of us quickly turned around and sped off the other direction.  And lumbering down the road came this dirty fella, trunk looped over a tusk as though deranged.  We were in a Land Rover with a trailer and turning around on the narrow road was not an option so we sat and watched to see if he would mind.  He got good and close, checking us out, maybe not super happy about us and when right outside my window gave a nice loud trumpet.  I admit I flinched back at that point, but Katrien is made of steel, so here's her perspective.

Christo, our friend-local-expert-driver-guide said he got the feeling the elephant had been kind of playing a prank on us, and as the massive animal stood just passed us with its giant wrinkly buttocks facing us, it was pretty easy to imagine it chuckling to itself about making us jump.

That was our most intense encounter, but we spent the two days seeing rhino, giraffe, baboon, impala, kudu, waterbuck, warthogs, zebra, wildebeest, hippo, 

various birds, monitor lizards?, a lion's footprint, and the well-eaten carcases of an elephant and giraffe.

The rhino definitely stick in my mind as impressive animals, including one place where two adults and a junior-size were grazing their way through a dusty field and passed a few warthogs, whose downward-dog grazing posture made them appear to be bowing to their massive armored colleagues.  And the giraffes were a sweet surprise, soft eyes and an air of wisdom.  Or, depending on the notches in their ear that sort of looked like they had just out of bed, kind of goofy.

We spent the night in an enclosed campsite, having a barbeque (which is an integral part of South African life, called a "braai") trying the African staple of corn meal mixed with water into a thick paste.  It is called pap (pronounced "pop") in South Africa, nshima in Zambia, and ugali in Tanzania.  And since I wanted to double-check the ingredients, wikipedia informs us that it is also called sadza in Zimbabwe and fufu in West Africa.  It is sort of like a bland and thick mashed potatoes or porridge, and is properly eaten with one's hands, grabbing up a little handful then pressing it or rolling it into a roughly golf ball sized lump, which you then sweep through a basic tomato and onion sauce if you have it.  These are lumps of nshima.

I liked it, but had enough to be struck by the fact that for millions (billions?) of Africans, this was it for food, lucky if they have it.  The heaps of savory, multi-nutritious plates of varied foods thrown away in Western restaurants stand as opulent crimes of wastefulness.

Other (white) South African food we got to try included biltong and bovril.  Biltong is basically beef jerky, but made of everything from ostrich to kudu, and is not actually cooked, just marinated in spices and then dried.  It was pretty good.  Bovril on the other hand is basically marmite, if you are familiar with that blasphemous crime against taste buds.  I love my British heritage, but my lordie lordie, there must be something in the water or lack of sunlight that makes people think eating that sludge is actually a good idea.  Bovril is the same.  Salty, yeasty, viscous in an overly tenacious sort of way that borders on the sadistic, and is all-around gag-inducing.

This image for example, taken off wikipedia, shows a dose sufficient to cause blindness in an elephant and would be fatal to any human less than 75% English or more than two generations removed from habitation on that isle.  I am only 50% English and two generations, so would only handle that polluted bread with welder's gloves, foot-long steel tongs, and a face shield.

I apologize for this section of the blog.  To clear your palate, here is a picture of the dead elephant carcass.  All of the guts had been eaten, and those are its ribs sticking out.  Now I am going to go eat a nice clean, crisp apple and wash my face.

Marrakech nights

Morocco is hot.  It was hot when we got here, and it will be hot when I leave tomorrow.  It has not dipped below the benchmark 40 C / 100 F the entire time we’ve been here, including at night, and we have seen no Moroccan clouds except for a four minute rain splatter as we entered Fez that made it worse.  Humidity up, temperature relentless.

Marrakech has been the hottest though, the air aggressively still, any occasional breezes are oven blasts that suck the moisture off your eyes.  If you aren't squinting from the sun, you will from the heat.  Tourists walk around with pinched red faces, shiny at the temples.

It is Ramadan, when Muslins fast all day, not even allowed to drink water.  I seriously wonder about the number of deaths by dehydration.  Taking pictures of people is never appreciated here, and it seems that this prohibition is even stronger during Ramadan, so I apologize for the utter lack of images of the old women sitting along the side of the street in vibrantly colored robes, lined and storytelling faces sometimes visible beneath their hijab, the traditional headscarf that nearly all women wear, or often just their dark eyes looking steadily at the world through the narrow gap of a veil.

Any streets that survive the dead heat of the day come alive at night.  The air becomes hazy with the exhaust of motor bikes, ridden by sleeveless young men with shining hair and reflective sunglasses, or rigid figures of women in full robes and veil, gorgeous vibrant colors flashing past, blue orange green in front of the tan and brown walls.  Turgid water seeps between cobblestones after shopkeepers soak the area in front of their storefronts to damp down the dust and cool the pavement’s hot grudge of sunlight.

Crowds perambulate, darting eyes at each other and the piles of goods lining the narrow twisting streets, sheets heaped with pajama pants, plastic bags of individually packaged pairs of socks, a table heaped with abandoned Reeboks and lightly worn Nikes.  Strings of leather sandals hang from awnings in the noisy light of bare incandescent light bulbs, reflected across the narrow street in murky glass panels of display cases filled with Moroccan pastries sticky in honey saturation.  By day any open cases vibrate with yellow jacket ecstasy.

Tables loaded with incense, stuffed lizards, and crystals often hold a silver or ceramic chalice, burning smoke that liberates frankincense and myrrh from biblical irrelevance and makes them a tangible part of the air alongside the formaldehyde buzz of the olive stands and the rancid guano stink of the chicken pens, all over the base note of human sweat.